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THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
In Ten Volumes
VOL. I
[Illustration: MARSHALL P. WILDER
Drawing from photo by Marceau]
THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
EDITED BY MARSHALL P. WILDER
_Volume I_
Funk & Wagnalls Company
New York and London
Copyright MDCCCCVII, BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
Copyright MDCCCCXI, THE THWING COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
Anatole Dubois at de Horse Show Wallace Bruce Amsbary 152
Billville Spirit Meeting, The Frank L. Stanton 188
British Matron, The Nathaniel Hawthorne 192
Champion Checker-Player of Ameriky, The James Whitcomb Riley 156
Colonel Sterett's Panther Hunt Alfred Henry Lewis 98
Cry from the Consumer, A Wilbur D. Nesbit 190
Curse of the Competent, The Henry J. Finn 14
Darby and Joan St. John Honeywood 166
Day We Do Not Celebrate, The Robert J. Burdette 134
Deacon's Masterpiece, The; or, The
Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay" O.W. Holmes 9
Deacon's Trout, The Henry Ward Beecher 212
Disappointment, A John Boyle O'Reilly 191
Distichs John Hay 65
Down Around the River James Whitcomb Riley 29
Enough Tom Masson 213
Experiences of the A.C., The Bayard Taylor 116
Feast of the Monkeys, The John Philip Sousa 183
Fighting Race, The Joseph I.C. Clarke 214
Grammatical Boy, The Bill Nye 16
Grizzly-Gru Ironquill 174
John Henry in a Street Car Hugh McHugh 177
Laffing Josh Billings 171
Letter from Mr. Biggs, A E.W. Howe 69
Medieval Discoverer, A Bill Nye 31
Melons Bret Harte 1
Menagerie, The William Vaughn Moody 24
Mrs. Johnson William Dean Howells 74
Muskeeter, The Josh Billings 181
My Grandmother's Turkey-Tail Fan Samuel Minturn Peck 219
Myopia Wallace Rice 151
Odyssey of K's, An Wilbur D. Nesbit 209
Old Maid's House, The: In Plan Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 60
Organ, The Henry Ward Beecher 217
Partingtonian Patchwork B.P. Shillaber 20
Pass Ironquill 91
Pettibone Lineage, The James T. Fields 196
Psalm of Life, A Phoebe Cary 207
Purple Cow, The Gelett Burgess 13
Quarrel, The S.E. Kiser 68
Similar Cases Charlotte Perkins Gilman 56
Simple English Ray Clarke Rose 19
Spelling Down the Master Edward Eggleston 138
Stage Whispers Carolyn Wells 195
Teaching by Example John G. Saxe 91
Tragedy of It, The Alden Charles Noble 194
Turnings of a Bookworm, The Carolyn Wells 182
Wanted--A Cook Alan Dale 35
What Mr. Robinson Thinks James Russell Lowell 131
When Albani Sang William Henry Drummond 92
When the Frost is on the Punkin James Whitcomb Riley 169
Why Moles Have Hands Anne Virginia Culbertson 202
Wouter Van Twiller Washington Irving 109
Yankee Dude'll Do, The S.E. Kiser 136
COMPLETE INDEX AT END OF VOLUME X.
FOREWORD
EMBODYING A FEW REMARKS ON THE GENTLE ART OF LAUGH-MAKING.
BY MARSHALL P. WILDER.
Happiness and laughter are two of the most beautiful things in the
world, for they are of the few that are purely unselfish. Laughter is
not for yourself, but for others. When people are happy they present a
cheerful spirit, which finds its reflection in every one they meet, for
happiness is as contagious as a yawn. Of all the emotions, laughter is
the most versatile, for it plays equally well the role of either parent
or child to happiness.
Then can we say too much in praise of the men who make us laugh? God
never gave a man a greater gift than the power to make others laugh,
unless it is the privilege of laughing himself. We honor, revere, admire
our great soldiers, statesmen, and men of letters, but we love the man
who makes us laugh.
No other man to-day enjoys to such an extent the close personal
affection, individual yet national, that is given to Mr. Samuel L.
Clemens. He is ours, he is one of us, we have a personal pride in
him--dear "Mark Twain," the beloved child of the American nation. And
it was through our laughter that he won our love.
He is the exponent of the typically American style of fun-making, the
humorous story. I asked Mr. Clemens one day if he could remember the
first money he ever earned. With his inimitable drawl he said:
"Yes, Marsh, it was at school. All boys had the habit of going to school
in those days, and they hadn't any more respect for the desks than they
had for the teachers. There was a rule in our school that any boy
marring his desk, either with pencil or knife, would be chastised
publicly before the whole school, or pay a fine of five dollars. Besides
the rule, there was a ruler; I knew it because I had felt it; it was a
darned hard one, too. One day I had to tell my father that I had broken
the rule, and had to pay a fine or take a public whipping; and he said:
"'Sam, it would be too bad to have the name of Clemens disgraced before
the whole school, so I'll pay the fine. But I don't want you to lose
anything, so come upstairs.'
"I went upstairs with father, and he was for-_giving_ me. I came
downstairs with the feeling in one hand and the five dollars in the
other, and decided that as I'd been punished once, and got used to it, I
wouldn't mind taking the other licking at school. So I did, and I kept
the five dollars. That was the first money I ever earned."
The humorous story as expounded by Mark Twain, Artemus Ward, and Robert
J. Burdette, is purely American. Artemus Ward could get laughs out of
nothing, by mixing the absurd and the unexpected, and then backing the
combination with a solemn face and earnest manner. For instance, he was
fond of such incongruous statements as: "I once knew a man in New
Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head," here he would pause for some
time, look reminiscent, and continue: "and yet he could beat a base-drum
better than any man I ever knew."
Robert J. Burdette, who wrote columns of capital humor for _The
Burlington Hawkeye_ and told stories superbly, on his first visit to New
York was spirited to a notable club, where he told stories leisurely
until half the hearers ached with laughter, and the other half were
threatened with apoplexy. Everyone present declared it the red-letter
night of the club, and members who had missed it came around and
demanded the stories at secondhand. Some efforts were made to oblige
them, but without avail, for the tellers had twisted their recollections
of the stories into jokes, and they didn't sound right, so a committee
hunted the town for Burdette to help them out of their difficulty.
Humor is the kindliest method of laugh-making. Wit and satire are
ancient, but humor, it has been claimed, belongs to modern times. A
certain type of story, having a sudden and terse conclusion to a direct
statement, has been labeled purely American. For instance: "Willie Jones
loaded and fired a cannon yesterday. The funeral will be to-morrow." But
the truth is, it is older than America; it is very venerable. If you
will turn to the twelfth verse of the sixteenth chapter of II.
Chronicles, you will read:
"And Asa in the thirty-ninth year of his reign was diseased in his feet,
until his disease was exceeding great; yet in his disease he sought not
the Lord, but turned to the physicians--and Asa slept with his fathers."
Bill Nye was a sturdy and persistent humorist of so good a sort that he
never could help being humorous, yet there was never a sting in his
jokes. Gentle raillery was the severest thing he ever attempted, and
even this he did with so genial a smile and so merry an eye, that a word
of his friendly chaffing was worth more than any amount of formal
praise.
Few of the great world's great despatches contained so much wisdom in so
few words as Nye's historic wire from Washington:
"My friends and money gave out at 3 A.M."
Eugene Field, the lover of little children, and the self-confessed
bibliomaniac, gives us still another sort of laugh--the tender,
indulgent sort. Nothing could be finer than the gentle reminiscence of
"Long Ago," a picture of the lost kingdom of boyhood, which for all its
lightness holds a pathos that clutches one in the throat.
And yet this writer of delicate and subtle humor, this master of tender
verse, had a keen and nimble wit. An ambitious poet once sent him a poem
to read entitled "Why do I live?" and Field immediately wrote back:
"Because you sent your poem by mail."
Laughter is one of the best medicines in the world, and though some
people would make you force it down with a spoon, there is no doubt that
it is a splendid tonic and awakens the appetite for happiness.
Colonel Ingersoll wrote on his photograph which adorns my home: "To the
man who knows that mirth is medicine and laughter lengthens life."
Abraham Lincoln, that divinely tender man, believed that fun was an
intellectual impetus, for he read Artemus Ward to his Cabinet before
reading his famous emancipation proclamation, and laying down his book
marked the place to resume.
Joel Chandler Harris, whose delightful stories of negro life hold such a
high place in American literature, told me a story of an old negro who
claimed that a sense of humor was necessary to happiness in married
life. He said:
"I met a poor old darkey one day, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with
cooking utensils and household effects. Seeing me looking curiously at
him, he shook his head and said:
"'I cain't stand her no longer, boss, I jes' nash'ully cain't stand her
no longer.'
"'What's the matter, uncle?' I inquired.
"'Well, you see, suh, she ain't got no idee o' fun--she won't take a
joke nohow. The other night I went home, an' I been takin' a little jes'
to waam ma heart--das all, jes to waam ma heart--an' I got to de fence,
an' tried to climb it. I got on de top, an' thar I stays; I couldn't git
one way or t'other. Then a gem'en comes along, an' I says, "Would you
min' givin' me a push?" He says, "Which way you want to go?" I says,
"Either way--don't make no dif'unce, jes' so I git off de fence, for
hit's pow'ful oncom'fable up yer." So he give me a push, an' sont me
over to'ard ma side, an' I went home. Then I want sum'in t' eat, an' my
ol' 'ooman she wouldn' git it fo' me, an' so, jes' fo' a joke, das
all--jes' a joke, I hit 'er awn de haid. But would you believe it, she
couldn't take a joke. She tu'n aroun', an' sir, she sail inter me
sum'in' scan'lous! I didn' do nothin', 'cause I feelin' kind o'weak jes'
then--an' so I made up ma min' I wasn' goin' to stay with her. Dis
mawnin' she gone out washin', an' I jes' move right out. Hit's no use
tryin' to live with a 'ooman who cain't take a joke!'"
From the poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich to George Ade's Fables in Slang
is a far cry, but one is as typical a style of humor as the other.
Ade's is the more distinctly original, for he not only created the
style, but another language. The aptness of its turns, and the marvelous
way in which he hit the bull's-eye of human foibles and weaknesses
lifted him into instantaneous popularity. A famous _bon mot_ of George
Ade's which has been quoted threadbare, but which serves excellently to
illustrate his native wit, is his remark about a suit of clothes which
the tailor assured him he could _never_ wear out. He said when he put
them on he didn't _dare_ to.
From the laughter-makers pure and simple, we come to those who, while
acknowledging the cloud, yet see the silver lining--the exponents of the
smile through tears.
The best of these, Frank L. Stanton, has beautifully said:
"This world that we're a-livin' in
Is mighty hard to beat;
With every rose you get a thorn,
But ain't the roses sweet?"
He does not deny the thorns, but calls attention to the sweetness of the
roses--a gospel of compensation that speaks to the heart of all; kind
words of cheer to the weary traveler.
Such a philosopher was the kind-hearted and sympathetic Irish boy who,
walking along with the parish priest, met a weary organ-grinder, who
asked how far it was to the next town. The boy answered, "Four miles."
The priest remonstrated:
"Why, Mike, how can you deceive him so? You know it is eight."
"Well, your riverence," said the good-natured fellow, "I saw how tired
he was, and I wanted to kape his courage up. If I'd told him the truth,
he'd have been down-hearted intirely!"
This is really a jolly old world, and people are very apt to find just
what they are looking for. If they are looking for happiness, the best
way to find it is to try to give it to others. If a man goes around with
a face as long as a wet day, perfectly certain that he is going to be
kicked, he is seldom disappointed.
A typical exponent of the tenderly human, the tearfully humorous, is
James Whitcomb Riley--a name to conjure with. Only mention it to anyone,
and note the spark of interest, the smiling sigh, the air of gentle
retrospection into which he will fall. There is a poem for each and
every one, that commends itself for some special reason, and holds such
power of memory or sentiment as sends it straight into the heart, to
remain there treasured and unforgotten.
In these volumes are selections from the pen of all whom I have
mentioned, as well as many more, including a number by the clever women
humorists, of whom America is justly proud.
It is with pride and pleasure that I acknowledge the honor done me in
being asked to introduce this company of fun-makers--such a goodly
number that space permits the mention of but a few. But we cannot have
too much or even enough of anything so good or so necessary as the
literature that makes us laugh. In that regard we are like a little
friend of Mr. Riley's.
The Hoosier poet, as everyone knows, is the devoted friend, companion,
and singer of children. He has a habit of taking them on wild orgies
where they are turned loose in a candy store and told to do their worst.
This particular young lady had been allowed to choose all the sorts of
candy she liked until her mouth, both arms, and her pockets were full.
Just as they got to the door to go out, she hung back, and when Mr.
Riley stooped over asking her what was the matter, she whispered:
"Don't you think it smells like ice cream?"
Poems, stories, humorous articles, fables, and fairy tales are offered
for your choice, with subjects as diverse as the styles; but however the
laugh is gained, in whatever fashion the jest is delivered, the
laugh-maker is a public benefactor, for laughter is the salt of life,
and keeps the whole dish sweet.
Merrily yours,
MARSHALL P. WILDER.
ATLANTIC CITY, 1908.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Acknowledgment is due to the following publishers, whose permission was
cordially granted to reprint selections which appear in this collection
of American humor.
AINSLEE'S MAGAZINE for "Not According to Schedule," by Mary Stewart
Cutting.
THE HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY for "The New Version," by William J. Lampton.
THE AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY for "How We Bought a Sewin' Machine and
Organ," from _Josiah Allen's Wife as a P.A. and P.I._, by Marietta
Holley.
D. APPLETON & COMPANY for "The Recruit," from _With the Band_, by Robert
W. Chambers.
E.H. BACON & COMPANY for "The V-a-s-e" and "A Concord Love-Song," from
_The V-a-s-e and Other Bric-a-Brac_, by James Jeffrey Roche.
THE H.M. CALDWELL COMPANY for "Yes" and "Disappointment," from _In
Bohemia_, by John Boyle O'Reilly.
THE COLVER PUBLISHING HOUSE for "The Crimson Cord," by Ellis Parker
Butler, and "A Ballade of the 'How to' Books," by John James Davies,
from _The American Illustrated Magazine_.
THE CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY for "Familiar Authors at Work," by Hayden
Carruth, from _The Woman's Home Companion_.
THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY for "The Love Sonnets of a Husband," by
Maurice Smiley, and "Cheer for the Consumer," by Nixon Waterman, from
_The Saturday Evening Post_.
DEWOLFE, FISKE & COMPANY for "Grandma Keeler Gets Grandpa Ready for
Sunday-School," from _Cape Cod Folks_, by Sarah P. McLean Greene.
DICK & FITZGERALD for "The Thompson Street Poker Club," from _The
Thompson Street Poker Club_, by Henry Guy Carleton.
G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY for "The Tower of London" and "Science and
Natural History," by Charles Farrar Browne ("Artemus Ward"); "The
Musketeer," from _Farmer's Alminax_, and "Laffing," from _Josh Billings:
His Works_, by Henry W. Shaw ("Josh Billings"); and for "John Henry in a
Street Car," from _John Henry_, by George V. Hobart ("Hugh McHugh").
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY for "The Rhyme of the Chivalrous Shark," "The
Forbearance of the Admiral," "The Dutiful Mariner," "The Meditations of
a Mariner" and "The Boat that Ain't," from _Nautical Lays of a
Landsman_, by Wallace Irwin.
THE DUQUESNE DISTRIBUTING COMPANY for "The Grand Opera," from _Billy
Baxter's Letters_, by William J. Kountz, Jr.
PAUL ELDER & COMPANY for Sonnets I, VIII, IX, XII, XIV, XXI, from _The
Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum_, by Wallace Irwin.
EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE for "The Strike of One," by Elliott Flower; "The
Wolf's Holiday," by Caroline Duer; "A Mother of Four," by Juliet Wilbor
Tompkins; "The Weddin'," by Jennie Betts Hartswick, and "A Double-Dyed
Deceiver," by Sydney Porter ("O. Henry").
THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY for "Budge and Toddie," from _Helen's Babies_,
by John Habberton.
FORDS, HOWARD & HURLBURT, for "The Deacon's Trout," from _Norwood_, by
Henry Ward Beecher.
FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY for "The Paintermine," "The Octopussycat," "The
Welsh Rabbittern," "The Bumblebeaver," "The Wild Boarder," from _Mixed
Beasts_, by Kenyon Cox; "The Lost Inventor," "Niagara Be Dammed," "The
Ballad of Grizzly Gulch," "A Letter from Home," "Crankidoxology" and
"Fall Styles in Faces," from _At the Sign of the Dollar_, by Wallace
Irwin, and a selection from _The Golfer's Rubaiyat_, by Henry W.
Boynton.
THE HARVARD LAMPOON for "A Lay of Ancient Rome," by Thomas Ybarra.
HENRY HOLT & COMPANY for "Araminta and the Automobile," from _Cheerful
Americans_, by Charles Battell Loomis.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY for "A Letter from Mr. Biggs," from _The
Story of a Country Town_, by E.W. Howe; "The Notary of Perigueux," from
_Outre-Mer_, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; "A Nautical Ballad," from
_Davy and the Goblin_, by Charles E. Carryl; "The Spring Beauties," from
_The Ride to the Lady_, by Helen Avery Cone; "Praise-God Barebones,"
from _Songs and Lyrics_, by Ellen M. Hutchinson-Cortissoz; "Fable," from
_Poems_, by Ralph Waldo Emerson; "The Owl Critic" and "Cæsar's Quiet
Lunch with Cicero," from _Ballads and Other Poems_, by James T. Fields;
"The Menagerie," from _Poems_, by William Vaughn Moody; "The Briefless
Barrister," "Comic Miseries," "A Reflective Retrospect," "How the Money
Goes," "The Coquette," "Icarus," "Teaching by Example," from _Poems_, by
John Godfrey Saxe; "My Honey, My Love," by Joel Chandler Harris; "Banty
Tim," "The Mystery of Gilgal" and "Distichs," from _Poems_, by John Hay;
"The Deacon's Masterpiece, or The Wonderful One Hoss Shay," "The Height
of the Ridiculous," "Evening, By a Tailor," "Latter Day Warnings," and
"Contentment," from _Poems_, by Oliver Wendell Holmes; two selections
from _The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_, by Oliver Wendell Holmes,
and "Dislikes," from _The Poet at the Breakfast Table_, by Oliver
Wendell Holmes; "Plain Language from Truthful James," and "The Society
Upon the Stanislaus," from _Poems_, by Bret Harte; "Melons," from _Mrs.
Skaggs' Husbands and Other Sketches_, by Bret Harte; "The Courtin'," "A
Letter from Mr. Ezekiel Biglow" and "What Mr. Robinson Thinks," from
_Poems_, by James Russell Lowell; "The Chief Mate," from _Fireside
Travels_, by James Russell Lowell; "A Night in a Rocking Chair" and "A
Rival Entertainment," from _Haphazard_, by Kate Field; "Mrs. Johnson,"
from _Suburban Sketches_, by William Dean Howells; "Garden Ethics," from
_My Summer in a Garden_, by Charles Dudley Warner; "Our Nearest
Neighbor," from _Marjorie Daw and Other Stories_, by Thomas Bailey
Aldrich; "Simon Starts in the World" (J.J. Hooper), "The Duluth Speech"
(J. Proctor Knott), "Bill Arp on Litigation" (C.H. Smith), "Assault and
Battery" (J.G. Baldwin), "How Ruby Played" (G.W. Bagby), from _Oddities
of Southern Life_, edited by Henry Watterson; "The Demon of the Study,"
from _Poems_, by John Greenleaf Whittier; "The Old Maid's House: in
Plan," from _An Old Maid's Paradise_, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps; "Dum
Vivimus Vigilamus," "What She Said About It," "Dictum Sapienti," "The
Lost Word" and "Abou Ben Butler," from _Poems_, by Charles Henry Webb
("John Paul"); "Chad's Story of the Goose" and "Colonel Carter's Story
of the Postmaster," from _Colonel Carter of Cartersville_, by F.
Hopkinson Smith; "The British Matron," from _Our Old Home_, by Nathaniel
Hawthorne; "As Good as a Play," from _Stories from My Attic_, by Horace
E. Scudder; "The Pettibone Lineage," by James T. Fields; "The
Experiences of the A.C.," by Bayard Taylor; "Eve's Daughter," by Edward
Rowland Sill, and "The Diamond Wedding," by Edmund Clarence Stedman.
WILLIAM R. JENKINS for "It Is Time to Begin to Conclude," from _Soldier
Songs and Love Songs_, by Alexander H. Laidlaw.
JOHN LANE COMPANY for "The Invisible Prince," from _Comedies and
Errors_, by Henry Harland.
LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY for "Hard," "Enough" and "Desolation," from _In
Merry Measure_, by Tom Masson; "A Branch Library" and "Table Manners,"
from _Tomfoolery_, by James Montgomery Flagg; "The Sonnet of the Lovable
Lass and the Plethoric Dad," by J.W. Foley; "Thoughts for an Easter
Morning," by Wallace Irwin; "Suppressed Chapters," by Carolyn Wells;
"The Conscientious Curate and the Beauteous Ballad Girl," by William
Russell Rose, and "A Poe-'em of Passion," by Charles F. Lummis.
LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE for "The Modern Farmer," by Jack Appleton; "The
Wicked Zebra" and "The Happy Land," by Frank Roe Batchelder; "A Mothers'
Meeting," by Madeline Bridges; "The Final Choice" and "A Daniel Come to
Judgment," by Edmund Vance Cooke; "The Co-operative Housekeepers" and
"Her 'Angel' Father," by Elliott Flower; "Wasted Opportunities," by Roy
Farrell Greene; "The Auto Rubaiyat," by Reginald W. Kauffman; "It Pays
to be Happy" and "Victory," by Tom Masson; "Is It I?" by Warwick S.
Price; "Johnny's Lessons," by Carroll Watson Rankin; "Her Brother:
Enfant Terrible" and "Trouble-Proof," by E.L. Sabin; "A Bookworm's
Plaint," by Clinton Scollard; "Nothin' Done," by S.S. Stinson, and
"Uncle Bentley and the Roosters," by Hayden Carruth.
LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY for "Elizabeth Eliza Writes a Paper," from _The
Peterkin Papers_, by Lucretia P. Hale; "The Skeleton in the Closet," by
Edward Everett Hale, and "The Wolf at Susan's Door," from _The Wolf at
Susan's Door and Mrs. Lathrop's Love Affair_, by Anne Warner.
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD for "A Letter," from _Swingin' Round the Circle_,
by David Ross Locke ("P. V. Nasby"); "A Cable Car Preacher" and "The
Prayer of Cyrus Brown," from _Dreams in Homespun_, by Sam Walter Foss;
"He Wanted to Know," "Hullo!" and "She Talked," from _Back Country
Poems_, by Sam Walter Foss; "Mr. Stiver's Horse" and "After the
Funeral," from the works of James M. Bailey (The Danbury News Man);
"Yawcob Strauss," "Der Oak und der Vine," "To Bary Jade" and "Shonny
Schwartz," from _Leetle Yawcob Strauss_, by Charles Follen Adams; "The
Coupon Bonds" and "Darius Greene," from the works of J.T. Trowbridge,
and Chapters VII, IX, XVI, XX, XXI, from "Partingtonian Patchwork," by
B.P. Shillaber.
THE S.S. MCCLURE COMPANY and MCCLURE, PHILLIPS & COMPANY for "Morris and
the Honorable Tim," from _Little Citizens_, by Myra Kelly.
A.C. MCCLURG & COMPANY for "Simple English," from _At the Sign of the
Ginger Jar_, by Ray Clarke Rose, and "Ye Legende of Sir Yroncladde," by
Wilbur D. Nesbit, from _The Athlete's Garland_.
DAVID MCKAY for "Hans Breitmann's Party," "Breitmann and the Turners,"
"Ballad," "Breitmann in Politics" and "Love Song," from _Hans
Breitmann's Ballads_, by Charles Godfrey Leland, and "A Boston Ballad,"
from _Leaves of Grass_, by Walt Whitman.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY for "In a State of Sin," from _The Virginian_, by
Owen Wister.
THE MONARCH BOOK COMPANY for "The Apostasy of William Dodge," from _The
Seekers_, by Stanley Waterloo.
THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY for "An Educational Project" and "The
Woman-Hater Reformed," by Roy Farrell Greene; "The Trial That Job
Missed," by Kennett Harris; "The Education of Grandpa," by Wallace
Irwin; "An Improved Calendar," by Tudor Jenks.
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY for "Mr. Dooley on Gold Seeking," "Mr. Dooley
on Expert Testimony," "Mr. Dooley on Golf," "Mr. Dooley on Football,"
"Mr. Dooley on Reform Candidates," from _Mr. Dooley in Peace and War_,
by Finley Peter Dunne; "E.O.R.S.W." from _Alphabet of Celebrities_, by
Oliver Herford; "A Letter," from _The Letters of a Self-Made Merchant to
His Son_, by George Horace Lorimer; "Vive La Bagatelle" and "Willy and
the Lady," from _A Gage of Youth_, by Gelett Burgess; "When the Allegash
Drive Goes Through," from _Pine Tree Ballads_, by Holman F. Day; "Had a
Set of Double Teeth," from _Up in Maine_, by Holman F. Day; "Similar
Cases," from _In This Our World_, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman; "Barney
McGee," by Richard Hovey, from _More Songs from Vagabondia_; "A Modern
Eclogue," "The Sceptics," "A Staccato to O le Lupe," "A Spring Feeling,"
"Her Valentine" and "In Philistia," by Bliss Carman, from _Last Songs
from Vagabondia_, and "Vive la Bagatelle," "A Cavalier's Valentine" and
"Holly Song," from _Hills of Song_, by Clinton Scollard.
THE MUTUAL BOOK COMPANY for "James and Reginald" and "The Story of the
Two Friars," from _The Tribune Primer_, by Eugene Field.
THE ORANGE JUDD COMPANY for "Spelling Down the Master," from _The
Hoosier Schoolmaster_, by Edward Eggleston.
JAMES POTT & COMPANY for "The Gusher," from _I've Been Thinking_, by
Charles Battell Loomis.
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS for "When Albani Sang" and "The Stove Pipe Hole,"
from _The Habitant_, by William Henry Drummond; "National Philosophy,"
from _The Voyageur_, by William Henry Drummond; "The Siege of
Djklxprwbz," "Grizzly-gru," "He and She," "The Jackpot," "A Shining
Mark," "The Reason," "Pass" and "The Whisperer," from _The Rhymes of
Ironquill_, by Eugene F. Ware, and "A Family Horse," from _The
Sparrowgrass Papers_, by Frederick S. Cozzens.
RAND, MCNALLY & COMPANY for "An Arkansas Planter," from _An Arkansas
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A.M. ROBERTSON for "The Drayman," from _Songs of Bohemia_, by Daniel
O'Connell.
R.H. RUSSELL for "Mr. Carteret and His Fellow-Americans Abroad," by
David Gray, from _The Metropolitan Magazine_.
THE SMART SET PUBLISHING COMPANY for "An Evening Musicale," by May
Isabel Fisk, from _The Smart Set_.
THE FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY for "Colonel Sterett's Panther Hunt,"
from _Wolfville Nights_, by Alfred Henry Lewis; "The Bohemians of
Boston," "The Purple Cow" and "Nonsense Verses," from _The Burgess
Nonsense Book_, by Gelett Burgess, and "My Grandmother's Turkey-tail
Fan," "Little Bopeep and Little Boy Blue" and "My Sweetheart," by Samuel
Minturn Peck.
THE TANDY-WHEELER PUBLISHING COMPANY for "Utah," "A New Year Idyl," "The
Warrior," "Lost Chords" and "The Advertiser," from _A Little Book of
Tribune Verse_, by Eugene Field.
THOMPSON & THOMAS for "The Grammatical Boy," by Edgar Wilson Nye ("Bill
Nye").
THE A. WESSELS COMPANY for "The Dying Gag," by James L. Ford.
M. WITMARK & SONS for "Walk," from _Jim Marshall's New Pianner_, by
William Devere.
Special thanks are due to George Ade, Wallace Bruce Amsbary, John
Kendrick Bangs, H.W. Boynton, Gelett Burgess, Ellis Parker Butler,
Hayden Carruth, Robert W. Chambers, Charles Heber Clarke, Joseph I.C.
Clarke, Mary Stewart Cutting, John James Davies, Caroline Duer, Mrs.
Edward Eggleston, May Isabel Fisk, Elliott Flower, James L. Ford, David
Gray, Sarah P. McLean Greene, Jennie Betts Hartswick, William Dean
Howells, Wallace Irwin, Charles F. Johnson, S.E. Kiser, A.H. Laidlaw,
Alfred Henry Lewis, Charles B. Lewis, Charles Battell Loomis, Charles F.
Lummis, T.L. Masson, William Vaughn Moody, R.K. Munkittrick, W.D.
Nesbit, Meredith Nicholson, Alden Charles Noble, Samuel Minturn Peck,
Sydney Porter, Wallace Rice, James Whitcomb Riley, Doane Robinson, Henry
A. Shute, F. Hopkinson Smith, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Howard V.
Sutherland, John B. Tabb, Bert Leston Taylor, Juliet Wilbor Tompkins,
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward, Eugene F. Ware, Anne Warner French and
Stanley Waterloo for permission to reprint selections from their works
and for many valuable suggestions.
THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA
MELONS
BY BRET HARTE
As I do not suppose the most gentle of readers will believe that
anybody's sponsors in baptism ever wilfully assumed the responsibility
of such a name, I may as well state that I have reason to infer that
Melons was simply the nickname of a small boy I once knew. If he had any
other, I never knew it.
Various theories were often projected by me to account for this strange
cognomen. His head, which was covered with a transparent down, like that
which clothes very small chickens, plainly permitting the scalp to show
through, to an imaginative mind might have suggested that succulent
vegetable. That his parents, recognizing some poetical significance in
the fruits of the season, might have given this name to an August child,
was an oriental explanation. That from his infancy, he was fond of
indulging in melons, seemed on the whole the most likely, particularly
as Fancy was not bred in McGinnis's Court. He dawned upon me as Melons.
His proximity was indicated by shrill, youthful voices, as "Ah, Melons!"
or playfully, "Hi, Melons!" or authoritatively, "You Melons!"
McGinnis's Court was a democratic expression of some obstinate and
radical property-holder. Occupying a limited space between two
fashionable thoroughfares, it refused to conform to circumstances, but
sturdily paraded its unkempt glories, and frequently asserted itself in
ungrammatical language. My window--a rear room on the ground floor--in
this way derived blended light and shadow from the court. So low was the
window-sill that, had I been the least disposed to somnambulism, it
would have broken out under such favorable auspices, and I should have
haunted McGinnis's Court. My speculations as to the origin of the court
were not altogether gratuitous, for by means of this window I once saw
the Past, as through a glass darkly. It was a Celtic shadow that early
one morning obstructed my ancient lights. It seemed to belong to an
individual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and bristling beard. He was
gazing intently at the court, resting on a heavy cane, somewhat in the
way that heroes dramatically visit the scenes of their boyhood. As there
was little of architectural beauty in the court, I came to the
conclusion that it was McGinnis looking after his property. The fact
that he carefully kicked a broken bottle out of the road somewhat
strengthened me in the opinion. But he presently walked away, and the
court knew him no more. He probably collected his rents by proxy--if he
collected them at all.
Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purely introductory, there was little
to interest the most sanguine and hopeful nature. In common with all
such localities, a great deal of washing was done, in comparison with
the visible results. There was always some thing whisking on the line,
and always some thing whisking through the court, that looked as if it
ought to be there. A fish-geranium--of all plants kept for the
recreation of mankind, certainly the greatest illusion--straggled under
the window. Through its dusty leaves I caught the first glance of
Melons.
His age was about seven. He looked older from the venerable whiteness of
his head, and it was impossible to conjecture his size, as he always
wore clothes apparently belonging to some shapely youth of nineteen. A
pair of pantaloons, that, when sustained by a single suspender,
completely equipped him, formed his every-day suit. How, with this
lavish superfluity of clothing, he managed to perform the surprising
gymnastic feats it has been my privilege to witness, I have never been
able to tell. His "turning the crab," and other minor dislocations, were
always attended with success. It was not an unusual sight at any hour of
the day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to see his venerable head
appearing above the roofs of the outhouses. Melons knew the exact height
of every fence in the vicinity, its facilities for scaling, and the
possibility of seizure on the other side. His more peaceful and quieter
amusements consisted in dragging a disused boiler by a large string,
with hideous outcries, to imaginary fires.
Melons was not gregarious in his habits. A few youth of his own age
sometimes called upon him, but they eventually became abusive, and their
visits were more strictly predatory incursions for old bottles and junk
which formed the staple of McGinnis's Court. Overcome by loneliness one
day, Melons inveigled a blind harper into the court. For two hours did
that wretched man prosecute his unhallowed calling, unrecompensed, and
going round and round the court, apparently under the impression that it
was some other place, while Melons surveyed him from an adjoining fence
with calm satisfaction. It was this absence of conscientious motives
that brought Melons into disrepute with his aristocratic neighbors.
Orders were issued that no child of wealthy and pious parentage should
play with him. This mandate, as a matter of course, invested Melons
with a fascinating interest to them. Admiring glances were cast at
Melons from nursery windows. Baby fingers beckoned to him. Invitations
to tea (on wood and pewter) were lisped to him from aristocratic
back-yards. It was evident he was looked upon as a pure and noble being,
untrammelled by the conventionalities of parentage, and physically as
well as mentally exalted above them. One afternoon an unusual commotion
prevailed in the vicinity of McGinnis's Court. Looking from my window I
saw Melons perched on the roof of a stable, pulling up a rope by which
one "Tommy," an infant scion of an adjacent and wealthy house, was
suspended in mid-air. In vain the female relatives of Tommy, congregated
in the back-yard, expostulated with Melons; in vain the unhappy father
shook his fist at him. Secure in his position, Melons redoubled his
exertions and at last landed Tommy on the roof. Then it was that the
humiliating fact was disclosed that Tommy had been acting in collusion
with Melons. He grinned delightedly back at his parents, as if "by merit
raised to that bad eminence." Long before the ladder arrived that was to
succor him, he became the sworn ally of Melons, and, I regret to say,
incited by the same audacious boy, "chaffed" his own flesh and blood
below him. He was eventually taken, though, of course, Melons escaped.
But Tommy was restricted to the window after that, and the companionship
was limited to "Hi Melons!" and "You Tommy!" and Melons to all practical
purposes, lost him forever. I looked afterward to see some signs of
sorrow on Melons's part, but in vain; he buried his grief, if he had
any, somewhere in his one voluminous garment.
At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons became more
extended. I was engaged in filling a void in the Literature of the
Pacific Coast. As this void was a pretty large one, and as I was
informed that the Pacific Coast languished under it, I set apart two
hours each day to this work of filling in. It was necessary that I
should adopt a methodical system, so I retired from the world and locked
myself in my room at a certain hour each day, after coming from my
office. I then carefully drew out my portfolio and read what I had
written the day before. This would suggest some alterations, and I would
carefully rewrite it. During this operation I would turn to consult a
book of reference, which invariably proved extremely interesting and
attractive. It would generally suggest another and better method of
"filling in." Turning this method over reflectively in my mind, I would
finally commence the new method which I eventually abandoned for the
original plan. At this time I would become convinced that my exhausted
faculties demanded a cigar. The operation of lighting a cigar usually
suggested that a little quiet reflection and meditation would be of
service to me, and I always allowed myself to be guided by prudential
instincts. Eventually, seated by my window, as before stated, Melons
asserted himself. Though our conversation rarely went further than
"Hello, Mister!" and "Ah, Melons!" a vagabond instinct we felt in common
implied a communion deeper than words. In this spiritual commingling the
time passed, often beguiled by gymnastics on the fence or line (always
with an eye to my window) until dinner was announced and I found a more
practical void required my attention. An unlooked-for incident drew us
in closer relation.
A sea-faring friend just from a tropical voyage had presented me with a
bunch of bananas. They were not quite ripe, and I hung them before my
window to mature in the sun of McGinnis's Court, whose forcing
qualities were remarkable. In the mysteriously mingled odors of ship
and shore which they diffused throughout my room, there was lingering
reminiscence of low latitudes. But even that joy was fleeting and
evanescent: they never reached maturity.
Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that fashionable
thoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small boy eating a banana. There
was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis's Court I
presently met another small boy, also eating a banana. A third small boy
engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidence upon my
mind. I leave the psychological reader to determine the exact
co-relation between the circumstance and the sickening sense of loss
that overcame me on witnessing it. I reached my room--the bananas were
gone.
There was but one that knew of their existence, but one who frequented
my window, but one capable of gymnastic effort to procure them, and that
was--I blush to say it--Melons. Melons the depredator--Melons, despoiled
by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and indiscreetly
liberal; Melons--now a fugitive on some neighborhood house-top. I lit a
cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, sought surcease of sorrow in
the contemplation of the fish-geranium. In a few moments something white
passed my window at about the level of the edge. There was no mistaking
that hoary head, which now represented to me only aged iniquity. It was
Melons, that venerable, juvenile hypocrite.
He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, but
that horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit the scene
of his crime, impelled him toward my window. I smoked calmly, and gazed
at him without speaking. He walked several times up and down the court
with a half-rigid, half-belligerent expression of eye and shoulder,
intended to represent the carelessness of innocence.
Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms their whole length into
his capacious trousers, gazed with some interest at the additional width
they thus acquired. Then he whistled. The singular conflicting
conditions of John Brown's body and soul were at that time beginning to
attract the attention of youth, and Melons's performance of that melody
was always remarkable. But to-day he whistled falsely and shrilly
between his teeth. At last he met my eye. He winced slightly, but
recovered himself, and going to the fence, stood for a few moments on
his hands, with his bare feet quivering in the air. Then he turned
toward me and threw out a conversational preliminary.
"They is a cirkis"--said Melons gravely, hanging with his back to the
fence and his arms twisted around the palings--"a cirkis over
yonder!"--indicating the locality with his foot--"with hosses, and
hossback riders. They is a man wot rides six hosses to onct--six hosses
to onct--and nary saddle"--and he paused in expectation.
Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me. I still kept a fixed
gaze on Melons's eye, and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in his
capacious garment. Some other desperate means--conversation with Melons
was always a desperate means--must be resorted to. He recommenced more
artfully.
"Do you know Carrots?"
I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious name, with scarlet
hair, who was a playmate and persecutor of Melons. But I said nothing.
"Carrots is a bad boy. Killed a policeman onct. Wears a dirk knife in
his boots, saw him to-day looking in your windy."
I felt that this must end here. I rose sternly and addressed Melons.
"Melons, this is all irrelevant and impertinent to the case. _You_ took
those bananas. Your proposition regarding Carrots, even if I were
inclined to accept it as credible information, does not alter the
material issue. You took those bananas. The offense under the Statutes
of California is felony. How far Carrots may have been accessory to the
fact either before or after, is not my intention at present to discuss.
The act is complete. Your present conduct shows the _animo furandi_ to
have been equally clear."
By the time I had finished this exordium, Melons had disappeared, as I
fully expected.
He never reappeared. The remorse that I have experienced for the part I
had taken in what I fear may have resulted in his utter and complete
extermination, alas, he may not know, except through these pages. For I
have never seen him since. Whether he ran away and went to sea to
reappear at some future day as the most ancient of mariners, or whether
he buried himself completely in his trousers, I never shall know. I have
read the papers anxiously for accounts of him. I have gone to the Police
Office in the vain attempt of identifying him as a lost child. But I
never saw him or heard of him since. Strange fears have sometimes
crossed my mind that his venerable appearance may have been actually the
result of senility, and that he may have been gathered peacefully to his
fathers in a green old age. I have even had doubts of his existence, and
have sometimes thought that he was providentially and mysteriously
offered to fill the void I have before alluded to. In that hope I have
written these pages.
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE
OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
_A Logical Story_
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.
But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it _couldn'_ break daown:
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,--
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"--
Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."--
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--It came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--The Earthquake-day--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And the spring and axle and hub _encore_.
And yet, as a _whole_, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be _worn out_!
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to _fifthly_, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
THE PURPLE COW
BY GELETT BURGESS
_Reflections on a Mythic Beast,
Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least._
I never Saw a Purple Cow;
I never Hope to See One;
But I can Tell you, Anyhow,
I'd rather See than Be One.
_Cinq Ans Apres._
(_Confession: and a Portrait, Too,
Upon a Background that I Rue!_)
Ah, yes! I wrote the "Purple Cow"--
I'm Sorry, now, I Wrote it!
But I can Tell you, Anyhow,
I'll Kill you if you Quote it!
THE CURSE OF THE COMPETENT
BY HENRY J. FINN
My spirit hath been seared, as though the lightning's scathe had rent,
In the swiftness of its wrath, through the midnight firmament,
The darkly deepening clouds; and the shadows dim and murky
Of destiny are on me, for my dinner's naught but--_turkey_.
The chords upon my silent lute no soft vibrations know,
Save where the meanings of despair--out-breathings of my woe--
Tell of the cold and selfish world. In melancholy mood,
The soul of genius chills with only--_fourteen cords of wood_.
The dreams of the deserted float around my curtained hours,
And young imaginings are as the thorns bereft of flowers;
A wretched outcast from mankind, my strength of heart has sank
Beneath the evils of--_ten thousand dollars in the bank_.
This life to me a desert is, and kindness, as the stream
That singly drops upon the waste where burning breezes teem;
A banished, blasted plant, I droop, to which no freshness lends
Its healing balm, for Heaven knows, I've but--_a dozen friends_.