It would be hard to beat that for brevity. I believe in brevity, even
when a man is proposing to his best girl.
Now there has always been considerable curiosity manifested by my
friends, who know my humorous instincts, to know just how I ever popped
the question.
They declare, the chances are, I must have done it in a joke.
Of course this doesn't refer to any lack of estimable qualities in my
wife, but simply that a fellow of my character could not possibly do
anything seriously.
I have determined to relate the facts in the case, and they can judge
for themselves.
You see, we had been down to the seashore together, and, for the life of
me, I couldn't muster up courage enough to ask her the all-important
question.
She gave me an opening at last, though perhaps no one but a born
humorist could have seen it.
Out on the rocks stood a gay old lighthouse, which seemed to possess
unusual interest in the eyes of the young woman.
"It must be a lovely thing to live in such a weird place. Sometime,
before I die, I hope I may keep a light house. I believe it would be
lovely, don't you?" she said.
Now, to tell the truth, the idea never occured to me before, but when
she spoke of it I saw my chance.
[Illustration]
"My dear girl," I said, "if I had only known that you cared for light
house-keeping, I would have spoken before this. Let us discuss the
matter; what's the use waiting until long in the future, when the
opportunity presents itself now."
And the result was, we pooled our issues, hired a couple of rooms,
bribed a minister to say a few words, and kept house in a light way.
Since that time we've had our ups and downs.
But I've never felt toward my better half as that old bear Podgers must,
with regard to the partner of his joys and woes.
[Illustration]
He rode down with me in the elevator yesterday.
We had been having a little domestic trouble, and the lady in the
kitchen had wafted herself away.
This sometimes makes a man sad, especially if his wife is seized with
some of her old-time enthusiasm and joyously declares she will look up
those recipe books, arranged at the time she went to cooking school.
I knew I was in for another dose of dyspepsia and had on my part been
trying to remember the dozens of patent medicines to which I had given a
trial on the last occasion, and which of them had been least injurious.
Of course, man-like, I poured my woes into the ear of Podgers, hoping
for sympathy.
"Do you have any trouble keeping a cook?" I asked.
He laughed in a cold-blooded way.
"Not in the least--not such good luck, my boy. You see our cook has a
lien on the place. She's my wife," he said.
[Illustration]
Well, I wouldn't have said that, no matter what I thought.
But then Podgers always has been considerably henpecked at home, even if
an arrogant chap downtown.
Sometimes he makes me think of the meek little fellow I saw recently in
court.
He was a witness.
"Well," remarked the judge, "have you anything to say?"
Then the witness looked fearfully about him, like one long accustomed to
knowing his place.
"That depends," said he, "upon circumstance. Is--er--my wife in the
room, judge?"
[Illustration]
While I am speaking of marrying let me tell you about a fellow I once
knew.
His name was Steiner, and he set himself up in business as an
international marriage broker.
You see, these matches between broken-down foreign noblemen and wealthy
young American girls gave him an idea that he might make a nice dot.
In due time he was employed by a German count to secure an heiress for
him.
The arrangement was that Steiner was to receive ten per cent. of the
young lady's estate for arranging the match.
This looked like a snap, always providing Steiner should succeed in
finding the heiress, and bring about an understanding.
[Illustration]
Well, he found the girl with the ducats all right, but his price went up
like bounds, until, not content with ten per cent. of the estate when a
marriage was brought about, he asked for the whole shooting match.
Yes, and he got it, too.
How was that--why, just as easy as two and two make four. Steiner
married the heiress himself.
Funny how one thing arouses a train of thought.
My wife brought home a curious Dutch stein after one of her shopping
excursions, and I never looked at that affair without thinking of a
certain graveyard out in Western New York.
Let me tell you how that happens.
While visiting a friend, he took me to see the sights of the place, and
quite naturally we strolled through the churchyard.
There were lots of old-timers buried there, and some of the inscriptions
quite interested me.
Presently we came to a new tombstone.
[Illustration]
I noticed that above the inscription there had been cut a single hand,
with the index finger pointing upward.
It seemed appropriate enough to me, and I was astonished when my friend,
after bending down to read, actually laughed.
"Well, I declare," he said, presently, "if that isn't just like old
Stein. He never did order more than one beer at a time!"
To the very last he was attached to his bier.
I remember it was in this same cemetery I ran across a funny old darky
who seemed to be examining several traps which he had set.
Of course, my curiosity being aroused, I began to fire a few questions
at him.
If you ever want to find anything out, the best way is to ask the why
and wherefore.
What do you think he was after?
Rabbits, of course.
Then I remembered that down South it was all the fashion for darkies to
get the foot of a graveyard rabbit, and carry it around with them; they
look on it as a sure thing to keep bad luck away.
[Illustration]
I thought I might convince the old fellow of the absurdity of such
mummery.
"See here, uncle, I'm afraid you're a bit superstitious," I remarked.
"'Deed I isn'," said he, shaking his white head. "Some folks is a skyaht
of ghosses an' all kin's of critters; but as long as I have a rabbit's
paw in mah pocket I feels puffickly safe."
[Illustration]
After that I couldn't say a word.
In fact, I felt as though speech were denied me, as it is some
unfortunate fellows.
If you ever ran across a man with a genuine impediment in his speech,
well, you know how painful it seems to watch him nearly strangle in the
endeavor to make himself understood.
Advice is wasted on such a man.