TOM EDISON’S INVENTIONS APPLAUDED ON PLANET MARS
There is no way in which material things can be smuggled into the
sacred precincts of the planet Mars. There is no gold, silver or paper
money, and nothing to buy, even if one possessed the money, for there
are no material pleasures or enjoyments in this delightful spot.
Everyone is on a higher and more ennobling plane and it is only the few
who still thirst after the lusts of the flesh who are rendered unhappy,
but these are not quite purged of their earthly desires.
It was announced upon the ever-ready bulletin board, viz., the bright
firmament of Mars, by the usual magic touch of the wireless wand, that
there would be an entertainment given at the Telegraphers’ Tabernacle,
the chief feature of which would be a phonographic concert, to be
followed by an exhibition of perfect Morse sending. There would also
be an exhibition of “ham” sending and a rendition of a scene supposed
to have taken place on “Old No. 4 East” upon Mother Earth in the early
’70s.
The records were made by George W. Conkling, the past master of rapid
transmission, who very recently joined the Pleiades Club, and Secretary
Moxon did not inform his audience how he acquired the records,
believing his duties did not extend to giving out state secrets.
Many thousands gathered around to hear the music, and it was certainly
worthy to note that the clamor was for the patriotic national anthems.
When the “Star-Spangled Banner” was rendered, everyone arose to his
feet, many so-called foreigners also, thus showing their respect and
admiration for the flag.
This preliminary was the beginning of the real event of the
entertainment, and when the dots and dashes came humming over the
talking machine much enthusiasm ensued.
“Puts me in mind of the time when I worked the Kansas City duplex
alongside of Ed. Foote, with Paul Bossert and Jim Delong at the other
end,” said James B. Coulter.
“Yes, it sounds like the way Adam Beidler used to try and paste Emil
Shape, on the first Milwaukee wire,” ejaculated Harry McGill, who was
an interested spectator and listener.
“I really believe that this talking machine is the same as the one we
see illustrated in Telegraph and Telephone Age, and which I was going
to purchase just shortly before I took my long flight,” remarked Wm. H.
Magehan, of St. Louis, a late arrival.
Selections from the talking machine were again in order, and each
individual stated his preference of pieces to be played, and they were
courteously taken care of.
Mike Tully asked to have “My Wild Irish Boy” played; Charlie Newton
designated “My Old Kentucky Home” as his choice, and Lara C. Boone gave
“St. Louis-Louis-Louis” as his favorite, all of which were rendered in
the highest style of the art.
Joe Anderson, of Buffalo, would not be content until he had listened to
“John Anderson, My Jo-John,” and Billy Thurman laughingly remarked that
the occasion put him in mind of the summer evenings in Oregon along in
1883.
Everybody voted the entertainment a big success and all expressed a
desire to have a repetition of the programme very soon.
Timothy Collins, who was one of the “Great 8” in Omaha, and who later
became a guardian of the peace in Buffalo, passed up the sun-kissed
walk, whistling “A Policeman’s Life is Not a Happy One,” and Court
Cunningham suggested that record should be procured so Tim could get
the right swing to the air, which suggestion was acceded to.
“These talking machines and the telegraph records beat those old harps
we used to hear talked of in the Bible,” whispered Dick Tubman to his
friend, Sam Cassidy, but the latter scouted the remark, declaring
that the music of a jewsharp could not be excelled, and to verify his
statement Sam gave a demonstration of an artist playing the jewsharp,
which was received with applause.
“I don’t feel like criticizing your choice of music,” said John Leatch,
recently of San Francisco, “but you really should turn back to the
stirring melodies of California when they sang ‘Empty is the Cradle,
Baby’s Gone.’”
“What a chestnut John Leatch has plucked,” echoed Captain James R.
Dennis, as he smiled complacently at his old-time colleague.
“Get your partners for Lancer’s quadrille,” came in stentorian tones
from the master of ceremonies pro tem, A. R. Pippitt, and many ladies,
once familiarly known to the fraternity in Chicago, New York, St.
Louis, Omaha, San Francisco and other places throughout the United
States, joined hands with their brother operators and were presently
whirling on the green sward to the sweet strains of Strauss’ Blue
Danube waltz, which followed the more formal square dance.
The music was rendered by the miniature talking machine which had
been entertaining the company all evening with songs, band melodies,
telegraph records and now came in to be used for dance music.
It was surely a lovely scene and everyone in the vast assemblage had
something nice to say about the great wizard of modern times, who
has added so much, not only to the comfort of all mankind, but has
found it practicable to have every household possess an instrument of
joy forever, which will make life on the farm, the shepherd’s hovel,
the Indian camp fire, in fact, every place in this vast world, more
delightful by the music and delineations reproduced by the modern
talking machine.
It was ascertained from Secretary Moxon that the latest advices from
Mr. Edison showed he had retired to the top of Pike’s Peak, to be alone
with nature and to solve some abstruse problems, and, understanding
the vigils of the great inventor, Hankus Cowanus, a knight errant of
the key, was detailed to signal the peak in hope of receiving some
intelligence from him.
“You can’t do it,” said Fred Moxon. “Your sending never did carry from
Chicago to Cincinnati, even in your palmy days. Just leave it to me and
you will have an ‘extra’ out next week which will tell you Mr. Edison
knows every desire of your little heart and he is going about his
Father’s business.”
The matter was allowed to rest there and we will get more reports from
these wonderful people later.