Eazy boots iz _one_ of the luxurys ov life, but i forgit what the

other luxury iz, but i don’t kno az i care, provided i kan git rid ov

this pair ov tite boots.

Enny man kan hav them for seven dollars, just half what they kost, and

if they don’t make his feet ake wuss than an angle worm in hot ashes,

he needn’t pay for them.

Methuseles iz the only man, that i kan kall to mind now who could hav

afforded to hav wore tite boots, and enjoyed them, he had a grate deal

ov waste time tew be miserable in but life now days, iz too short, and

too full ov aktual bizzness to phool away enny ov it on tite boots.

Tite boots are an insult to enny man’s understanding.

He who wears tite boots will hav too acknowledge the corn.

Tite boots hav no bowells or mersy, their insides are wrath and

promiskious cussing.

Beware ov tite boots.--

_A HEN_

A hen is a darn phool, they was born so bi natur.

When natur undertakes tew make a phool, she hits the mark the fust time.

Most all the animile kritters hav instinkt, which is wuth more to them

than reason would be, for instinkt don’t make enny blunders.

If the animiles had reason, they would akt just as ridikilus as we men

folks do.

But a hen don’t seem tew hav even instinkt, and was made expressly for

a phool.

I hav seen a hen fly out ov a good warm shelter, on the 15th ov

January, when the snow was 3 foot high, and lite on the top ov a stun

wall, and coolly set thare, and freeze tew deth.

Noboddy but a darn phool would do this, unless it was tew save a bet.

I hav saw a human being do similar things, but they did it tew win a

bet.

To save a bet, is self-preservashun, and self-preservashun, is the fust

law ov natur, so sez Blakstone, and he is the best judge ov law now

living.

If i couldn’t be Josh Billings, i would like, next in suit tew be

Blakstone, and compoze sum law.

Not so far removed from the Josh Billings type of humor is the work

of James Russell Lowell. His well known _Biglow Papers_ exploit

in perfection the back country New England politics as well as native

character.

_WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS_

Guvener B. is a sensible man;

He stays to his home an’ looks arter his folks;

He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,

An’ into nobody’s tater-patch pokes;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My ain’t it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can’t never choose him, o’ course,--thet’s flat;

Guess we shall hev to come round (don’t you?)

An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all that;

Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:

He’s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;

But consistency still was a part of his plan,--

He’s ben true to _one_ party,--an’ thet is himself;--

So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;

He don’t vally principle more’n an old cud;

Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,

But glory an’ gunpowder, plunder an’ blood?

So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gettin’ on nicely up here to our village,

With good old idees o’ wut’s right an’ wut ain’t,

We kind o’ thought Christ went agin’ war an’ pillage,

An’ thet eppyletts worn’t the best mark of a saint;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,

An’ Presidunt Polk, you know, _he_ is our country,

An’ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book

Puts the _debit_ to him, an’ to us the _per contry_!

An’ John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o’ the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;

Sez they’re nothin’ on airth but jest _fee_, _faw_, _fum_;

An’ thet all this big talk of our destinies

Is half on it ign’ance, an’ t’other half rum;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez it ain’t no sech thing; an’, of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life

Thet th’ Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,

An’ marched round in front of a drum an’ a fife,

To git some on ’em office, an’ some on ’em votes;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee.

Wall, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us

The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters, I vow,--

God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise fellers,

To start the world’s team wen it gits in a slough;

Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez the world’ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

Phoebe Cary, though a hymn writer of repute, did some extremely clever

parodies. This work of hers is little known.

_I REMEMBER_

I remember, I remember,

The house where I was wed,

And the little room from which that night

My smiling bride was led.

She didn’t come a wink too soon,

Nor make too long a stay;

But now I often wish her folks

Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember,

Her dresses, red and white,

Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,--

They cost an awful sight!

The “corner lot” on which I built,

And where my brother met

At first my wife, one washing-day,--

That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to court,

And thought that all of married life

Was just such pleasant sport:--

My spirit flew in feathers then,

No care was on my brow;

I scarce could wait to shut the gate,--

I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember,

My dear one’s smile and sigh;

I used to think her tender heart

Was close against the sky.

It was a childish ignorance,

But now it soothes me not

To know I’m farther off from Heaven

Than when she wasn’t got!

_“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES”_

There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard,

And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;

In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard

To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget,

But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,

I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,

Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?

No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,

But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;

And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave

All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;

As thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes,

Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.

_JACOB_

He dwelt among “Apartments let,”

About five stories high;

A man, I thought, that none would get,

And very few would try.

A boulder, by a larger stone

Half hidden in the mud,

Fair as a man when only one

Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell

When Jacob was not free;

But he has got a wife--and O!

The difference to me!

_REUBEN_

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not),

Walking between the garden and the barn,

Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took

At a young chicken, standing by a post,

And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,

As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.

But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot

Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,

And the domesticated fowl passed on,

In henly meditation, bullet free.

Edward Everett Hale, George William Curtis, Richard Grant White and

Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) wrote about this time, but their prose

articles are too long to quote in full and not adapted to condensation.

Again the newspaper writers forge to the front and in George Horatio

Derby we find “the Father of” the new school of American humor. His

sketches, over the name of John Phoenix, began to appear about the

middle of the Nineteenth century and were later collected under the

titles of Phoenixiana and Squibob Papers.

A fragment of one is given.

* * * * *

The dentist went to work, and in three days he invented an instrument

which he was confident would pull anything. It was a combination of the

lever, pulley, wheel and axle, inclined plane, wedge, and screw. The

castings were made, and the machine put up in the office, over an iron

chair rendered perfectly stationary by iron rods going down into the

foundations of the granite building. In a week old Byles returned; he

was clamped into the iron chair, the forceps connected with the machine

attached firmly to the tooth, and Tushmaker, stationing himself in the

rear, took hold of a lever four feet in length. He turned it slightly.

Old Byles gave a groan and lifted his right leg. Another turn, another

groan, and up went the leg again.

“What do you raise your leg for?” asked the Doctor.

“I can’t help it,” said the patient.

“Well,” rejoined Tushmaker, “that tooth is bound to come out now.”

He turned the lever clear round with a sudden jerk, and snapped old

Byles’ head clean and clear from his shoulders, leaving a space of four

inches between the severed parts!

They had a _post-mortem_ examination--the roots of the tooth were

found extending down the right side, through the right leg, and turning

up in two prongs under the sole of the right foot!

“No wonder,” said Tushmaker, “he raised his right leg.”

The jury thought so, too, but they found the roots much decayed; and

five surgeons swearing that mortification would have ensued in a few

months, Tushmaker was clear on a verdict of “justifiable homicide.”

He was a little shy of that instrument for some time afterward; but one

day an old lady, feeble and flaccid, came in to have a tooth drawn, and

thinking it would come out very easy Tushmaker concluded, just by way

of variety, to try the machine. He did so, and at the first turn drew

the old lady’s skeleton completely and entirely from her body, leaving

her a mass of quivering jelly in her chair! Tushmaker took her home in

a pillow-case.

The woman lived-seven years after that, and they called her the

“India-Rubber Woman.” She had suffered terribly with the rheumatism,

but after this occurrence never had a pain in her bones. The dentist

kept them in a glass case. After this, the machine was sold to the

contract or of the Boston Custom-House, and it was found that a child

of three years of age could, by a single turn of the screw, raise a

stone weighing twenty-three tons. Smaller ones were made on the same

principle and sold to the keepers of hotels and restaurants. They were

used for boning turkeys. There is no moral to this story whatever,

and it is possible that the circumstances may have become slightly

exaggerated. Of course, there can be no doubt of the truth of the main

incidents.

Charles Godfrey Leland, a humorist of Philadelphia, wrote almost

entirely in a broken German dialect. His Hans Breitmann ballads are

still among the famous examples of American humor.

_BALLAD_

Der noble Ritter Hugo

Von Schwillensaufenstein

Rode out mit shpeer and helmet,

Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

Und oop dere rose a meer maid,

Vod hadn’t got nodings on,

Und she say, “Oh, Ritter Hugo,

Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?”

Und he says, “I rides in de creenwood

Mit helmet und mit shpeer,

Till I cooms into em Gasthaus,

Und dere I trinks some beer.”

Und den outshpoke de maiden

Vot hadn’t got nodings on:

“I ton’t dink mooch of beoplesh

Dat goes mit demselfs alone.

“You’d petter coom down in de wasser,

Vere dere’s heaps of dings to see,

Und have a shplendid tinner

Und drafel along mit me.

“Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin,

Und you catches dem efery one”--

So sang dis wasser maiden

Vot hadn’t got nodings on.

“Dere ish drunks all full mit money

In ships dat vent down of old;

Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!

To shimmerin crowns of gold.

“Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches!

Shoost see dese diamant rings!

Coom down und full your bockets,

Und I’ll giss you like averydings.

“Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager?

Coom down into der Rhine!

Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne

Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!”

_Dat_ fetched him--he shtood all shpellpound;

She pooled his coat-tails down,

She drawed him oonder der wasser,

De maiden mit nodings on.

William Allen Butler is remembered chiefly by his long humorous poem of

Miss Flora M’Flimsey, or, as it is entitled, _Nothing To Wear_.

* * * * *

Charles Graham Halpine wrote in an Irish brogue the adventures of

Private Miles O’Reilly.

* * * * *

John T. Trowbridge and Charles Dudley Warner are among the famous

Nineteenth Century writers but their works are not adapted to quotation.

* * * * *

Which brings us to Mark Twain.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens is too well known both by his works and by his

life to need any word of comment. His whole career, as printer, pilot,

lecturer and writer is an open and conned book to all.

Difficult indeed it is to quote from his volumes of fun, but we append

a short extract from _The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County_.

... Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for

fellers that had traveled and been everywheres all said he laid over

any frog that ever _they_ see.

Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to

fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller--a

stranger in the camp, he was--come acrost him with his box, and says:

“What might it be that you’ve got in the box?”

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, “It might be a parrot, or it

might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t--it’s only just a frog.”

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round

this way and that, and says, “H’m--so ’tis. Well what’s _he_ good

for?”

“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “he’s good enough for

_one_ thing, I should judge--he can outjump any frog in Calaveras

County.”

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look,

and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well,” he says,

“I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other

frog.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs and maybe

you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you

ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got _my_ opinion

and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras

County.”

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, “Well,

I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog

I’d bet you.”

And then Smiley says, “That’s all right--that’s all right--if you’ll

hold my box a minute I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so the feller

took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set

down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to himself, and

then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon

and filled him full of quail shot--filled him pretty near up to his

chin--and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped

around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and

fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:

“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his forepaws

just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give the word.” Then he says,

“One--two--three--_git_.” and him and the feller touched up the

frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l give a

heave, and hysted up his shoulders--so--like a Frenchman, but it warn’t

no use--he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he

couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good

deal surprised, and he was disgusted, too, but he didn’t have no idea

what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out

at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at

Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “_I_

don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long

time, and at last he says, “I do wonder what in the nation that frog

throw’d off for--I wonder if there ain’t something the matter with

him--e ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched Dan’l by

the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, “Why blame my cats if he

don’t weight five pound!” and turned him upside down and he belched out

a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the

maddest man--he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but

he never ketched him.

* * * * *

James Bayard Taylor and Thomas Bailey Aldrich, friends and congenial

spirits, both despised American Dialect poetry.

Their own work shows a facile wit and graceful fancy, but, with Edmund

Clarence Stedman, they must be classed as writers of light verse rather

than as humorists.

Taylor was good at parody, and in his _Echo Club_, thus burlesques

the style of Aldrich.

_PALABRAS GRANDIOSAS_

_After T---- B---- A----_

I lay i’ the bosom of the sun,

Under the roses dappled and dun.

I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer,

In his palace beside the Bendemeer,

With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind,

And the harem that stretched for a league behind.

The tulips bent i’ the summer breeze,

Under the broad chrysanthemum trees,

And the minstrel, playing his culverin,

Made for mine ears a merry din.

If I were the Sultan, and he were I,

Here i’ the grass he should loafing lie,

And I should bestride my zebra steed,

And the ride of the hunt of the centipede;

While the pet of the harem, Dandeline,

Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine,

And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff,

Should wipe my mouth when I sighed “Enough!”

And the gay court-poet, Fearfulbore,

Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o’er,

And chant me songs of silvery tone,

Not from Hafiz, but--mine own!

Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here,

I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer,

Nor you the odalisque Dandeline,

Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!

David Ross Locke, who wrote over the name of Petroleum V. Nasby, was a

humorist of the newspapers. He achieved no success until he began to

misspell his words, when he at once leaped into popularity.

But the Prince of Misspellers, excepting always Josh Billings, was

Artemus Ward, the pseudonym of Charles Farrar Browne.

The trick of misspelling and the use of excessive exaggeration were his

stock in trade, added to a certain plaintiveness and abounding good

humor.

Browne was the only one of this group of American humorists, whose

work was read in England, and he lectured over there with pronounced

success.

_ON “FORTS”_

Every man has got a Fort. It’s sum men’s fort to do one thing, and

some other men’s fort to do another, while there is numeris shiftliss

critters goin’ round loose whose fort is not to do nothin’.

Shakspeer rote good plase, but he wouldn’t hav succeeded as a

Washington coorespondent of a New York daily paper. He lacked the

rekesit fancy and imagginashun.

That’s so!

Old George Washington’s Fort was not to hev eny public man of the

present day resemble him to eny alarmin extent. Whare bowts can

George’s ekal be found? I ask, & boldly answer no whares, or any whare

else.

Old man Townsin’s Fort was to maik Sassyperiller. “Goy to the world!

anuther life saived!” (Cotashun from Townsin’s advertisement.)

Cyrus Field’s Fort is to lay a sub-machine telegraf under the boundin

billers of the Oshun, and then have it Bust.

Spaldin’s Fort is to maik Prepared Gloo, which mends every thing.

Wonder ef it will mend a sinner’s wickid waze. (Impromptoo goak.)

Zoary’s Fort is to be a femaile circus feller.

My Fort is the grate moral show bizniss & ritin choice famerly

literatoor for the noospapers. That’s what’s the matter with _me_.

&., &., &. So I mite go on to a indefinit extent.

Twict I’ve endevered to do things which thay wasn’t my Fort. The fust

time was when I undertuk to lick a owdashus cuss who cut a hole in my

tent & krawld threw. Sez I, “My jentle Sir, go out or I shall fall on

to you putty hevy.” Sez he, “Wade in, Old wax figgers,” whereupon I

went for him, but he cawt me powerful on the bed & knockt me threw the

tent into a cow pastur. He pursood the attach & flung me into a mud

puddle. As I arose & rung out my drencht garmints I koncluded fitin

wasn’t my Fort. Ile now rize the kurtin upon Seen 2nd: It is rarely

seldum that I seek consolation in the Flowin Bole. But in a certain

town in Injianny in the Faul of 18--, my orgin grinder got sick with

the fever & died. I never felt so ashamed in my life, & I thowt I’d

hist in a few swallers of suthin strengthnin. Konsequents was I histid

in so much I dident zackly know whare bowts I was. I turned my livin

wild beasts of Pray loose into the streets and spilt all my wax wurks.

I then bet I cood play hoss. So I hitched myself to a Kanawl bote,

there bein two other hosses hicht on also, one behind and anuther ahead

of me. The driver hollerd for us to git up, and we did. But the hosses

bein onused to sich a arrangemunt begun to kick & squeal and rair up.

Konsequents was I fownd myself in the Kanawl with the other hosses,

kickin & yellin like a tribe of Cusscaroorus savvijis. I was rescood, &

as I was bein carrid to the tavern on a hemlock Bored I sed in a feeble

voise, “Boys, playin hoss isn’t my Fort.”

_Morul._--Never don’t do nothin which isn’t your Fort, for ef you

do you’ll find yourself splashin round in the Kanawl, figgeratively

speakin.

* * * * *

Frank R. Stockton was a nobleman among the humorists.

His quiet and often subtle humor, his delightful style and his

unique originality made all his stories a joy and some masterpieces.

No quotations can be given, for any Stockton story must be read in

its entirety. _The Lady and the Tiger_ is doubtless the most

celebrated one, but many others are even more clever and unusual.

* * * * *

Francis Bret Harte, famed for his short stories, also wrote humorous

verse. _The Heathen Chinee_ is a byword in all households, and

_Truthful James_ is nearly as well known.

_THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS_

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;

And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow man,

And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,

To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see

Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same society,

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones

That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,

From those same bones an animal that was extremely rare,

And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault;

It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault

He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,

And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent

To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent;

Nor should the individual who happens to be meant

Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order--when

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage

In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age;

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

_TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL_

“Speak, O man less recent!

Fragmentary fossil!

Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,

Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum

Of volcanic tufa!

“Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;

Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;

Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions

Of earth’s epidermis!

“Eo--Mio--Plio--Whatsoe’er the ’cene’ was

That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder--

Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches--

Tell us thy strange story!

“Or has the professor slightly antedated

By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,

Giving thee an air that’s somewhat better fitted

For cold-blooded creatures?

“Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest

When above thy head the stately Sigillaria

Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant

Carboniferous epoch?

“Tell us of that scene--the dim and watery woodland

Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect;

Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall clubmosses,

Lycopodiacea,

When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,

And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,

While from time to time above thee flew and circled

Cheerful Pterodactyls.

“Tell us of thy food--those half-marine refections,

Crinoids on the shell and brachipods _au naturel_--

Cuttle-fish to which the _pieuvre_ of Victor Hugo

Seems a periwinkle.

“Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth’s creation,

Solitary fragment of remains organic!

Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence--

Speak! thou oldest primate!”

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,

And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,

With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,

Ground the teeth together.

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition,

Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,

Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs

Of expectoration:

“Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted

Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county,

But I’d take it kindly if you’d send the pieces

Home to old Missouri!”

Pioneering in the West marked a distinct epoch in American humor. Bret

Harte owed his meteoric success largely to the fact of his utilizing

the background of the Golden West. And so did Joaquin Miller, John Hay

and Edward Rowland Sill.

The Pike County Ballads of John Hay were national favorites.

_LITTLE BREECHES_

I don’t go much on religion,

I never ain’t had no show;

But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,

On the handful o’ things I know.

I don’t pan out on the prophets

And free-will and that sort of thing--

But I b’lieve in God and the angels,

Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,

And my little Gabe come along--

No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong,

Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight--

And I’d larnt him to chaw terbacker

Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket

As I passed by Taggart’s store;

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started--

I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer;

But we rousted up some torches,

And sarched for ’em far and near.

At last we struck horses and wagon,

Snowed under a soft white mound,

Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe

Nor hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me,

Of my fellow-critter’s aid--

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,

Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

* * * * *

By this, the torches was played out,

And me and Isrul Parr

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold

That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed

Where they shut up the lambs at night.

We looked in and seen them huddled thar,

So warm and sleepy and white;

And THAR sot Little Breeches, and chirped,

As peart as ever you see:

“I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm;

They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child,

And bringing him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business

Then loafing around The Throne.

Joaquin Miller, whose true name was Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, was

called the Poet of the Sierras.

He seldom wrote in humorous vein, but some of his verse must fall into

that category.

_THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON TOWN_

AN IDYL OF OREGON

Two webfoot brothers loved a fair

Young lady, rich and good to see;

And oh, her black abundant hair!

And oh, her wondrous witchery!

Her father kept a cattle farm,

These brothers kept her safe from harm:

From harm of cattle on the hill;

From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing

The livelong morning, loud and shrill,

And lashing sides like anything;

From roaring bulls that tossed the sand

And pawed the lilies from the land.

There came a third young man. He came

From far and famous Boston town.

He was not handsome, was not “game,”

But he could “cook a goose” as brown

As any man that set foot on

The sunlit shores of Oregon.

This Boston man he taught the school,

Taught gentleness and love alway,

Said love and kindness, as a rule,

Would ultimately “make it pay.”

He was so gentle, kind, that he

Could make a noun and verb agree.

So when one day the brothers grew

All jealous and did strip to fight,

He gently stood between the two,

And meekly told them ’twas not right.

“I have a higher, better plan,”

Outspake this gentle Boston man.

“My plan is this: Forget this fray

About that lily hand of hers;

Go take your guns and hunt all day

High up yon lofty hill of firs,

And while you hunt, my loving doves,

Why, I will learn which one she loves.”

The brothers sat the windy hill,

Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold,

Their rifles crossed their laps, but still

They sat and sighed and shook with cold.

Their hearts lay bleeding far below;

Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.

Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat;

A spotted circle in the grass.

The valley lay beneath their feet;

They heard the wide-winged eagles pass.

The eagles cleft the clouds above;

Yet what could they but sigh and love?

“If I could die,” the elder sighed,

“My dear young brother here might wed.”

“Oh, would to Heaven I had died!”

The younger sighed, with bended head.

Then each looked each full in the face

And each sprang up and stood in place.

“If I could die,”--the elder spake,--

“Die by your hand, the world would say

’Twas accident;--and for her sake,

Dear brother, be it so, I pray.”

“Not that!” the younger nobly said;

Then tossed his gun and turned his head.

And fifty paces back he paced!

And as he paced he drew the ball;

Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced

His brother to the death and fall!

Two shots rang wild upon the air!

But lo! the two stood harmless there!

An eagle poised high in the air;

Far, far below the bellowing

Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere

Vast silence sat all questioning.

The spotted hounds ran circling round

Their red, wet noses to the ground.

And now each brother came to know

That each had drawn the deadly ball;

And for that fair girl far below

Had sought in vain to silent fall.

And then the two did gladly “shake,”

And thus the elder bravely spake:

“Now let us run right hastily

And tell the kind schoolmaster all!

Yea! yea! and if she choose not me,

But all on you her favors fall,

This valiant scene, till all life ends,

Dear brother, binds us best of friends.”

The hounds sped down, a spotted line,

The bulls in tall, abundant grass,

Shook back their horns from bloom and vine,

And trumpeted to see them pass--

They loved so good, they loved so true,

These brothers scarce knew what to do.

They sought the kind schoolmaster out

As swift as sweeps the light of morn;

They could but love, they could not doubt

This man so gentle, “in a horn,”

They cried, “Now whose the lily hand--

That lady’s of this webfoot land?”

They bowed before that big-nosed man,

That long-nosed man from Boston town;

They talked as only lovers can,

They talked, but he could only frown;

And still they talked, and still they plead;

It was as pleading with the dead.

At last this Boston man did speak--

“Her father has a thousand ceows,

An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek;

He also had this ample heouse.”

The brothers’ eyes stuck out thereat,

So far you might have hung your hat.

“I liked the looks of this big heouse--

My lovely boys, won’t you come in?

Her father has a thousand ceows,

He also had a heap of tin.

The guirl? Of yes, the guirl, you see--

The guirl, just neow she married me.”

Robert Henry Newell, a popular journalist and humorist, wrote over the

name of Orpheus C. Kerr. His best known work is the Orpheus C. Kerr

Papers, but as a parodist he gives us these burlesque National Hymns.

I

BY H--Y W. L-NGF---- W

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch

Over the sea-ribb’d land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,

Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens--

Ursa--the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,

Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,

Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him

Flutter’d and flam’d the original Star Spangled Banner.

II

BY J-HN GR--NL--F WH--T--R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock

Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,

And all thy sons unite in one grand wish--

To keep the virtues of Preservèd Fish.

Preservèd Fish, the Deacon stern and true,

Told our New England what her sons should do,

And if they swerve from loyalty and right,

Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III

BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES

A diagnosis of our hist’ry proves

Our native land a land its native loves;

Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,

Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores

Sink into nothingness beside its stores;

Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand--

The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land.

IV

BY R-LPH W-LDO EM-R--N

Source immaterial of material naught,

Focus of light infinitesimal,

Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,

Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars

To the stars bent incipient on our flag,

The beam translucent, neutrifying death,

And raise to immortality the rag.

V

By W-LL--M C-LL-N B-Y-NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev’ning Post,

The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;

Yet not a star our Flag of Heav’n has lost,

And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those

New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;

But still our Country’s nobler planet glows

While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VI

By N. P. W-LL-S

One hue of our Flag is taken

From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,

And its stars beat time and sparkle

Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow

That hides in her dreamy eyes,

It conquers all men, like her,

And still for a Union flies.

VII

BY TH-M-S B-IL-Y ALD--CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,

The cricket quaintly sings,

The emerald pigeon nods his head,

And the shad in the river springs,

The dainty sunflow’r hangs its head

On the shore of the summer sea;

And better far that I were dead,

If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,

And the cricket that quaintly sings;

And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,

And the shad that gaily springs.

I love the dainty sunflow ’r, too.

And Maud with her snowy breast;

I love them all;--but I love--I love--

I love my country best.

Edward Rowland Sill, writing of the West for many years, wrote

delightful humor on other subjects as well.

_EVE’s DAUGHTER_

I waited in the little sunny room:

The cool breeze waved the window-lace at play,

The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,

And out upon the bay

I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.

“Such an old friend--she would not make me stay

While she bound up her hair.” I turned, and lo,

Danæ in her shower! and fit to slay

All a man’s hoarded prudence at a blow:

Gold hair, that streamed away

As round some nymph a sunlit fountain’s flow.

“She would not make me wait!”--but well I know

She took a good half-hour to loose and lay

Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

Newspaper humor of this period included the _Danbury News Man_, _Peck’s

Bad Boy_ and _Eli Perkins_ (Melville D. Landon).

Charles E. Carryl, though his books are called Juveniles, wrote

delicious nonsense, approaching nearer to Lewis Carroll than any other

American writer.

_THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND_

A capital ship for an ocean trip

Was the “Walloping Window-blind”--

No gale that blew dismayed her crew

Or troubled the captain’s mind.

The man at the wheel was taught to feel

Contempt for the wildest blow,

And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,

That he’d been in his bunk below.

The boatswain’s mate was very sedate,

Yet fond of amusement, too;

And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch,

While the captain tickled the crew.

And the gunner we had was apparently mad,

For he sat on the after rail,

And fired salutes with the captain’s boots,

In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore’s hat

And dined in a royal way

On toasted pigs and pickles and figs

And gummery bread each day.

But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such:

For the food he gave the crew

Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns

Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will,

On a diet that’s cheap and rude;

And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook

In a tub of his gluesome food.

Then nautical pride we laid aside,

And we cast the vessel ashore

On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,

And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land,

And trimmed with cinnamon straws;

And pink and blue was the pleasing hue

Of the Tickletoeteaser’s claws.

And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge

And shot at the whistling bee;

And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats

As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,

We fed, till we all had grown

Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk

Came by from the torriby zone.

She was stubby and square, but we didn’t much care,

And we cheerily put to sea;

And we left the crew of the junk to chew

The bark of the rubagub tree.

Robert Jones Burdette, known as the Burlington Hawkeye Man, was one of

the prototypes of our present day newspaper columnists.

His witty verse and prose has lived, and he ranks with the humorists of

our land.

_WHAT WILL WE DO?_

What will we do when the good days come--

When the prima donna’s lips are dumb.

And the man who reads us his “little things”

Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;

When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,

And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;

When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums--

Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?

Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,

When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime!

And the scornful dame who stands on your feet

Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;

And the man you hire to work by the day,

Will allow you to do his work your way;

And the cook who trieth your appetite

Will steal no more than she thinks is right;

When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”

Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;

When the funny man is humorsome--

How can we stand the millennium?

“_SOLDIER, REST!_”

A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea

Just when the war was growing hot,

And he shouted, “I’m Tjalikavakeree--

Karindabrolikanavandorot--

Schipkadirova--

Ivandiszstova--

Sanilik--

Danilik--

Varagobhot!”

A Turk was standing upon the shore

Right where the terrible Russian crossed;

And he cried, “Bismillah! I’m Abd el Kor--

Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk--

Getzinpravadi--

Kilgekosladji--

Grivido--

Blivido--

Jenikodosk!”

So they stood like brave men, long and well,

And they called each other their proper names,

Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell

They buried them both by the Irdosholames--

Kalatalustchuk--

Mischaribustchup--

Bulgari--

Dulgari--

Sagharimainz.

Marietta Holley wrote with shrewd observation and much homely common

sense. Her books about Betsey Bobbet and Josiah Allen’s Wife were best

sellers in the seventies or thereabouts.

Like many of her contemporaries for her fun she depended largely on

misspelling.

* * * * *

Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the _Augah_ has

no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite

authar. You have devorhed him haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.

“Mahtan Fahqueah Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.

“No, mam,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper,

nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.”

“Oh, you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet tender lines.”

“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I

made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and

so I read:

_GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL_

“‘Oh, let who will,

Oh, let who can,

Be tied onto

A horrid male man.’

“Thus said I ere

My tendah heart was touched;

Thus said I ere

My tendah feelings gushed.

“But oh, a change

Hath swept ore me,

As billows sweep

The ‘deep blue sea.’

“A voice, a noble form

One day I saw;

An arrow flew,

My heart is nearly raw.

“His first pardner lies

Beneath the turf;

He is wondering now

In sorrow’s briny surf.

“Two twins, the little

Death cherub creechahs,

Now wipe the teahs

From off his classic feachahs.

“Oh, sweet lot, worthy

Angel arisen,

To wipe teahs

From eyes like hisen.”

“What think you of it?” says she, as I finished readin’.

I looked right at her ’most a minute with a majestic look. In spite

of her false curls and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly

critter. I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long

yellow bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain’t the editor of the

_Augur_ a widower with a pair of twins?”

“Yes,” says she, with a happy look.

Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one....

There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before

you are married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I

sternly.

“We kindred soles soah above such petty feelin’s--we soah far above

them.”

“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and

to tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.” “The editah of

the _Augah_,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen the stand

and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the editah of

this paper is a kindred sole; he appreciates me, he undahstands me, and

will not our names in the pages of this very papah go down to posterety

togathah?”

“Then,” says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was

there now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I

wish you was both of you in posterity now.”

--_My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet’s._

George Thomas Lanigan wrote clever verse, of which _The Akhoond of

Swat_ is among the best.

_A THRENODY_

“The Akhoond of Swat is dead,”--_London Papers of January 22,

1878_.

What, what, what,

What’s the news from Swat?

Sad news,

Bad news,

Cometh by cable led

Through the Indian Ocean’s bed,

Through the Persian Gulf, the Red

Sea and the Med-

Iterranean: he’s dead,--

The Akhoond is dead!

For the Akhoond I mourn.

Who wouldn’t?

He strove to disregard the message stern,

But he Akhoondn’t.

Dead, dead, dead;

(Sorrow, Swats!)

Swats wha hae wi’ Akhoond bled,

Swats wham he hath often led

Onward to a gory bed,

Or to victory,

As the case might be,--

Sorrow, Swats!

Tears shed,

Shed tears like water,

Your great Akhoond is dead!

That’s Swat’s the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat,

Your great Akhoond is not,

But laid ’mid worms to rot,--

His mortal part alone: his soul was caught

(Because he was a good Akhoond)

Up to the bosom of Mahound.

Though earthly walls his frame surround

(Forever hallowed be the ground),

And sceptics mock the lowly mound

And say, “He’s now of no Akhoond!”

His soul is in the skies,--

The azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat;

He sees, with larger, other eyes,

Athwart all earthly mysteries;

He knows what’s Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Akhoond

With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!

Let Swat bury the great Akhoond

With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length

Its tower of strength.

Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned,

Dead lies the great Akhoond,

The great Akhoond of Swat,

Is not!

Lanigan also wrote Fables, which he signed G. Washington Æsop.

_THE OSTRICH AND THE HEN_

An Ostrich and a Hen chanced to occupy adjacent apartments, and the

former complained loudly that her rest was disturbed by the cackling

of her humble neighbor. “Why is it,” she finally asked the Hen, “that

you make such an intolerable noise?” The Hen replied, “Because I have

laid an egg.” “Oh, no,” said the Ostrich, with a superior smile, “it is

because you are a Hen and don’t know any better.”

_Moral._--The moral of the foregoing is not very clear, but it

contains some reference to the Agitation for Female Suffrage.

_THE KIND-HEARTED SHE-ELEPHANT_

A kind-hearted She-Elephant, while walking through the Jungle where the

Spicy Breezes blow soft o’er Ceylon’s Isle, heedlessly set foot upon a

Partridge, which she crushed to death within a few inches of the Nest

containing its Callow Brood. “Poor little things!” said the generous

Mammoth. “I have been a Mother myself, and my affection shall atone for

the Fatal Consequences of my neglect.” So saying, she sat down upon the

Orphaned Birds.

_Moral._--The above Teaches us What Home is Without a Mother;

also, that it is not every Person who should be entrusted with the Care

of an Orphan Asylum.

* * * * *

James Jeffrey Roche wrote delightful verse, which is properly classed

as _Vers de Société_, but which shows more wit than much of that

type.

_THE V-A-S-E_

From the madding crowd they stand apart,

The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell, from sight alone,

In which had Culture ripest grown--

The Gotham Million, fair to see,

The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,

Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo--

For all loved Art in a seemly way,

With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshiped; but no one broke

The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,

Who blushing said, “What a lovely vace!”

Over three faces a sad smile flew,

And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred

To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,

She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”

But brief her unworthy triumph when

The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,

Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”

And glances round with an anxious thrill,

Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,

And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

“I did not catch your remark, because

I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!”

_Dies erit praegelida

Sinistra quum Bostonia._

_A BOSTON LULLABY_

Baby’s brain is tired of thinking

On the Wherefore and the Whence;

Baby’s precious eyes are blinking

With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning

Heavy leaves of lexicon;

Little nose is fretted learning

How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature

Are beneficent and wise;

His medulla oblongata

Bids my darling close his eyes,

And his pneumogastrics tell him

Quietude is always best

When his little cerebellum

Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,

Let the world go wrong or right.

Sleep, my darling, leave Creation

To its chances for the night.

Joel Chandler Harris is in a class by himself. Although he wrote other

things, he will always be remembered for the immortal Uncle Remus

stories. _The Tar Baby_ and _Brer Rabbit_ are known and loved

of all American families. A short bit is given from:

_THE SAD END OF BRER WOLF_

“Bimeby, one day w’en Brer Rabbit wuz fixin’ fer ter call on Miss Coon,

he heered a monst’us fussen clatter up de big road, en ’mos’ ’fo’ he

could fix his years fer ter lissen, Brer Wolf run in de do’. De little

Rabbits dey went inter dere hole in de cellar, dey did, like blowin’

out a cannle. Brer Wolf wuz far’ly kiver’d wid mud, en mighty nigh

outer win’.

“‘Oh, do pray save me, Brer Rabbit!’ sez Brer Wolf, sezee. ‘Do, please,

Brer Rabbit! de dogs is atter me, en dey’ll t’ar me up. Don’t you year

um comin’? Oh, do please save me Brer Rabbit! Hide me some’rs whar de

dogs won’t git me.’

“No quicker sed dan done.

“‘Jump in dat big chist dar, Brer Wolf,’ sez Brer Rabbit sezee; ‘jump

in dar en make yo’se’f at home.’

“In jump Brer Wolf, down come de lid, en inter de hasp went de hook, en

dar Mr. Wolf wuz. Den Brer Rabbit went ter de lookin’-glass, he did, en

wink at hisse’f, en den he draw’d de rockin’-cheer in front er de fier,

he did, en tuck a big chaw terbarker.”

“Tobacco, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy incredulously.

“Rabbit terbarker, honey. You know dis yer life ev’lastin’ w’at Miss

Sally puts ’mong de cloze in de trunk; well, dat’s rabbit terbarker.

Den Brer Rabbit sot dar long time, he did, turnin’ his mine over en

wukken’ his thinkin’ masheen. Bimeby he got up, en sorter stir ’roun’.

Den Brer Wolf open up:

“‘Is de dogs all gone, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Seem like I hear one un um smellin’ roun’ de chimbly cornder des now.’

“Den Brer Rabbit git de kittle en fill it full er water, en put it on

de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m fixin’ fer ter make you a nice cup er tea, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went ter de cubberd, en git de gimlet, en commence for

ter bo’ little holes in de chist-lid.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-bo’in’ little holes so you kin get bref, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went out en git some mo’ wood, en fling it on de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-chunkin’ up de fier so you won’t git cole, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went down inter de cellar en fotch out all his

chilluns.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-tellin’ my chilluns w’at a nice man you is, Brer Wolf.’

“En de chilluns, dey had ter put der han’s on her moufs fer ter keep

fum laffin’. Den Brer Rabbit he got de kittle en commenced fer to po’

de hot water on de chist-lid.

“‘W’at dat I hear, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You hear de win’ a-blowin’, Brer Wolf.’

“Den de water begin fer ter sif’ thoo.

“‘W’at dat I feel, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You feels de fleas a-bitin’, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er bitin’ mighty hard, Brer Rabbit.’

“‘Tu’n over on de udder side, Brer Wolf.’

“‘W’at dat I feel now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Still you feels de fleas, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er eatin’ me up, Brer Rabbit,’ en dem wuz de las’ words er Brer

Wolf, kase de scaldin’ water done de bizness.

“Den Brer Rabbit call in his nabers, he did, en dey hilt a reg’lar

juberlee; en ef you go ter Brer Rabbit’s house right now, I dunno but

w’at you’ll fine Brer Wolf’s hide hangin’ in de back-po’ch, en all

bekaze he wuz so bizzy wid udder fo’kses doin’s.”

--_From Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings._

Eugene Field, beside being the greatest of newspaper paragraphers was

a versatile writer of all sorts, from Christmas Hymns to the most

flippant themes.

His own personal charm imbued his work, and whether writing _Echoes

of Horace_ or appalling tales of _Little Willie_, he was always

original and truly funny.

_THE DINKEY-BIRD_

In an ocean, ’way out yonder

(As all sapient people know),

Is the land of Wonder-Wander,

Whither children love to go;

It’s their playing, romping, swinging,

That give great joy to me

While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing

In the Amfalula-tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries,

And taffy’s thick as peas,--

Caramels you pick like berries

When, and where, and how you please:

Big red sugar-plums are clinging

To the cliffs beside that sea

Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-tree.

So when children shout and scamper

And make merry all the day,

When there’s naught to put a damper

To the ardor of their play;

When I hear their laughter ringing,

Then I’m sure as sure can be

That the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras

And staccatos are so sweet--

His roulades, appogiaturas,

And robustos so complete,

That the youth of every nation--

Be they near or far away--

Have especial delectation

In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter,

Their lungs begin to crow,

Their hearts get light and lighter,

And their cheeks are all aglow;

For an echo cometh bringing

The news to all and me.

That the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-tree.

I’m sure you’d like to go there

To see your feathered friend--

And so many goodies grow there

You would like to comprehend!

_Speed, little dreams, your winging

To that land across the sea

Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-Tree!_

_THE LITTLE PEACH_

A little peach in the orchard grew,

A little peach of emerald hue:

Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew,

It grew.

One day, walking the orchard through,

That little peach dawned on the view

Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue--

Those two.

Up at the peach a club they threw:

Down from the limb on which it grew,

Fell the little peach of emerald hue--

Too true!

John took a bite, and Sue took a chew,

And then the trouble began to brew,--

Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,--

Paregoric too.

Under the turf where the daisies grew,

They planted John and his sister Sue;

And their little souls to the angels flew--

Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue,

Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?

Ah, well! its mission on earth is through--

Adieu!

_GOOD JAMES AND NAUGHTY REGINALD_

Once upon a Time there was a Bad boy whose Name was Reginald and there

was a Good boy whose Name was James. Reginald would go Fishing when his

Mamma told him Not to, and he Cut off the Cat’s Tail with the Bread

Knife one Day, and then told Mamma the Baby had Driven it in with the

Rolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when his

Mamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go

into a Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said.

That is why they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came

Christmas. Mamma said, You have been so Bad, my son Reginald, you will

not Get any Presents from Santa Claus this Year; but you, my Son James,

will get Oodles of Presents, because you have Been Good. Will you

Believe it, Children, that Bad boy Reginald said he didn’t Care a Darn

and he Kicked three Feet of Veneering off the Piano just for Meanness.

Poor James was so sorry for Reginald that he cried for Half an Hour

after he Went to Bed that Night. Reginald lay wide Awake until he saw

James was Asleep and then he Said if these people think they can Fool

me, they are Mistaken. Just then Santa Claus came down the Chimney. He

had lots of Pretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes

and Pretended to be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said, Reginald is Bad and

I will not Put any nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James,

I will Fill your Stocking Plumb full of Toys, because You are Good.

So Santa Claus went to Work and Put, Oh! heaps and Heaps of Goodies

in James’ stocking but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald’s stocking.

And then he Laughed to himself and Said, I guess Reginald will be

sorry to-morrow because he Was so Bad. As he said this he Crawled up

the chimney and rode off in his Sleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots

Reginald was no Spring Chicken. He just Got right Straight out of Bed

and changed all those Toys and Truck from James’ stocking into his own.

Santa Claus will Have to Sit up all Night, said He, when he Expects to

get away with my Baggage. The next morning James got out of Bed and

when He had Said his Prayers he Limped over to his Stocking, licking

his chops and Carrying his Head as High as a Bull going through a Brush

Fence. But when he found there was Nothing in his stocking and that

Reginald’s Stocking was as Full as Papa Is when he comes home Late from

the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and began to Wonder why on Earth

he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent a Happy Christmas and James

was very Miserable. After all, Children, it Pays to be Bad, so Long as

you Combine Intellect with Crime.

--_From the Tribune Primer._

Edgar Wilson Nye, known commonly as Bill Nye, wrote in prose and also

made a success on the lecture platform, as well as in his newspaper

work.

_THE GARDEN HOSE_

It is now the proper time for the cross-eyed woman to fool with the

garden hose. I have faced death in almost every form, and I do not know

what fear is, but when a woman with one eye gazing into the zodiac

and the other peering into the middle of next week, and wearing one

of those floppy sun-bonnets, picks up the nozzle of the garden hose

and turns on the full force of the institution, I fly wildly to the

Mountains of Hepsidam.

Water won’t hurt any one, of course, if care is used not to forget and

drink any of it, but it is this horrible suspense and uncertainty about

facing the nozzle of a garden hose in the hands of a cross-eyed woman

that unnerves and paralyzes me.

Instantaneous death is nothing to me. I am as cool and collected where

leaden rain and iron hail are thickest as I would be in my own office

writing the obituary of the man who steals my jokes. But I hate to be

drowned slowly in my good clothes and on dry land, and have my dying

gaze rest on a woman whose ravishing beauty would drive a narrow-gage

mule into convulsions and make him hate himself t’death.

* * * * *

Richard Kendall Munkittrick wielded a graceful pen and his verses show

an original wit.

_WHAT’S IN A NAME?_

In letters large upon a frame,

That visitors might see,

The painter placed his humble name,

O’Callaghan McGee.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,

The critics with a nod

Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman

Adores his native sod.

“His stout heart’s patriotic flame

There’s naught on earth can quell

He takes no wild romantic name

To make his pictures sell!”

Then poets praised in sonnets neat

His stroke so bold and free;

No parlor wall was thought complete

That hadn’t a McGee.

All patriots before McGee

Threw lavishly their gold;

His works in the Academy

Were very quickly sold.

His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”

His “When the Morning Smiled,”

His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”

His “Portrait of a Child,”

Were purchased in a single day

And lauded as divine.

* * * * *

That night as in his _atelier_

The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames,

He grinned from ear to ear:

“They little think my _real_ name’s

V. Stuyvesant De Vere!”

Edward Waterman Townsend, varied the time-honored tradition of

misspelling by introducing an example of Bowery slang. His _Chimmie

Fadden_ took a firm hold on the public notice and the vogue lasted

for many years.

* * * * *

“Naw, I ain’t stringin’ ye. ‘Is Whiskers is de loidy’s fadder. Sure!

“’E comes ter me room wid der loidy, ’is Whiskers does, an’ he says,

says ’e, ‘Is dis Chimmie Fadden?’ says ’e.

“‘Yer dead on,’ says I.

“‘Wot t’ell?’ ’e says, turning to ’is daughter. ‘Wot does de young man

say?’ ’e says.

“Den de loidy she kinder smiled--say, ye otter seed ’er smile. Say,

it’s outter sight. Dat’s right. Well, she says: ‘I t’ink I understan’

Chimmie’s langwudge,’ she says. ‘‘E means ’e’s de kid youse lookin’

fer. ’E’s de very mug.’

“Dat’s wot she says; somet’n like dat, only a felly can’t just remember

’er langwudge.

“Den ’is Whiskers gives me a song an’ dance ’bout me bein’ a brave

young man fer t’umpin’ der mug wot insulted ’is daughter, an’ ’bout ’is

heart bein’ all broke dat ’is daughter should be doin’ missioner work

in de slums.

“I says, ‘Wot tell’; but der loidy, she says, ‘Chimmie,’ says she, ‘me

fadder needs a footman,’ she says, ‘an’ I taut you’d be de very mug fer

de job,’ says she. See?

“Say, I was all broke up, an’ couldn’t say nottin’, fer ’is Whiskers

was so solemn. See?

“‘Wot’s yer lay now?’ says ’is Whiskers, or somet’n’ like dat.

“Say, I could ’ave give ’im a string ’bout me bein’ a hard-workin’ boy,

but I knowed der loidy was dead on ter me, so I only says, says I, ‘Wot

t’ell?’ says I, like dat, ‘Wot t’ell?’ See?

“Den ’is Whiskers was kinder paralized like, an’ ’e turns to ’is

daughter an’ ’e says--dese is ’is very words--’e says:

“Really, Fannie,’ ’e says, ‘really, Fannie, you must enterpret dis

young man’s langwudge.’

“Den she laffs an’ says, says she:

“Chimmie is a good boy if ’e only had a chance,’ she says.

“Den ’is Whiskers ’e says, ‘I dare say,’ like dat. See? ‘I dare say.’

See? Say, did ye ever ’ear words like dem? Say, I was fer tellin’ ’is

Whiskers ter git t’ell outter dat, only fer der loidy. See?

“Well, den we all give each odder a song an’ dance, an’ de end was I

was took fer a footman. See? Tiger, ye say? Naw, dey don’t call me no

tiger.

“Say, wouldn’t de gang on de Bow’ry be paralized if dey seed me in dis

harness? Ain’t it great? Sure! Wot am I doin’? Well, I’m doin’ pretty

well. I had ter t’ump a felly dey calls de butler de first night I was

dere for callin’ me a heathen. See? Say, dere’s a kid in de house wot

opens de front door when youse ring de bell, an’ I win all ’is boodle

de second night I was dere showin’ ’im how ter play Crusoe. Say, it’s a

dead easy game, but de loidy she axed me not to bunco de farmers--dey’s

all farmers up in dat house, dead farmers--so I leaves ’em alone.

’Scuse me now, dat’s me loidy comin’ outter der shop. I opens de door

of de carriage an’ she says, ‘Home, Chames.’ Den I jumps on de box an’

strings de driver. Say, ’e’s a farmer, too. I’ll tell you some more

’bout de game next time. So long.”

--_Chimmie Fadden._

Sam Walter Foss added to his misspelling a certain understanding of

human nature and produced many mildly satirical verses.

_A PHILOSOPHER_

Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize

About the ocean and the skies,

An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon

About the other side the moon;

An’ ’bout the natur of the place

Ten miles beyend the end of space.

An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank

If he wouldn’t kinder try to yank

Hisself outdoors an’ git some wood

To make her kitchen fire good,

So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,

He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the natur an’ the size

Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,

An’ wonder how they made ’em flop.

He’d calkerlate how long a skid

’Twould take to move the sun, he did;

An’ if the skid wuz strong an’ prime,

It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.

An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout

If he wouldn’t kinder waltz about

An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,

He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,

Then lettin’ out the lots to rent

So’s he could make an honest cent.

An’ if he’d find it pooty tough

To borry cash fer fencin’ stuff.

An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth

An’ go to Europe for his health,

Or save his cash till he’d enough

To buy some more of fencin’ stuff.

Then, if his wife she’d ask the gump

If he wouldn’t kinder try to hump

Hisself to t’other side the door

So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,

He’d look at her with mournful eyes,

An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout w’at it wuz held up the skies,

An’ how God made this earthly ball

Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,

An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form

Of nawthin’ that He made it from.

Then, if his wife sh’d ask the freak

If he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak

Out to the barn an’ find some aigs,

He’d never move, nor lift his laigs,

He’d never stir, nor try to rise,

But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the earth an’ sea an’ skies,

An’ scratch his head an’ ask the cause

Of w’at there wuz before time wuz,

An’ w’at the universe’d do

Bimeby w’en time had all got through;

An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb

If we sh’d travel out er time,

An’ if we’d need, w’en we got there

To keep our watches in repair.

Then, if his wife she’d ask the gawk

If he wouldn’t kinder try to walk

To where she had the table spread

An’ kinder git his stomach fed,

He’d leap for that ’ar kitchen door,

An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”

An’ w’en he’d got his supper et,

He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,

An’ fold his arms an’ shet his eyes,

An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.

Finley Peter Dunne created the immortal Mr. Dooley about the time of

the Spanish War.

The Irish dialect is perfect, the humor most droll and the wit quiet

and clean-cut.

Among the best of the chapters is the one that burlesques the

proceedings that took place at a celebrated murder trial of the day.

_ON EXPERT TESTIMONY_

“Annything new?” said Mr. Hennessy, who had been waiting patiently for

Mr. Dooley to put down his newspaper.

“I’ve been r-readin’ th’ tistimony iv th’ Lootgert case,” said Mr.

Dooley.

“What d’ye think iv it?”

“I think so,” said Mr. Dooley.

“Think what?”

“How do I know?” said Mr. Dooley. “How do I know what I think?

I’m no combination iv chemist, doctor, osteologist, polisman, an’

sausage-maker, that I can give ye an opinion right off th’ bat. A man

needs to be all iv thim things to detarmine annything about a murdher

trile in these days. This shows how intilligent our methods is, as

Hogan says. A large German man is charged with puttin’ his wife away

into a breakfas’-dish, an’ he says he didn’t do it. Th’ question thin

is, Did or did not Alphonse Lootgert stick Mrs. L. into a vat, an’

rayjooce her to a quick lunch? Am I right?”

“Ye ar-re,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“That’s simple enough. What th’ Coort ought to’ve done was to call him

up, an’ say: ‘Lootgert, where’s ye’er good woman?’ If Lootgert cudden’t

tell, he ought to be hanged on gin’ral principles; f’r a man must keep

his wife around th’ house, an’ whin she isn’t there it shows he’s a

poor provider. But, if Lootgert says, ‘I don’t know where me wife is,’

the Coort shud say:’ Go out an’ find her. If ye can’t projooce her in

a week, I’ll fix ye.’ An’ let that be th’ end iv it.

“But what do they do? They get Lootgert into coort an’ stand him up

befure a gang iv young rayporthers an’ th’ likes iv thim to make

pitchers iv him. Thin they summon a jury composed iv poor tired, sleepy

expressmen an’ tailors an’ clerks. Thin they call in a profissor from

a college. ‘Professor,’ says th’ lawyer f’r the State, ‘I put it to

ye if a wooden vat three hundherd an’ sixty feet long, twenty-eight

feet deep, an’ sivinty-five feet wide, an’ if three hundherd pounds

iv caustic soda boiled, an’ if the leg iv a guinea-pig, an’ ye said

yestherdah about bi-carbonate iv soda, an’ if it washes up an’ washes

over, an’ th’ slimy, slippery stuff, an’ if a false tooth or a lock iv

hair or a jawbone or a goluf ball across th’ cellar eleven feet nine

inches--that is, two inches this way an’ five gallons that?’ ‘I agree

with ye intirely,’ says th’ profissor. I made lab’ratory experiments in

an’ ir’n basin, with bichloride iv gool, which I will call soup-stock,

an’ coal-tar, which I will call ir’n filings. I mixed th’ two over a

hot fire, an’ left in a cool place to harden. I thin packed it in ice,

which I will call glue, an’ rock-salt, which I will call fried eggs,

an’ obtained a dark queer solution that is a cure f’r freckles, which I

will call antimony or doughnuts or annything I blamed please.’

“‘But,’ says th’ lawyer f’r th’ State, ‘measurin’ th’ vat with gas--an’

I lave it to ye whether this is not th’ on’y fair test--an’ supposin’

that two feet acrost is akel to tin feet sideways, an’ supposin’ that

a thick green an’ hard substance, an’ I daresay it wud; an’ supposin’

you may, takin’ into account th’ measuremints--twelve be eight--th’

vat bein’ wound with twine six inches fr’m th’ handle an’ a rub iv th’

green, thin ar-re not human teeth often found in counthry sausage?’ ‘In

th’ winter,’ says th’ profissor. ‘But th’ sisymoid bone is sometimes

seen in th’ fut, sometimes worn as a watch-charm. I took two sisymoid

bones, which I will call poker dice, an’ shook thim together in a

cylinder, which I will call Fido, poored in a can iv milk, which I will

call gum arabic, took two pounds iv rough-on-rats, which I rayfuse to

call; but th’ raysult is th’ same.’ Question be th’ Coort: ‘Different?’

Answer: ‘Yis.’ Th’ Coort: ‘Th’ same.’ Be Misther McEwen: ‘Whose

bones?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Be Misther Vincent: ‘Will ye go to th’ divvle?’

Answer: ‘It dissolves th’ hair.’

“Now what I want to know is where th’ jury gets off. What has that

collection iv pure-minded pathrites to larn fr’m this here polite

discussion, where no wan is so crool as to ask what anny wan else

means? Thank th’ Lord, whin th’ case is all over, the jury’ll pitch

th’ tistimony out iv th’ window, an’ consider three questions: ‘Did

Lootgert look as though he’d kill his wife? Did his wife look as though

she ought so be kilt? Isn’t it time we wint to supper?’ An’, howiver

they answer, they’ll be right, an’ it’ll make little diff’rence wan way

or th’ other. Th’ German vote is too large an’ ignorant annyhow.”

* * * * *

George Ade, in the Biographical Dictionaries, is classed almost

exclusively as a playwright, but to those who know and love his

_Fables in Slang_,--and who does not?--he will always be a

humorist.

His slang is all that slang should be, witty, trenchant, picturesque

and used but once. His own rule for slang stipulates that it shall be

impromptu, spontaneous and never repeated.

From his opera _The Sultan of Sulu_, we quote one song.

_THE COCKTAIL_

The cocktail is a pleasant drink,

It’s mild and harmless--I don’t think!

When you have one, you call for two--

And then you don’t care what you do.

Last night I hoisted twenty-three

Of those arrangements into me;

My bosom heaved, I swelled with pride,

I was pickled, primed and ossified!

But R-E-M-O-R-S-E--

The water wagon is the place for me!

It is no time for mirth and laughter,

The cold, dark dawn of the Morning After!

_THE FABLE OF THE CADDY WHO HURT HIS HEAD WHILE THINKING_

One day a Caddy sat in the Long Grass near the Ninth Hole and wondered

if he had a Soul. His number was 27, and he almost had forgotten his

Real Name.

As he sat and Meditated, two Players passed him. They were going the

Long Round, and the Frenzy was upon them.

They followed the Gutta-Percha Balls with the intent swiftness of

trained Bird-Dogs, and each talked feverishly of Brassy Lies, and

getting past the Bunker, and Lofting to the Green, and Slicing into the

Bramble--each telling his own Game to the Ambient Air, and ignoring

what the other Fellow had to say.

As they did the St. Andrews Full Swing for eighty Yards apiece and then

Followed Through with the usual Explanations of how it Happened, the

Caddy looked at them and Reflected that they were much inferior to his

Father.

His Father was too Serious a Man to get out in Mardi Gras Clothes and

hammer a Ball from one Red flag to another.

His Father worked in a Lumber-Yard.

He was an Earnest Citizen, who seldom Smiled, and he knew all about the

Silver Question and how J. Pierpont Morgan done up a Free People on the

Bond Issue.

The Caddy wondered why it was that his Father, a really Great Man, had

to shove Lumber all day and could seldom get one Dollar to rub against

another, while these superficial Johnnies who played Golf all the Time

had Money to Throw at the Birds. The more he Thought the more his Head

ached.

MORAL.--_Don’t try to Account for Anything._

* * * * *

Will Carleton wrote many long narrative ballads, of a homely type. His

_Betsey and I Are Out_, and _Over the Hills to the Poorhouse_, in their

day were known to every household.

A shorter work is:

_ELIPHALET CHAPIN’S WEDDING_

’Twas when the leaves of Autumn were by tempest-fingers picked,

Eliphalet Chapin started to become a benedict;

With an ancient two-ox waggon to bring back his new-found goods,

He hawed and gee’d and floundered through some twenty miles o’

woods;

With prematrimonial ardour he his hornèd steeds did press,

But Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t bristle with success.

Oh no,

Woe, woe!

With candour to digress,

Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t tremble with success.

He had not carried five miles his mouth-disputed face,

When his wedding garments parted in some inconvenient place;

He’d have given both his oxen to a wife that now was dead,

For her company two minutes with a needle and a thread.

But he pinned them up, with twinges of occasional distress,

Feeling that his wedding wouldn’t be a carnival of dress:

“Haw, Buck!

Gee, Bright!

Derned pretty mess!”

No; Eliphalet was not strictly a spectacular success.

He had not gone a ten-mile when a wheel demurely broke,

A disunited family of felloe, hub, and spoke;

It joined, with flattering prospects, the Society of Wrecks;

And he had to cut a sapling, and insert it ’neath the “ex.”

So he ploughed the hills and valleys with that Doric wheel and tire,

Feeling that his wedding journey was not all he could desire.

“Gee, Bright!

G’long, Buck!”

He shouted, hoarse with ire!

No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey none in candour could admire!

He had not gone fifteen miles with extended face forlorn,

When Night lay down upon him hard, and kept him there till morn;

And when the daylight chuckled at the gloom within his mind,

One ox was “Strayed or Stolen,” and the other hard to find.

So yoking Buck as usual, he assumed the part of Bright

(Constituting a menagerie diverting to the sight);

With “Haw, Buck!

Gee, Buck!

Sh’n’t get there till night!”

No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey was not one intense delight.

Now, when he drove his equipage up to his sweetheart’s door,

The wedding guests had tired and gone, just half-an-hour before;

The preacher had from sickness an unprofitable call,

And had sent a voice proclaiming that he couldn’t come at all;

The parents had been prejudiced by some one, more or less,

And the sire the bridegroom greeted with a different word from

“bless.”

“Blank your head,

You blank!” he said;

“We’ll break this off, I guess!”

No; Eliphalet’s wedding was not an unqualified success.

Now, when the bride saw him arrive, she shook her crimson locks,

And vowed to goodness gracious she would never wed an ox;

And with a vim deserving rather better social luck,

She eloped that day by daylight with a swarthy Indian “buck,”

With the presents in the pockets of her woollen wedding-dress;

And “Things ain’t mostly with me,” quoth Eliphalet, “I confess,”

No--no;

As things go,

No fair mind ’twould impress,

That Eliphalet Chapin’s wedding was an unalloyed success.

Dr. William H. Drummond is best known humorously by his apt rendition

of the French-Canadian dialect.

_THE WRECK OF THE “JULIE PLANTE.”_

A Legend of Lake St. Peter.

On wan dark night on Lac Saint Pierre,

De win’ she blow, blow, blow,

An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante”

Got scar’t, an’ run below--

For de win’ she blow lak hurricain,

Bimeby she blow some more,

An’ de scow buss h’up on Lac Saint Pierre

Wan h’arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk h’on de fronte deck,

An’ walk de hin’ deck too--

He call de crew from h’up de ’ole

He call de cook h’also.

De crew she’s name was Rosie,

She’s come from Montreal,

Was chambre maid h’on lombaire barge,

H’on de Grande La Chine Canal.

De win’ she’s blow from nor’-eass-wess--

De sout’ win’ she’s blow too,

W’en Rosie cry, “Mon cher captinne,

Mon cher, w’at I shall do?”

Den de captinne trow de big h’ankerre,

But steel de scow she dreef,

De crew he can’t pass on de shore,

Becos he loss hees skeef.

De night was dark lak’ wan black cat,

De wave run ’igh an’ fas’,

W’en de captinne tak’ de poor Rosie

An’ tie her to de mas’.

Den he h’also tak’ de life preserve,

An’ jomp h’off on de lak’,

An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,

I go drown for your sak’.”

Nex’ morning very h’early

Bout haf-pas’ two--t’ree--four--

De captinne--scow--an’ de poor Rosie

Was corpses on de shore.

For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricain,

Bimeby she blow some more,

An’ de scow bus’ h’up on Lac Saint Pierre,

Wan h’arpent from de shore.

MORAL

Now h’all good wood scow sailor man

Tak’ warning by dat storm,

An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl

An’ leev on one beeg farm.

De win’ can blow lak hurricain

An’ s’pose she blow some more,

You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre

So long you stay on shore.

Ben King is responsible for at least two humorous jingles of wide

popularity.

_THE PESSIMIST_

Nothing to do but work;

Nothing to eat but food;

Nothing to wear but clothes,

To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air;

Quick as a flash ’tis gone;

Nowhere to fall but off;

Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair;

Nowhere to sleep but in bed;

Nothing to weep but tears;

Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,

Ah, well, alas! alack!

Nowhere to go but out;

Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights;

Nothing to quench but thirst;

Nothing to have but what we’ve got;

Thus thro’ life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;

Everything moves that goes.

Nothing at all but common sense

Can ever withstand these woes.

_IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT_

If I should die to-night,

And you should come to my cold corpse and say,

Weeping and heartsick o’er my lifeless clay--

If I should die to-night,

And you should come in deepest grief and wo--

And say, “Here’s that ten dollars that I owe,”

I might arise in my large white cravat,

And say, “What’s that?”

If I should die to-night,

And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,

Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,

I say, if I should die to-night,

And you should come to me, and there and then

Just even hint ’bout payin’ me that ten,

I might arise the while,

But I’d drop dead again.

A humorous jingle that achieved immediate vogue is _Casey at the

Bat_. The authorship has been questioned but consensus of research

seems to ascribe it to Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

_CASEY AT THE BAT_

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to six, with just an inning left to play;

And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,

A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,

With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast;

For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that

They’d put up even money, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake,

And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake;

So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all,

And the much-despised Blakie tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,

There was Blakie safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,

It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell;

It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat;

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,

There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face;

And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.

“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his

hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered,

“Fraud!”

But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

John Kendrick Bangs, one time Editor of _Puck_, of lamented

memory, wrote tomes of humorous verse. As a pastime in tricky rhyming

we quote:

_MONA LISA_

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar!

Who’s the Chap so bold and pinchey

Thus to swipe the great da Vinci,

Taking France’s first Chef d’œuvre

Squarely from old Mr. Louvre,

Easy as some pocket-picker

Would remove our handkerchicker

As we ride in careless folly

On some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Who’s your Captor? Doubtless he’s a

Crafty sort of treasure-seeker--

Ne’er a Turpin e’er was sleeker--

But, alas, if he can win you

Easily as I could chin you,

What is safe in all the nations

From his dreadful depredations?

He’s the style of Chap, I’m thinkin’

Who will drive us all to drinkin’!

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Next he’ll swipe the Tower of Pisa,

Pulling it from out its socket

For to hide it in his pocket;

Or perhaps he’ll up and steal, O,

Madame Venus, late of Milo;

Or maybe while on the grab he

Will annex Westminster Abbey,

And elope with that distinguished

Heap of Ashes long extinguished.

Maybe too, O Mona Lisa,

He will come across the seas a--

Searching for the style of treasure

That we have in richest measure.

Sunset Cox’s brazen statue,

Have a care lest he shall catch you

Or maybe he’ll set his eye on

Hammerstein’s, or the Flatiron,

Or some bit of White Wash done

By those lads at Washington--

Truly he’s a crafty geezer,

Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

Thomas L. Masson, humorous writer, and for many years editor of

_Life_, has doubtless written more humor and books of humor than

any one in the country.

_THE KISS_

“What other men have dared, I dare,”

He said. “I’m daring, too:

And tho’ they told me to beware,

One kiss I’ll take from you.

“Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;

That was a grave mistake,

For when I’ve taken one, I fear,

One hundred more I’ll take.

“’Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,

But to stop there? Oh, no!

One kiss is only to begin;

There is no end, you know.”

The maiden rose from where she sat

And gently raised her head:

“No man has ever talked like that--

You may begin,” she said.

_DESOLATION_

Somewhat back from the village street

Stands the old fashioned country seat.

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.

And there throughout the livelong day,

Jemima plays the pi-a-na.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,

And there Jemima plies her hands,

While her papa, beneath his cloak,

Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”

And swears to himself and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth

She plays as if she owned the earth

Through every swift vicissitude

She drums as if it did her good,

And still she sits from morn till night

And plunks away with main and might

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted hospitality;

But that was many years before

Jemima dallied with the score.

When she began her daily plunk,

Into their graves the neighbors sunk.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled,

All thankful that they’re safely dead.

They stood the racket while alive

Until Jemima rose at five.

And then they laid their burdens down,

And one and all they skipped the town.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Stephen Crane, a strange and often misunderstood genius, never waxed

humorous in a broad sense. But the incisive, satirical wit of his lines

can seldom be found bettered.

A man said to the universe,

“Sir, I exist!”

“However,” replied the universe,

“The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation.”

Upon the road of my life,

Passed me many fair creatures,

Clothed all in white, and radiant;

To one, finally, I made speech:

“Who art thou?”

But she, like the others,

Kept cowled her face,

And answered in haste, anxiously,

“I am Good Deed, forsooth;

You have often seen me.”

“Not uncowled,” I made reply.

And with rash and strong hand,

Though she resisted,

I drew away the veil,

And gazed at the features of Vanity.

She, shamefaced, went on;

And after I had mused a time,

I said of myself, “Fool!”

“Think as I think,” said a man,

“Or you are abominably wicked;

You are a toad.”

And after I had thought of it,

I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

Charles Battell Loomis was a favorably known writer of humorous

jingles, and he wielded a facile pen in parody.

_JACK AND JILL_

(_As Austin Dobson might have written it_)

Their pail they must fill

In a crystalline springlet,

Brave Jack and fair Jill.

Their pail they must fill

At the top of the hill,

Then she gives him a ringlet.

Their pail they must fill

In a crystalline springlet.

They stumbled and fell,

And poor Jack broke his forehead,

Oh, how he did yell!

They stumbled and fell,

And went down pell-mell--

By Jove! it was horrid.

They stumbled and fell,

And poor Jack broke his forehead.

(_As Swinburne might have written it_)

The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees!

The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas!

The moaning of the night wind on the wold,

That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze!

On such a night as this went Jill and Jack

With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black

To find the hill’s high top and water cold,

Then toiling through the town to bear it back.

The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips

Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips,

And then with arms entwined they homeward go;

Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips.

Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight,

His crazèd cries and cranium cracked; the fright

Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo!

Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night!

(_As Walt Whitman might have written it_)

I celebrate the personality of Jack!

I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering.

Each wart upon his hands I sing,

Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades.

Also Jill!

Her I celebrate.

I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue,

Whoop her up!

What’s the matter with Jill?

Oh, she’s all right!

Who’s all right?

Jill.

Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands;

So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling.

I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and

through the darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds of

myriad creatures of the night.

I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their

mother.

Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time.

She is simply immense!

But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill.

(I didn’t mean that rhyme.)

I must watch them.

I love to watch their walk,

And wonder as I watch;

He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound,

Yet lusty,

Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a

paperweight.

She, erect, standing, her head uplifting,

Holding, but bearing not the bucket.

They have reached the spring.

They have filled the bucket.

Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”?

I will sing it:--

Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed!

Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born.

The father is happy, the mother is happy.

Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.”

Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms,

Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile,

A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping.

Here’s a large piece of black cloth!

“Have you any last words to say?”

“No.”

“Sheriff, do your work!”

Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill.

I see them descending, obstacles not heeding.

I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring, a

noise from leathern lungs out-belching.

The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his

pate with gore besmeared.

I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like

Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes.

Whoop!!!

Guy Wetmore Carryl, son of Charles E. Carryl, possessed a lovable and

whimsical nature and wielded an exceedingly clever pen, both in verse

and prose. His untimely death robbed us of one of our most delightful

young humorists.

_HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR_

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin,

Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;

Her general form was German,

By which I mean that you

Her waist could not determine

Within a foot or two.

And not only did she stammer,

But she used the kind of grammar

That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire

A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.

She was willing, she was active,

She was sober, she was kind,

But she _never_ looked attractive

And she _hadn’t_ any mind.

I knew her more than slightly,

And I treated her politely

When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,

She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,

And threw with much composure

A smallish rubber ball

At an inoffensive osier

By a little waterfall;

But Matilda’s way of throwing

Was like other people’s mowing,

And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried

To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.

And, before her eyes astounded,

On a fallen maple’s trunk

Ricochetted and rebounded

In the rivulet, and sunk!

Matilda, greatly frightened,

In her grammar unenlightened,

Remarked, “Well now I ast yer, who’d ’er thunk?”

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose

A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.

He beheld her fright and frenzy

And, her panic to dispel,

On his knee by Miss Mackenzie

He obsequiously fell.

With quite as much decorum

As a speaker in a forum

He started in his history to tell.

“Fair maid,” he said, “I beg you do not hesitate or wince,

If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince;

For a fairy, old and vicious,

An enchantment round me spun!”

Then he looked up, unsuspicious,

And he saw what he had won,

And in terms of sad reproach, he

Made some comments, _sotto voce_,

(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold;

“I _never_! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain’t you awful bold!”

Just a glance he paused to give her,

And his head was seen to clutch,

Then he darted to the river,

And he dived to beat the Dutch!

While the wrathful maiden panted

“I don’t think he was enchanted!”

(And he really didn’t look it overmuch!)

THE MORAL

In one’s language one conservative should be;

Speech is silver and it never should be free!

Edwin Arlington Robinson, among the greatest of our later poets, has a

fine wit, nowhere better shown than in:

_MINIVER CHEEVY_

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

And dreamed and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot

And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace,

And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediæval grace

Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

But sore annoyed he was without it;

Miniver thought and thought and thought

And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.

_TWO MEN_

There be two men of all mankind

That I should like to know about;

But search and question where I will,

I cannot ever find them out.

Melchizedek he praised the Lord,

And gave some wine to Abraham;

But who can tell what else he did

Must be more learned than I am.

Ucalegon he lost his house

When Agamemnon came to Troy;

But who can tell me who he was--

I’ll pray the gods to give him joy.

There be two men of all mankind

That I’m forever thinking on;

They chase me everywhere I go,--

Melchizedek, Ucalegon.

Arthur Guiterman, among the best of our present day humorous writers,

never did anything better than this intensified bit of burlesque.

_MAVRONE_

ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES

From Arranmore the weary miles I’ve come;

An’ all the way I’ve heard

A Shrawn[2] that’s kep’ me silent, speechless, dumb,

Not sayin’ any word.

An’ was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[3] you’ll say,

For him that died the death on Carrisbool?

It was not that; nor was it, by the way,

The Sons of Garnim[4] blitherin’ their drool;

Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[5]

Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[6]

For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me.

’Twas but my own heart cryin’ out for you

Magraw![7] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru,

Aroon, Machree, Aboo![8]

_ELEGY_

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss

In what was once Persepolis.

Proud Babylon is but a trace

Upon the desert’s dusty face.

The topless towers of Ilium

Are ashes. Judah’s harp is dumb.

The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre

Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire

And all the oligarchies, kings,

And potentates that ruled these things

Are gone! But cheer up; don’t be sad;

Think what a lovely time they had!

Oliver Herford, born in England but living most of his life in America,

has without doubt the most humorous soul in the world.

His art, which is pictorial as well as literary, is unique and of an

intangible, indescribable nature.

As graceful of fancy as Spenser, as truly funny as Sir William Gilbert,

he also possesses a deep philosophy and a perfect technique.

_PHYLLIS LEE_

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill

Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress

Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill

Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.

Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill

His Brush refused to work his Will.

“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes

I cannot paint to-day,” he said;

“Their Brightness shames the very Skies

And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”

Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies

And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,

Not dreaming of such Treachery,

Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,

“Without the Light, how can one See?”

“If you are _sure_ that none can see

I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

_SOME GEESE_

Ev-er-y child who has the use

Of his sen-ses knows a goose.

See them un-der-neath the tree

Gath-er round the goose-girl’s knee,

While she reads them by the hour

From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.

How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!

But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend

What Scho-pen-hau-er’s driv-ing at?

Oh, not at all; but what of that?

Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;

And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

_THE CHIMPANZEE_

Children, behold the Chimpanzee:

He sits on the ancestral tree

From which we sprang in ages gone.

I’m glad we sprang: had we held on,

We might, for aught that I can say,

Be horrid Chimpanzees to-day.

_THE HEN_

Alas! my Child, where is the Pen

That can do Justice to the Hen?

Like Royalty, She goes her way,

Laying foundations every day,

Though not for Public Buildings, yet

For Custard, Cake and Omelette.

Or if too Old for such a use

They have their Fling at some Abuse,

As when to Censure Plays Unfit

Upon the Stage they make a Hit,

Or at elections Seal the Fate

Of an Obnoxious Candidate.

No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen,

Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.

_MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM_

Well I recall how first I met

Mark Twain--an infant barely three

Rolling a tiny cigarette

While cooing on his nurse’s knee.

Since then in every sort of place

I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,

Yet how can I describe his face?

I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a _smokership_,

At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)

His name was soon on every lip,

They made him “_smoker_” of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout

With Mount Vesuvius--our cheers--

When Mount Vesuvius went out

And didn’t smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England’s King,

Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,

Offered him dukedoms--anything

To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,

“To no imperial command,

No ducal coronet for me,

My smoke is for my native land!”

For Mark there waits a brighter crown!

When Peter comes his card to read--

He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,

--Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

_GOLD_

Some take their gold

In minted mold,

And some in harps hereafter,

But give me mine

In tresses fine,

And keep the change in laughter!

_AFTER HERRICK_

_SONG_

Gather Kittens while you may,

Time brings only Sorrow;

And the Kittens of To-day

Will be Old Cats To-morrow.

_THE PRODIGAL EGG_

An egg of humble sphere

By vain ambition stung,

Once left his mother dear

When he was very young.

’Tis needless to dilate

Upon a tale so sad;

The egg, I grieve to state,

Grew very, very bad.

At last when old and blue,

He wandered home, and then

They gently broke it to

The loving mother hen.

She only said, in fun,

“I fear you’re spoiled, my son!”

Frank Gelett Burgess, one time editor of _The Lark_, a short-lived

humorous periodical, is at his best in the realms of sheer nonsense.

His _Purple Cow_ has a nation-wide reputation and his humorous

excursions into the French Forms are always marked by exact precision

as to rule and law.

_THE PURPLE COW_

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.

_THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE_

I’d Never Dare to Walk across

A Bridge I Could Not See;

For Quite afraid of Falling off,

I fear that I Should Be!

_VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING_

These are the things that make me laugh--

Life’s a preposterous farce, say I!

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half.

The high-heeled antics of colt and calf,

The men who think they can act, and try--

These are the things that make me laugh.

The hard-boiled poses in photograph,

The groom still wearing his wedding tie--

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

These are the bubbles I gayly quaff

With the rank conceit of the new-born fly--

These are the things that make me laugh!

For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff,

And people will tickle me till I die--

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

So write me down in my epitaph

As one too fond of his health to cry--

These are the things that make me laugh,

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

_PSYCHOLOPHON_

_Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee_

Twine then the rays

Round her soft Theban tissues!

All will be as She says,

When that dead past reissues.

Matters not what nor where,

Hark, to the moon’s dim cluster!

How was her heavy hair

Lithe as a feather duster!

Matters not when nor whence;

Flittertigibbet!

Sounds make the song, not sense,

Thus I inhibit!

Carolyn Wells has written much humorous verse and prose. Her work has

appeared in many of the periodicals and in book form.

_THE IDIOT’S DELIGHT_

A curious man of the human clan

Is a man who fools himself;

Who thinks he can swing the Pierian spring

Through a conduit of books on a shelf!

Who thinks if he pores in the old bookstores

And browses among the rares,

He is fit to belong to the scholarly throng

And gives himself scholarly airs.

He gasps as he speaks of his worn antiques--

With emotion almost dumb!

Or he solemnly turns his Kilmarnock Burns

With an awed and reverent thumb;

He’ll scrimp to possess a Kelmscott Press,

And hoard up his hard-earned wage

Till he saves the cost of a Paradise Lost

With the right sort of title page.

If he has on his shelves some dumpy twelves,

Of which he’s a connoisseur,

The bibliophile, with a fatuous smile,

Believes he’s a littérateur!

Because he achieves incunabula leaves,

On himself as a scholar he’ll look;

Though I’m ready to bet no scholar _I’ve_ met

Has ever collected a book!

The difference, you see, in the viewpoint must be,

And it _is_ a distinction nice;

A scholar will look at the worth of a book,

A collector will think of its price.

He nearly bursts with pride in his firsts;

And you can’t get it into his dome

That he cannot affect his intellect

By buying a tattered tome!

A collector _may_ have matter gray,

He _may_ have wisdom, too;

As he may have a head of a carroty red

Or eyes of a chicory blue.

But he has these things by the grace of God;

Especially his good looks;

By Nature’s laws, and _not_ because

The things he collects are _books_!

And so I maintain there is no brain,

No genius or talent or mind,

Required to look for a certain book,

Or to struggle that book to find.

No collector reads his precious screeds,

He appraises his books by sight;

And I make claim that the blooming game

Is the idiot’s delight!

_THE MYSTERY_

I can understand politics, civics and law,

Of national issues I have no great awe;

The theories of Einstein are simple to me,

And psychoanalysis mere A. B. C.

But there is one thing I can’t get in my head--

Why _do_ people marry the people they wed?

I can do mathematics, no matter how high;

And to me fourth dimension is easy as pie;

Most intricate problems I readily solve,

And I know why the nebular spirals revolve.

But on this baffling question no light has been shed;

Why _do_ people marry the people they wed?