Sandusky seems to breed that species.
Why, when I was at the station, waiting with a big crowd for a train
that was late, a wide-awake chap pointed out to me a poorly dressed
woman who sat alone and apparently disconsolate.
"Look here," called out this fellow, raising his voice and getting a
crowd about him, arousing immediate attention, "this poor woman has
no ticket to her destination. I'll chip in ten cents for her. Who'll
help?"
Presently he had a hat partly filled with coin, which he dumped in her
lap.
Then he called out again: "She has more than her fare, but not enough
for a shawl. She needs a shawl; I'll chip in a quarter for that."
Again he made the round and again announced:
"She ought to have a bonnet. I'll chip in half a dollar for the bonnet."
[Illustration]
When he made the rounds the third time, a newcomer entered the station,
shook hands heartily with the woman, and turning to the philanthropist,
said:
"Why, Hiram, I'm glad to see you and your wife again."
"How's this?" asked one of the contributors while the rest of us gaped.
"Is this woman your wife?"
"Yes," drawled the philanthropist, grinning.
"What right have you to collect money for your wife?" demanded several.
"What right have I to collect money for any other fellow's wife?" was
the retort that closed the debate.
I've never ceased to believe that fellow was the nerviest bunco man I
ever met.
I traveled down to Coney Island the other day with a friend recently
married.
[Illustration]
They went to housekeeping, and I suspect the little woman has been
bombarding him with all manner of fearful dishes which she insists upon
trying.
That's so like my Clara--- oh, so like! Did I ever tell you about
Clara? Well, I'll sing about her instead. Listen:
My Clara bought a gaudy book,
With colored pictures illustrated:
It teaches her, she says, to cook---
In other things she's educated.
But, oh! she still her bread will burn,
Her steak is hard and she will fry it;
To cook I know she'll never learn,
Why will she try it?
I have a friend who wrote a book---
He means, he says, to write another,
The greatest fortitude it took
To hear it read. I had to smother
Some awful yawns. I'd have to call
The man a silly fool who'd buy it;
But then poor Jones can't write at all,
Why will he try it?
I know a girl who loves to sing
And does so at the least persuasion
Or none at all--an awful thing,
I know by one most sad occasion.
Her voice might have some sort of use
If to saw filing she'd apply it,
But singing! She has no excuse.
Why will she try it?
And so it goes. Most people pant
To do the things they're most unfit for--
To preach--to paint--we know they can't--
And what they can don't care a bit for.
Perhaps we, too, our callings miss,
But tell us so and we'll deny it.
We still will fool with that or this,
Why will we try it?
Good deal of truth there, you'll admit.
But speaking of Coney Island, many's the happy hour I've spent on its
historic sands. And perhaps I've done my share at amusing the thousands
who throng there on a hot holiday.
Yes, I was the Mikado of the seaside.
That was in the days when I never dreamed I should be standing before
so brilliant an audience as I see before me tonight, in such a
magnificent theatre, and under the auspices of such a generous-hearted
proprietor--that means another fifty per! No, no, it was in the dear,
dead days, when the world was young. It makes me weep to think how we
fleeced--I mean entertained--those Coney Islanders. We gave a little
show on the sands, and we had with us one jolly old actor who only once
attempted playing in the legitimate. I was curious about that "once."
[Illustration]
When in a confiding mood I confessed that I had heard of his
aspirations, he chuckled and admitted that years back, growing
disgruntled with amusing people he had boldly essayed the role of
Hamlet.
"Well," I remarked, encouragingly, "I suppose the audience called you
to come out before the curtain?"
"Called me," he said, soberly, "why, they just dared me!"
Then there was Signor Tossi, the wonderful diver, who for a stipend
plunged from an elevated platform into a tank of water.
"See here," I said to him boldly one day, "the danger about this drop
isn't much--how have you got the nerve to call it a leap for life?"
"Why, don't I make my living by it? See?"