BY THE AUTHOR OF
“SPEAKING OF OPERATIONS,” ETC.
[Illustration]
A LAUGH A DAY
KEEPS THE DOCTOR
AWAY
_His Favorite Stories as Told by_
_Irvin S. Cobb_
[Illustration]
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.
CL
_Copyright, 1923,_
_By George H. Doran Company_
_Copyright, 1921,_
_By the Central Press Association_
_Copyright, 1922, 1923,_
_By the McNaught Syndicate, Inc._
_A Laugh a Day Keeps the Doctor Away._
_Printed in the United States of America_
_To_
_Three of the Best Story-Tellers I Know_:
ROBERT H. DAVIS SAMUEL G. BLYTHE
HAL S. CORBETT
FOREWORD
The anecdotal form of humor is largely, I think, a native institution.
Americans did not invent or discover the short humorous story, it is
true. Indeed, some short stories still are making their rounds which
were old when the Pyramids were young. Probably the piper who piped
before Moses rounded out his act with one of the standard jokes of the
period—a joke which, dressed in new clothes, is doing duty somewhere
to-day. The mother-in-law joke could not have originated with Adam,
because Adam had no mother-in-law, but I have not the slightest doubt
that Cain began using it shortly after his marriage. And beyond
peradventure Father Noah wiled away many a dragging half hour in the Ark
by telling Shem, Ham and Japhet one of the ones which begin: “It seems
there were two Irishmen named Pat and Mike. And Pat said to Mike,
‘Faith, an’ be jabers!—’”
So it would not do for us to lay claim to sole responsibility for the
short humorous story. But I am quite certain that we, more than any
other people, have made it a part of our daily life, using it to point
morals, to express situations, to help us solve puzzles. To these
extents, at least, it is a national institution with us.
Americans like to tell short stories and like to laugh at them. We are
by inheritance a race of story-tellers. There are short stories which
sum up the characteristics of white Americans or black Americans, Jews
or Gentiles, city folk or country folk more completely than could
ponderous essays or scholarly expositions. It is of record that Abraham
Lincoln, in the darkest days of the Union, cured more than one crisis
with some homely anecdote, some aptly barbed retort.
After-dinner speakers and professional jokesmiths of the stage or the
printed page are not responsible for the spread of good stories to the
extent with which they generally are credited. That honor properly
belongs to telegraph operators and notably to telegraph operators
serving on “leased” wires in newspaper offices. Late at night when the
flood tides of news matter have slackened off, the operator, say, in New
York, tells his friend in Buffalo a good one he heard that afternoon.
The Buffalo man passes it along to Kansas City. The Kansas City man
conveys it by dot-and-dash to a pal in Denver and next morning folks are
grinning over it in the streets of San Francisco.
I always have loved short funny stories. I prefer them to be new, but an
old one, properly told, is often better than a new one badly presented.
For the contents of this book I have sought to choose those short
stories which made the greatest appeal to me. Some of them I heard years
ago; others no longer ago than yesterday.
For the book I claim two distinctions, namely, as follows:
There is only one mother-in-law story in it.
There is not a single story in it in which a colored character is
referred to as “Rastus.”
I. S. C.
CONTENTS
[_Topically Arranged_]
A
ACTORS [1]64, 178, 179
AERONAUTIC 153, 187
AFTER-DINNER SPEAKERS 16, 130, 142, 355
AGRICULTURAL 66, 84, 119, 348, 360
ALCOHOLIC 1, 11, 18, 33, 36, 64, 65, 68, 89, 150, 157, 203, 212, 232,
242, 263, 319, 342
AMERICANS ABROAD 10, 24, 94, 215, 219
ANIMAL FRIENDS 5, 15, 25, 71, 117, 167, 216, 232, 233, 248, 291, 293,
344
ARCTIC 120, 221
ART 8, 168
ARMY (A. E. F. mostly) 21, 30, 34, 39, 62, 69, 71, 73, 97, 156, 161,
162, 163, 354, 359
AUTOMOBILING 105, 303
-----
[1] These figures refer to the numbers of the stories and not to the
pages in the book.
B
BANKING 44, 52, 113, 218
BASEBALL 32, 184, 228, 278, 357
BATHING 66, 127
BRIDAL COUPLES 92, 200, 205, 320
BUNCO STEERERS 110, 273
BUSINESS 8, 35, 44, 136, 165, 277, 341
C
CANADIAN 180
CARRIER-PIGEONS 71
CENSUS 40
CHILDREN 95, 128, 129, 223, 231, 240, 290, 293, 324, 347, 352
CHINESE 40, 99
CIRCUSES 19, 123, 171, 209, 336, 366
CLERGYMEN 33, 45, 49, 56, 94, 103, 116, 158, 187
COCKNEY 199, 201
COWBOY 22, 51, 349
CRICKET 164
CRITICISM 362
D
DANCING 9
DENTISTS 301, 303, 306, 312
DINING 53, 65, 77, 128, 160, 192, 261, 304, 313
DOCTORS 98, 146, 226, 285, 314, 361
DOGS 190
DWARFS 262, 325
E
EDUCATIONAL 57, 268, 276, 346
ENGLISH 16, 24, 46, 130, 142, 184, 235, 249, 321, 337, 345
F
FEMININE 9
FEUDS 3, 101, 138, 143
FINANCE 70, 241, 250, 296
FISHING 111, 175
FOOTBALL 78
FORTUNE TELLING 158
FRENCH 30, 196, 225, 280
FRUGALITY 35, 42, 108, 147, 265, 300, 309
G
GHOSTS 86, 351
GOLF 182, 237, 270, 317
H
HANGINGS 14, 17, 54, 56, 295, 316
HEALTH 131
HEBREW 8, 12, 44, 52, 113, 132, 197, 213, 237, 244, 245, 255, 276, 304,
305, 308-310, 335, 365
HORSE-RACING 141, 327
HOTELS 11, 227, 330
HUNTING 5, 337, 345
I
INDIAN 122
IRISH 2, 49, 107, 118, 188, 247, 251, 258, 267, 294, 297, 339
J
JAILS 63, 170, 278, 328
JAPANESE 149, 239
JOURNALISTIC 41, 195, 281
JUDICIAL 38, 90, 91, 115
K
KU KLUX 305, 353
L
LAWYERS 7, 28, 31, 58, 63
LAZINESS 350
LEGACIES 2, 274
LIARS 6, 60
LITERATURE 280, 284
LUNACY 268
M
MATHEMATICAL 323
MATRIMONIAL 29, 81, 92, 106, 124, 135, 205, 229, 238, 302
MENTAL HEALING 256, 285
MINING 333
MISCELLANEOUS 75, 82, 109, 131, 172, 185, 186, 189, 191, 193, 202, 208,
211, 214, 227, 230, 234, 236, 243, 248, 257, 259, 260, 277, 284, 286, 296,
298, 307, 315, 329, 331, 343, 346, 348, 356
MORTUARY 107-132, 254, 256, 266, 288, 308, 322
MOVIES 13
MULES 173, 287, 332
MUSIC 197, 282
N
NEGRO 5, 14, 17, 25, 34, 37, 38, 39, 42, 43, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 61, 67,
69, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 81, 83, 85, 86, 88, 90, 92, 93, 97, 100, 104, 111,
144, 146, 148, 192, 198, 205, 217, 278, 283, 289, 292, 299, 326, 363
O
ORATORY 28, 220, 364
P
POLITICS 67, 169, 204 217
PROPHECY 47, 49, 58, 80, 104, 145, 149, 158, 162, 172, 207, 222, 235
PUGILISTIC 41, 139, 253, 272, 338
R
RAILROADING 174, 210
REVIVALS 80, 206, 358
ROGUES 48, 110, 133, 273, 279, 334
ROYALTY 152, 311
S
SCIENCE 181
SCOTCH 27, 35, 103, 108, 112, 116, 147, 224, 265, 300
SECRET ORDERS 74, 318
SOUTHERN 3, 15, 20, 23, 26, 28, 29, 58, 60, 79, 84, 127, 137, 140, 154,
155, 159, 206, 252, 275
SPIRITUALISM 59
SPORTS 102, 166, 183
SUNDAY SCHOOLS 167, 240, 269
SWEDISH 134, 340
T
THEATRICAL 12, 114, 126, 151, 246, 271
TRAVELING 4, 47, 55, 93, 96, 157, 221, 222, 310
V
VAUDEVILLE 176, 177, 194
W
WEATHER 87, 121, 145, 199, 287
WESTERN 4, 22, 50, 51, 264, 279, 291, 349
Y
YANKEE 6, 19, 125, 135, 145, 160, 207, 341, 360
A LAUGH A DAY
KEEPS THE
DOCTOR AWAY
§ 1 The Untraveled Stranger
Back in those sinful days which ended in January, 1919—that is,
officially they ended then—a group of congenial spirits were gathered
one Saturday night in a local life-saving station on the principal
corner of a small Kentucky town, engaged in the quaint old pastime of
pickling themselves.
In the midst of these proceedings the swinging doors were thrust asunder
and there entered one of those self-sufficient, self-important persons
who crave to tell their private affairs to others, and who, in those
times, preferably chose as a proper recipient for their confidences, a
barkeeper—as I believe the functionary was called.
The newcomer wedged his way into the congenial group of patrons, and
apropos of nothing which up until then had been said or done, introduced
himself to the notice of the company by stating in a loud clear voice:
“The doctor wants me to take a trip. I haven’t been feelin’ the best in
the world and my wife got worried—you know how women are—and to-night
she sent for the doctor. And he came over, a little while ago, and he
asked me a lot of foolish questions and took my temperature and five
dollars and then he says to me that I should rest up for a spell and
travel ’round. He says I ought to go out to California and see the
sights. Ain’t I been to California? I have—more’n half a dozen times.
Ain’t I seen every sight there is in the whole state of California? I
have. As a matter of fact, I don’t mind tellin’ you fellers that I’ve
been everywhere and I’ve seen practically everything there is.”
At this a gentleman who was far overtaken in stimulant, slid the entire
length of the bar, using his left elbow for a rudder. Anchoring himself
alongside the stranger he hooked a practiced and accomplished instep on
the brass rail to hold him upright and he focused a watery, wavering,
bloodshot eye upon the countenance of the other and to him in husky
tones he said:
“Excus’h me, but could I ash you a ques’shun?”
“Sure, you could ask me a question,” said the stranger. “Go ahead.”
“The ques’shun,” said the alcoholic one, “’s as follows: Have you ever
had delirium tremens?”
“Certainly not,” snorted the indignant stranger.
“Well, you big piker!” said the inebriate, “then you ain’t never been
nowheres—and you ain’t never seen nothin’.”
§ 2 The Prudent Mr. Finnerty
The lawyer picked his way to the edge of the excavation and called down
for Michael Finnerty.
“Who’s wantin’ me?” inquired a deep voice.
“I am,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Finnerty, did you come from Castlebar,
County Mayo?”
“I did.”
“And was your mother named Mary and your father named Owen?”
“They was.”
“Then Mr. Finnerty,” said the lawyer, “it is my duty to inform you that
your Aunt Kate has died in the old country, leaving you an estate of
twenty thousand dollars in cash. Please come up.”
There was a pause and a commotion down below.
“Mr. Finnerty,” called the lawyer, craning his neck over the trench,
“I’m waiting for you!”
“In wan minute,” said Mr. Finnerty. “I just stopped to lick the
foreman!”
For six months Mr. Finnerty, in a high hat and with patent leather shoes
on his feet, lived a life of elegant ease, trying to cure himself of a
great thirst. Then he went back to his old job. It was there that the
lawyer found him the second time.
“Mr. Finnerty,” he said, “I’ve more news for you. It is your Uncle
Terence who’s dead now in the old country; and he has left you his
entire property.”
“I don’t think I can take it,” said Mr. Finnerty, leaning wearily on his
pick. “I’m not as strong as I wance was; and I’m doubtin’ if I could go
through all that again and live!”
§ 3 Enough for Wilkins
From the lowlands a special judge was sent up to the Kentucky mountains
to try some murder cases growing out of a desperate and bloody feud. He
took with him as his official stenographer a young man from Louisville,
who dressed smartly and, in strong contrast to the silent mountaineers,
did considerable talking. For convenience let us call him Wilkins.
On his first Sunday morning in the mountain hamlet Wilkins felt the need
of a shave. He had no razor and there was no regular barber in the town;
but he learned from the hotel-keeper that there was an old cobbler
living a few doors away who sometimes shaved transients.
In a tiny shop Wilkins found an elderly native with straggly chin
whiskers and a gentle blue eye. The old chap got out an ancient razor
and was soon scraping away on the patron’s jowls. Wilkins felt the
desire for conversation stealing over him.
“This is a mighty lawless country up here, ain’t it?” he began.
“I don’t know,” said the old chap mildly. “Things is purty quiet jist at
present.”
He paused to put a keener edge on his blade.
“Well,” said Wilkins, “you won’t deny, I suppose, that you have a lot of
murders in this town?”
“We don’t gin’rally speak of ’em as murders,” said the old man in a tone
of gentle reproof. “Up here we jest calls ’em killin’s.”
“I’d call ’em murders, all right,” said Wilkins briskly. “If shooting a
man down in cold blood from ambush isn’t murder, then I don’t know a
murder when I see one, that’s all. When was the last man killed, as you
call it, here in this town?”
“Why, last week,” said the patriarch.
“Whereabouts was he killed?” continued Wilkins.
“Right out yonder in the street in front of this here shop,” stated the
old man, with the air of one desiring to turn the conversation. “Razor
hurt you much?”
“The razor’s all right,” said Wilkins snappily. “What I want to know are
the facts about the killing of this last man. Who killed him?”
The cobbler let the edge of the razor linger right over the Adam’s apple
of the stranger for a moment.
“I done so,” he said gently.
There was where the conversation seemed to begin to languish.
§ 4 Why the Major Didn’t Suit
On a voyage of one of the Cunard liners from New York to Liverpool a
Major H. Reynolds of London was registered on the passenger list. The
purser, running over the names, assigned to the same stateroom as fellow
travelers, this Major Reynolds and a husky stockman from the Panhandle
of Texas.
A little later the cattleman, ignoring the purser, hunted up the
skipper.
“Look here, cap,” he demanded, “what kind of a joker is this here head
clerk of yours? I can’t travel in the same stateroom with that there
Major Reynolds. I can’t and I won’t! So far as that goes, neither one of
us likes the idea.”
“What complaint have you?” asked the skipper. “Do you object to an army
officer for a traveling companion?”
“Not generally,” stated the Texan—“only this happens to be the
Salvation Army. That there major’s other name is Henrietta!”
§ 5 Grandfather Laughed at This One
On a Georgia plantation a group of darkies went coon hunting one night.
Because of his love for the sport they took with them Uncle Sam, the
patriarch of the colored quarters. Uncle Sam was over eighty years old
and all kinked up with rheumatism. He hobbled along behind the hunters
as they filed off through the woods.
The dogs “treed” in a sweet gum snag on the edge of Pipemaker Swamp,
five miles from home; but when the tree fell there rolled out of the top
of it, not a raccoon but a full-grown black bear, full of fight and
temper.
The pack gave one choral ki-yi of shock and streaked away, yelping as
they went; and the two-legged hunters followed, fleeing as fast as their
legs would carry them.
When they came to a moonlit place in the woods they discovered that
Uncle Sam was missing; but they did not go back to look for him—they
did not even check up.
“Pore ole Unc’ Sam!” bemoaned one of the fugitives, between pants. “His
ole laigs must ’a’ give out on him ’foh he went ten jumps. I reckin dat
bear’s feastin’ on his bones right dis minute.”
“Dat’s so! Dat’s so!” gasped one of the others. “Pore Unc’ Sam!”
When they reached the safety of the cotton patches they limped to Uncle
Sam’s cottage to break the news to the widow. There was a light in the
window; and when they rapped at the door, and it opened, the sight of
him who faced them across the threshold made them gasp.
“Foh de Lawd!” exclaimed one. “How you git heah?”
“Me?” said Uncle Sam calmly, “oh, I come ’long home wid de dawgs.”
§ 6 The Day Denver Was Surprised
Swifty, the High Diver, was imported to give his performance as a
crowning feature on the last day of the annual fair and races in a
certain small county-seat of interior Vermont.
Those who remember the late Swifty may recall that it was his custom,
clad in silken tights, to ascend to the top of a slender ladder which
reared nearly ninety feet aloft and after poising himself there for a
moment to leap forth headlong into air, describing a graceful curve in
his downward flight, then with a great splatter and splash to strike in
a tank of water but little larger and wider and deeper than the average
well-filled family bathtub, and immediately thereafter to emerge from
it, in his glittering spangles, amid the plaudits of the admiring
multitude. That is to say, he did this until the sad and tragic
afternoon when, just as Swifty jumped, some quaint practical joker moved
the tank.
But on this particular occasion no mishap marred the splendor of the
feat. Naturally enough that night, when the community loafers assembled
at their favorite general store, the achievement of the afternoon was
the main topic of the evening.
The official liar held in as long as he could; and when he no longer
could contain himself, he spoke up and said:
“Wall, I hain’t denyin’ but what that there Swifty is consid’able of a
diver—but I had a cousin onc’t that could a-beat him.”
The official skeptic gave a scornful grunt.
“Ah, hah!” he exclaimed, “I rather thought you’d be sayin’ somethin’ of
that general nature before the evenin’ was over. Who, for instance, was
this yere cousin of yourn?”
“Wall, for instance,” said the liar, modestly, “he wan’t no one in
especial and perticular, exceptin’ the champeen diver of the
world—that’s all.”
“And what did he ever do to justify his right to that there title?”
demanded the skeptic.
“Wall,” said the liar, “he done consid’able many things in the divin’
line, which was his speciality. I remember onc’t he made a bet of a
hundred dollars, cash, that he could dive from Liverpool, England, to
Noo York City.”
The skeptic gave a groan of resignation.
“I suppose,” he said, “that you’re goin’ to ask us to believe he won
that there bet.”
“No I hain’t,” stated the liar. “I hain’t a-goin’ to lie to you. That
wuz the one bet in his hull life my cousin ever lost. He miscalculated
and come up in Denver, Colorado!”
§ 7 And Worth the Money, Too!
A noted lawyer down in Texas, who labored under the defects of having a
high temper and of being deaf, was trying a case in a courtroom presided
over by a younger man, for whom the older practitioner had a poor
opinion.
Presently in an argument over a motion there was a clash between the
lawyer and the judge. The judge ordered the lawyer to sit down, and as
the lawyer, being deaf, didn’t hear him and went on talking, the judge
fined him $10.
The lawyer leaned toward the clerk and cupped his hand behind his ear.
“What did he say?” he inquired.
“He fined you $10,” explained the clerk.
“For what?”
“For contempt of this court,” said the clerk.
The lawyer shot a poisonous look toward the bench and reached a hand
into his pocket.
“I’ll pay it now,” he said. “It’s a just debt!”
§ 8 The Spirit of Seventy-six, with Improvements
A New York East Sider met a friend on Third Avenue and told him he had
quit the buttonhole-making trade.
“I’m in the art business now,” he said, proudly—“such a fine business,
too! Lots of money in it!”
“What do you mean—art business?” demanded his friend.
“Well,” explained the East Sider, “I go by auction sales, and I buy
pictures cheap; then I sell ’em high. Yesterday I bought a picture for
twenty-five dollars and to-day I sold it for fifty.”
“What was the subject?”
“It wasn’t no subject at all,” said the art collector—“it was a
picture.”
“Sure, I know,” said the other. “But every picture has got to be a
subject or it ain’t a regular picture, you understand. Was this here
picture a marine, or a landscape, or a still life, or a portrait—or
what?”
“How should I know?” said the puzzled ex-buttonholer. “To me a picture
is a picture! This here picture now didn’t have no name. It was a
picture of three fellers. One feller had a fife and one feller had a
drum and one feller had a headache!”
§ 9 Protecting the Gentler Sex
A certain young lady who gives interpretative dances in rather scanty
costume was engaged to go to a staid community in New England and dance
before the local dramatic and literary society.
The day after her appearance the entertainment committee—all
women—held a meeting to discuss the affair of the night before. Several
had been heard, when one member raised her voice.
“Personally,” she said, “I enjoyed it ever so much. To me it was most
artistic and symbolic and everything. But if you ask me, I must say
this: It certainly was no place to take a nervous man!”
§ 10 Not at All Singular
An American journalist in poor health spent the summer of 1910 at a
resort in Southern France. The proprietor was an English woman, and all
of the other guests were English too. They were friendly and kind to the
invalid—all excepting one very austere and haughty lady.
On his first day as a guest at the house he heard this lady say to the
landlady:
“I distinctly understood that you did not admit Americans as lodgers
here, and I wish to know why you have broken the rule.”
The other woman explained that the stranger had come with good
references and that he seemed a quiet, well-mannered person who hadn’t
offered to scalp anybody and who knew how to eat with a knife and fork.
Nevertheless the complaining matron was not at all pleased.
She took frequent opportunity of saying unkind things about the States
and those who lived in the States. The sick American maintained a polite
silence. Finally one day at the dinner table she addressed him with
direct reference to a certain ghastly murder case which even after the
lapse of all these years will be remembered by most readers to-day.
“What do you Yankees think of your fellow-American, Doctor Crippen?” she
inquired.
“We think he’s crazy,” said the American.
“How singular!” said the lady, arching her eyebrows.
“Not at all,” said the American. “He must have been crazy to kill an
American woman in order to marry an English one.”
§ 11 Strictly in Confidence
The time was in the early hours of a new day; the place was the lobby of
a hotel; the principal character was a well-dressed gentleman in an
alcoholic fog, who had come in and registered for the night a few
minutes earlier. Now, half dressed, he descended the stairway from the
second floor and stood swaying slightly in front of the desk.
“Mish’ Night Clerk,” he said politely but thickly, “I’ll ’ave requesh
you gimme ’nozzer room.”
“Well, sir,” stated the clerk, “we’re a little bit crowded. I don’t know
whether I could shift you immediately. It’s pretty late, you know.”
“Mish’ Night Clerk,” said the guest in a courteous but firm voice, “I
repeat—mush gimme ’nozzer room.”
“Isn’t the room I gave you comfortable?” parleyed the functionary.
“Sheems be perf’ly so,” admitted the transient. “Nev’less, mush ash be
moved ’mediately.”
“Well, what’s the matter with your room?” demanded the pestered clerk.
The stranger bent forward, and with the air of one imparting a secret
addressed the clerk in a husky half whisper:
“If you mush know, my room’s on fire!”
§ 12 He Didn’t Believe in Signs
A fireman on duty behind the scenes of one of the big New York theatres
and charged with the responsibility of seeing to it that the regulations
were strictly obeyed back-stage, suffered a profound shock as he came
around from behind a stack of scenery, just before the evening
performance. Standing in the opposite wings was a salesman for an East
Side cloak and suit concern, who had procured entrance via the stage
door for the purpose of soliciting orders for his wares among the young
ladies of the chorus. This person was vehemently puffing on a large,
long, black, malignant-looking cigar.
In three jumps the scandalized fireman had the violator by the arm.
“Say,” he demanded, “what the hell do you mean, comin’ in here with that
torch in your face? Don’t you see that sign right up over your head?”
The trespasser’s eyes turned where the fireman’s finger pointed.
“Sure, mister,” he said, “I see it.”
“Well, can’t you read?” demanded the fireman.
“Sure I can read,” admitted the other calmly.
“Then read what it says there. Don’t you see what it says in big
letters? It says—‘No Smoking.’”
“Yes,” agreed the East Sider with a winning smile, “but it don’t say
‘Positively.’”
§ 13 Advice to Charlie Chaplin
When General Neville, the hero of the defense of Verdun, made his tour
of America he was the guest of honor at a big public reception in one of
the Los Angeles hotels. Among those invited to greet the distinguished
visitor were the more prominent members of the moving-picture colony.
At the doors of General Neville’s suite Will Rogers met Charlie Chaplin.
Chaplin, who in private life is a reserved and rather shy little man,
was considerably fussed up over the prospect ahead of him.
“I suppose we’re expected to say a few words to the General,” he
confided to Rogers. “But for the life of me I can’t think of the best
way to start the conversation.”
Rogers gave to the problem a moment of earnest consideration.
“Well,” he said, “you might ask him if he was in the war, and which side
he was on.”
§ 14 What Aunt Myra Desired
They brought a darky out of the jail in a North Carolina town with
intent to hang him for murder. This was in the day when capital
punishment was publicly inflicted. As a special mark of attention the
widow of the murderer’s victim was permitted to witness the event from a
position of vantage directly facing the gallows. She had had a sort of
small grandstand rigged up and she had decorated it with bunting, and
when the march to the scaffold started, there she sat in a white
mother-hubbard wrapper, gently agitating a palmleaf fan, flanked and
surrounded by relatives, invited friends and sister members of her
lodge.
When the condemned had been properly trussed up, with the noose dangling
about his neck, the sheriff, holding the black cap in his hand, edged up
to him and said:
“Well, Jim, we’re about ready. If you’ve got anything to say, I reckon
this would be a mighty good time to say it.”
“Yas, suh,” said the doomed, “I has got sump’n to say. I jest wants to
say dat I is fully repented fur whut I done. I taken it to de Lawd in
prayer an’ I knows it’s all right wid Him. I ast de jedge w’ich tried me
an’ de persecutin’ attorney an’ de foreman of de jury ef they bore me
any gredge, w’ich, one an’ all, they said they did not. An’ now I kin go
right straight to Hebben an’ nestle in de bosom of Father Abraham ef
only I kin git de fergiveness of dat nigger lady sittin’ yonder—de wife
of de man I kil’t.”
He lifted his voice, addressing the white-clad figure in front of him:
“Lady,” he entreated, “does you fergive me fur shootin’ yore husband six
times wid a fo-ty-fo’ caliver revolover?”
Excepting that her under lip jutted out a trifle farther there was no
sign she had heard him. She calmly fanned on.
The darky on the scaffold tried again:
“Lady,” he pleaded, “for de secont time I axes you, ain’t you please
ma’am, gwine fergive me?”
Still from her there was no response. It was as though she had not heard
him. The sympathetic sheriff felt moved to add his intercession:
“Aunt Myra,” he called, “Jim, here, will be goin’ away from us in a
minute and we don’t expect him back. Surely you don’t entertain any hard
feelin’s against him now? Won’t you speak to him and let him go in
peace?”
This time the obdurate widow shook her head in an emphatic negative. Yet
still she uttered no sound. The sheriff turned to the condemned.
“Jim,” he said, “you see how it is; that old woman is set in her ways.
What’s the use of wastin’ any more time on her? Besides, it’s hot as the
devil out here and I ought to be gettin’ on home to dinner. Just hold
still a second and we can have this all over.”
“Mr. Lucas,” sobbed Jim, “lemme see ef I still can’t sof’en dat nigger
woman’s stony heart. Lady,” he cried out, “wid mouty nigh my dyin’ bre’f
I begs you fur jest a word. I ain’t hopin’ no mo’ dat you’ll fergive me,
but won’t you please, ma’am, jest speak to me?”
And now she did speak. She motioned with her fan as though it had been a
baton of authority, and in impatient tones she said:
“Go on, nigger, git hung—git hung!”
§ 15 When the Dawn of Understanding Came
The caller was undeniably large. When he walked he rippled and one had
the feeling that should he sit down suddenly he’d splash.
He wallowed into the office of a lawyer in the foothills of the
Tennessee mountains and stated that he desired to bring suit against a
neighbor for ten thousand dollars’ damages on account of libel.
“How did he libel you?” asked the lawyer.
“Well, suh,” stated the aggrieved party, “he up an’ called me a
hippopotamus—that’s wut he done, consarn his picture!”
“When did he call you this name?”
“It’s a’ goin’ on two years ago.”
“When did you first hear about it?”
“That very next day.”
“Indeed,” said the lawyer; “then why did you wait nearly two years to
begin taking steps to bring suit against him?”
“Well, suh,” stated the prospective plaintiff, “ontil that there
Ringling Brothers’ circus showed yistiddy in Knoxville an’ I went down
fur to see it I hadn’t never seen no hippopotamus.”
§ 16 As Translated into the English
One night at dinner in honor of a distinguished visiting Englishman I
was reminded of a yarn. I told it, and it went very well. It had to do
with a prospector in Oklahoma who, on a Saturday night, bought a quart
of moonshine whiskey and took it to his lonely cabin, anticipating a
pleasant Sunday. But as he crossed the threshold he stumbled and fell,
dropping his precious burden and smashing the bottle, so that its
contents were wasted upon the floor. Depressed by his misfortune, the
unfortunate man went to bed. As he lay there, a mangy, furtive,
half-grown rat with one ear and part of a tail, emerged timorously from
a hole in the baseboard, sat up, sniffed the laden air and then, darting
swiftly to where the liquor made a puddle in a depression of the
planking, ran out its tiny pink tongue, took one quick sip of the stuff
and fled in sudden panic to its retreat. But it didn’t stay; shortly it
again appeared, and now a student of rats would have discerned that a
transition had taken place in the spirits of this particular rat.
Suddenly it had grown cocky, debonair, almost reckless. It traveled
deliberately back to the liquor and imbibed again. Seemingly satisfied
it started for home but, changing its mind, it returned and partook a
third time of the refreshment. Immediately then its fur stood on end,
its eyes burned red, like pigeon-blood rubies, and straightening itself
upon its hind legs it waved its forepaws in a gesture of defiance and
shrilly cried out:
“Now, bring on that dad-blamed cat!”
No one seemed to enjoy my story more than did the guest of the evening.
After the party broke up he made me tell it to him all over again. I
could read from his expression that he was trying to memorize it. In
fact, he confessed to me that he expected to use it when he got home as
a typical example of American humor.
Six months later I was in London. I attended a dinner. My English friend
was the toastmaster. Perhaps my presence recalled to him the anecdote he
had so liked. At any rate, he undertook to repeat it.
His version ran for perhaps twenty minutes. He entered into a full
exposition of the potency of the illicit distillation known among the
Yankees, he said, as “shining moon.” He went at length into the habits
of rats, pointing out that inasmuch as rats customarily did not indulge
in intoxicants a few drops of any liquor carrying high alcoholic content
would be likely, for the time being at least, to alter the nature of
almost any rat. At length he reached his point. It ran like this:
“And then, this little rodent, being now completely transformed by its
repeated potations, reared bolt upright and, voicing the pot-valor of
utter intoxication both in tone and manner, it cried out in a voice like
thunder:
“‘I say, I wonder if there isn’t a cat about somewhere?’”
§ 17 Absolutely no Hurry about It
One chilly evening in the early part of March the sheriff entered the
county jail and addressing the colored person who occupied the strongest
cell, said:
“Gabe, you know that under the law my duty requires me to take you out
of here to-morrow and hang you. So I’ve come to tell you that I want to
make your final hours on earth as easy as possible. For your last
breakfast you can have anything to eat that you want and as much of it
as you want. What do you think you’d like to have?”
The condemned man studied for a minute.
“Mr. Lukins,” he said, “I b’lieves I’d lak to have a nice wortermelon.”
“But watermelons won’t be ripe for four or five months yet,” said the
sheriff.
“Well, suh,” said Gabe, “I kin wait.”
§ 18 One Who Desired to Know
A suburbanite in New Jersey was moving from one street to another.
Observing with dismay the care-free way in which the moving crew yanked
his cherished antiques about, he was filled with a desire to save from
possible damage a tall grandfather’s clock which he prized highly.
Taking the clock up in his arms he started for the new house. But the
clock was as tall as its owner, and heavy besides, and he had to put it
down every few feet and rest his arms and mop his streaming brow. Then
he would clutch his burden to his heaving bosom and stagger on again.
After half an hour of these strenuous exertions he was nearing his
destination when an intoxicated person who had been watching his labors
from the opposite side of the road took advantage of a halt to hail him.
“Mister,” he said thickly, “could I ash you a quest’n?”
“What is it?” demanded the pestered suburbanite.
“Why in thunder don’t you carry a watch?”
§ 19 The Poor Aim of Mr. Zeno
When the circus reached the small New Hampshire town the proprietor
feared that his afternoon performance might lack its chief feature. The
star of the aggregation was Zeno, the Mexican Knife Thrower, answering
in private life to the name of Hennessy. Twice a day Zeno, dressed in
gaudy trappings, would enter the arena accompanied by his wife, a plump
young woman in pink tights, and followed by a roustabout bearing a
basket full of long bowie-knives and shining battle-axes. While the band
played an appropriate selection of shivery music the young woman would
flatten herself against a background of blue planking which had been
erected in the middle of the ring. There she would pose motionless, her
arms outstretched. Then Zeno, stationing himself forty feet from her,
would fling his knives and axes at her, missing her each time by the
narrowest of margins. Presently her form would be completely outlined by
the deadly steel, but such was Zeno’s marvelous skill that she took no
hurt from the sharp blades which pinned her fast.
But on this day Mrs. Zeno had fallen ill and although the circus owner
offered a reward for someone who would take her place, he could find no
volunteers among the members of his staff. In this emergency the
invalid’s mother, who traveled with the show in the capacity of wardrobe
mistress, agreed to serve as an understudy in order that the performance
might not be marred.
Forth came Zeno, wearing his professional scowl, slightly enhanced. His
mother-in-law, skinny and homely, with her hair knotted in a knob on her
head and her daughter’s fleshings hanging in loose folds upon her
figure, followed him closely. She plastered herself flat against the
wooden background. Zeno gave her a look seemingly fraught with undying
hate. He took up his longest, sharpest bowie-knife. He tested its
needle-like point upon his thumb. He poised it, aimed it, flung it.
Like a javelin it hurtled and hissed in its flight through the air.
Striking tip first a scant quarter of an inch from the lobe of the
mother-in-law’s left ear, it buried itself deep in the tough oaken
planking and stood there, the hilt quivering.
The pause which ensued was broken by the astonished voice of a lank
native sitting on the lowermost tier of blue seats industriously milking
his whiskers:
“Wall, by Heck—he missed her!”
§ 20 Curing the Great Thirst
There was a philanthropic Tennessee distiller who believed in spreading
sunshine wherever he could. One Christmas he sent a gift of prime
whiskey to an improvident acquaintance who lived in a cabin up in the
hills.
Along toward the end of January the beneficiary dropped in on him and
intimated that if his friend was so inclined he could use a little more
liquor.
“Aren’t you rather overdoing things, Zach?” inquired the distiller. “If
my memory serves me rightly, it has been less than five weeks since I
gave you a whole keg.”
“Well, Colonel,” explained the mendicant, “you got to remember that a
kag of licker don’t last very long in a fambly that can’t afford to keep
a cow.”
§ 21 The Ways of the Army
The officer of the day was inspecting the guard.
“What are your orders?” he inquired of a drafted man.
“Sir,” said the sentry, in his newly-acquired military manner “my orders
are to be vigilant.”
“What does vigilant mean?” said the officer.
“I don’t know,” said the sentry.
“Call the corporal of the guard and we’ll find out,” said the officer.
The corporal of the guard came.
“Corporal,” said the officer, “this man here doesn’t know the meaning of
the word vigilant. Suppose you tell him.”
“It means, sir, to be alert,” answered the corporal promptly.
“And what does alert mean?” said the commander, anxious that the lesson
should be driven home to the pupil.
“I don’t know,” said the corporal.
§ 22 Remote from the Real Centers
A Wyoming ranch foreman was sent East by his employer in charge of a
carload of polo ponies. He was gone four weeks. When he arrived back at
the ranch he wore an air of unmistakable pleasure and relief.
“Gee,” he said, “it’s good to git home again. So fur as I’m concerned I
don’t want never to travel no more.”
“Didn’t you like New York?” asked one of the hands.
“Oh, it’s all right in its way,” he said, “but I don’t keer for it.”
“What’s chiefly the matter with it?”
“Oh,” he said, “it’s so dad blame far frum everywhere.”
§ 23 The Way of the Neighborhood
It is not so very long ago that life in the Kentucky mountains was
primitive. They used to tell a story to illustrate how primitive things
actually were. It may not have been true. Probably it wasn’t, but at any
rate it was an illustration, even though an exaggerated one, of a
prevalent condition.
There was a narrow-gauge, jerk-water road which skirted through the
knobs. One day the train—there was only one train a day, each way—was
laboring slowly upgrade when the engineer halted his locomotive to let a
cavalcade cross the track ahead of him. First there streaked past a pack
of hounds, all baying. Behind the dogs followed men, on horseback and
mule-back, galloping at top speed and cheering the hunt on with shrill
whoops and blasts from a horn. The troupe had vanished into the deep
timber bordering the right-of-way when a Northern man, riding in the
shabby day-coach, addressed a fellow-passenger who was a native.
“Sheriff’s posse, I suppose?” he said.
“Nope,” said the mountaineer.
“Perhaps your people are seeking to lynch somebody?” suggested the
Northerner.
“No, ’tain’t that neither.”
“Then may I ask what is the purpose—the intent—of this chase?”
“Well, mister,” said the native, “it’s like this: County Judge Sim
Hightower’s oldest boy, Simmy Junior, comes of age to-day and they’re
runnin’ him down to put pants on him.”
§ 24 A Radical Difference Noted
A friend of mine has a friend who went abroad while Victoria the
beloved, was still on the throne of Great Britain.
In London one night the traveler saw Madame Bernhardt play in “Anthony
and Cleopatra.”
The scene came where Cleopatra receives news of Mark Antony’s defeat at
Actium. Bernhardt was at her best as Egypt’s fiery queen that night. She
stabbed the unfortunate slave who had borne the tidings to her, stormed,
raved, frothed at the mouth, wrecked some of the scenery in her frenzy
and finally, as the curtain fell, dropped in a shuddering, convulsive
heap.
As the thunderous applause died down, the American heard a middle-aged
British matron in the next seat remarking to her neighbor in tones of
satisfaction:
“How different—how very different from the home life of our own dear
queen!”
§ 25 Where the Partnership Dissolved
One of the oldest stories in the known world—and in my humble judgment
one of the best ones—deals with three actors—an aged negro, an
itinerant conjurer and a twelve pound snapping-turtle.
It is a hot day in a Mississippi countryside. The conjurer, who is
making his way across country afoot, is sitting alongside the dusty
road, resting. There passes him an ancient negro returning from a
fishing expedition. The darky is not going home empty-handed. He has
captured a huge snapping-turtle. He is holding it fast by its long tail,
which is stretched tautly over his right shoulder so that the flat
undershell of the captive rests against his back. He bids the stranger a
polite good-morning and trudges on. He has gone perhaps twenty feet
further when an impish inspiration leaps into the magician’s brain. In
addition to his other gifts he is by way of being a fair ventriloquist.
He throws his voice into the turtle’s mouth and speaking in a muddy,
guttural tone such as would be suitable to a turtle if a turtle ever
indulged in conversation, he says sharply:
“Look here, nigger, where are you taking me?”
The old man freezes in his tracks. He rolls his eyes rearward. There is
the look of a vast, growing, terrific bewilderment on his face.
“W-h-who—who dat speakin’ to me?” he asks falteringly.
“It’s me speakin’ to you,” the turtle seemingly says, “here on your
back. I asked you where you were taking me.”
“Huh, boss,” cries the old man, “I ain’t takin’ you nowhars—I’se
leavin’ you right yere!”
§ 26 Absolutely Unfitted for the Rôle
A few months before his death Gen. Basil Duke of Kentucky, who commanded
Morgan’s Cavalry after the killing of his brother-in-law, Gen. John
Morgan, told this tale at a Confederate reunion:
During one of the Tennessee campaigns Morgan’s Men surprised and routed
a regiment of Federal troopers. In the midst of the retreat one of the
enemy, who was mounted upon a big bay horse, suddenly turned and charged
the victorious Confederates full-tilt, waving his arm and shrieking like
mad as he bore down upon them alone. Respecting such marvellous courage,
the Confederates fore-bore shooting at the approaching foe, but when he
was right upon them they saw there was a reason for his seeming
foolhardiness.
He was a green recruit. His horse had run away with him—the bit had
broken, and, white as a sheet and scared stiff, the luckless youth was
being propelled straight at the whooping Kentuckians, begging for mercy
as he came.
Jeff Sterritt, the wit of the command, stopped the horse and made a
willing prisoner of the rider. Sterritt, who had not washed or shaved
for days and was a ferocious looking person, pulled out a big pistol and
wagged its muzzle in the terrified Federal’s face.
“I don’t know whether to kill you right now,” he said, “or wait until
the fight is over!”
“Mister,” begged the quivering captive, “as a favor to me, please don’t
do it at all! I’m a dissipated character—and I ain’t prepared to die!”
§ 27 The Careful MacTavish
Mr. MacTavish attended a christening where the hospitality of the host
knew no bounds except the capacities of the guests.
In the midst of the celebration Mr. MacTavish rose up and made the
rounds of the company, bidding each person present a ceremonious
farewell.
“But, Sandy, mon,” objected the host, “ye’re no’ goin’ yet, with the
evenin’ just startin’?”
“Nay,” said the prudent MacTavish, “I’m no’ goin’ yet. But I’m tellin’
ye good night while I know ye.”
§ 28 The Sway of Eloquence
Down in my part of the country in the old days we were a high strung and
sentimental people, and oratory moved us as nothing else would. There
was once a brawny blacksmith in our county who was elected justice of
the peace on the strength of his Confederate record. The first case he
sat to hear was one growing out of the death of a cow under a freight
train. After the evidence was all in, the attorney for the plaintiff
made a most effective argument. In vivid word pictures he sketched the
abundant virtues of the late cow; he described her sweetness and her
gentleness, her capacity as to milk; he told of the great bereavement to
her immediate family, consisting of a young calf, and he dwelt upon the
heartlessness of a railroad system which by its brutal carelessness had
at one fell swoop, as it were, made stew meat of the parent and an
orphan of the offspring. His peroration is still remembered.
“And, finally, squire,” he said, “if the train had been run as she
should have been ran, and if the bell had been rung as she should have
been rang, and if the whistle had been blowed as she should have been
blew—both of which they done neither—this here cow would not have been
injured at the time she was killed.”
As he sat down the new justice in a voice husky with feeling, said:
“I’ve done heared enough! Plaintiff wins!” and proceeded to enter
judgment for the full amount of damages. But the lawyer for the other
side protested. He insisted he had a right to be heard, and, though the
justice said he had already made up his mind, he admitted that it was no
more than fair for the young gentleman to make a speech, too, if he
wanted to.
The lawyer for the railroad cut his moorings and went straight up. He
was a genuine silver tongue. He soared right into the clouds. Among
other matters pertinent to the issue, he introduced the American Eagle,
Magna Charta, First and Second Manassas, Paul Revere’s Ride and the
Bonny Blue Flag Which Bears but a Single Star, concluding the whole by
giving the Rebel Yell.
As he sank into his seat the justice, with a touch of the true old
Jeffersonian simplicity, wiped his streaming eyes upon his shirt sleeve,
and in a voice quivering with sobs exclaimed:
“Well, don’t that beat all! Defence wins!”
§ 29 The Unuttered Wish
A North Carolina mountain woman fell ill, and for the first time in his
life her husband had to work. It devolved upon him to nurse the invalid,
look after a large family of tow headed children, milk the cow, feed the
pig, cook the meals and tend a straggly acre of corn.
After ten days of these frightful labors he staggered down to the
general store at the forks of the road and fell at the doorway in an
exhausted heap.
The storekeeper came out and said: “Hello, Anse, how’s yore wife?”
“She ain’t no better,” moaned the husband. “I paid out a whole four bits
fur a bottle of bitters fur her, but it seems like hit don’t do her no
good. I’m plumb wore out!”
He paused a moment and sighed deeply.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I git to wishin’ the old woman would git well—or
somethin’!”
§ 30 The Gift of Tongues
Over in France the average doughboy had a gorgeous confidence in his
ability to speak the language of the country. In a Norman village one
day a perplexed looking private, who had not been abroad very long,
approached a seasoned campaigner of the A. E. F. and asked the latter if
he spoke French.
“Sure I speak French,” said the veteran. “What’s the matter?”
“Here’s what’s the matter,” said the green soldier. “The Frog that keeps
that shop yonder across the street sold me some post cards, and I gave
him a ten franc note, and now he’s holding out part of my money on me. I
wish you’d come on over there with me and straighten the thing out and
make that guy hand me back what’s coming to me.”
“Sure I will,” said the other.
Moved by curiosity, a friend of mine trailed behind them, arriving just
in time to hear the following dialogue between the linguist and the
storekeeper:
“Parley voo Fransay?”
“Oui, oui, Monsieur.”
“Then, why the hell don’t you give this here boy his right change?”
§ 31 He Lacked Storage Space
Congressman John K. Hendrick of Kentucky, now deceased, was notoriously
soft hearted. He was sitting in a courtroom one day when a young and
struggling member of the local bar, who was not especially renowned for
mental brilliancy, undertook to read a petition in a divorce suit and
speedily got himself badly tangled up in a confused maze of legal
phrases. The judge sought to set the young lawyer right, but the only
result was to tangle him worse than ever. The judge was showing signs of
losing his temper when Col. Hendrick arose.
“I hope, your Honor,” he said, “that you will bear patiently with our
young friend here. He is doing his best.”
“I know that, Col. Hendrick,” said the judge, somewhat testily, “and I
intend to bear patiently with him. I am merely trying to give Mr.
So-and-So an idea.”
“Your Honor,” said Col. Hendrick, “don’t do it. He’s got no place to put
it.”
§ 32 The Voice of the Purist
In the National League formerly was an umpire who was a stickler for
correct deportment on the diamond. In a game in which he officiated at
the Polo Grounds Chief Meyers, catcher for New York, came to bat.
Certain of the Boston players sitting on their bench began to guy the
brawny red man.
In an instant the umpire had left his place behind the catcher and was
running toward the visitors’ bombproof.
“Cut out them personalities!” he ordered. “Cut out them personalities!”
A high pitched voice filtered out from the grandstand:
“Cut out them grammar!”
§ 33 There Spoke Envy’s Voice
The town drunkard of a small Scotch community went on an especially
vehement tear. The village authorities locked him up.