summertime vacation came Smitty went to visit her for two weeks. His new
brother-in-law had bought a car and had promised to tour Smitty about
the State and show him the sights.
At the end of a week Smitty was back at work. One of the regular patrons
hailed him:
“Hey, Smitty, I thought you were going to stay longer. Didn’t you care
for country life?”
“Nix on dat stuff fur me,” said Smitty. “I’m offen it fur life. Say, dat
Joisey soitinly is one funny place. Why, all dem towns over there is got
different names!”
§ 76 With Credit to S. Blythe
Sam Blythe claims this is a true one. Maybe he is right; Sam generally
is.
He says a Washington wholesaler wished to learn the relative qualities
of two brands of mucilage. He handed one bottle of each brand to his
negro janitor.
“Henry,” he said, “take these and test them and see which one is the
stickier.”
Hours passed before Henry reappeared. Wearing a somewhat unhappy, not to
say distressed, expression, he entered his employer’s office and placed
the two bottles on the latter’s desk.
“Well, Henry,” said the jobber, “what’s the result of your experiments?”
“Boss,” stated Henry, “it’s lak dis: Dis yere one gummed up my mouth the
most; but dis yere other one, the taste lasted the longest.”
§ 77 When the H. C. of L. Came Down
As I heard the tale it had to do with a small community in Texas where
the railroad ran through the main street and on either side of the track
stood a short order restaurant owned and operated by a colored man.
One night the official bad man of the vicinity came lurching into one of
these rival establishments. The visitor was under the influence of
strong drink—a circumstance calculated to make him slightly more
dangerous than rattlesnakes.
While the uneasy proprietor made pretense at being glad to see him the
bully flopped his long frame into a chair and demanded:
“Nigger, have you got a nice tender sirloin steak here?”
“Yas, suh!”
“All right, then; you cook it fur me and don’t you cook it too long else
I’ll cook you. And along with it you better bring me some fried onions
and fried potatoes and some celery and a mess of hot biscuits and green
peas and roasting ears and pie and coffee and anything else tasty that
you’ve got around this dump. Now jump before I start jumpin’ you.”
The black man jumped. In a miraculously short time, considering the
magnitude of the order, he staggered in from his cubby-hole of a kitchen
at the rear bearing a waiter tray piled high with dishes. He ranged the
array of food in a half moon effect before his patron and then fluttered
back a few paces.
When the bad man had eaten he leaned back in his chair, drew a
spring-back dirk knife out of his pocket, flipped its five-inch blade
out with a nudge of a practiced thumb and leisurely picked his teeth
with its needle-like point. His caterer watched him as a fascinated bird
watches a coiled serpent.
Suddenly he spoke and the negro jumped.
“What sort of a dump does that other nigger over acrost the tracks run?”
he asked.
“Oh, you wouldn’t lak dat place a-tall,” stated the colored man. “Dat
nigger natchelly thinks a fly is somethin’ you cooks wid. He ain’t
sanitatious, lak I aims to be.”
“Yes,” said the bully, “and whut’s more, he’s a robber—he’s a regular
pirate.”
“Is dat so, suh?”
“Well, judge for yourself. Last night I went into that nigger’s joint
and ordered just about what I’ve had here to-night—maybe a little more,
maybe a little less. When I got through I asked him what the damage was
and, do you know, that black scoundrel had the gall to ask me for a
dollar and a quarter? Of course I oughter killed him. In fact, I got up
intendin’ to kill him. But something sort of stayed my hand. All I done
to him was just to cut off both his ears with this here frog-sticker and
feed ’em to him. By the way, what do I owe you for this mess of
vittles?”
“Boss,” said the darky, “I reckon a dime would be ample.”
§ 78 How to Beat the System
The late “Tiny” Maxwell was a sporting writer in Philadelphia. He was
called “Tiny” because he weighed nearly three hundred pounds. He had a
ready wit.
Because he was an expert at football and also because back in his
college days he was a gridiron star of magnitude, Mr. Maxwell frequently
was called upon to referee games along the Eastern Seaboard.
One afternoon he was officiating at a match between Georgetown, which,
as everybody knows, is a Catholic institution, and a team representing a
Southern university. In an interval one of the Southern players limped
up to Maxwell.
“Mr. Referee,” he said, “I want to make a protest. There’s one of those
Georgetown men that seems to have a private grudge against me. Every
time we two get in a scrimmage together he bites me. Yes, sir, he just
hauls off and bites me. I don’t want to start any rough house stuff, but
I’m getting good and tired of having that big Irishman biting on me.
What had I better do?”
“I should advise,” said Maxwell, “that you play him only on Fridays.”
§ 79 An Echo from 1865
I rather guess they have been telling this one ever since the War
between the States. Indeed, for all I know to the contrary it may date
back as far as the first and second Punic wars. For a good story never
really dies. It merely goes into retirement for a season or a decade or
a century and rises up again when occasion suits, with its youth
miraculously restored.
The narrative runs that in the last days of the war a ragged, wornout,
hungry, half-crippled, half-dead Confederate straggler was limping along
a Virginia highway striving to catch up with his command. Where there
was a puddle in the ruts he stopped to bathe his bruised and bleeding
feet. As he sat at the roadside dabbling his swollen toes in the water a
Union skirmisher, well fed and lusty, stepped from behind a tree with
his musket raised to his shoulder and yelled out exultantly:
“Now I got you!”
“Yas,” drawled the Southerner, “an’ a hell of a git you got!”
§ 80 There’d Be a Popular Uprising
The revivalist was the mouthpiece of a new cult. In his interpretations
of the Scriptures he saw no possible hope for any member of the human
family who refused to accept his particular brand of religion.
Before an awe-struck congregation he was describing what would come to
pass with regard to those stiff-necked and perverse non-believers who
were found outside the fold on the day of judgment.
“My brethren,” he clarioned, “there is no middle course. By the word of
the Holy Writ I have proved to you that mankind either must take the
true doctrine as it has been expounded here or accept the awful
consequences. I can close my eyes and see the picture right now.
“Over there in shining robes stand the little group of the elect and the
saved. And down below in the fiery pits of perdition millions of the
unregenerate are roasting in the undying fires through all eternity
while the minions of the Devil heap hot coals upon their heads and give
them molten lead when they beg for water to cool their parched tongues.
That, my brethren, is what will come to pass.”
From the body of the house a small elderly gentleman rose up.
“Excuse me for interruptin’,” he said, “but there ain’t no chance fur
sich a thing to happen. Why, the people jest natchelly wouldn’t stand
fur it.”
§ 81 From the Book of Moses
Mose Morris used to live near Frankfort, Ky. He was a small, meek person
of color who cultivated a truck patch for a living, and was generally
liked by the white population. He remained a bachelor until he was
nearing middle age.
Then, in an unthoughted hour, he suffered himself to be shackled in the
holy bonds of wedlock with a large, truculent, overbearing black woman
nearly twice his size. He led his bride away to his little house seven
miles from town.
Within two weeks’ time he came driving into Frankfort in a two-mule
wagon, which was piled high with household effects. As he crossed the
bridge over the Kentucky River a white gentleman hailed him.
“Why, hello, Mose! Where are you going with all that plunder?”
“I’se movin’, Mist’ Bob,” answered Mose.
“Movin’ where?”
“Movin’ into town—done rented a lil’ house down back behint de L. and
N. depot.”
“Why, I thought you liked the country?” said the white man.
“I used to lak it,” said Mose. “I used to lak it powerful. But my wife
she don’t lak the country. An’ yere lately I’ve tuck notice, Mist’ Bob,
dat w’en my wife don’t lak a thing I jest natchelly hates it.”
§ 82 Almost Startling, Really
In the days when Frank A. Munsey was in active editorial charge of his
various publications he had a serious-minded office boy who took things
literally—and with due deliberation.
One day Congressman Thomas B. Reed, then Speaker of the House, came from
Washington to New York and dropped into the office of _Munsey’s
Magazine_ to see its proprietor. Between the famous publisher and the
famous statesman a close bond of friendship existed—they were both sons
of Maine, and they had been intimate associates for years.
The bulky Reed stepped into the anteroom and without giving his name
said he wished to see Mr. Munsey. The office boy told him Mr. Munsey was
in conference and invited the caller to have a seat. More than half an
hour passed before the caller was admitted to the inner room. Then he
told Mr. Munsey how he had been kept waiting.
Indignantly the latter issued forth and descended upon the youthful
keeper of the outer gates.
“Do you know who that gentleman is that you’ve kept dawdling about
here?” he demanded. “That is the Hon. Thomas B. Reed of Maine!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Munsey,” said the youth. “I thought all the time it was
Dr. John Hall.”
“But don’t you know that Dr. Hall is dead?” said Mr. Munsey.
“Yes, sir,” said Truthful James, “that was what made it seem so strange
to me that he should be calling.”
§ 83 A Violent Indisposition
A colored man, on appearing for work one morning, wore a countenance so
battered that almost one might have been pardoned for assuming that its
owner had made a more or less successful effort to run it through a meat
chopper. The white man for whom the scarred and bruised victim worked
took one look at that disfigured face and threw up both hands in horror
and sympathy.
“Great heavens, boy,” he cried, “what have you been doing to yourself?”
“Me? I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to myse’f,” explained the darky. “But
somethin’ is done been did to me, Mr. Watkins. It’s lak dis, suh:
Yistiddy evenin’ I got into a kind of an argymint wid another nigger an’
one word led to another, ez it will. An’ purty soon I up an’ hauled off
an’ hit at him wid my fist.
“Well, seemed lak that irritated him. So he took an’ split my lip wide
open wid a pair of brass knucks, an’ he blacked dis eye of mine clear
down to my armpit an’ he tore one ear moughty nigh loose frum de side of
my haid, an’ den, to cap all, he knocked me down and stomped up an’ down
’pun my stomach wid his feet. . . . Honest to Gawd, Mr. Watkins, I never
did git so sick of a nigger in all my life!”
§ 84 The Simplest of Remedies
In Owen county, Ky., there formerly resided a self-ordained oracle on
all questions pertaining to subjects of farming, horse raising and hog
guessing. To him one day, as he sat on a horse block facing the public
square at Owenton, came a pestered young husbandman from the knobs along
the Kentucky River with this question:
“Uncle Hamp, how am I going to get shet of sassafras sprouts? The pesky
dern things have jest about took an old field of mine. I’ve tried
choppin’ em out and plowin’ ’em under and burnin’ ’em over, but they
keep on gittin’ thicker and thicker all the time. It seems I can’t git
rid of ’em noway. Whut would you advise?”
“My son,” said the wise man, “I don’t want to brag, but I reckon you
ain’t made no mistake in comin’ to me—you’ve struck on to one man
that’s fitten to advise you in this here matter ef anybody on this earth
is. Man and boy, I’ve been givin’ the subject of sassafras sprouts my
earnest attention fur goin’ on sixty years. And it’s my deliberatic
judgment that when sassafras sprouts starts to takin’ a farm the only
way you kin git rid of ’em is jest to pack up and move off and leave
’em.”
§ 85 Proving There’s Something in a Name
I once knew a colored child called “Exey” for short, whose real name was
Eczema. The mother of the pickaninny had found the word in a patent
medicine almanac and had fallen in love with its poetic sound. I also
included in my acquaintance at one time a negro youth who answered to
the title of Hallowed Harris.
“Yas, suh,” stated his father on being pressed for his reason for
choosing so unusual a baptismal prefix for his offspring, “I got dat
name outen de Holy Bible. Don’t you ’member, boss, whar it say in de
Lawd’s Prayer, ‘Hallowed be Thy name’?”
But the Testamental name which struck me as being most interesting of
all was worn by a dog—a mangy appearing, breedless, nondescript rabbit
dog which trailed an old darky on a road in the piny woods of South
Georgia. The dog ranged off into the thickets and his owner ordered him
back.
“Did I hear you calling that dog ‘Rover,’ Uncle?” asked a white man.
“Naw, suh, I called him ‘Over,’ w’ich is short for ‘Mo’over,’ w’ich it
is de dawg’s right name.”
“Where did you get that name and why?”
“Fur good reasons, boss,” said the old man, with a chuckle. “W’en I gits
dat dawg he’s jest little scabby pup an’ alluz ’nointin’ of hisse’f wid
his tongue. So I ’members whar de Good Book say, ‘An’ de dawg, Mo’over,
licked his sores.’ So I knowed den I had done hit on de right name fur
dat pup of mine.”
§ 86 Question: How Far Did George Go?
The white man was named Ferguson. He owned a string of two-room frame
cottages and his tenants exclusively were colored. Very great was his
chagrin when a negro man in a fit of pique cut a woman’s throat in one
of his houses so that she bled to death, leaving a large dark stain on
the floor, because immediately the word spread among the black
population that the building was haunted and thereafter nobody would
rent it, even at reduced rates. For months the cottage stood empty. Then
the owner had a bright idea. He went one evening and hunted up a large
dark individual named George, upon whom, by way of beginning, he
conferred a drink out of a bottle of corn spirits.
“George,” said he, “these darkies tell me you know quite a lot about
h’ants and ghosts and such things?”
“Well, suh, Mist’ Ferguson,” replied George modestly, “I does know a
right smart ’bout sich.”
“That’s good,” said the wily white man. “I’m rather an authority myself
on such matters. Now, then, speaking as one expert to another, I want to
tell you that shack of mine out here on Clay street, where that woman
was killed, is not haunted. She died in a state of grace and her spirit
rests in peace.
“But the trouble is that these colored people around this town don’t
know it and they’ve given the place a bad name. What I want to do is to
prove to them that it’s not ha’nted. And here’s the way we’re going to
do it—you and me. I’m going to hire you to spend to-night in the room
where the killing took place. Then, when you come out to-morrow morning
and tell your people that nothing happened there during the night, I’ll
be able to rent the house again. I’m going to give you the rest of this
bottle of liquor now and a fresh bottle besides. And to-morrow morning
I’ll hand you a ten-dollar bill. How about it?”
That slug of corn whisky already was working. It made George valiant.
Besides, a white man had appealed to him for professional aid. He
consented—after another lusty pull at the flask.
The crafty Ferguson took no chances. He escorted his newly enlisted aid
to the house of tragedy, provided him with a pallet on the floor and
left him there in the gathering darkness. But before departing he took
the precaution of barring the two windows from the outside and securely
locking the front and rear doors.
Next morning bright and early he came to release his brother expert. The
windows still were shuttered, the doors still fastened tight; but the
house was empty. Also it was in a damaged state. At one side the thin
clapboards were burst through, as though a blunt projectile traveling at
great speed had struck them with terrific force from within. The
shattered ends of planking stood forth, encircling the jagged aperture
in a sort of sunburst effect.
Upon a splintered tip of one of the boards was a wisp of kinky wool.
Upon a paling of the yard fence was a rag, evidently ripped from a shirt
sleeve. Otherwise there were no signs of George. He was utterly gone,
with only that yawning orifice in the cottage wall to give a clue as to
the manner of his departure.
Mr. Ferguson waited all through the day for the missing one to turn up.
On the second day the white man gave the alarm. A search party was
organized—men on horseback with dogs. Bloodhounds took the trail. They
followed it from early morning until late that evening.
Just before dusk, in a swamp thirty miles away the lead-dog bayed
exultantly. The pursuing posse, with Ferguson in the lead, spurred
forward.
Here came the missing George. His face was set toward home. It was a
face streaked with dust and dried sweat, torn by briers, wet, drawn,
gray with fatigue. His garments were in shreds; his hat was gone. His
weary legs tottered under him as he dragged one sore foot after the
other.
Yet in the heart of Mr. Ferguson indignation was stronger than
compassion. He rode up alongside the spent and wavering pedestrian.
“Well, by heck, you certainly are the most unreliable nigger in this
State!” he said. “Here night before last I make a contract with you for
a certain job. I leave you in one of my houses. I come there the next
morning and not only are you gone without leaving any word, but one side
of my house is busted out. And then I have to leave my business to come
hunting for you. And after riding all over the country I find you here,
thirty miles from home, in a swamp. Where in thunder have you been since
I last saw you, forty-eight hours ago?”
“Boss,” said George, “I’ve been comin’ back.”
§ 87 Natural Proof
When the weather gets unseasonably warm I deem the time suitable for
reviving a story which I first heard at the Republican National
Convention in Chicago in 1920. As may be recalled by those who attended
that convention, the entire country from coast to coast sweltered
through the week under a blanket of terrific heat.
A delegate from California, in a half fluid state, fell off of a
transcontinental train. A Chicago friend met him at the station.
“Say, old man,” said the friend when greetings had been exchanged, “is
it as hot out West as it is here on the lake?”
“Is it as hot out West?” repeated the newly arrived one. “Say, don’t
make me laugh. You people here in the Corn Belt don’t know what heat it.
Listen, I’ll illustrate to you just how hot it is on the other side of
the Rockies. Coming across the Arizona desert day before yesterday I
looked out of the car window and I saw a coyote chasing a jack
rabbit—and they were both walking!”
§ 88 A Domicile for All Eternity
One of the surest tests of the excellence of a story is whether or not
it speedily reaches the stage. Some stories no doubt originate
there—born in the minds of patter-comedians or monologists; but the
majority I think are built up on a foundation of fact elsewhere and then
by adoption go into the theater.
Here is a sample. It had to do with a couple of darkies in Memphis.
One of them, who posed as bad, had just announced his intention of
breaking into a chitterling supper where his presence was not desired.
His companion followed him to the door.
“I’ll be waitin’ fur you outside yere,” he stated.
“Ef you ain’t gwine in wid me tain’t no use fur you to be hangin’
’bout,” said the truculent one.
“Oh, yas, dey is,” said the friend. “I’ll wait ’round to carry you to
yo’ home after dem niggers in dere gits through wukkin’ on you.”
“Not a chancet!” proclaimed the first negro, vaingloriously; “’sides
w’ich I ain’t got no home.”
“Oh, dat’s all right,” murmured his friend softly. “I’m gwine dig you
one.”
§ 89 The Man Who Was Thursday
Two men, strangers to each other, but having something in common in that
they had been indulging in potent home brews, fell into a hiccoughy
conversation on the back platform of a suburban trolley car whizzing
across the New Jersey landscape.
“Shay,” inquired Number One, “whuz time is it?”
Number Two with difficulty extracted from his fob pocket a watch; but a
temporary defect of vision prevented him from making out the position of
the two hands. Nevertheless he did his best to oblige.
“It’s izactly Thurshday afternoon,” he said.
Number One gave a start.
“Iz tha’s so?” he murmured in surprised tones. “Well, then, thish is
where I hafter get off.”
§ 90 The Least of His Worries
Down in southern Alabama a person of color was fetched into court to be
arraigned for his preliminary hearing on a charge of wilful murder.
“Mose Tupper,” said the judge, “you are accused here of one of the most
serious crimes known to our laws—to wit, the taking of a human life.
Are you properly represented by counsel?”
“Naw, suh,” said the darky cheerfully.
“Well, have you talked to any one about your defense since your arrest?”
“I told de sheruff ’bout de shootin’ when he come to my cabin to bring
me heah,” said the prisoner.
“And have you taken no steps whatever to engage a lawyer?”
“Naw, suh,” said Mose. “I ain’t got no money to be wastin’ on lawyers.
Dey tell me lawyers is mighty costive.”
“If you have no funds,” insisted the judge, “it lies within the power of
the court to appoint an attorney to represent you without expense on
your part.”
“You needn’t be botherin’ yo’se’f, jedge,” answered Mose.
“Well, what do you propose to do about this case?” demanded his Honor.
“You must be properly defended—the law so provides.”
“Jedge,” said Mose, “ez fur ez I’se concerned you kin jest let de matter
drap!”
§ 91 This One Stood the Test of Time
Here is one which at intervals I have been hearing for years. It seems
to me it gets better with each time of telling. I wonder if the reader
will agree with me that its antiquity does not affect its excellence.
The thing is supposed to have happened in a remote court house of
Missouri. A resident of the Ozark Mountains whose reputation was none
the best, had been on trial on the charge of horse stealing. The jury
returned a verdict of guilty. Taking into consideration the past record
of the offender, his Honor on the bench said:
“It is my intention to sentence you to at least eight years at hard
labor in State’s prison. Now, then, before sentence is formally
pronounced, I shall listen to anything you may have to say in your
behalf.”
After a moment of consideration the offender spoke:
“Well,” he said, “I don’t know ez I’ve got ary thing to say only
this—it strikes me that you folks ’round this here cote house air purty
toler’ble dam’ liberal with other people’s time.”
§ 92 The Prudent Bride
A comely colored girl was preparing for her marriage. Before the
ceremony she hoarded her wages; but immediately after the wedding she
hunted up her mistress and asked her to take charge of the fund.
“I’ll take it, of course,” said the puzzled lady; “but, Mandy, won’t you
be needing your money to spend on your honeymoon?”
“Miss May,” said the bride, “does you think I’se goin’ to trust myse’f
wid a strange nigger an’ all dat money on me?”
§ 93 As a Favor to the Railroad
A New Yorker had a bad attack of grippe and went South to recuperate. He
stopped a few days in a small town in South Carolina. When he got ready
to leave for the North he found the official bus had vanished; probably
the driver had gone joy riding. There was no conveyance, public or
private, to be had; in order to catch his train the Northerner was
compelled to labor afoot over a mile and a half of dusty road, with a
valise in either hand.
When he staggered up to the tiny station there was no one in sight
except an old darky who was sitting on the platform.
“Uncle,” inquired the New Yorker, “why in the name of goodness did they
build this depot so far from town?”
The old man scratched his head.
“I don’t know, boss,” he said—“onless it wuz because dey wanted to git
it closer to de railroad.”
§ 94 Where the Real Fault Lay
The tourist was one of that type which for some mysterious reason are
more numerously encountered abroad than at home. He was doing the
cathedral towns of England, not because he particularly was interested
in English towns, or in cathedrals either, but because the guide book
advised him to do so.