sweeten by reason of it. On landing he started for an English boarding
house uptown, where he had been told he could get English food
uncontaminated by base Yankee notions. To keep down expenses he elected
to repair thither by a street car instead of using a cab.
He emerged from the pier laden with his hatbox, his umbrella, his
make-up tin, his grips—two in number—his steamer rug, his tea caddy,
his overcoat, his framed picture of the Death of Nelson, and other
prized personal belongings, and climbed aboard a car.
Just as he got fairly upon the platform the car started and he fell
through the open door into the aisle, scattering his goods and chattels
in every direction. As he got upon his knees he remarked in a tone of
conviction:
“There now! I knew I shouldn’t like the blarsted country!”
§ 143 Only Three Had Remained
From where he lived high up on a ridge of the mountains along the
boundary between Kentucky and West Virginia, an elderly hillsman came
down to the general store at the cross roads for provender. There he met
a lowland acquaintance who asked him whether there was any news up in
the knobs.
“Well, son,” said the mountaineer, “I don’t know as there’s any
neighborhood gossip stirrin’ without you’d keer to hear about my affair
with them dad-fetched Hensley boys.”
The visitor professed a desire to know the details.
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “off and on, here lately, I’ve been
havin’ a right smart trouble with them Hensleys. The whole passel of ’em
live right up the creek a little piece above my place, and they tuck a
sort of a grudge ag’inst me. Every night when I went out to feed the
stock they’d be hid in the brush-fence at the lower end of my hoss-lot
and they’d shoot at me with them high-powered rifles of their’n. It
pestered me no little!
“Finally I got plum’ outdone over it. Of late years I’ve tried to live
at peace with one and all; but there’s a limit to any man’s patience.
Besides, I’m gittin’ along in years and I can’t see to aim the way I
could oncet, on account of my eyesight; but I jest made up my mind the
other night that I wouldn’t stand it no more.
“So that night when I went out to feed I taken my old gun along with me.
Shore enough, they was ambushed in the same place, and they cut down on
me jest as soon as I came into sight.
“So I up with my gun and I sort of sprayed them bushes with bullets.
That seemed to quiet ’em down, and I went on with my feedin’; but after
I’d got through I felt sort of curious and I walked down to that there
brush fence and taken a look over on the fur side of it. And, son, all
of them Hensleys was gone but three!”
§ 144 She Who Sought for Peace
Young Mrs. Smith was in need of a domestic for general house-work. She
inserted a notice in the local paper. In answer to the advertisement a
rather slatternly-looking colored girl applied for the job.
“Where did you work last?” asked Mrs. Smith.
“I wukked fur de Jones fambly right down de street yere a piece,” said
the candidate.
“Do you mean the Herbert Joneses who live in the white house on the
corner?” inquired Mrs. Smith.
“Yassum, they’s the ones.”
“When did you leave their employment?”
“Las’ Sad’day night.”
“Did you quit or were you discharged?”
“I quit. Yassum, of my own free will I up and quit.”
“Why did you quit?”
“Me, I likes peace—tha’s why! I couldn’ stand it no mo’ to be stayin’
in a house whar they’s always so much quollin’ goin’ on.”
Now the Joneses were friends of Mrs. Smith, and, to her always, they had
seemed a happy couple, ideally mated. Naturally this disclosure shocked
her greatly. She hardly could believe it. Still, she shared with the
rest of us an almost universal trait—she had a natural curiosity. If
the household of her neighbors was rent by internal dissensions here was
a chance to find out the true state of affairs.
“Do you mean to tell me that Mr. and Mrs. Jones have been quarreling?”
“Yassum. All de two months I stayed there they was quollin’ constant.”
“What did they quarrel about?”
“Diffunt things, ever’ day. Ef ’twasn’t Mrs. Jones quollin’ wid me ’bout
somethin’ or other I’d done, ’twas Mr. Jones.”
§ 145 An Exception for a Native Son
The clannishness of the rural Vermonter is proverbial. In illustration
of this trait a distinguished citizen of the Green Mountain state told
me a story. He said that on a rather cloudy day a typical group of
natives sat on the porch of the main general store in a town on the
shores of Lake Champlain. Among them appeared a youth citified as to
dress and having rather an air of assurance about him. In silent
disapproval the company took in his belted coat, his knickerbockers and
golf stockings and, most disapprovingly of all, the confident manner of
the alien.
“Good morning, everybody,” he said breezily.
The elder of the group, a venerable gentleman, made answer for the rest:
“How’ do,” he said shortly.
Somewhat abashed at the coolness of his reception, the young man tried
again:
“Looks rather like rain,” he said.
“’Twon’t rain,” said the old man in a tone of finality.
“But I rather thought from the looks of these clouds——”
“’Twon’t rain,” repeated the ancient in the voice of one who is not used
to being argued with.
A daunting silence ensued. The stranger fidgeted in his embarrassment.
The old man fixed him with a cold and hostile eye.
“What mout your name be?” he inquired, as though desirous properly to
classify a curious zoölogical specimen.
“My name is Nelson—Herbert Nelson,” stated the youth.
“Nelson, hey?” said the patriarch. “There used to be some Nelsons out in
the Kent neighborhood. Don’t s’pose you ever heerd of them.”
“I’ve been hearing of them all my life,” said the young man. “I come
from New York, but my father’s name was Henry Nelson and he was born out
near Kent in this county.”
“Then you must a-been a grandson of the late Ezra Nelson,” said the aged
Vermonter. His manner perceptibly had warmed; indeed, _by_ now it was
almost cordial.
“Yes, sir,” said the youth. “Ezra Nelson was my grandfather.”
“Dew tell, now!” said the patriarch. “So you’re a son of Henry Nelson
and a grandson of Ezra Nelson? Well, in _that_ case it may rain.”
§ 146 Without Professional Assistance
A lady who lives on a plantation in the southern part of Alabama went up
to Birmingham on a visit. Upon her return an old negro man who
occasionally did odd jobs for her dropped by to welcome her home and to
tell her the news of the neighborhood.
“Whilst you wuz gone Aunt Mallie died,” he said. Aunt Mallie was a poor
old black woman who lived in a tumbledown cabin half a mile away.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said the white lady sympathetically. “How long was
she sick?”
“Jes’ three or fo’ days,” he said.
“What ailed her?”
“They didn’ nobody know. One mawnin’ she up and fell sick and she kep’
on gittin’ wuss and wuss ’twel de fo’th day come and den, all of a
suddenlak, she hauled off an’ died.”
“Who was the doctor?”
“She didn’ have no doctor—she died a natchel death!”
§ 147 Making It Harder Than Ever
There was a complaint in a small village a few miles from Edinburgh
regarding the trolley fare. For four rides into the city the company
charged a shilling. This, in the opinion of many of the villagers, was
much too much.
A delegation was chosen to visit the offices of the line and make
representation in favor of a lower rate. The arguments advanced by the
plenipotentiaries prevailed. The company decided that thereafter six
tickets might be had for the former price.
The townspeople returned home rejoicing, but there was at least one of
their fellow-citizens who did not share in the view that a wise step had
been taken. This was an elderly gentleman renowned for his frugality
even in a community where frugal folk are common.
“It’s all dam’ foolishness,” he declared. “Now we’ve got to walk to town
six times instead of four-r times to save a shillin’!”
§ 148 Why They Called Him Speedy
Bert Swor, the minstrel man, is something more than a mere black-faced
comedian. He was born and reared in a Texas town and he probably knows
as much about the true delineation of certain negro types as any living
man.
One of his most popular wheezes is a rendition of something which a
colored man at Fort Worth said years ago. Two negroes were talking
together. As Swor passed by he gathered that the subject under
discussion was the relative fleetness of foot of the pair. One of them
said:
“You claims you is fast! You says you’s so fast folks calls you Speedy!
Jest how fast is you, nigger?”
“I’ll tell you how fast I is,” said the other. “De room whar I sleeps
nights is got jest one ’lectric light in it w’ich dat ’lectric light is
forty feet frum de baid. W’en I gits undressed I kin walk over to dat
’lectric light and turn it out and git back into baid and be all covered
up befo’ de room gits dark.”
§ 149 There Would Be Three in All
Out on the Pacific Coast, where the Japanese question and the prospect
of a war with Japan are ever-living issues, a group of the hands at a
canning factory were spending part of their lunch hour discussing these
vital questions. Sitting on a packing case was a lank Oregonian munching
the last bites of his sandwich and taking no part in the discussion. The
foreman addressed him.
“Look a-here, Jeff,” said the foreman. “How do you feel about it? If the
Japs were to land an invading army in this country I suppose you’d go to
the front, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I’d go,” said Jeff. “Me and two others that I knows of.”
“What two others?” inquired the foreman.
“Why, the two that’ll drag me there,” said Jeff.
§ 150 The Colonel’s Checking System
One of the most widely known railroad men on the Western hemisphere has
for many years handled the publicity for a Canadian system. He is as
popular in the States as he is in the Dominion.
Having so many friends and being of so social a disposition, it is
almost inevitable that he must do his share of drinking. A few years ago
he suffered an attack of illness and the physician who attended him put
him on a diet. One of the regulations was that, until further notice, he
must take no more than one high-ball every twenty-four hours. A few
months later he ran down to New York. He called upon a friend and the
friend opened a bottle of prime Scotch. As the Canadian refilled his
glass for the third time the friend said:
“Look here, Colonel, I thought by the doctor’s orders you were allowed
to take only one drink for each day.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said the Colonel, “and I’m following instructions.
This drink here, for example,”—and he raised the tumbler and gazed upon
its delectable amber contents—“this is my drink for August the
twenty-first of next year.”
§ 151 The Reunion of the Aged
There is a certain musical comedy star who is not quite so young as she
once was. During the season of 1923 she headed a road show. Business at
times was not especially good and the tempers of the troupers suffered.
Relations became somewhat strained between the prima donna and certain
members of the chorus.
This friction was at its height when the company began a week’s
engagement in a middle Western city. The theatre was old-fashioned and
somewhat primitive in its appointments behind stage. For example, the
dressing-rooms were no better than overgrown stalls. The walls between
them ran up only part way toward the ceilings so that voices in one of
these cubicles might plainly be heard by those beyond the separating
half-partitions.
For the opening performance the house was no more than two thirds
filled, and the audience, for some reason or other, seemed rather
unresponsive. The leading lady was not in a particularly happy frame of
mind as she sat in her dressing-room after the final curtain, removing
her make-up. Next door several members of the chorus were shifting to
street dress.
There came a knock at the star’s door.
“Who is it and what do you want?” she demanded sharply.
“It’s the house manager, Miss ——,” came the answer. “There’s a lady
out front who’d like very much to see you.”
“I’m not receiving visitors to-night,” said Miss —— rather acidly.
“Who is this lady?”
“She tells me that she thinks you’ll be glad to see her. She says that
she was a chum of yours when you were at high school. Shall I show her
in?”
Over the dividing wall came floating the voice of a catty chorus-lady:
“Wheel her in!”
§ 152 Probably Stewed Kidneys Ran Third
Back in the days when crowned heads were more numerous in Europe—and
more popular—than at present, Carlos of Portugal paid his first visit
to the British Isles. At the conclusion of his trip King Edward, so it
is said, asked young Carlos what, of all things in England, he liked
best.
Now, Portugal’s king was by way of being a consistent and sincere
trencherman. He thought for a moment and made answer:
“The roast beef,” he said.
“Is that all that has impressed you?” inquired His Majesty of England.
“Well,” replied Carlos, “the boiled beef is not so bad.”
§ 153 Pretty Pol!
It will be recalled that it was necessary for the Wright brothers to go
abroad in order to secure proper recognition for their first aeronautic
inventions. The French government welcomed them and gave them proper
opportunity to demonstrate what they had done; but as a group, the
French aeronauts were disposed to show jealousy for the two Yankees.
Following the successful proof by the Wrights of their ability actually
to fly and, what was more important, to guide their machine along a
given course, a banquet at Paris was arranged in their honor.
Naturally, there was a deal of speech-making. The chief orator was a
distinguished Frenchman who devoted most of his remarks to claiming that
France had led the world in the new field of endeavor—or so he
insisted—and to proclaiming that future developments ever would find
Frenchmen at the forefront. Curiously enough, he had very little to say
in compliment of the two chief guests of honor.
Wilbur Wright was next called upon by the toastmaster. Slowly he rose to
his feet.
“I am no hand at public speaking,” he said, “and on this occasion must
content myself with a few words. As I sat here listening to the speaker
who preceded me I have heard comparisons made to the eagle, to the
swallow and to the hawk as typifying skill and speed in the mastery of
the air; but, somehow or other, I could not keep from thinking of the
bird which, of all the ornithological kingdom, is the poorest flier and
the best talker. I refer to the parrot.”
And down he sat amid tremendous applause from the Americans present.
§ 154 The Unforgivable Sin
A year or two before his death, Booker T. Washington made an address in
a small town in Georgia. When he had finished, an old Confederate
soldier, white-haired and white-moustached, pushed forward to the
platform, his face aglow with enthusiasm.
“Professor Washington,” he declared, “I want to do now what I never
thought I’d be doing—I want to clasp your hand and pledge you my
support for the great work you are doing. And furthermore, I want to
tell you this: that was the best speech I ever heard in my life and you
are the greatest man in this country to-day!”
“I’m afraid you do me too much honor,” said Washington. “Wouldn’t you
regard Col. Roosevelt as the greatest man we have?”
“Huh!” exploded the Southerner. “I’ve had no use for him since he
invited you to eat a meal with him at the White House.”
§ 155 The Burden of the Black Brother
I just told a story relating to Booker Washington. Here’s another. It
was a favorite anecdote of the great negro educator. He said that the
citizens of a remote Southern community got interested in a project to
import some Europeans to the neighborhood and colonize them.
A meeting was held at the courthouse to discuss ways and means. In the
audience sat an elderly and highly respected colored citizen.
After the meeting adjourned the chairman of it hailed the old negro.
“Hello, Uncle Zack!” he said. “I was glad to have you with us to-night.
I take it that you endorse the project we’ve put under way?”
“Well, Kunnel, I wouldn’t go so fur ez to say dat,” stated the old man.
“To tell you de Gawd’s truth, they’s already mo’ w’ite folks in dis
county than us niggers kin suppo’t.”
§ 156 Openings in the Higher Branches
Fourth of July was supposed to be a holiday in a certain garrison of the
regular army out West, but a grizzled old sergeant named Kelly, in
charge of the guard house, had his own ideas about this holiday notion.
After breakfast he ordered all his prisoners to line up outside their
prison quarters, and he made a short speech:
“There is no doubt in me own mind,” he said, “but that a good many of
you men should not be prisoners at all. You’ve neglected your
opportunities, that’s all. Some here has had educations and should make
good company clerks. Maybe there’s some others amongst you who’d like to
be company barbers and earn a little money on the side.”
A murmur of assent ran through the lines.
“Now, thin,” went on Sergeant Kelly, “all you men who are educated or
who think ye cud learn to do paper work, step two paces to the front.”
About half of the prisoners came forward.
“Now, thin, all who’d like to learn the barberin’ business advance two
paces.”
All save two moved toward him with alacrity.
The sergeant addressed the remaining pair:
“What did the two of you do before you joined the army?” he asked.
“We was laborin’ men,” answered one.
“Very well, thin, all you educated guys take these here gunnysacks and
pick up every scrap of paper around the parade grounds. And the rest of
you, who want to learn barberin’, you grab these here lawn mowers and
cut grass until I tell you to leave off. You two laborin’ men kin go
back inside the tent and take a nap.”
§ 157 A Distinction and a Difference
On the Congressional Limited a passenger who, to judge from the visible
evidences, had been patronizing a bootlegger, hailed the Pullman
conductor as the latter passed through the car.
“Shay, conductor,” he inquired rather thickly, “how far is it from
Wilmington to Baltimore?”
The conductor told him the distance, and passed on. On his next
appearance the inebriated one halted him again:
“How far is it,” he asked, “from Baltimore to Wilmington?”
“I told you just a few minutes ago,” said the Pullman man.
“No, you didn’t,” said the traveler. “You told me how far it was from
Wilmington to Baltimore. What I want to know now is how far is it from
Baltimore to Wilmington.”
“Say, listen,” said the irate conductor. “What are you trying to
do—make a goat of me? If it’s so many miles from Wilmington to
Baltimore, isn’t it necessarily bound to be the same number of miles
from Baltimore to Wilmington?”
“Not nesheshar’ly,” said the other. “It’s only a week from Christmas to
New Year’s, but look what a devil of a distance it is from New Year’s to
Christmas.”
§ 158 The Prediction That Came True
A young woman in the confessional confided that she was afraid she had
been spending some of her money foolishly.
“Spending your money foolishly calls for penance,” said the priest
sternly. “How have you been spending yours?”
“Well, Father, I went to a fortune teller,” admitted the penitent.
“Oh, ho, so you went to a fortune teller, eh? Well, that’s wrong to
begin with. In the first place, professional fortune tellers are most of
them frauds, and in the second place, they pretend to deal with the
supernatural. And what did you do for this fortune teller?”
“I gave him two dollars, Father.”
“Worse and worse—wasting your hard-earned wages on a fakir. And, in
exchange for your two dollars what did he do for you?”
“He told me a pack of lies, Father, about my past and my future.”
“What did he say about your past?”
“Only a pack of lies, as I was just afther tellin’ you.”
“And what did he tell you about your future?”
“He said, Father, I would shortly be goin’ on a long, hard journey.”
“Well,” said the priest reflectively, “he may have lied to you about
your past, but when he predicted that you would be going on a long, hard
journey in the near future he was not far wrong, after all. You’ll do
the Stations of the Cross twelve times!”
§ 159 It Wasn’t His Move, Either
A venerable mountaineer residing near the boundary between Tennessee and
North Carolina sat one bright afternoon on the stile in front of his
cabin, busily engaged in following his regular occupation of doing
nothing at all. At the edge of the clearing, fifty yards away, suddenly
appeared an individual in flannel shirt and laced boots who aimed at the
old gentleman a round-barreled instrument mounted on a tripod, which the
native naturally mistook for a new kind of repeating rifle. Up went both
his hands.
“Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “I surrender.”
“I’m not fixing to shoot,” said the stranger, drawing nearer. “I belong
to an engineering crew. We’re surveying the state line.”
“Shuckins, son,” said the old man, “you’re away off. The line runs
through the gap nearly half a mile down the mounting below here.”
“That’s where it used to run,” said the engineer, “but it seems there
was a mistake in the original job. According to the new survey it’ll
pass about fifty feet from your house, on the upper side of the hill.”
“Say, look a-here, boy,” stated the old man, “won’t that throw me from
Tennessee clear over into North Carolina?”
“Yep, that’s what it’ll do.”
“Well, that won’t never do,” demurred the mountaineer. “I was born and
raised in Tennessee. I’ve always voted thar. It looks to me like you
fellows ain’t got no right to be movin’ me plum’ out of one state into
another.”
“Can’t help it,” said the surveyor. “We have to go by the corrected
line.”
“Wall,” said the old man resignedly, “come to think it over, I don’t
know but what it’s a good thing, after all. I’ve always heered tell
North Carolina was a healthier state than Tennessee anyhow.”
§ 160 Spreading the Feast for the Stranger
When Sam Blythe was a Washington correspondent he went into New England
to sound out public opinion on one or another of those crises which,
politically speaking, are forever threatening the liberties of the
people.
He called upon the retired political leader of New Hampshire, who lived
in a small but comfortable cottage in a little town. The old gentleman
felt a deep concern in the vital question of the hour, whatever it was.
Noontime approached and still he was nowhere near through with what he
had to say. So he insisted that Blythe should remain with him through
the afternoon.
Having sampled the cuisine of the local hotel at breakfast, Blythe
promptly consented. The old gentleman excused himself in order to inform
his wife that there would be a guest for the midday meal and also to get
some important papers bearing on the subject which were stored away, he
said, in a room upstairs. Going out, he left the parlor door ajar.
Through the opening Blythe heard a voice, evidently one belonging to the
mistress of the household.
“Samantha,” the lady said, raising her tone in order that she might be
heard by the cook in the kitchen, “my husband has invited a gentleman to
stay for dinner. Take those two large potatoes back down cellar and
bring up three small ones.”
§ 161 A Very Natural Request
A certain captain of the regular army was on trial before a
court-martial for alleged intoxication. His orderly, whose name was
McSweeney, appeared as a witness for the defence.
“What was the condition of the accused on the date in question?” asked
the judge advocate.
“He was sober, sor,” said McSweeney.
“It has been reported,” stated the judge, “that he was in such a
condition that you had to help him to his quarters and undress him and
put him in bed.”
“No, sor,” said Private McSweeney, “I just wint to quarters with the
captain—that’s all, sor.”
“Did he say anything that would lead you to think he was intoxicated?”
“No, sor.”
“Did he say anything at all?”
“Well, he did say wan thing.”
“What was that?”
“Well, sor, just as I was leavin’ he sez to me, he sez, ‘McSweeney, if
you’re wakin’ call me early. For I’m to be Queen of the May.’”
§ 162 The Voice of a Prophet
A company of a division of colored troops were in heavy marching order
awaiting the word to start for the front. It was to be their first
actual contact with the enemy. One of the privates had somewhere picked
up a copy of the Paris edition of the New York _Herald_.
“Does dat air paper say anything about us boys?” inquired a sergeant.
“It sho’ do,” answered the private, improvising. “It sez yere dat
twenty-five thousand cullid troops is goin’ over de top to-night,
suppo’ted by fifty thousand Frenchmen.”
From down the line came a third voice, saying: