of deacons on serious charges. It was alleged that, although married, he
had been caught in the act of embracing a comely female member of the
congregation, in the vestry room. The evidence against him appeared to
be conclusive. Three presumably unbiased witnesses testified to the
fact.
The accused was asked whether he had anything to say in his own defense.
He answered at length and with eloquence. He led off by pointing out
that the word “pastor” was a Latin word meaning “shepherd.” Therefore,
he properly was a shepherd. He also called the attention of the court to
the fact that in pictures and paintings and more frequently in
stained-glass memorial windows the Master Himself was shown as a
shepherd, carrying a lamb.
Now then, he contended, it naturally followed that when he, as the
shepherd, took a member of his flock in his arms, he merely was carrying
out the Scriptural example.
In the minds of the deacons there seemed to be no way of controverting
these arguments. Accordingly they went into executive session and drew
up resolutions exonerating the preacher. But they added a proviso.
The concluding clause of the document, as read by the senior deacon
before the congregation on the following Sunday night, ran as follows:
“And, be it finally resolved, ef in future our beloved pastor should
feel de desire stealin’ over him to tek one of de lambs of de flock in
his arms, dat he shall tek a ram lamb!”
§ 284 God Save the King’s English!
A London firm received from a merchant in Porto Rico a letter which,
properly framed, now hangs on the walls of the home office—proof in
denial of the ancient libel that the English don’t know a joke when they
see it.
The letter read as follows:
“Why, for God’s sake, you send me pump without handle? My customer
hollar like hell for water.
“P. S.—Since writing I find the dam handle in the box.”
§ 285 The Kink in Mr. Jones
Mr. Jones was one of those nervous persons, and inclined to
hypochondria. His imagination, from time to time, afflicted him with
maladies which never really materialized. Nevertheless, his devoted wife
continued to share his apprehensions at each fresh alarm.
One afternoon, long before his usual hour for returning from business,
he fell into the house. His face was white as chalk, and in his eyes was
a stricken look. He was bent forward. He tottered to a chair, and, still
curled into a half-moon shape, dropped into it.
“Maria,” he gasped, “it’s come at last! I’ll never be a well man again!”
“Merciful Heavens!” she cried. “Henry, what has happened?”
“There was no warning,” he said. “All of a sudden, a while ago, I found
I couldn’t straighten up. I can’t lift my head. I feel all drawn.”
“Is there any pain?” she asked, fluttering about in her distress.
“No,” he said, “there’s no pain—that’s what makes me think it must be
paralysis. Run for the doctor!”
She ran. Returning in a few minutes, she brought with her the family
physician. She ushered him into the room where the sufferer was and
waited at the door, wringing her hands and dreading the worst.
Almost immediately the physician emerged. He had his face in his hands
and his shoulders heaved and shook as though under the stress of an
uncontrollable emotion.
“Oh, doctor,” cried the agonized Mrs. Jones, “is there any hope for
him?”
“Well, madam,” he said, “it’ll help a good deal if he’ll unhitch the
third buttonhole of his vest from the top button of his trousers.”
§ 286 Better than Believing in Santa Claus
Two typical wayfarers of the Bowery, penniless and tattered and with
their feet half out of their wrecked shoes, were limping through the
crooked streets of Chinatown. One of them found a small vial containing
cocaine which, presumably, had been dropped by a dope fiend.
The tramps had heard many times of the stimulating and invigorating
effects of this drug. Also, from association with habitués they knew the
common method of taking it. They decided to experiment.
The finder uncorked the vial, poured a quantity of the white crystals
into the palm of his hand and sniffed the stuff up his nostrils. His
companion finished the bottle.
The effect was magical. They straightened their bent figures, drew their
rags about them and stepped out briskly. Presently one of them spoke.
There was a bloom in his cheeks and his eyes glistened:
“I’ve about decided,” he said, “to make a few investments. I’m going to
buy all the diamond mines in South Africa and after I’ve done that I’m
going to buy all the gold mines in Australia.”
His transformed partner made answer:
“Hold on,” he said, “I don’t know that I’m prepared to sell ’em!”
§ 287 The Curse of an Active Mind
My father, for the greater part of his life, was in the steamboat
business. He was an official of a company operating packets on the lower
Ohio River. The headquarters of the line was the gathering place of
pilots, captains, mates, clerks and engineers—a collection of quaint
types and homely philosophers. I was a small boy but I still remember it
as though it were yesterday, when on a summer afternoon the talk drifted
to the subject of mules. Somebody ventured the opinion that the mule was
a stupid animal.
Instantly our champion romancer spoke up:
“Don’t you believe it,” he said. “The average mule has got more sense
than the average horse has got. What’s more, every mule has got
something that no horse ever had—and that’s imagination. Why, I know of
an instance when a mule was killed by the power of his own imagination.
“It happened forty years ago when I was a young shaver, on my uncle’s
farm up the Tennessee River. My uncle owned an old gray mule. He had the
mule on pasture in a ten-acre lot. In the middle of the lot was a log
crib full of popcorn.
“Along about the middle of July came the most terrific hot spell that
ever occurred in this country. The thermometer went to 118 in the shade
and stayed right there day and night for three weeks. At the end of the
third week, on the hottest day of all, the sun set fire to the roof of
that corncrib and it burned to the ground. Naturally, the heat popped
all the corn and it fell three inches deep, all over that ten-acre lot.
The mule thought it was snow and laid down in its tracks and froze to
death.”
§ 288 A Way Out of the Difficulty
Whether we expect to go there or not, stories about Heaven almost always
have an appeal for us. Here is one which has done service for a good
many years:
An exceedingly rich man who had been noted all his life for taking a
good and a loving care of his money, passed away. In due time he knocked
at the Golden Gate and craved admission to the Celestial City. St. Peter
received his application. The Angel Gabriel was called in, also, to pass
on the petition.
“Your name,” said the Saint, “is not entirely unfamiliar to us. We have
heard of you while you were on the earth. I ask you now to search your
mind and see whether you can recall any deed ever done by you in the
flesh which, in your opinion, entitles you to enter Paradise and dwell
among the blessed. Under a new ruling the record of a single noble act
will secure admittance.”
The millionaire gave himself over to intensive thought.
“Well, there was one thing,” he finally said, “of which I was always
very proud. One cold winter’s night on the street I met a little
crippled newsboy. He was crying. I stopped and spoke to him. He said he
cried because he couldn’t sell his papers; so I bought a paper from him.
The price, of it was only a penny, but I gave him three pennies for it.”
“Excuse me for one moment,” said St. Peter. “I must ask my confrère to
consult the files and see whether your statement is correct.”
The Angel Gabriel looked through the Doomsday book and, finding there a
certain entry, nodded his head. St. Peter and Gabriel consulted together
in low tones. It appeared that they could not go behind the returns. At
length Gabriel slammed the covers of the great volume together and
exclaimed:
“Oh, just give him back his three cents and tell him to go to hell!”
§ 289 Stylish Language, Indeed!
For years, a certain worthy and highly intelligent old colored woman did
our family washing. One Saturday night after she had fetched the week’s
laundry she sat in the kitchen of our home before she started on her
return trip to her own house a mile and a half away. My mother came to
the kitchen door to chat with her a little while.
From remarks which the old woman let fall, my mother gathered that Aunt
Milly, although very devout, did not seem to care deeply for the present
pastor of her church.
“Mis’ Manie,” said Aunt Milly, “I’m goin’ tell you how I put that there
biggety preachin’ man in his place. Yere yistiddy evenin’ jest ’fo’
suppertime, I wuz settin’ on my front po’ch w’en the Rev’n Rogers come
along by. He sees me settin’ there an’ he stops an’ fumbles wid the gate
latch an’ he sez to me he sez, ‘Sist’ Carter, I would have speech with
thee?’—jest lak that.
“Now, Mis’ Manie, I ain’t aimin’ to let no nigger whatsoever, even ef he
is a min’ster of the gospel, use mo’ stylish language ’en whut I kin. So
I sez right back to him, I sez, ‘Rev’n, draw nigh an’ ye shall be
heard!’
“So he undo the gate an’ come on up the walk to my do’step. But no
sooner do he start in to speak ’en I know whut ’tis he’s fixin’ to say.
He fixin’ to ax my sympathy on ’count of that tore-down limb of a
onmarried daughter of his’n havin’ got herse’f mixed up in a
scandalizin’ an’ bein’ tawked about all over the neighborhood. So, jest
soon ez I sees whut he’s drivin’ at, I th’ows up my right hand like
this, an’ I sez to him, I sez,
“‘Rev’n,’ I sez, ‘hold! Yere last fall,’ I sez, ‘w’en my husband, Isaiah
Carter, at the age of seventy-fo’ w’en he should a’knowed better, wuz
mekin’ hisse’f kind of promisc’us by hangin’ ’round two of the lady
members of the congregation, an’ I went to you,’ I sez, ‘an’ axed you,
az the pastor, to ’monstrate wid him, whut did you do? Jest because he’d
done give you five dollars fur the new organ fund, you tole me to shet
up my black mouth an’ go on home an’ ’tend to my own bizness.’
“‘Rev’n,’ I sez, ‘ez ye sows, so shall ye reap! Rev’n, pass on!’”
§ 290 The Original Package
Marjorie, aged four, marched into the grocer’s to tell the news.
“We’ve got a new baby brother up at our house,” she said.
“You don’t tell me!” said the grocer. “Is he going to stay with you?”
“I guess so,” said Marjorie; “he’s got his things off.”
§ 291 The Voice of a Husband
An Eastern college professor, on his first visit to Yellowstone Park,
attempted to study at close range the grizzly bears that came down to
the garbage heaps back of the Fountain Hotel for their provender. An
irritable she-bear, with a cub in tow, resented his scientific
curiosity. She hauled off and slapped him about fifteen feet and was
preparing to claw him when Mrs. Professor came running up, armed with an
umbrella, and by opening and closing it repeatedly, so frightened the
bear that she departed without doing any serious injury to the startled
investigator.
On the following day, two cowboys who, in the season, served as park
guides, were discussing the affair. Said the first one:
“I claim that was a powerful brave woman, takin’ her own life in her
hands to save that fool husband of hers.”
“I don’t see nothin’ so brave about it,” said his friend. “Anybody would
do that.”
“Like hell they would! Spose’n some bear had your wife down and was
fixin’ to claw her to death—what would you do?”
“Me? I’d give three loud ringin’ cheers.”
§ 292 The Passive Rôle
It is set forth that during the Civil War a young officer in the Union
Army was taking a stroll along a road in Virginia when he met an old
negro man and engaged him in conversation. The ancient darky returned
such quaint answers to the Northerner’s questions that the latter was
moved to quiz him humorously.
“Uncle,” he said, “you know, don’t you, that this war between us and the
Rebs is largely on your account?”
“Yas, sah, dat’s whut I done heared ’em say.”
“Well, you crave to have your freedom, don’t you?”
“I ’spects I does.”
“Then why aren’t you in the army yourself?”
The negro scratched his head reflectively.
“Boss,” he said, at length, “did you ever see two dawgs fightin’ over a
bone?”
“Yes, many a time.”
“Well, wuz de bone fightin’?”
§ 293 The Suggestion of a Scandal
In a high state of excitement little Evelyn runs into the house.
“Oh, mother!” she cries out. “Our pussy-cat has got some kittens and I
didn’t even know she was married!”
§ 294 A Warning Word to a Friend
Two Irishmen, newly landed, got jobs as laborers in a small machine shop
on the second story of a loft-building, so-called, on the lower West
Side of New York. Under the fire regulations, smoking by the operatives
was not permitted while they were on duty. During their first morning in
the new place one of the green hands, whose name was Donlan, craved a
few comforting whiffs from his pipe. He voiced his desire and a friendly
fellow-employee confided to him that in such cases it was customary to
ask leave of the foreman to go to the washroom and there to steal a
clandestine smoke.
Thus advised, Donlan approached his boss and inquired the whereabouts of
the washroom.
“Go down the hall,” said the foreman, “and take the first turn to the
right, and the second door you come to after that is the door to the
lavatory.”
Donlan undertook to follow instructions but he made a mistake. In the
darkness he took the turn to the left instead of the right-hand turn,
and, opening the second door, stepped into the elevator shaft and struck
with a bump on the ground floor below.
Presently he came back upstairs. He was sweeping up rubbish when O’Day,
his buddy, asked him where was the washroom.
Donlan gave him the direction as he remembered it, and, as O’Day turned
to go, he called out to him:
“But say, Larry, look out for the top step—it’s a son-of-a-gun!”
§ 295 Obstructing the Highway
There is a corner in a Southern state, down near the Mississippi River,
where formerly lynchings occurred more frequently than they do these
times. In the days before the rural-free-delivery system was adopted,
Uncle Gip Thomas held the contract for delivering the mail in this
neighborhood. So regular was he that the residents almost could set
their clocks by him.
But one day he was nearly two hours late in reaching the end of the
line, where there was a tiny cross-roads hamlet. Just as the citizens
were forming a posse to set out in search of him, in fear that some
mishap had befallen him, Uncle Gip ambled into view.
“What delayed you, Uncle Gip?” asked the postmaster. “Did you happen to
an accident or did an accident happen to you?”
“Nary one, nor both,” stated Uncle Gip. “But about ten o’clock this
mornin’, jest before I crossed the creek, I come to where some of the
boys had done left a nigger hangin’ right thar in the public road. Well,
suh, my mare she got skeered and shied back, and I jest natchelly
couldn’t make her go past him noways; so finally I had to tear down a
panel of rail fence and lead her through the gap and lay the fence back
up again and go through the woods down into the hollow and ford the
creek and then tear another gap in the fence before I could get back
again on the turnpike—and that was what kept me so late.” Uncle Gip
paused a moment and then went on again in an aggrieved tone:
“Honest, boys, it does look to me like there oughter be a law against
leavin’ a nigger hangin’ in the public road.”
§ 296 In Part Settlement
The men who earn their living on the waters and in the marshes of the
Great South Bay of Long Island are a race unto themselves. They are a
sturdy, independent lot, and, almost without exception, are endowed with
a quaint native wit.
One winter’s day a party of baymen sat around a red-hot stove in a
little oyster shanty on one of the farther bars. The talk veered this
way and that until finally there arose the ancient question:
“What would you do if you had a million dollars?”
One of the company allowed he’d buy himself an ocean-going yacht and
tour the world. Another rather thought he’d adopt orphans and educate
them. And so forth and so on.
All this time, Old Man Banks, locally celebrated as the most shiftless
man in the county, had sat in silence, rolling his quid and staring
reflectively into the hot coals.
“Say, Banks,” quoth one of the group, “you been keepin’ pretty quiet;
what would you do if somebody was to hand you a million in cash?”
The ancient deftly spat in through the open stove door before he
answered:
“Well,” he said, “I don’t know exactly, but I reckon I’d pay it on my
debts ez fur ez it went.”
§ 297 The Apostolic Switch
An Irishman walked up Fifth Avenue one Wednesday night, dropped into a
place of worship and immediately went to sleep. After the prayer-meeting
services were over the sexton came and shook him by the arm.
“We are about to close up,” said that functionary, “and I’ll have to ask
you to go now.”
“What talk have you?” said the Irishman. “The cathedral never closes.”
“This is not the cathedral,” said the sexton. “The cathedral is several
blocks above here. This is a Presbyterian church.”
The Irishman sat up with a jerk and looked about him. On the walls
between the windows were handsome paintings of the Apostles.
“Ain’t that Saint Luke over yonder?” he demanded.
“It is,” said the sexton.
“And ’tis Saint Mark just beyant him, if I’m not mistook?”
“Yes.”
“And still farther along Saint Timothy?”
“Yes.”
“Young man,” demanded the Irishman, “since whin did all thim turn
Protestant?”
§ 298 In One of His Tamer Moments
Fred Kelly, the writer, was standing on a street corner in Cleveland
waiting for a car. A small man, densely grown up in whiskers and with a
mild manner and a diffident way of speaking, sidled up to him.
“Excuse me,” he said, “are you acquainted with this town?”
“More or less,” said Kelly.
“Well,” said the stranger, “maybe you can tell me, then, where the
street fair is going on.”
It so chanced that Kelly knew the location where a carnival company was
holding forth for the week, and he gave the directions for reaching the
spot. Then, as the little meek-looking man started off, Kelly was moved
to put a question on his own account:
“Are you running one of the concessions over there?” he asked.
“No,” said the little fellow, “but I’m working in one of them.”
“What do you do?”
“I work in a side-show that they’ve got over there. I’m the wild man.”
§ 299 That Thick Hotel Crockery
A Northern man was stopping at a small hotel in Alabama. One night after
he had retired there came a knocking at his door.
“Who is it?” he asked, sitting up in bed.
“Hit’s me, boss,” came the somewhat cryptic answer.
“Who’s ‘me’?”
“One of de bell-boys.”
“What do you want at this time of night?”
“Got a telegram fur you, boss.”
“Oh, that’s it? Well, it’s not very important, I guess. I’ll read it
when I get up in the morning. Just shove it under the door.”
There was a pause. Then, in a voice made sharp by the fear of losing a
tip, the darky spoke:
“I can’t—hit’s on a plate!”
§ 300 A Reduction for Cash
Any Scot will tell you that, while as a race the Scotch are thrifty, it
is in Aberdeen that thrift becomes an exact science.
And it was in Aberdeen, so the story runs, that an especially frugal
citizen entered an apothecary’s shop or, as we would say in America, a
drug store. He told the proprietor that he wished to purchase
three-pence worth of morphine.
The chemist pondered over a request so unusual. Customarily he sold the
drug only on a physician’s prescription; but this customer was known to
him as reputable and responsible. Nevertheless, he must make sure the
purpose was proper.
“Thr-pence worth of morphine, eh?” he said. “What would ye be wantin’ it
for?”
The native thought a moment.
“Tuppence,” he said.
§ 301 Extending Down to the Very Bottom
Let us not forget the story of the young woman who had a tooth which
must come out. She agreed with the practitioner that it should be drawn,
but each time he brought the forceps into view she clenched her jaws
tightly together and refused to open them until he put down the shining
instrument to argue with her.
Finally he had an inspiration. He bade his woman assistant get a long
hatpin from her hat and station herself just behind where the obdurate
patient sat.
“Now, then,” he counseled her, “when I get the forceps right close to
her lips I’ll give you the signal and you jab the hatpin clear up
through the seat of the chair. Naturally, she’ll open her mouth to say
‘Ouch!’ and then I’ll get that tooth. It’s very loose—it’ll come out in
a jiffy.”
The artifice worked. As the dentist held up the ousted tooth he said
soothingly:
“Now, then, that wasn’t so bad after all, was it?”
“No,” said the relieved sufferer; “only one sharp, darting pain. But oh,
doctor, I had no idea that the roots of a tooth went down so deep!”
§ 302 Belated but Sincere
The funeral was over. The elderly widower, having returned from the
cemetery, sat on the front porch of his small New Hampshire cottage
whistling to himself. A neighbor passed, and saw the solitary figure in
the shadow of the porch, and halted his team.
“Well, Uncle Gil,” he said, striving to put sympathy into his tones,
“how air you bearin’ up?”
“Fust-rate, Eph,” said the supposedly bereaved one, cheerfully. “Dun’t
know ez I ever felt better.”
“I thought mebbe you’d be missin’ her,” said the neighbor. “She was a
good wife—tuck keer of your home and raised your children and always
done mighty well by you durin’ all the thutty years you lived together.”
“Yas; I know that,” stated the widower. “She done all them things and I
lived with her thutty years, jest ez you was sayin’. But, gol-dern her,
I never did like her!”
§ 303 An Expert Opinion
When I hear of medical experts disagreeing in a consultation I think of
a diagnosis which was made once by a colored person from down South who
came North to drive a car for a friend of mine.
This was in the days when automobiles were more prone to functional
disorders than at present. The darky was a fair-enough chauffeur and he
professed to be a good mechanic, but as subsequent events proved, no
reasonably prudent person would entrust him with a nutpick.
One bright Sunday he took his master for a spin over on Long Island.
Suddenly, on a lonely road, the car developed a racking cough and a
hectic flush and after panting along for a few rods came to a dead stop.
The chauffeur descended from his seat, selected an armload of wrenches
and other utensils from the tool-box and wriggled his way under the
balking auto. There he hammered and tinkered for twenty minutes.
Eventually he crawled out, covered with dust and streaked with grease,
and delivered his opinion to his employer.
“Mr. Miner,” he said, “I reckon you’ll have to find yore way back to
town the bes’ way you kin. They’s fo’ sep’rit things de matter wid dis
yere cyar—an’ I dunno whut nary one of ’em is.”
§ 304 A Well-Merited Rebuke
“Vaiter, vaiter, here vaiter—gif me some addension, uf you blease!”
The gentleman rapped with impatient knuckles on the table top. At his
call, a servitor came hurrying to his side.
The scene was a Yiddish restaurant in Grand Street on New York’s East
Side. The hour was the luncheon hour. The speaker was a heavily bearded
person who had just made his entrance. All about him conveyed the idea
that here was a business man in a rush.
“Vaiter,” he said, “you should right avay bring me a knife und a fork
und a napkin und a blate; ulso ein glass water. Und make it snappy!”
The waiter, somewhat puzzled, produced the articles called for, then
stood by awaiting the order. To his surprise the patron waved him back
and then before his astounded eyes drew from one coat-pocket a knuckle
of rye bread and from the other a pickled herring and proceeded to make
a light but satisfying meal.
Ablaze with indignation the waiter spun on his heel and dashed away to
find the proprietor.
“See that guy yonder?” he said, pointing toward the bewhiskered one.
“Well, of all the scalded nerve ever I seen in my life—say, you know
what that guy done, boss? He come in here a minute ago and made me fetch
him a set of feedin’ tools and then, be gee, he hauled out his own chow
and started eatin’. Ain’t you goin’ to give him a call-down?”
“I certainly am,” stated the owner. He ranged up alongside the offender.
“Say,” he demanded with terrific sarcasm, “wot kind of a place do you
think I’m runnin’ here, anyway?”
The stranger looked up from his repast:
“Vell,” he said calmly, “since you ask me, I got to dell you—der
service here iss rotten! Ulso, for why ain’t der orchestra playing?”
§ 305 For Business, Not Pleasure