all goes like this:
There was a colored preacher who served a term in state’s prison in West
Virginia for horse-stealing. After his release he changed his name and
moved to Alabama. There he became the pastor of a prosperous flock. He
figured that his past life was entirely buried. None of the congregation
had the slightest suspicion that he was an ex-convict, and he hoped to
go on until the end of his days enjoying the confidence of the
community.
But one Sunday as he entered the pulpit, he suffered a distressing
shock. Sitting in a front pew was a black man he instantly recognized as
a former cell-mate in the penitentiary. That wasn’t the worst of it. He
could tell by the expression on the other’s face that the latter also
had recognized him. He had a feeling either that he must submit to
blackmail or suffer exposure and lose his present charge. The distracted
parson did some quick thinking. Then he opened the Good Book, fixed his
eyes meaningly upon the countenance of the interloper, cleared his
throat and began as follows:
“Brethren an’ Sistren. I had figgered to disco’se to you-all dis Sabbath
mawnin’ ’pun de subjec’ of de parable of de Prodigal Son; but sence
steppin’ into dis holy place I has changed my mind an’ I shall preach
frum de fo’teenth Chapter of Ezekiel, nineteenth Verse, w’ich sez: ‘Ef
thou seest me an’ thinkest thou knowest me, don’t say nothin’, fur
verily I say unto you, I’ll see you later.’”
§ 329 The Real Fromage, in Fact
Two of Broadway’s typical products were invited to spend an evening at
the Fifth Avenue home of a wealthy patron. The guests knew a great deal
about musical shows and about picking winners at the tracks and, when it
came to rolling a sucker for his money, they acknowledged no superiors.
But in certain other departments of knowledge both of them were just a
trifle shy.
Observing that they seemed somewhat self-conscious, their host undertook
to make them feel more at home. He made the mistake, though, of picking
on literature as a topic. Across the dinner-table he said to one of
them:
“How do you like Omar Khayyam?”
“Oh, pretty good,” said the person addressed; “but a bottle of this here
red Chianti suits me better.”
On the way home the second Broadwayite took his friend to task for his
ignorance.
“Bo,” he said, “when you don’t understand a thing why don’t you keep
your mouth shut? Why, you big stiff, this here Omar Khayyam ain’t no
wine. It’s a cheese.”
§ 330 Practically No Reason for It
There once was a clerk of the hotel in a small Maine town who had a
unique way of keeping a diary. Each evening he wrote on the bottom lines
of the page of the register for the current date a brief account of the
principal daily doings in the community, usually coupled with a summary
of his own personal reactions to them. Sometimes his phraseology was
unusual but always it was amply descriptive.
A friend of mine was stopping at the hotel, having gone up to Maine on a
fishing trip. He fell into the habit of glancing through the back pages
of the register, more for the enjoyment he got from the quaint language
of the entries than because he was interested in bygone neighborhood
history.
On succeeding pages of the book for a week of the early spring of the
year previous, he found these progressive records of a local tragedy:
Tuesday: “While fishing through the ice yesterday, Henry Whippet fell in
the Saco River up to his neck. He was drawed out and took home.”
Wednesday: “Henry Whippet is in bed with a powerful bad cold. His folks
are thinking some about calling in a doctor.”
Thursday: “Henry Whippet is rapidly continuing to get no better. It now
looks like he is fixing to break out with the pneumonia.”
Friday: “Henry Whippet is sinking rapidly.”
Saturday: “At nine o’clock this morning our esteemed fellow-citizen,
Henry J. Whippet, Esq., went to his Maker entirely uncalled for.”
§ 331 He Couldn’t Stick to Any One Thing
Carried away by a spirit of patriotism, a New York song-writer, of
indolent habits, signed up for a citizens’ training-camp. On his arrival
he was assigned to an awkward squad under charge of a sergeant of the
regular army.
Bearing a dummy musket, our hero lined up with the rest of the green
hands. Facing them, the drill-master proceeded to rattle off the manual.
“Attention!” he shouted. “Carry arms—present arms—shoulder
arms—parade arms!”
The song-writer flung his wooden rifle down.
“I quit!” he declared. “I’m through, right now.”
“What’s the matter?” demanded the astonished sergeant.
“The trouble with you is you change your mind too darned often!”
§ 332 Reserve Ammunition
Either the mule which drew the decrepit wagon along the sandy road
through the pine-barrens, was balky or else perhaps he merely was
conservative by nature. Despite prayers, pleas, curses and commands from
the lanky Georgian who drove him, each being accompanied by a terrific
blow with a long heavy club, the obstinate animal merely blinked its
eyes and continued to amble at the slowest of all possible gaits. The
city man, who came along just now in his automobile, drew up to watch
the spectacle. Ordinarily the passer-by was a humane man and believed in
treating the dumb brutes with all possible kindliness. But the sight of
this long-eared malingerer made him forget his sentiments.
“My friend,” he said, “I marvel at your patience. Is that beast, by any
chance, sick?”
The Cracker shook his head:
“Naw, suh,” he answered, “there ain’t nothin’ ailin’ him. This is jest
the way he acts all the time. Even down here on this flat land I have to
keep beatin’ him all the time this a-way to make him move a-tall.”
“Why don’t you climb down out of that wagon and kick him in the
stomach?”
“Naw, I reckin not. You see, I’m savin’ that up fur the hill yonder.”
§ 333 Dust to Dust
In the Pinenut mining region of Nevada during the early nineties, rich
gold-bearing veins were discovered in the foothills. Coincident with
this discovery came the development of placer claims in the beds of the
valley streams. There was a tremendous rush of prospectors from
neighboring mining towns, and Pinenut became the center of much
activity. Unfortunately, it proved to be a superficial bonanza and
petered out in a short time. A few fanatics still lingered on, hoping
that a sharp pick in hopeful hands would open a new Golconda at an
unexpected moment.
As Robert H. Davis tells the story, one of the hangers-on had the bad
taste to die. It was the custom in new mining camps for the District
Recorder to perform the services of the church and to lay to rest those
who expired with or without their boots on. The ceremony was the same
for both. This particular funeral took place in the dry bed of the
creek. A hole six by two by three had been scooped from the gravel. The
deceased reposed in a rude coffin.
The Recorder, from the Book of Common Prayer, read the service in a
solemn voice:
“Ye brought nothing into this world and ye shall take nothing out.”
The coffin was lowered by horny hands.
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the
Lord. Dust to dust!”
Reaching down he gathered a handful of dirt and gravel which sifted
through his fingers and fell with a rattaplan upon the wooden box.
“Ashes to ashes!” But instead of either dust or ashes the gleam of a
nugget flashed back from the coffin lid. There it lay, resurrected from
eternity while the lamented was being returned to the mould.
Without a moment’s hesitation the Recorder dropped his prayer-book,
jumped into the grave, heaved the deceased out of the property and
exclaiming in a loud voice:
“I claim everything seven hundred and fifty feet North and South and six
hundred feet East and West. Everybody get off the premises.”
He pulled out two six-shooters, cleaned his estate of spectators and put
up his location notices without delay.
The interment took place the following day in a vegetable garden.
§ 334 No Trouble to Show Goods
Holbrook Blinn, the actor, was playing an engagement in London several
years ago. One afternoon he went out to Epsom Downs for the racing. In
the crush at the paddock he was addressed by a Cockney of a slinky
appearance:
“Sye, Guv’ner,” said the stranger, “wouldn’t you like to buy a diamond
scarf-pin hat a bargain?”
Blinn shook his head and started to move off, but the importuning
stranger detained him:
“Wyte a bit please, Guv’ner,” he pleaded, in an eager half-whisper;
“don’t go yet, you’ll never get another chance like this. Hy pledge you
me word of ’onor you won’t regret it if you buys this ’ere pin. Pure
w’ite stone and a nobby settin’. Worth twenty quid, if hit’s worth a
penny. And yours for four pound cash.”
Interested in spite of himself by the insistent one’s eloquence, Blinn
said:
“Well, let me have a look at it.”
“Hi ain’t got it wiv me—yet. But I can give you a look hat it.”
“How can you give me a look at it if you aren’t carrying it with you?”
asked the puzzled American.
“Turn your ’ead slow, Guv’ner,” said the Cockney, dropping his voice.
“See that fat bloke yonder wiv the gray coat on?” He pointed a cautious
finger and sank his voice still lower. “Hit’s in ’is necktie.”
§ 335 Fun for Little Isadore
Mr. Pincus, the delicatessen dealer, was visiting Mr. Rabinowitz, the
retailer in second-hand garments at the latter’s flat in Allen Street.
To the host came his little son, Isadore, aged six.
“Popper,” he asked, “vould you gif me a quarter?”
“Shure,” said the parent. He hauled a coin from his pocket, dropped it
with a generous gesture into the outstretched hand of his offspring and,
as the child trotted away, made as if to resume his interrupted
conversation with the caller. But Mr. Pincus, who had been observing the
byplay with distended eyes was the first to speak:
“Rabinowitz, have you gone crazy or something? Your boy asks you for a
whole quarter und right avay you give it to him. What an extravagance!”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Rabinowitz, with a proud smile. “Every night
comes my little Isadore und asks me for a quarter, und alvays I gif it
to him.”
“But ain’t it teachin’ him bad habits, having all that money to spend on
himself?” insisted Mr. Pincus.
“Pincus,” said his friend, “I tell you a secret: he ain’t spendin’ it on
himself; alvays he goes und puts it in his savings bank, only, it ain’t
a savings bank—that’s what he thinks it is. It’s the gas meter.”
§ 336 An Awful Blow for Mr. Barnum
The late Alf T. Ringling, of Ringling Brothers, loved the lore of the
circus. In his library he had shelves of books and pictures and
documents and ancient posters pertaining to life under the big tops.
Also he knew hundreds of anecdotes, humorous and otherwise, modern and
ancient, which related to some aspect or another of the business he all
his active life had followed. A year or two before his death he told me
this one, which he vouched for as having been an actual occurrence:
It was back in the days before the Ringling Show had attained large
proportions, when Barnum and Bailey’s circus was, as its billing
proclaimed, The Greatest Show on Earth.
The aggregation, with its menagerie, its three rings and its elevated
stages and hippodrome track, and all, was touring the South. A day or
two earlier, an acrobat who just had closed a season with a traveling
burlesque troupe—by special request of its manager—applied for a job
with the circus and was given it. His act did not give full satisfaction
to the director of performances, who so reported to Mr. Barnum, and the
latter sent for the new performer, and told him that his work fell short
of the desired standard.
“You recommended yourself pretty highly when you came around the other
day,” said Mr. Barnum. “In fact, as I recall, you told me you were the
best man in your line anywhere. Now I hear that you haven’t made good.”
Being an artiste, the young man naturally had his share of temperament.
“Is that so?” he answered with heavy sarcasm. “Well, lemme tell you
somethin’—there ain’t nobody can reflect on my abilities without
answerin’ to me. If I hear any more of this sort of talk I’ll quit!”
“All right, then, quit,” said the famous showman.
“You said it,” answered the indignant trouper. “I’ve quit. I’ve
resigned. Do you know what that means, Mr. Barnum?”
“I think so,” said the older man. “It means you’ve quit.”
“Think again. Do you happen to know what town this is?”
“Certainly I do—Pine Bluff.”
“That’s it. Now you’ve got it. Here right in the middle of the season
I’m leavin’ Barnum and Bailey’s circus flat on its back in Pine Bluff,
Arkansas.”
§ 337 An Over Sensitive Deer
An Englishman was visiting on a big ranch in the southern part of Texas.
The country abounded in game and the visitor, who had done very little
shooting in his life, became filled with an ambition to kill a deer.
His host fitted him out with a rifle and sent him on a still hunt under
the guidance of a negro hand who had considerable experience at
stalking. The darky led the greenhorn to a likely place on the edge of a
thicket. Before the pair had traveled very far the keen eyes of the
negro spied out a handsome buck feeding in the thickets and by slow
degrees moving in their direction. He drew the Englishman down into a
handy clump of chaparral; but when the buck almost was within easy
gunshot of them he suddenly quit feeding, raised his head, sniffed,
snorted, and instantly was gone. The disappointed amateur turned to his
guide:
“Surely the brute didn’t see us? I did not move, I know,” he said.
“Naw suh, he ain’t see you—dat I’m sho’,” said the negro, “but I think,
boss, he must a’ smell’ you.”
“But that couldn’t be,” said the still puzzled Englishman. “Why, I had a
barth only this morning!”
§ 338 The Proper Rate of Exchange
The late Charles E. Van Loan, a splendid story-teller in his own right
and equally adept as a story-writer, used to love to tell this one:
An ambitious promoter undertook to stage a prize-fight between two
heavy-weights at a little town just over the international boundary
between Mexico and California. The fight was advertised to go for twenty
rounds.
From both sides of the line a great crowd gathered, the majority of
those present being Mexicans.
A somewhat inexperienced but quick-witted Texan acted as referee. It
subsequently developed that, contrary to the ethics, the referee had a
private bet on one of the scrappers. Midway of the fight, it appeared
highly probable that his favorite would shortly be knocked out and so,
to save his money, the referee, at the end of the tenth round, declared
the bout a draw, and ended it right there.
Enraged and disappointed, the audience rose up, shouting threats. The
native contingent was especially vociferous. A first-class riot was
threatened.
But the imperiled referee had a smart notion in reserve. By waving his
arms and shouting that he had a statement to make, he secured
comparative silence. Then he made his announcement and it proved
eminently satisfactory. The Americans present saw the point of the joke;
the Mexicans were appeased because the explanation seemed to them
perfectly sound.
“Gentlemen,” the referee said, “this was advertised as a twenty-round
fight and that’s exactly what it is—twenty rounds Mex. or ten rounds
American.”
§ 339 Classifying the Delinquent
Years ago, when I was a reporter for a New York evening paper, and
covered trials at the Criminal Courts Building, there was an elderly and
very devout Irishman who had a job in Part Two of General Sessions. It
was his duty to keep order and to act as door-keeper, on occasion, and
sometimes as a sort of usher. But he particularly shone on those
occasions when he was called upon to aid in taking the so-called
pedigree of a newly convicted defendant.
In this matter a certain routine invariably was followed. The prisoner
would be arraigned at the bar. The old Irishman would range alongside
him and in an undertone ask of him certain questions, then call out the
answers to the clerk sitting fifteen feet away, who duly recorded them
on the back of the indictment. This ceremony was more or less automatic,
since from long experience the old man knew exactly what facts regarding
the prisoner’s past life he must ascertain. As the convicted man usually
made his responses in an undertone, only the functionary’s voice would
be heard as he chanted his own version of the disclosures just made to
him.
One day a youth of a most forbidding appearance, who had been found
guilty of attempted highway robbery, was brought up. The old Irishman
edged up to him and in a friendly confidential half-whisper asked him
for his right name.
“Henry Smith,” returned the youth, in a surly grumble out of one corner
of his mouth.
“He says Henry Smith, Mr. Penney,” called out the Irishman. Then he
turned again to the malefactor:
“Born in the United States?”
“Sure—Brooklyn.”
“Native-born, Mr. Penney.”
“Any religious instruction in your youth, young man?”
“No,” shortly.
“PROTESTANT, Mr. Penney.”
§ 340 A Touch of the Swedish
Personally I do not know a great many persons of Swedish birth. But
those Swedes I have met struck me nearly always as being keen-witted.
Nevertheless, it is customary among after-dinner speakers, at least,
when telling a yarn purporting to deal with slow thinking, to make the
central character of it a Swede, and preferably a Swede farmer.
For instance, there is the classic of the Wisconsin politician who, in
the presidential campaign of 1912, toured the back districts of his
native state to electioneer for his party. In a remote neighborhood he
came upon a tall Scandinavian sitting on a log in a clearing. The
stranger hauled up his team and greeted the resident, who replied with a
nod.
The politician explained that he was sounding out the sentiment in the
district.
“What do you think about Wilson?” he asked.
“Aye don’t know,” drawled the other.
“Well, how about Roosevelt?”
“Aye don’t know.”
“Maybe you like Taft?”
The alien shook his tawny head dumbly.
“Well, now, look here then, you must have some opinion,” said the
visitor. “You and your neighbors must have talked the thing over among
yourselves. Who do you think has the best show?”
The simple Swede gave this question lengthy consideration. Then, with a
faint change of expression, he said:
“Aye tank Ringling Brothers got the best show.”
Then there is the time-honored yarn of the Swede farm-hand in Minnesota
who, on the witness stand, was called upon by the attorney for the
railroad to furnish details touching on the tragic death of a companion.
“Aye tell you,” he answered. “Me and Ole we bane walkin’ on railroad
track. Train come by and Aye yump off track. By and by, when train is
gone, Aye don’t see Ole any more, so Aye walk on and pretty soon Aye see
one of Ole’s arms on one side of track and one of Ole’s legs on other
side of track, and then pretty soon Aye see Ole’s head, but Ole’s body
is not there, so Aye stop and Aye say to myself, ‘By Yupiter, something
must a’ happened to Ole!’”
§ 341 Calling for Night Work, Too
A well-known public lecturer occasionally tells this story on the
platform as illustrative of the enterprise and instinctive commercial
sagacity of the young American. He vouches for it as an actual personal
experience. His version of it runs somewhat as follows:
“Two summers ago I was motoring up in New England. Taking a short cut
over a dirt road I ran into a miry place and the car bogged down and
stuck fast. Providentially, as it would seem, a farmer boy immediately
hove into sight, driving a team of big horses. I entered into
negotiations with him and the upshot was that for two dollars he agreed
to undertake the job of rescuing me from my predicament. The price
seemed reasonable and we closed the bargain.
“He hooked his horses to the axle of the stalled automobile and soon had
the car upon high ground. I was struck by the brightness of the lad and
the skill he had shown in extricating the heavy car from the mire. After
I had paid him I led him into conversation, taking occasion to
compliment him upon his smartness.
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve had considerable practice, Mister. This makes
the third car that I’ve pulled out of this mudhole to-day.’
“‘Did each one of them pay you two dollars?’ I asked.
“‘Yep,’ he said. ‘That’s my regular price for this job.’
“‘Then you’ve earned six dollars to-day?’
“‘Yep, that’s right,’ he said.
“‘Pretty fair wages for a boy of your age, I should say,’ I commented.
“Before answering me, the youngster withdrew from my immediate vicinity
and mounted one of his horses.
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘this has been a ’specially good day. I don’t always
earn this much, and anyhow, ’tain’t as easy as you might think for me to
earn this money. All day I’ve got to be hangin’ ’round waitin’ for one
of you city fellers to get bogged down and start callin’ for help and
that ain’t the worst of it neither; except when it rains, I’ve got to be
around here a good part of every night.’
“‘What do you do here at night?’ I asked.
“He drew his team off the road and started away through the woods. Then,
over his shoulder, as he vanished, he replied:
“‘Oh, night-times I have to draw water and fill up this here mudhole so
as it’ll be ready for business the next day.’”
§ 342 Returning in the Regular Manner
This one was a favorite with the late Joseph H. Choate. I heard him use
it more than once when he was making after-dinner speeches.
“I had a friend once, named Smith,” said Mr. Choate, “whose son,
although of comparatively tender years, was addicted to the
reprehensible habit of indulging in alcoholic beverages. The father
packed him off to Harvard in the hope that the youth might become
interested in educational matters and lose his craving for hard liquor.
“It appeared that the father’s hopes were to be gratified, because the
young man, in writing home to ask that his allowance be increased, told
his sire that he had mended his ways and now was devoting himself
exclusively to the undertaking of acquiring learning. The senior was
most highly gratified. He decided to run up to Cambridge and personally
congratulate his offspring upon the reformation which had been effected.
To make the meeting more pleasant he would take the youngster by
surprise. So, without announcing his intention, he started.
“But the train was delayed and Mr. Smith did not reach Cambridge until
after midnight. He got in a cab and rode to the boy’s boarding-house.
The building was dark.
“He felt his way up the walk, rang the doorbell and pounded on the door.
Eventually an upstairs window was opened and an elderly lady, the
proprietor of the establishment, showed her head.
“‘Well,’ she called out, ‘what is wanted?’
“‘Does Henry Smith, Jr., live here?’ asked the father.
“‘Yes,’ said the old lady, wearily. ‘Carry him in.’”
§ 343 Or in Other Words, Slightly Confused
I have always been interested in the character of Daniel Boone. It
seemed to me that of all our early pioneers he, perhaps, was the most
gallant and the most picturesque, and certainly the most typical.
A few months ago a collector of early Kentucky lore told me a story of
the great pathfinder. I leaped upon it with loud cries of joy. I said to
myself that if it were not true it deserved to be true. So far as my
informant knew, it had never been printed but instead had been handed
down by word of mouth from one generation to another. So I just was
making ready to plunge into the arena with a brand new contribution to
pioneer Americana when I sustained a severe shock.
This shock was the discovery that the same anecdote, in substantially
the same form in which I heard it told by my Kentucky friend, already
had appeared in print. It was published a trifling matter of one hundred
and two years ago. Even so, I offer it here again for the reason I
believe it has merit in it entitling it to perpetuation.