patriotic impulse made the long journey from his home on the eastern
seaboard to Missouri, which then was in the far West, for the purpose of
meeting the aged Boone and painting his portrait. At the time of
Harding’s arrival Boone had left his log-cabin home and had gone on one
of his periodical outings into the wilderness. The visitor followed
along an obscure trail until he came to a tumbledown shanty. To quote
Harding’s words, “I found him engaged in cooking his dinner. He was
lying in his bunk, near the fire, and had a long strip of venison wound
around his ramrod, and was busy turning it before a brisk blaze, and
using pepper and salt to season his meat.
“I at once told him the object of my visit. I could tell that he did not
exactly know what I meant. I explained the matter to him, and he agreed
to sit. He was nearly ninety years old, and rather infirm; his memory of
passing events was much impaired, yet he would amuse me every day by his
anecdotes of his earlier life. I asked him one day, just after his
description of one of his long hunts, if he never got lost, having no
compass. ‘No’, said he, ‘I can’t say as ever I was lost, but I was
_bewildered_ once for three days.’”
§ 344 A Squirrel without a Peer
In the wicked days when drinking still was going on, Riley Wilson, the
official humorist of West Virginia, met on the streets of Huntington a
friend of his from up in the mountains. Extending the customary
hospitalities, Wilson invited the hillsman to have something. The
visitor was agreeably inclined. They crossed the street and entered the
swinging doors of a life-saving station.
At one end of the bar an electric fan was buzzing. The gaze of the
mountaineer froze on this novel object. So absorbed and interested was
he that he almost forgot to help himself from the bottle which the
barkeeper set out for him. He put down his emptied glass and, walking
close up to the fan, continued to watch it in a fascinated silence.
“Well, old man,” said Wilson, “are you ready to move along?”
“Riley,” answered the mountaineer without turning his head, “ef you
don’t mind, I’m goin’ to stay here a spell longer. I don’t know how long
I may be here, ’cause I aim to wait until this here critter stops
spinnin’ this wheel around so I can git a good look at it. I’ve seen
some peart squirrels caged up, in my time, but this shore must be the
peartest one that ever was ketched.”
§ 345 The Triumph of the Novice
By way of a beginning, it is incumbent to me to explain that the negroes
of the Coast country of South Carolina and Georgia have a distinctive
_patois_ which differs radically from the speech of members of their own
race up country. “Gullah talk,” as it is called, has but one gender—the
masculine. Everything—a man, a woman, a bull, a cow—is “he.”
With this bit of explanation we may proceed. An Englishman, desirous of
killing some big game during his visit to America, accepted the
invitation to visit a plantation-owner on one of the sea islands lying
below Charleston. In honor of the visitor a deer drive was arranged.
The Britisher, chaperoned by an old negro man, was assigned to a “stand”
on one of the best “runs.” Beforehand he had been told to shoot only at
bucks, as the does enjoyed protection.
Presently, to the ears of the nervous Englishman where he crouched with
his black companion in a thicket, came the sound of the hounds’ baying.
The dogs had found a fresh trail. They were drawing nearer and nearer.
Suddenly, fifty yards away across an open glade, a darting patch of
tawny brown showed in the undergrowth. The Englishman fired, and a
convulsive thumping in the brush told him that he had not missed.
The old negro left his covert and ran forward to see what it was that
had been shot.
“Did I kill him?” called the excited amateur.
“Yeah, boss. You kill ’im,” answered the darky, as he bent over the
stricken creature. Then, as he straightened, seeing that the fallen
animal had no horns, he added: “’E a doe do’.”
At this moment the host hurried up, having heard the shot from his place
of ambush a short distance away.
“Any luck?” he called out as he approached.
“Oh, yes,” answered the Britisher exultantly. “I thought I saw a deer
and dropped it, but your black fellow yonder has just told me that it is
a dodo—a creature which I thought was entirely extinct. Luck, eh,
what?”
§ 346 The Gift of Tongues
To arrive at an estimate of the approximate age of this one, try to
recall how many years ago it was that Robert Ingersol died and then take
it into further consideration that the incident here to be narrated is
supposed to have occurred quite a long time before that date.
The great infidel was sitting one day in his library. A genius out of a
job came to him seeking advice.
“Mr. Ingersol,” said the caller, “I speak seven languages fluently but
somehow or other I don’t seem to be able to make a living. I can’t get
work anywhere. At this moment I owe a month’s rent. What can you
suggest?”
“My friend,” said Ingersol, “I don’t think I could suggest anything for
a person who can express himself in seven languages and can’t pay his
rent in any one of them.”
§ 347 Inquiry Regarding the Stranger
This little incident dates back to the time when a certain well-known
publisher of New York was somewhat younger than he is at present. His
only daughter, now a charming young matron with a baby of her own, had
just passed her fourth birthday. Let us call her Clara, which is not her
real name. Since before his marriage the gentleman in question had worn
a beard. The little girl had never seen her father excepting with
mustache and whiskered chops.
One Saturday night, moved by a whim, he told the barber to give him a
clean shave. Then he went home and went to bed. Next morning early
little Clara came from the nursery to visit her parents. The mother was
awake; her daddy still snoozed.
The child was in the act of kissing her mother, when her gaze fell upon
the smooth face on the pillow in the adjacent bed. Her eyes widened in
astonishment.
Leaving her mother’s side, the little thing tip-toed across the room and
subjected the countenance of her father to a puzzled stare. Then she
crept back again to where the wife was.
“Mother dear,” she said in an awed whisper, “who is the gentleman?”
§ 348 When Appearances Were Deceitful
The native was making a slow headway with a hoe against the weeds and
sassafras sprouts which covered the slope with their scrubby growth.
Behind him rose the knobby field with deep furrows in it where the rains
had washed out gulleys in the thin soil. Further on a rotting rail fence
ran in crazy zigzags across the brow of the eminence and on all sides
the clearing was enveloped by a bleak and poverty-stricken landscape.
The Northern tourist, who was making a detour through the foothills,
halted his car and hailed the industrious worker.
“My friend,” he said, “you look like a live chap and a hustler.”
“Well,” said the native, “I aim to keep busy.” He laid down his hoe and
advanced to the edge of the road.
“That’s what I said to myself as soon as I saw you. I’m wondering why
you’re content to slave your life out in this God-forsaken country. I
never saw such poor-looking soil in my life. Why don’t you pull up
stakes and move up into Ohio where I live?”
The resident hillsman shook his head.
“You see, stranger,” he answered, “I’ve always lived ’round here and I
guess I’ll stay awhile longer.”
“Well,” said the tourist, “every man to his own fancy, and I guess a
fellow might get attached even to such a spot as this. But what can you
expect by staying on? You are bound to get poorer and poorer all the
time.”
“Mister,” said the hillsman, “I’m a blamed sight better off than what
you seem to think. Why, I don’t own nary acre of this here land.”
§ 349 The Curious Ways of Sheep
They tell this story on Charlie Russell, Montana’s famous cowboy
painter, who by a very great many is regarded as Frederic Remington’s
successor as the greatest delineator of Western life. Probably it isn’t
true, because Russell, as an old cow hand, naturally would have the
utmost contempt for all phases of the sheep-growing industry; but as the
story goes, he once fell upon hard times and in this emergency accepted
a position as herder for a sheep man.
Now, Russell knew about all there was to know about beef cattle and
about horses but his education regarding the ways and habits of sheep
had been neglected. All the same, he went out on the range with a flock
of woolly baa-baas. Ten days passed, and he returned to headquarters to
replenish his supply of provisions. The boss met him at the ranch-house.
“Well, Charlie,” he asked, “how goes it?”
“Oh, all right,” said Russell.
“Satisfied with your new job, eh?” pressed the employer.
“I guess so,” said Russell. “But if you want me to keep on working for
you there’s one thing you’ll have to do.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll have to get another lot of sheep. That first bunch has done lit
out on you.”
§ 350 Where They Take Things as They Come
Down in the old malarial belt below Mason and Dixon’s Line, the
indolence of the dwellers in the Low Grounds is proverbial. In
illustration of this attribute a story used to be told by the late Polk
Miller, of Virginia.
Miller said that in a remote district a prominent resident was being
buried. The funeral procession, on its way from the church to the
graveyard passed a cabin where an ancient couple resided.
The pair in question were engaged that afternoon in the pursuit of their
favorite occupation of doing nothing whatsoever. The old man was
stretched on the earth with his back against the wall of the house, and
facing the road. His wife, in a rickety arm-chair, was facing in the
other direction, massaging her front teeth with a snuff stick. Presently
she spoke:
“Whut’s that I hear passin’?”
“It’s Jim Coombs’ fune’l jest goin’ by.”
“Much of a turn-out?”
“Biggest I ever seen in these parts,” he answered. “More’n twenty hacks
and waggins, looks like, and a whole passel of mo’ners on foot.”
The old woman fetched a little resigned sigh:
“Well,” she said, “I certainly do wish I was settin’ turned ’round the
other way—I’d like mightily to see that there fune’l.”
§ 351 A Mystery Unraveled
There was a member, now deceased, of a New York club much frequented by
members of the theatrical profession, who suffered in the latter years
of his life from a curious internal disorder. Always involuntarily and
often at inopportune moments, he gave off weird rumbling and wheezing
sounds.
One evening with three fellow members he was playing bridge. He was
suffering at the moment from an especially violent attack. A certain
comedian, who had been imbibing heavily, approached.
Immediately the newcomer’s attention was focussed upon the strange,
ghostly noises which at intervals occurred. Just as he had traced these
mysterious manifestations to their source the afflicted gentleman, after
an especially violent outburst, spoke:
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for causing this disturbance. I assure
you I cannot help it—the thing is entirely beyond my control. I really
don’t know what is the matter with me.”
“I know what’s the matter with you,” cried out the inebriated one,
“you’re haunted!”
§ 352 Already Showing Signs of Use
“Well,” said the friendly grocer, “I hear you’ve got a little baby
brother up at your house. What do you think of him?”
“I don’t like him,” said Mildred frankly. “He’s got a funny red face and
he cries all the time.”
“Well,” asked the grocer, “why don’t you send him back where he came
from?”
“Oh, I’m afraid we couldn’t do that,” she said. “We’ve used him two days
already.”
§ 353 A Hint to the Wise Is Ample
Here of late as all readers of the daily press know, the Ku Klux Klan
has been rather active in parts of the state of Arkansas. In a small
town north of Little Rock, the colored population has been much
exercised over the midnight marches and the occasional visitations of
the masked brotherhood.
In this town two negroes met. One of them said:
“Look yere, Henery, whut would you do ef you wuz to git a notice from
them ole Ku Kluxes?”
“Me?” said Henry. “I’d _finish_ readin’ it on de train!”
§ 354 Just Before the Shooting Started
Just before hostilities ended in 1918, a young lieutenant of my
acquaintance was detailed to duty as a drill officer at a camp of
colored draft troops in Mississippi.
He said that late one night he was returning from a near-by town to his
quarters. As he neared the sentry lines, out of the darkness came a
voice calling: “Halt!”
He halted, gave the countersign and started on. Immediately, in the
gloom, there was a rattle as of a rifle being shifted in the sentry’s
hands and again the same voice cried: “Halt!”
“You’ve halted me once already,” he said sharply, rightly figuring that
the unseen one must be a green trooper, “and I’ve given you the
password. What more do you want?”
“But, boss,” said the sentry, drawing nearer, “I don’t know you.”
“Very probable,” said the captain. “What has that got to do with it?”
“It’s got a whole heap to do wid it. W’en the sergeant put me yere
to-night he p’intedly sez to me dat ef somebody comes by w’ich is a
stranger to me I is to cry ‘Halt!’ th’ee times an’ den shoot ’im.”
§ 355 The Limit of Helplessness
Only too often does the average after-dinner speaker reach a point where
he has nothing to say and yet feels that he must say it. Usually he
does, too,—at great length. I know, because in my time, before I
reformed, I was addicted to the vice of after-dinner speaking myself.
To those offenders who still persist in their wicked ways of trying to
be humorous to order across the dinner table, without having the proper
materials in stock, I respectfully would recommend the following highly
illustrative little anecdote:
A New England husbandman was driving up a steep hill with a load of
provender and gardening implements in his motor truck. In a rough place
on the grade the tail-gate slipped from its catches and, item by item,
the cargo spilled out. The farmer steered along oblivious of his losses.
He reached the crest of the hill, coasted down into the valley, and
there, in a miry place, he stuck fast. He climbed down from his seat,
and then, for the first time realizing the full depth of his misfortune
he exclaimed to himself:
“Stuck, gol darn it! Stuck in the mud—and nothin’ to unload!”
§ 356 The Most Unkindest Cut of All
On the stage of a music hall in the East End of London a memory wizard
with a pronounced Cockney accent was offering an exhibition of his
skill. In response to questions from the audience he gave, off-hand, and
promptly, the dates of historic events, the distance from the earth to
the moon, and other facts and figures without limit.
It was quite evident from the language of some of his statements that
the performer was a most patriotic Briton. Invariably, when mentioning a
great Englishman or a great English achievement, his voice rose
exultantly.
Sitting well down in front were two Americans. They figured that the
wizard must have accomplices in the house to ask him questions prepared
beforehand. To find out whether or not the performer did have the powers
of memory he boasted and with a view also to arousing his patriotic
fervor to a still higher pitch if possible, one of the Yankees called
out:
“Professor, please tell me what memorable event occurred on July the
Fourth, 1776?”
Without a moment’s hesitation the professor shot back his reply:
“A h’infernal h’outrage, sir!” he shouted.
§ 357 The Position of a Young Man
A minor-league baseball manager received a letter from a young player
who gave an unabridged and highly flattering account of the author’s
ability to make good in any company. Also he declared he could hit ’em
harder and higher and farther than Babe Ruth ever did. It so happened
that the manager was very much in need of a utility player but the young
man had neglected to say whether he was a pitcher, catcher, infielder or
outfielder.
He answered the letter, inquiring what position the prospective
phenomenon played.
A reply came back accompanied by a snapshot of a youth in uniform,
crouched and apparently awaiting the arrival of a grounder.
“You can see by the inclosed photograph,” wrote the young man, “that I
play in a stooping position, with one hand on each knee.”
§ 358 No Detail to Be Overlooked
It was the last night of the revival meeting. The evangelist was going
strong. His subject was eternal damnation. With all the eloquence at his
command, he urged the congregation to flee from the wrath to come.
“Ah, my friends,” he exclaimed, “on that last dread day there will be
weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth!”
In a rear pew stood up an elderly woman.
“Elder,” she said tremulously, “I ain’t got no teeth.”
“Madam!” he shouted back, “teeth will be provided!”
§ 359 At the Extreme Rear
Up toward Chateau Thierry in the big shove of 1918, a brigade commander
of the A. E. F., temporarily separated from his staff, was making a sort
of private reconnaissance toward the front. It was night-time. Directly
ahead of him, he knew, was a negro infantry regiment, now under fire for
the first time.
All at once he encountered a straggler. Perhaps it would be unfair to
refer to this person as a straggler, for he was giving a spirited
imitation of a foot-racer.
“Halt, there!” shouted the outraged brigadier.
The fleeing private slowed up.
“What do you mean by running away in this disgraceful manner?”
“Boss,” quavered the black man, “I ain’t been aimin’ to run away, but
these yere feets of mine jest natchelly carried me out of dat mess up
yonder.”
“Well, you face about and rejoin your company immediately.”
Reluctantly the unhappy soldier reversed himself and started to obey.
Then he hesitated and over his shoulder he put a question:
“Who is you, to be givin’ me dese yere awders? You ain’t no cap’n, is
you?”
“I am the general commanding this brigade—that’s who.”
“Lawsy me!” quoth the darky, half to himself. “I sho’ must a’ run a long
ways to git clear back to where the gene’ls stay!”
§ 360 He Knew Where to Find Paw
The gentleman from the city had rented a country-place in the White
Mountains for the summer. Returning from a walk he noted, as he neared
his front gate, signs that a mishap had occurred on the road. A load of
hay had been overturned while in transit. It was piled in a great shock
at the edge of the highway where its weight had caused it to slide from
the wagon upon which it was being moved. The team were nibbling grass in
the ditch. A fourteen year old boy, dripping with perspiration, and
plainly very tired from his exertion, was forking the hay back on the
wagon with tremendous energy.
“What happened?” asked the gentleman—a somewhat unnecessary question in
view of the evidence.
“The wheels went down in a rut,” said the boy, “and this here jag of hay
turned bottom-side up.”
“Well, you look all tired out,” said the sympathetic city man. “This
seems to be a pretty big job for one of your years, too. Suppose you
quit for awhile and go on up to my house yonder with me and have a bite
to eat and a drink of cold lemonade or buttermilk.”
“I wouldn’t dast to do that,” said the boy. “Paw wouldn’t like it ef I
didn’t get this here hay put back right away.”
“Oh, that’ll be all right. Nothing is going to happen to your hay while
you’re gone or to your team, either. Come along with me; I’m sure your
father won’t mind.”
Half reluctantly, as though swayed by conflicting emotions the youngster
laid down his fork and accompanied the hospitable stranger. Twice,
during the course of the meal which was provided for him, he paused from
eating to voice his fears that “Paw” would be seriously annoyed for his
failure to complete the job of replacing that hay. Each time his host
reassured him, meanwhile pressing fresh helpings of this and that upon
his young guest.
Finally, at the end of half an hour or so, the boy pushed his chair back
from the table and rose up.
“I guess I’ll be goin’ now,” he said. “Paw’ll want I should get that hay
forked up. I expect he’ll be mighty pestered with me.”
“Why need your father know anything at all about it?” said the
gentleman.
“Why, Paw must know about it already,” explained the youngster.
“Where is your father?” asked the city-man. “I didn’t see him as I came
along.”
“He’s under the hay,” stated the youngster simply.
§ 361 Consolation for the Imperilled One
In a California town is an old family physician with rather a caustic
wit. He was in attendance at the confinement of a lady whom we will call
Mrs. A—a wife of a year. There were no complications; the affair was
progressing as well as might reasonably be expected.
But the husband was in a distressful state. While sympathetic friends
endeavored vainly to calm him he walked the floor of the room adjoining
the sick room. At frequent intervals he beat upon the connecting door
and from those within pleaded for assurance that all was going well. Yet
the answers, while consoling, did not avail to soothe his agitation.
What the midwife told him only seemed to harass him the more. Messages
of cheer from the trained nurse were received by him with choked
groaning sounds.
Finally he called through the keyhole that he must have a word
personally with the officiating practitioner. The old gentleman came
forth.
“Doctor,” exclaimed the suffering young man, “I’ve been waiting for
hours now. I can’t stand this terrible suspense any longer. Doctor, for
my own sake, please tell me what the prospects are?”
“Well, son,” said the doctor. “I can only say this to you: I’ve been
bringing babies into the world for forty-odd years now—and I never lost
a father yet.”
§ 362 Examples of the Higher Criticism
Whenever actors get together it is almost inevitable that sooner or
later the subject of dramatic criticism will come up and that someone
present will quote a notice favorable or unfavorable—but generally
favorable—touching on his own work.
No symposium of this sort is complete without reference to the instance
of tact displayed in print by a local reporter on a certain historic
occasion in a small middle-Western city when ambitious non-professionals
gave an incredibly awful performance of a classic drama. The newspaper
man who had been detailed to cover the performance was wishful to avoid
giving offence to the members of the cast yet, in honesty, he could say
nothing complimentary. So he merely wrote this:
“For the benefit of the new hospital fund, our leading amateurs
presented ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ at the theatre last night before a
large audience of our best townspeople. The orchestra rendered several
pleasing selections and the acoustics of the hall were never better.”
Then there is the famous criticism done by an editor in Rising Sun,
Indiana, when a certain native-born prodigy essayed the rôle of the
melancholy Dane. The criticism ran something like this:
“Among scholars there has long been a dispute as to whether the works
attributed to Shakespeare were written by Shakespeare or by Bacon. The
editor of this paper has hit upon a satisfactory way of settling for all
time this ancient question. Let the tombs of both be opened. The one who
turned over in his grave last night was the author of Hamlet!”
I am reminded also of what Kin Hubbard, better known as “Abe Martin,”
had to say years ago of a certain theatrical entertainment. For brevity
and yet for completeness I think it would be hard to beat this:
“Al Jeffreys’ ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin Company’ played at the opera-house last
night. The Siberian blood hound was badly supported.”
Hap Ward, the comedian, furnishes one from his own experience:
“We were playing a one-night stand in Oregon,” said Hap. “On the morning
following the performance I found a notice of our show on the front page
of the town paper. The opening sentence was promising—I smiled to
myself as I saw it. For it read as follows:
“‘Ward and Vokes’ show, as given here last night, was not half bad.’
“Then I read the second sentence and quit smiling.
“‘On the contrary, it was all bad!’”
§ 363 The Prize Smell of the Circus
Harry Dickson, the writer, probably knows as much about the Southern
negro as any white man can ever expect to know. But even so, in his
search for local color and quaint lines with which to illuminate his
stories, he constantly is striking a new angle of thought or a new angle
of observation on the part of some one or another of his dusky neighbors
down in Mississippi.