there, he met an old negro guide, a bear-hunter of superior attainments
and a person of a quaint and an original philosophy. All his life the
old man had been buried at the back edge of the canebrakes. Only once or
twice had he been to a large town. The dream of his life, it developed,
was to see a circus. He had heard of circuses, he had talked with
persons who had seen circuses and he treasured a tattered program of a
circus performance which a white man had given him. But the marvels of
the red wagon and the white top never had revealed themselves to him.
Learning of the old man’s ambition, Dickson had an inspiration. It was
an inspiration born partly of philanthropy and partly of selfish and
mercenary motives; for he scented a chance to get some prime material
for one of his stories. He promised Uncle Jim that when next the circus
visited Vicksburg, he, Uncle Jim, should see it.
In the middle of the following summer Ringling Brothers came along with
their show. Dickson sent Uncle Jim money for his railroad fare and bade
him be in Vicksburg at daylight of a certain morning. He met Uncle Jim
at the train.
That day was probably the most crowded day and the most eventful in
Uncle Jim’s entire life. His patron took him up into the yards to see
the circus unload from the cars, and took him thence to the show lot to
watch the raising of the tents. Under escort of Dickson the old negro
viewed the street parade, the afternoon performance and the side-show
and heard the concert. He saw it all—menagerie, hippodrome, freaks and
the rest of it. His widely popped eyes and the look on his face
testified to his enthrallment at beholding these wonders, but not a word
either of commendation or admiration fell from his lips. Harris was
rather disappointed. He had expected a constant flow of “copy.”
Still maintaining his silence, Uncle Jim trailed Dickson to his home
when the day was ended. He had dinner in the kitchen with the servants
and a little later was to be taken to the train which would carry him
back to his home in Sunflower County. Toward dark Dickson went to the
back of the house to bid his guest farewell.
Uncle Jim, with his shoes off, sat on the lowermost step of the porch
easing his tired feet.
“Uncle Jim,” said Dickson, “I’m afraid you haven’t enjoyed your trip
very much.”
“W’y, Mist’ Dickson,” said Uncle Jim, “whut meks you think dat? I ain’t
never gwine furgit whut I seen to-day ez long ez I lives, an’ I’s always
gwine be grateful to you, suh.”
“But you haven’t said anything about the circus. What made you so dumb?”
“Well, suh, my eyes beheld so much dat it seem lak my tongue forgot to
wag.”
“Oh, that was it? Well, of all the things you’ve seen to-day what
impressed you most?”
“All of it ’pressed me—frum de start to de finish.”
“Yes, I know, but there must have been some one thing that stands out in
your mind above all the others—something that seemed to you more
amazing than anything else. Think the whole day over, now, and see if
you can tell me what that thing is.”
“Well, suh, Mist’ Dickson,” said Uncle Jim, after a period of
reflection, “ef it comes down to jes’ one thing, I’d say de thing w’ich
hit me de hardest was dat air beast w’ich dey calls de camel. Uh,—dat
camel!”
“Why the camel particularly?” asked Dickson.
“Mist’ Dickson,” said Jim, “he’s got such a noble smell!”
§ 364 A Tribute—with One Reservation
A distinguished member of the Little Rock bar was notable for two
things: his capacity for chambering good, red liquor and his ability to
speak eloquently at short notice upon any conceivable subject.
Oratorically, he was even as the rock which Moses smote—one cue, one
suggestion, one invitation and from him there would pour a glittering,
noble stream of language. One night at a banquet in his home city the
toastmaster conspired with certain of the guests to play a trick upon
this talented gentleman; in fact, I believe a wager was laid. The plot
was launched early in the evening when he was informed that, contrary to
the local custom, he would not be called upon for any remarks. Then
privily, a waiter was instructed to station himself behind the chair of
Colonel Doolove—that being the orator’s name—with orders to see to it
that the Colonel’s toddy glass was replenished as often as he might
empty it. So well did the waiter obey his orders that by the time the
hour for the speech-making rolled around the Colonel appeared to be
almost in a state of coma. The toastmaster felt that the moment had come
for springing his surprise. Perhaps I should have stated earlier that
the bet was to the effect that there was at least one toast to which the
Colonel, drunk or sober, could never respond with fitting words.
With a confident wink at some of his co-conspirators the toastmaster
arose, and said:
“In view of the fact that one of the guests of honor has disappointed us
to-night, and in order that this feast of reason and flow of soul may
properly be rounded out I am going to take the liberty of calling upon
one whose name does not appear on the post-prandial program. I shall ask
our distinguished friend, Colonel Doolove, to favor us with a few
remarks in his inimitable style. I ask him now to speak to the
toast—water.”
Groggily the Colonel rose in his place. With difficulty he fixed his
wavering vision upon the company and then without further hesitation
delivered himself of the following:
“Mr. Toastmaster and Gentlemen, I speak to-night of water. What visions
does that word conjure up! What delectable thoughts does it bring to the
contemplative mind. Water, I maintain, is the most beneficent, the most
benign and the most beautiful of all the elements with which a generous
Creator has endowed this mundane sphere.
“Is water beneficent? I ask of the rolling tides which, in obedience to
the command of the Almighty, ebb and flow at their ordained times, now
retreating, now advancing, upon the wave-kissed beach. I ask of the
oceans which bring to us the freighted argosies of other climes. I ask
of the rivers which bear upon their currents the commerce of nations,
making possible communication and intercourse between peoples. Yea,
verily, water is beneficent.
“Is water benign? Consider the dews which freshen the flowers of the
field and make glad and glorious the summer morn. Consider the rains
which descend upon the parched and arid desert, causing fragrant blossom
to burgeon where before there was but sand and waste. Consider the
harnessed power of dashing streams which turns the wheels and gives
impetus to applied industry. Consider these things and then dare to say
water is not benign!
“Is water beautiful? The answer is found in impetuous Niagara. It is
found in the roaring cataract, in the purling brook, in the racing
mountain torrent, and upon the bosom of the sheltered lake illumined
with the glorious colors of the sinking sun, and reflecting, as a
mirror, every shifting play of radiance from the skies, every dancing
frond of the lofty evergreens caressed by the breezes of the evening. It
is found in the teardrop of the mother as she bids her son go forth to
fight for his imperiled country.
“Never, while man has speech, is it to be gainsaid that water is
beneficent, that it is benign, that it is beautiful. But, gentlemen, as
a beverage it is a dadburned failure!”
§ 365 Staving Off the Fatal Blow
“Rabin,” said Mr. Moscovitz to his friend, “I think I have lost a
pocketbook with two hundred dollars in it.”
“Have you looked for it good?” asked Mr. Rabin.
“Sure I have looked,” said the desolated one. “I have looked in all my
coat pockets, in all my vest pockets, in my front pants pockets and in
one of my hip pockets—and nowheres it ain’t there.”
“Why don’t you look in the other hip pocket?” asked Mr. Rabin.
“Because,” said the stricken Mr. Moscovitz, “that’s the last pocket I
got.”
“Vell, vot of it?”
“Because, Rabin, if I should look in that pocket and still it ain’t
there, then I drop dead.”
§ 366 SPECIAL EXTRA—To Be Read Only in Leap Year
It must be all of thirty-five years now since the thing happened. But
the memory of it still abides in my mind, as the finest exhibition of
spontaneous humor that ever came within my own experience.
I was a small boy in a Kentucky town. John Robinson’s circus paid us its
annual visit. For the afternoon performance, my father took me and my
younger brother and half a dozen little girls and boys, the children of
neighbors, along with him. At the last moment two old ladies joined the
party. One of them lived across the street from us and the other just
around the corner. Mrs. Slawson, the senior of the pair, was exceedingly
deaf. She used one of those old-fashioned, flexible rubber ear-trumpets
with a tip at one end and a bell-like aperture at the other. Her crony,
Mrs. Ream, had a high-pitched, far-carrying voice.
On a blue-painted bench, with the old ladies at one end, my father at
the other and the row of youngsters in between, we watched the show. The
time came for the crowning feature of a circus of those times. Perhaps
the reader is of sufficient age to recall what this was. Elephants and
camels and horses would be close-ranked at the foot of a springboard.
Along a steep runway, which slanted down to this springboard, would
flash in order, one behind another, the full strength of the troupe. The
acrobats would tumble over the backs of the animals to alight gracefully
upon a thick padded mattress. The clowns would sprawl on the backs of
the living obstacles. Always there was one clown who, dashing down the
runway, would suddenly halt and fling his peaked cap across. There was
another, dressed as a country woman, who, as he somersaulted, lost a
pair of bifurcated white garments, while the audience whooped its
delight.
This season, though, a culminating treat had been provided by the
management: The lesser gymnasts had done their stunts. Now, to the head
of the runway mounted the premier tumbler. He stood there grandly erect
in his rose-colored fleshings, his arms folded across his swelling
breast and his head almost touching the sagging canvas of the tentroof.
The band, for the moment, stopped playing. The ringmaster mounted the
ring-back and proclaimed that Johnnie O’Brien, foremost athlete of the
world, would now perform his death-defying and unparalleled feat of
turning a triple somersault over two elephants, three camels and four
horses! For many this announcement had a special interest; they knew
Johnnie O’Brien was a native-born son of our town.
So an expectant hush fell upon the assemblage. Mrs. Slawson turned to
Mrs. Ream, and in the silence her voice rose as she asked:
“What did he say?”
Mrs. Ream brought the blunderbus end of Mrs. Slawson’s ear-trumpet to
her lips and, through its sinuous black length, in a voice so shrill
that instantly every head there was turned toward the pair of them, she
answered:
“He says that that pretty man up yonder with the pink clothes on is
goin’ to jump over all those animals without hurtin’ himself!”
On the sawdust, in his baggy white clothes, squatted one of the clowns.
On the instant he leaped to his feet, ran to the head of the larger
elephant, and in both hands seized that creature’s long black dangling
trunk which now, as everyone saw, looked so amazingly like Mrs.
Slawson’s ear-trumpet, and raising its tip to his mouth he shrieked out
in a magnificent imitation of Mrs. Ream’s falsetto notes:
“He says that that there pretty man up yonder with the pink clothes——”
If he finished the sentence, none there heard him. From every side of
the arena there arose a tremendous gasp of joyous appreciation and,
overtopping and engulfing this, a universal roar of laughter which
billowed the tent. Strong men dropped through the seats like ripened
plums from the bough and lay upon the earth choking with laughter. The
performers rolled about in the ring.
And through it all Mrs. Slawson and Mrs. Ream sat there wondering why
the band did not play and why the pretty man in the pink clothes up at
the top of the runway seemed to be having a convulsion.
[THE END]
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Note:
A few obvious punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Four
stories were missing from the Contents and have been added, 119, 306,
342 and 366.
[End of _A Laugh a Day Keeps the Doctor Away_ by Irvin S. Cobb]