Punch, brothers! punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago,
and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession
of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and
when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had
eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day
before--thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my
den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it
to say was, “Punch in the presence of the passenjare.” I fought hard for
an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, “A blue trip slip for
an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,” and so on and
so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined--I could
see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently
discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle.
When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no
good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went
on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the
afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner;
suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed
and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at
midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible
upon the whirling page except “Punch! punch in the presence of the
passenjare.” By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and
was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--“Punch! oh, punch!
punch in the presence of the passenjare!”
Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and
went forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev.
Mr.------, to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at
me, but asked no questions. We started. Mr.------ talked, talked, talked
as is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile,
Mr.------ said “Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard
and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!”
Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: “Punch brothers, punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!”
My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said:
“I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be any
relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet--maybe
it was the way you said the words--I never heard anything that sounded
so pathetic. What is--”
But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless,
heartbreaking “blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip
for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in
the presence of the passenjare.” I do not know what occurred during the
other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr.------ laid his hand on my
shoulder and shouted:--
“Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we are at the
Tower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never got
a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look at
it! look at it! Feast your eye on it! You have traveled; you have seen
boasted landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion. What
do you say to this?”