The footsteps prove to be those of Thomas R. Hefflebomer of
Washington Territory, who introduces positive proof of having
murdered the judge during a fit of mental aberration, and Mabel
marries a man named Tompkins, whom she met two years later at Hot
Springs.
Futility
To be so near--and then to vanish
Like some unreal creature of the sense;
To come so near that every fiber, tingling,
Makes ready welcome; then to surge
Back into the recesses of the strange,
Mysterious unknown. Ye gods!
What agony to feel thee slowly steal
Away from us when, with caught breath
And streaming eyes, and parted lips,
We fain would with convulsive gasp
And tortured features bow our frame
In one loud spasm of homage to thy spell!
But with what grief we find we can not do it;
The dream is o'er--we can not sneeze.
The Wounded Veteran
A party of Northern tourists passed through Houston the other day, and
while their train was waiting at the depot an old colored man, with
one arm bandaged and hung in an old red handkerchief for a sling,
walked along the platform.
"What's the matter with your arm, uncle?" called out one of the
tourists.
"It was hurt in de wah, sah. Hab you any 'bacco you could gib a po'
ole niggah, sah?"
Several of the tourists poked their heads out of the car windows to
listen, and in a few moments the old darky had taken up a collection
in his hat, consisting of a plug of tobacco, three or four cigars, and
sundry nickels, dimes, and quarters.
"How were you wounded?" asked a tourist. "Were you shot in the arm?"
"No, sah; hit wusn't exac' by a shot."
"Piece of shell strike you?"
"No, sah; wusn't a shell."
"Bayonet wound, maybe?"
"No, boss, hit wusn't a bayonet."
"What battle were you in?"
"Do' know ef it had a name, but hit was a mighty hot fight while it
lasted."
"Do you draw a pension?"
"No, boss."
"It seems it would be a charitable act," said a tourist to the others,
"to take this old darky's name and see that he gets the pension he is
certainly entitled to. What is your name, uncle?"
"Mose Atkisson, sah."
"Now, Mose," said the tourist, "give me the particulars of the
engagement you were in, and the date, and all the information you
possess about the manner in which you were wounded, and the government
will pay you a nice little sum every three months to help you along."
"Am dat so, boss?" asked the old darky, his eyes growing big with
wonder. "Den I'll sho tell you about hit. Hit wus jes' befor' supper
en I was totin' a big chance ob wood in to make a fiah, when--"
"Never mind about what you did in camp," said the tourist. "Tell us in
which battle of the War of the Rebellion were you engaged."
"It wusn't dat wah, boss; it wus de wah wid Spain."
"What do you mean?"
"Lemme tell you how it wus. I cuts wood and does odd jobs up to Cunnel
Wadkinses. Cunnel Wadkins am de bigges' fighter in de Souf. W'en dis
here wah wid Spain cum up in de papers Cunnel Wadkins 'low he gwine
ter pulverize de whole Spanish nation. He set all day in de saloon an'
he talk about it, an' he cum home at meal time an' he git out his ole'
s'ord, an' he don' talk about nuthin' else.
"Mis' Susie, de Cunnel's wife, she suppote de family, an' she do de
cookin'. Las' Sadday night de Cunnel cum home, an' he been drinkin'
plenty. Mis' Susie she look at him an' shet her mouf tight, an' say
nothin'.
"De Cunnel git out de s'ord an' 'low dat de day ob recknin' am cum wid
de cruel an' bloodthusty Spaniards. Mis' Susie went on fryin' batter
cakes, but Land! don't I know dat woman gwine ter bus' things wide
open putty soon!
"I fetch in a turn ob wood; de Cunnel he settin' by de kitchen stobe,
kinder rockin' roun' in de chur. Es I cum in de do' Cunnel say: 'You
is treat me col', Madam, kase I uphol' de dignity ob de Wadkins
fambly. De Wadkinses nebber wuk; dey am solgers an' am got ter keep
ready fur der country's call.'
"'Treats you col', does I?' says Mis' Susie. 'Well, den, lemme treat
you warm some,' says she.
"She po' out of de bilin' tea-kittle a big pan full ob hot water an'
she fling it all ober de Cunnel. I gits a big lot ob it on dis arm as
I was pilin' de wood in de box, an' it tuk de skin off, an' I dun had
it wrapped up fo' days. De Cunnel am in bed yit, but he sw'ar w'en he
git up he gwine ter wuk.
"Dat's how dis here wah wid Spain done up dis ole niggah. 'Bout w'en,
boss, will de fus' payment ob dat penshun git here, do you recum?"
"The ignorance and stupidity," said the tourist, as he shut down his
window, "of the colored man in the South are appalling."
Her Ruse
"How do I keep John home of nights?" asked a Houston lady of a friend
the other day.
"Well, I struck a plan once by a sudden inspiration, and it worked
very nicely. John had been in a habit of going downtown every night
after supper and staying until ten or eleven o'clock. One night he
left as usual, and after going three or four blocks he found he had
forgotten his umbrella and came back for it. I was in the sitting room
reading, and he slipped in the room on his tiptoes and came up behind
me and put his hands over my eyes. John expected me to be very much
startled, I suppose, but I only said softly, 'Is that you, Tom?' John
hasn't been downtown at night since."
Why Conductors Are Morose
Street car conductors often have their tempers tried by the
inconsiderate portion of the public, but they are not allowed to ease
their feelings by "talking back." One of them related yesterday an
occurrence on his line a few days ago.
A very fashionably dressed lady, accompanied by a little boy, was in
the car, which was quite full of people. "Conductor," she said
languidly, "let me know when we arrive at Peas Avenue."
When the car arrived at that street the conductor rang the bell and
the car stopped.
"Peas Avenue, ma'am," he said, climbing off to assist her from the
car.
The lady raised the little boy to his knees and pointed out the window
at the name of the street which was on a board, nailed to the corner
of a fence.
"Look, Freddy," she said, "that tall, straight letter with a funny
little curl at the top is a '_P_.' Now don't forget it again. You
can go on, conductor; we get off at Gray Street."
"Only to Lie--"
Only to lie in the evening,
Watching the drifting clouds,
O'er the blue heavens sailing;
Mystical, dreamlike shrouds.
Watching the purple shadows
Filling the woodland glades,
Only to lie in the twilight
Deep in the gathering shade.
Only to lie at midnight,
Climbing the pitch-dark stairs;
Wife at the top of them waiting;
Upwards are rising our hairs.
Only to lie as she asks us--
"Where have you been so late?"
Only to lie with judgment--
"Cars blocked; I had to wait."
The Pewee
In the hush of the drowsy afternoon.
When the very mind on the breast of June
Lies settled, and hot white tracery
Of the shattered sunlight flitters free
Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward,
On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard
Of the birds that be.
'Tis the lone pewee;
Its note is a sob, and its song is pitched
In a single key like a soul bewitched
To a mournful minstrelsy.
"Pewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;
A sad, sweet, minor threnody
That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove
Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love,
And the fancy comes that the wee dun bird
Perchance was a maid, and her heart was stirred
By some lover's rhyme
In a golden time,
And broke when the world turned false and old;
And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold,
In some fairy far-off clime.
And her soul crept into the pewee's breast;
And forever she cries with a strange unrest
For something lost, in the afternoon;
For something missed from the lavish June;
For the heart, that died in the long ago;
For the livelong pain that pierceth so;
Thus the pewee cries,
While the evening lies
Steeped in the languorous still sunshine,
Rapt, to the leaf and the bough and the vine,
Of some hopeless paradise.
The Sunday Excursionist
Somebody--who it was doesn't make any difference--has said something
like the following: "There is something grand in the grief of the
Common People, but there is no sadder sight on earth than that of a
Philistine enjoying himself."
If a man would realize the truth of this, let him go on a Sunday
excursion. The male Sunday excursionist enjoys himself, as the darkies
say, "a gwine and a cornin'." No other being on earth can hold quite
so much bubbling and vociferous joy. The welkin that would not ring
when the Sunday excursionist opens his escape valve is not worth a
cent. Six days the Sunday excursionist labors and does his work, but
he does his best to refute the opponents of the theory of the late
Charles Darwin. He occupies all the vacant seats in the car with his
accomplices, and lets his accursed good nature spray over the rest of
the passengers. He is so infernally happy that he wants everybody, to
the brakeman on the rear car, to know it. He is so devilish agreeable,
so perniciously jolly and so abominably entertaining that people who
were bom with or have acquired brains love him most vindictively.
People who become enamored of the Sunday excursionist are apt to grow
insanely jealous, and have been known to rise up and murder him when a
stranger enters the car and he proceeds to repeat his funny remarks
for the benefit of a fresh audience.
The female Sunday excursionist generally accompanies him. She brings
her laugh with her, and does a turn in the pauses of his low comedy
work. She never by any accident misplaces her laugh or allows it to
get out of curl. It ripples naturally and conforms readily to the size
of the car. She puts on the male Sunday excursionist's hat, and he
puts on hers, and if the other passengers are feeling worse than
usual, they sing "The Swanee River." There is enough woe and sorrow in
the world without augmenting it in this way.
Men who have braved the deepest troubles and emerged unscathed from
the heaviest afflictions have gone down with a shriek of horror and
despair before the fatal hilarity of the Sunday excursionist. There is
no escape from his effects.
Decoration Day
Decoration Day has passed, and the graves of the Northern and Southern
soldiers have been duly flower strewn, as is meet and fitting. The
valor of the North has been told on a thousand rostrums, and the
courage of the South has been related from ten hundred platforms.
Battles have been fought again, and redoubts retaken. Much has been
said of brotherly love and the bridging of the chasm. The Blue has
marched abreast to the common meeting place, and the Gray has marched
abreast, and they have met and shaken hands and said the war is over.
There can be no such thing as a union of the Blue and the Gray. When
you pronounce the words you form the bar that separates them. The Blue
is one thing and the Gray is another. There should be no more Blue and
no more Gray. If a tribute is to be paid to the heroes on either side
whom we wish to keep in remembrance, it should be made by American
citizens, not divided by the colors of their garments. There is no
need to march by grand armies, by camps, or by posts. If there is to
be a shaking of hands, let it be by one citizen of the United States
with another. The Gray and Blue are things of the past. In the
innermost hearts, in the still, quick memories of the South, the Gray
will always live, but it should live as in a shrine, hallowed and
hidden from pomp and display. As citizens of a common country, we of
the South offer our hands to citizens of the North in peace and
fellowship, but we do not mingle the Gray with the Blue.
Charge of the White Brigade
Mehitabel, Claribel, Bessie, and Sue
All in white lawn and ribbons pale blue.
Went into a drug store; each sat on a stool,
And called for some phosphate to make them all cool.
"Oh! what is that big copper thing over there?"
Asked Bessie the gay one, asked Bessie the fair.
"Why that," said the clerk, "is the thing with which we
Charge the phosphate and soda we sell, don't you see?"
"How nice," said bright Bessie and then they all rose,
And shook out their ruffles and beautiful clothes;
"Please charge those we had," said the girls--then they flew,
Mehitabel, Claribel, Bessie, and Sue.
An Inspiration
He was seated on an empty box on Main Street late yesterday evening
during the cold drizzling rain. He was poorly clad and his thick coat
was buttoned up high under his chin. He had a woeful, harassed
appearance, and there was something about him that indicated that he
was different from the average tramp who beats his way by lies and
fraud.
The _Post_ man felt a touch of sympathy and went up to him and
said:
"There's a place around the corner where you can get a lunch and
lodging for a small sum. When did you strike town?"
The man gazed at the reporter out of his small, keen eyes and said:
"You're a new man on the _Post_, are you not?"
"Yes, comparatively."
"Do you see that block of three-story buildings over there?"
"Yes."
"Well, I own them and was just sitting here studying what I'm going to
do."
"What's the trouble?"
"Why, the walls are cracking and bulging out on the sides, and I'm
afraid I'm going to have to put a lot of money into repairs. I've got
over one hundred tenants in those buildings."
"I'll tell you what to do."
"What?"
"You say the walls are bulging out?"
"Yes."
"Well, that makes more room everywhere. You just raise all your
tenants' rent on account of the extra space."
"Young man, you're a genius. I'll put rents up twenty percent
tomorrow."
And one more capitalist was saved.
Coming to Him
The man who keeps up with the latest scientific discoveries is abroad
in the land. He knows all about bacilli, microbes, and all the various
newly found foes to mankind. He reads the papers and heeds all the
warnings that lead to longevity and safety to mind and limb. He
stopped a friend on Main Street yesterday who was hurrying to the
post-office and said excitedly:
"Wait a minute, Brown. Do you ever bite your finger nails?"
"I think so--no, I don't know; excuse me, please, I've got to catch
that car."
"Hold on, man; great goodness alive, you don't know what danger you
are in. If a sharp particle of the nail gets into your lungs,
inflammation is bound to set in, and finally laceration, consumption,
hemorrhage, fits, coma, tuberculosis, and death. Think of it! And by
the way, a new bacillus has been found in water in which roses have
been left standing that is very fatal. I want to warn you. Do you know
that--"
"Say, old man, I'm much obliged, but this letter--"
"What is a letter compared with your life? There are 10,000,000
animalcules in a spoonful of ordinary hydrant water; there are 2,000
different varieties known. Do you ever put salt in your beer?"
"I don't know; I really must go, I--"
"Don't hold me responsible for your life, I'm trying to save it. Why,
Heavens, man, it's nothing but a miracle that we live a single day. In
every glass of beer there is an infinitesimal quantity of hydrochloric
acid. Salt is a chloride of sodium, and the union releases the
chlorine. You are drinking chlorine gas every day of your life. Pause,
before it is too late."
"I don't drink beer."
"But you breathe through your mouth when you are asleep. Do you know
what that does? Brings on angina pectoris and bronchitis. Are you
determined to let your ignorance carry you to your grave? Think of
your wife and children! Do you know that the common house fly carries
40,000 microbes on his feet, and can convey cholera, typhoid fever,
diphtheria, pyaemia, and--"
"Dang your microbes. I've got just three minutes to catch that mail.
So long."
"Wait just a minute. Dr. Pasteur says that--"
But the victim was gone.
Ten minutes later the heeder of new discoveries was knocked down by a
wagon while trying to cross the street reading about a new filter, and
was carried home by sympathizing friends.
His Pension
"Speaking of the $140,000,000 paid out yearly by the government in
pensions," said a prominent member of Hood's brigade to the Post's
representative, "I am told that a man in Indiana applied for a pension
last month on account of a surgical operation he had performed on him
during the war. And what do you suppose that surgical operation was?"
"Haven't the least idea."
"He had his retreat cut off at the battle of Gettysburg!"
The Winner
After the performance of "In Old Kentucky" Friday night three old
cronies went into a saloon with the inflexible determination of taking
a drink. After doing so, they added an amendment in the shape of
another and then tacked on an emergency clause.
When they got to feeling a little mellow they sat down at a table and
commenced lying. Not maliciously, but just ordinary, friendly lying,
about the things they had seen and done. They all tried their hand at
relating experiences, and as the sky was clear, there was no matinee
performance of the Ananias tragedy.
Finally the judge suggested the concoction of a fine large julep--a
julep that would render the use of curling irons unnecessary--and the
one who told the most improbable story should be allowed to produce
the vacuum in the straws.
The major and the judge led off with a couple of marvelous narratives
which were about a tie. The colonel moistened his lips as his eye
rested on the big glass filled with diamonds and amber, and crowned
with fragrant mint. He commenced his story:
"The incident I am about to relate is not only wonderful, but true. It
happened in this very town on Saturday afternoon. I got up rather
early Saturday morning, as I had a big day's work ahead of me. My wife
fixed me up a rattling good cocktail when I got up and I was feeling
pretty good. When I came downstairs she handed me a five-dollar bill
that had dropped out of my pocket and said: 'John, you must really get
a better looking housemaid. Jane is so homely, and you never did
admire her. See if you can find a real nice-looking one--and John,
dear, you are working too hard. You must really have some recreation.
Why not take Miss Muggins, your typewriter, out for a drive this
afternoon? Then you might stop at the milliner's and tell them not to
send up that hat I ordered, and--"
"Hold on. Colonel," said the judge. "You just drink that mint julep
right now. You needn't go any further with your story."
Hungry Henry's Ruse
Hungry Henry: Madam, I am state agent for a new roller-action,
unbreakable, double-elastic suspender. Can I show you some?
Mrs. Lonestreet: No, there ain't no man on the place.
Hungry Henry: Well, then, I am also handling something unique in the
way of a silvermounted, morocco leather, dog collar, with name
engraved free of charge. Perhaps--
Mrs. Lonestreet: 'Tain't no use. I ain't got a dog.
Hungry Henry: Hat's what I wanted to know. Now fix me de best supper
you'se kin, and do it quick or it won't be healthy fur you. See?
A Proof of Love
"If you love me as I love you"--
(Ah, sweet those words to lover's ear,
'Twas Lois spake, in accents true,
So loving, tender, kind and dear.)
"If you love me as I love you"--
(Ah, heaven and earth were wrapped in bliss,
The wild rose listened, dissolved in dew;
The very zephyrs sought her kiss.)
"If you love me as I love you"--
(Ah, strains from Paradise her words!)
"And if I do, what then?" I asked;
While round us winged the listening birds.
"If you love me as I love you--"
She raised those fringed eyes of jet,
And whispered low in pleading tones:
"Just fill the wood box, will you, pet?"
One Consolation
Breakfast was over and Adam had gone to his daily occupation of
pasting the names of the animals on their cages. Eve took the parrot
to one side and said: "It was this way. He made a big kick about those
biscuits not being good at breakfast."
"And what did you say?" asked the parrot.
"I told him there was one consolation; he couldn't say his mother ever
made any better ones."
An Unsuccessful Experiment
There is an old colored preacher in Texas who is a great admirer of
the Rev. Sam Jones.[1] Last Sunday he determined to drop his old style
of exhorting the brethren, and pitch hot shot plump into the middle of
their camp, after the manner so successfully followed by the famous
Georgia evangelist. After the opening hymn had been sung, and the
congregation led in prayer by a worthy deacon, the old preacher laid
his spectacles on his Bible, and let out straight from the shoulder.
"My dearly belubbed," he said, "I has been preachin' to you fo' mo'
dan five years, and de grace ob God hab failed to percolate in yo'
obstreperous hearts. I hab nebber seen a more or'nery lot dan dis
belubbed congregation. Now dar is Sam Wadkins in de fo'th bench on de
left. Kin anybody show me a no'counter, trashier, lowdowner buck
nigger in dis community? Whar does the chicken feathers come from what
I seen in his back yard dis mawnin'? Kin Brudder Wadkins rise and
explain?"
Brother Wadkins sat in his pew with his eyes rolling and breathing
hard, but was taken by surprise and did not respond.
"And dar is Elder Hoskins, on de right. Everybody knows he's er lying,
shiftless, beer-drinking bum. His wife supports him takin' in washin'.
What good is de blood of de Lamb done for him? Wonder ef he thinks dat
he kin keep a lofin' 'round in de kitchen ob de New Jerusalem?"
Elder Hoskins, goaded by these charges, rose in his seat, and said:
"Dat reminds me ob one thing. I doesn't remember dat I hab ebber
worked on de county road fur thirty days down in Bastrop County fur
stealin' a bale of cotton."
"Who did? Who did?" said the parson, putting on his specs and glaring
at the elder. "Who stole dat cotton? You shet yo' mouf, niggah, fo' I
come down dah and bust you wide open. Den dar sets Miss Jinny Simpson.
Look at dem fine clo'es she got on. Look at dem yallar shoes, and dem
ostrick feathers, and dat silk waist and de white glubs. Whar she git
de money to buy dem clo'es? She don't work none. De Lawd am got his
eye on dat triflin' hussy, and He's gwine ter fling her in de burnin'
brimstone and de squenchable pit."
Miss Simpson arose, her ostrich plumes trembling with indignation.
"You mis'able lyin' ol' niggah," she said. "You don' pay fur none ob
my clo'es. S'pose you tells dis 'sembled congregation who was it
handed dat big bouquet and dat jib ob cider ober de fence to Liza
Jackson yisterday mawnin' when her old man gone to work?"
"Dat's a lie, you sneakin', low-down spyin' daughter ob de debble. I
wuz in my house ras'lin in pra'er fur de wicked sisters and brudders
ob dis church. I come down dah an' smack you in de mouf ef you don't
shet up. You is all boun' for de fire ob destruction. You am all
nothin' but vile sweepins ob de yearth. I see Bill Rodgers ober dar,
who am known to hab loaded dice fur playin' craps, and he nebber pays
a cent fur what his family eats. De Lawd am shore gwine ter smote him
in de neck. De judgment ob de Spirit am gwine ter rise up an' call him
down."
Bill Rodgers stood up and put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest.
"I could name, sah," he said, "a certain party who wuz run off ob
Colonel Yancy's fahm fo' playin' sebben up wid marked cya'ds, ef I
choosed to."
"Dat's anudder lie," said the preacher, closing his Bible and turning
up his cuffs. "Look out, Bill Rodgers, I'm comin' down dar to you."
The preacher got out of his pulpit and made for Bill, but Miss Simpson
got her hands in his wool first, and Sam Wadkins and Elder Hoskins
came quickly to her assistance. Then the rest of the brothers and
sisters joined in, and the flying hymn books and the sound of ripping
clothes testified to the fact that Sam Jones's style of preaching did
not go in that particular church.
[1] The methods of the Rev. Sam Jones, who was the Billy Sunday of
his time, were frequently the subject of O. Henry's satire.
Superlatives
"I think the song that is sweetest
Is the one that is never sung;
That lies in the heart of the singer,
Too grand for mortal tongue."
--Some poet or other.
The hen egg that is largest
Was the one she never laid;
And the biggest bet in all the world
Was the one we never made.
And the biggest fight that Dallas had
Was the one that did not go;
And the finest poet in the world was the one
That didn't write "Beautiful Snow."
The finest country in all the world
Has never yet been explored,
And the finest artesian well in town
Has not at this time been bored.
By Easy Stages
"You're at the wrong place," said Cerberus. "This is the gate that
leads to the infernal regions, while it is a passport to Heaven that
you have handed me."
"I know it," said the departed shade wearily, "but it allows a
stopover here; you see, I'm from Galveston and I have got to make the
change gradually."
Even Worse
Two Houston men were going home one rainy night last week, and as they
stumbled and plowed through the mud across one of the principal
streets, one of them said:
"This is hell, isn't it?"
"Worse," said the other. "Even hell is paved with good intentions."
The Shock
A man with a very pale face, wearing a woolen comforter and holding a
slender stick in his hand, staggered into a Houston drug store
yesterday and leaned against the counter, holding the other hand
tightly against his breast.
The clerk got a graduating glass, and poured an ounce of spiritus
frumenti into it quickly, and handed it to him. The man drank it at a
gulp.
"Feel better?" asked the clerk.
"A little. Don't know when I had such a shock. I can hardly stand.
Just a little more, now--"
The clerk gave him another ounce of whisky.
"My pulse has started again, I believe," said the man. "It was
terrible, though!"
"Fell off a wagon?" asked the clerk.
"No, not exactly."
"Slip on a banana peel?"
"I think not. I'm getting faint again, if you--"
The obliging clerk administered a third dose of the stimulant.
"Street car run over you?" he asked.
"No," said the pale man. "I'll tell you how it was. See that red-faced
man out there swearing and dancing on the corner?"
"Yes."
"He did it. I don't believe I can stand up much longer. I--thanks."
The man tossed off the fourth reviver and began to look better.
"Shall I call a doctor?" asked the clerk.
"No, I guess not. Your kindness has revived me. I'll tell you about
it. I have one of those toy spiders attached to a string at the end of
this stick, and I saw that red-faced man sitting on a doorstep with
his back to me, and I let the spider down over his head in front of
his nose. I didn't know who he was, then.
"He fell over backwards and cut his ear on the foot-scraper and broke
a set of sixty-dollar false teeth. That man is my landlord and I owe
him $37 back rent, and he holds a ten-dollar mortgage on my cow, and
has already threatened to break my back. I slipped in here and he
hasn't seen me yet. The shock to my feelings when I saw who it was,
was something awful. If you have a little more of that spirits now,
I--"
The Cynic
Junior Partner: Here's an honest firm!
Sharp and Simpson send us a check for $50 in addition to their monthly
account, to cover difference in price of a higher grade of goods
shipped them last time by mistake.
Senior Partner: Do they give us another order?
Junior Partner: Yes! The longest they have ever made.
Senior Partner: Ship 'em COD.
* * * * *
"Well! how are they coming?"
"I'm getting a move on me," said the checkerboard.
"And I'm getting a head in the world," said the piece of sensation
news.
"I'm dead in it," said the spoiled bivalve at the clambake.
"I think I shall get along well," said the artesian water company.
"And my work is all being cut out for me," said the grape seed.
Speaking of Big Winds
The man with the bronzed face and distinguished air was a great
traveler, and had just returned from a tour around the world. He sat
around the stove at the Lamlor, and four or five drummers and men
about town listened with much interest to his tales.
He was speaking of the fierce wind storms that occur in South America,
when the long grass of the pampas is interlaced and blown so flat by
the hurricanes that it is cut into strips and sold for the finest
straw matting.
He spoke also of the great intelligence of the wild cattle which, he
said, although blown about by the furious hurricanes and compelled to
drift for days before the drenching floods of the rainy season, never
lost their direction by day or night.
"How do they guide themselves?" asked the Topeka flour drummer.
"Oh, by their udders, of course," said the traveler.
"I don't see anything to laugh about," said the Kansas man, "but
speaking of big winds we have something of the kind in our state.
You've all heard of the Kansas cyclones, but very few of you know what
they are. We have plenty of them and some are pretty hard ones, too,
but most of the stories you read about them are exaggerated. Still a
good, full-grown cyclone can carry things pretty high sometimes. About
the only thing they spend their fury upon in vain is a real estate
agent. I know a fellow, named Bob Long, who was a real estate hustler
from away back. Bob had bought up a lot of prairie land cheap, and was
trying to sell it in small tracts for farms and truck patches. One day
he took a man in his buggy out to this land and was showing it to him.
'Just look at it,' he said. 'It is the finest, richest piece of ground
in Kansas. Now it's worth more, but to start things off, and get
improvements to going, I'll sell you 160 acres of this land at $40
per--!'
"Before Bob could say 'acre,' a cyclone came along, and the edge of it
took Bob up straight into the air. He went up till he was nothing but
a black speck and the man stood there and watched him till he was out
of sight.
"The man liked the land, so he bought it from Bob's heirs, and pretty
soon a railroad cut across it, and a fine flourishing town sprang up
on the spot.
"Well, this man was standing on the sidewalk one day thinking of how
lucky he had been, and about Bob's unfortunate fate, when he happened
to look up and saw something falling. It grew larger and larger, and
finally it turned out to be a man.
"He came tumbling down, struck the sidewalk with a sound you could
have heard four blocks away, bounded up at least ten feet, came down
on his feet and shouted 'Front foot!'
"It was Bob Long. His beard was a little grayer and longer, but he was
all business still. He had noticed the changes that had taken place
while he was coming down, and when he finished the sentence that he
began when the cyclone took him up, he altered his language
accordingly. Bob was a hustler. Sometime after that he--"
"Never mind," said the traveler. "Let's go in and take something on
this one first. I claim the usual time before the next round."
Unknown Title
An old woman who lived in Fla.
Had some neighbors who all the time ba
Tea, sugar, and soap
Till she said: "I do hope
I'll never see folks that are ha."
An Original Idea
There is a lady in Houston who is always having original ideas.
Now, this is a very reprehensible thing in a woman and should be
frowned down. A woman should find out what her husband thinks about
everything and regulate her thoughts to conform with his. Of course,
it would not be so bad if she would keep her independent ideas to
herself, but who ever knew a woman to do that?
This lady in particular had a way of applying her original ideas to
practical use, and her family, and even neighbors, were kept
constantly on the lookout for something startling at her hands.
One day she read in the columns of an Austin newspaper an article that
caused her at once to conceive an original idea. The article called
attention to the well-known fact that if men's homes supplied their
wants and desires they would have no propensity to wander abroad,
seeking distraction in gilded saloons. This struck the lady as a
forcible truth, and she boldly plagiarized the idea and resolved to
put it into immediate execution as an original invention.
That night when her husband came home he noticed a curtain stretched
across one end of the sitting room, but he had so long been used to
innovations of all sorts that he was rather afraid to investigate.
It might be stated apropos to the story that the lady's husband was
addicted to the use of beer.
He not only liked beer, but he fondly loved beer. Beer never felt the
slightest jealousy when this gentleman was out of its sight.
After supper the lady said: "Now, Robert, I have a little surprise for
you. There is no need of your going downtown tonight, as you generally
do, because I have arranged our home so that it will supply all the
pleasures that you go out to seek."
With that she drew the curtain and Robert saw that one end of the
sitting room had been fitted up as a bar--or rather his wife's idea of
a bar.
A couple of strips of the carpet had been taken up and sawdust strewn
on the floor. The kitchen table extended across the end of the room,
and back of this on a shelf were arranged a formidable display of
bottles, of all shapes and sizes, while the mirror of the best dresser
had been taken off and placed artistically in the center.
On a trestle stood a fresh keg of beer and his wife, who had put on a
coquettish-looking cap and apron, tripped lightly behind the bar, and
waving a beer mug coyly at him said:
"It's an idea I had, Robert. I thought it would be much nicer to have
you spend your money at home, and at the same time have all the
amusement and pleasure that you do downtown. What will you have, sir?"
she continued, with fine, commercial politeness.
Robert leaned against the bar and pawed the floor fruitlessly three or
four times, trying to find the foot rest. He was a little stunned, as
he always was at his wife's original ideas. Then he braced himself and
tried to conjure up a ghastly imitation of a smile.
"I'll take a beer, please," he said.
His wife drew the beer, laid the nickel on the shelf and leaned on the
bar, chatting familiarly on the topics of the day after the manner of
bartenders.
"You must buy plenty, now," she said archly, "for you are the only
customer I have tonight."
Robert felt a strong oppression of spirits, which he tried to hide.
Besides the beer, which was first rate, there was little to remind him
of the saloons where he had heretofore spent his money.
The lights, the glittering array of crystal, the rattle of dice, the
funny stories of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, the motion and color that
he found in the other places were wanting.
Robert stood still for quite a while and then an original idea struck
him.
He pulled a handful of change from his pocket and began to call for
glass after glass of beer. The lady behind the bar was beaming with
pleasure at the success of her experiment. Ordinarily she had made
quite a row, if her husband came home smelling of beer--but now, when
the profits were falling into her own hands, she made no complaint.
It is not known how many glasses she sold her husband but there was
quite a little pile of nickels and dimes on the shelf, and two or
three quarters.
Robert was leaning rather heavily against the bar, now and then
raising his foot and making a dab for the rod that was not there, but
he was saying very little. His wife ought to have known better, but
the profits rendered her indiscreet.
Presently Robert remarked in a very loud tone:
"Gozzamighty, se' 'm up all roun' barkeep'n puzzom on slate 'm
busted."
His wife looked at him in surprise.
"Indeed, I will not, Robert," she said. "You must pay me for
everything you have. I thought you understood that."
Robert looked in the mirror as straight as he could, counted his
reflections, and then yelled loud enough to be heard a block away:
"Gosh dang it, gi' us six glasses beer and put 'em on ice, Susie, old
girl, or I'll clean out your joint, 'n bus' up business. Whoopee!"
"Robert!" said his wife, in a tone implying a growing suspicion,
"you've been drinking!"
"Zas d---d lie!" said Robert, as he threw a beer glass through the
mirror. "Been down t' office helpin' friend pos' up books 'n missed
last car. Say, now, Susie, old girl, you owe me two beers from las'
time. Give 'em to me or I'll kick down bar."
Robert's wife was named Henrietta. When he made this remark she came
around to the front and struck him over the eye with a lemon squeezer.
Robert then kicked over the table, broke about half the bottles,
spilled the beer, and used language not suited for the mailable
edition.
Ten minutes later his wife had him tied with the clothes line, and
during the intervals between pounding him on the head with a potato
masher she was trying to think how to get rid of her last great
original idea.
Calculations
A gentleman with long hair and an expression indicating heavenly
resignation stepped off the twelve-thirty train at the Grand Central
Depot yesterday. He had a little bunch of temperance tracts in his
hand, and he struck a strong scent and followed it up to a red-nosed
individual who was leaning on a trunk near the baggage room.
"My friend," said the long-haired man, "do you know that if you had
placed the price of three drinks out at compound interest at the time
of the building of Solomon's temple, you would now have
$47,998,645.22?"
"I do," said the red-nosed man. "I am something of a calculator
myself. I also figured out when the doctor insisted on painting my
nose with iodine to cure that boil, that the first lanternjawed,
bone-spavined, rubbernecked son-of-a-gun from the amen corner of
Meddlesome County that made any remarks about it would have to jump
seventeen feet in nine seconds or get kicked thirteen times below the
belt. You have just four seconds left."
The long-haired man made a brilliant retreat within his allotted time,
and bore down with his temperance tracts upon a suspicious-looking
Houston man who was carrying home a bottle of mineral water wrapped in
a newspaper to his mother-in-law.
A Valedictory
The "Some Postscripts" man on the _Post_ has
about reached the end of his vein. These spurts of
brilliancy many are capable of, but the sustained
light that burns for years to gladden and instruct is
a rare quality, and the possessor should be
appreciated by the people, for he is the true
Messiah--the eldest son of the great intellectual lord
of the universe.
--Brenham _Press_
Brother, you should not have given us away. We just had to salt that
vein before we could get it in the market, and when the "salt" gave
out, and the end of the vein was reached, we hoped you wouldn't notice
the fact. If you hadn't mentioned it we might have gone on for years
gladdening and instructing and drawing princely salary, but now our
little spurt of our brilliancy will have to put on its pajamas and
retire between the cold sheets of oblivion. We do not blame you at all
for calling the public's attention to the played-out lode, for it is a
terrible responsibility to guide the footsteps of innocent purchasers
who may be taken in by glittering, quartz and seductive pyrites of
iron. To have one whom we regarded as a friend jerk us backward by the
left leg when we had made such a successful sneak, and were about to
scramble over the back fence of the temple of fame makes us sad, but
we do not repine for:
"'Twere better to have spurted and lost
Than never to have spurted at all."
We really intended our light to burn for years, and to have the wick
snuffed so quickly, although done in sorrowing kindness, causes us to
sputter and smoke a little as we go out.
When the true Messiah comes along and shies his valise over to the
night clerk, and turns back his cuffs ready to fill the long-felt
want; if he should ever hear the whoops of those unappreciative
critics who would crucify him, these few lines may teach him to fly to
Brenham where his papa, the great intellectual lord of the universe,
will protect him.
Solemn Thoughts
The golden crescent of the new moon hung above the market house, and
the night was cool, springlike, and perfect.
Five or six men were sitting in front of the Hutchins House, and they
had gradually shifted their chairs until they were almost in a group.
They were men from different parts of the country, some of them from
cities thousands of miles away. They had been rattled in the dice box
of chance and thrown in a temporary cluster into the hospitable gates
of the Magnolia city.
They smoked and talked, and that feeling of comradeship which seizes
men who meet in the world far from their own homes, was strong upon
them.
They told all their funny stories and compared experiences, and then a
little silence fell upon them, and while the hanging strata of blue
smoke grew thicker, their thoughts began to wander back--as the cows
stray homeward at eventide--to other scenes and faces.
"'And o'er them many a flaming range of vapor buoyed the crescent
bark:
And rapt through many a rosy change
The twilight melted into dark,'"
quoted the New York drummer. "Heigho! I wish I was at home tonight."
"Same here," said the little man from St. Louis. "I can just see the
kids now tumbling round on the floor and cutting up larks before Laura
puts them to bed. There's one blessing, though, I'll be home on
Thanksgiving."
"I had a letter from home today," said the white-bearded
Philadelphian, "and it made me homesick. I would give a foot of that
slushy pavement on Spruce Street for all these balmy airs and
mockingbird solos in the South. I'm going to strike a bee line for the
Quaker City in time for that fat turkey, I don't care what my house
says."
"Yust hear dot band playing," said the fat gentleman. "I can almost
dink I vos back in Cincinnati 'neber die Rhein' mit dot schplendid
little beautiful girl from de hat factory. I dink it is dese lovely
nights vot makes us of home, sweet home, gedinken."
"Now you're shoutin'," said the Chicago hardware drummer. "I wish I
was in French Pete's restaurant on State Street with a big bottle of
beer and some chitterlings and lemon pie. I'm feelin' kinder
sentimental myself tonight."
"The worst part of it is," said the man with the gold nose glasses and
green necktie, "that our dear ones are separated from us by many long
and dreary miles, and we little know what obstacles in the shape of
storm and flood and wreck lie in our way. If we could but annihilate
time and space for a brief interval there are many of us who would
clasp the forms of those we love to our hearts tonight. I, too, am a
husband and father."
"That breeze," said the man from New York, "feels exactly like the
ones that used to blow over the old farm in Montgomery County, and
that 'orchard and meadow, and deep tangled wildwood,' etc., keep
bobbing up in my memory tonight."
"How many of us," said the man with gold glasses, "realize the many
pitfalls that Fate digs in our path? What a slight thing may sever the
cord that binds us to life! There today, tomorrow gone forever from
the world!"
"Too true," said the Philadelphia man, wiping his spectacles.
"And leave those we love behind," continued the other. "The affections
of a lifetime, the love of the strongest hearts, ended in the
twinkling of an eye. One loses the clasp of hands that would detain
and drifts away into the sad, unknowable, other existence, leaving
aching hearts to mourn forever. Life seems all a tragedy."
"Banged if you ain't rung the bell first shot," said the Chicago
drummer. "Our affections get busted up something worse'n killing
hogs."
The others frowned upon the Chicago drummer, for the man with gold
glasses was about to speak again.
"We say," he went on, "that love will live forever, and yet when we
are gone others step into our places and the wounds our loss had made
are healed. And yet there is an added pang to death that those of us
that are wise can avoid, the sting of death and the victory of the
grave can be lessened. When we know that our hours are numbered, and
when we lie with ebbing breath and there comes
'Unto dying ears the earliest pipe
Of half awakened birds;
And unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square,'
there is sweet relief in knowing that those we leave behind us are
shielded from want.
"Gentlemen, we are all far from home and you know the risks of travel.
I am representing one of the best accident insurance companies on
earth, and I want to write every one of you. I offer you the finest
death, partial disablement, loss of finger or toe, nervous shock, sick
benefit policy known to--"
But the man with gold spectacles was talking to five empty chairs, and
the moon slipped down below the roof of the market house with a
sardonic smile.
Explaining It
A member of the Texas Legislature from one of the eastern counties was
at the chrysanthemum show at Turner Hall last Thursday night, and was
making himself agreeable to one of the lady managers.
"You were in the House at the last session, I believe?" she inquired.
"Well, madam," he said, "I was in the House, but the Senate had me for
about forty-five dollars when we adjourned."
Her Failing
They were two Houston girls, and they were taking a spin on their
wheels. They met a fluffy girl who didn't "bike," out driving with a
young man in a buggy.
Of course they must say something about her--as this is a true story
and they were real, live girls--so one of them said:
"I never did like that girl."
"Why?"
"Oh, she's too effeminate."
A Disagreement
"Dat Mr. Bergman, vot run de obera house, not dread me right," said a
Houston citizen. "Ven I go dere und vant ein dicket to see dot
'Schpider und dot Vly' gompany de oder night, I asg him dot he let me
in mit half brice, for I was teaf py von ear, and can not but one half
of dot performance hear; und he dell me I should bay double brice, as
it vould dake me dwice as long to hear de berformance as anypody
else."
An E for a Knee
When Pilgrim fathers landed safe
On Plymouth Rock at last,
They bowed their heads and bent a knee,
And kept a holy fast.
But now to celebrate the day
We dine--to say the least--
We add an "e" into their plan
And change their fast to feast.
The Unconquerable
A man may avoid the Nin-com-poop
By flying fast and far.
And even subdue the Scalawag
By stratagems of war.
And he even may dodge the Fly-up-the-Creek
If he's lucky and does not fear;
And sometimes conquer the powerful chump.
Though the victory cost him dear.
And a brave man may do up the Galoot,
Though it be a terrible fight,
But no man yet has escaped from the clutch
Of the terrible Blatherskite.
An Expensive Veracity
A Houston man who attended a great many of Sam Jones's sermons was
particularly impressed with his denunciation of prevaricators, and of
lies of all kinds, white, variegated, and black.
So strongly was he affected and in such fertile ground did the seed
sown by the great evangelist fall, that the Houston man, who had been
accustomed occasionally to evade the truth, determined one morning he
would turn over a new leaf and tell the truth in all things, big and
little. So he commenced the day by scorning to speak even a word that
did not follow the exact truth for a model.
At breakfast, his wife said:
"How are the biscuit, Henry?"
"Rather heavy," he answered, "and about half done."
His wife flounced out of the dining room and he ate breakfast with the
children. Ordinarily Henry would have said, "They are very fine, my
dear," and all would have been well.
As he went out the gate, his rich old aunt, with whom he had always
been a favorite, drove up. She was curled, and stayed, and powdered to
look as young as possible.
"Oh, Henry," she simpered. "How are Ella and the children? I would
come in but I'm looking such a fright today I'm not fit to be seen."
"Yes," said Henry, "you do. It's a good thing your horse has a blind
bridle on, for if he got a sight of you he'd run away and break your
neck."
His aunt glared furiously at him and drove away without saying a word.
Henry figured it up afterward and found that every word he said to her
cost him $8,000.
Grounds for Uneasiness
When Sousa's Band was in Houston a week or so ago, Professor Sousa was
invited to dine with a prominent citizen who had met him while on a
visit to the North.
This gentleman, while a man of high standing and reputation, has made
quite a fortune by the closest kind of dealing. His economies in the
smallest matters are a fruitful subject of discussion in his
neighborhood, and one or two of his acquaintances have gone so far as
to call him stingy.
After dinner Professor Sousa was asked to play upon the piano, of
which instrument he is a master, and he did so, performing some lovely
Beethoven sonatas, and compositions by the best masters.
While playing a beautiful adagio movement in a minor key, the
Professor caught sight of his host casting uneasy glances out of the
window and appearing very restless and worried. Presently the Houston
gentleman came over to the piano and touched Professor Sousa on the
shoulder.
"Say," he said, "please play something livelier. Give us a jig or a
quickstep--something fast and jolly."
"Ah," said the Professor, "this sad music affects your spirits then?"
"No," said the host, "I've got a man in the back yard sawing wood by
the day, and he's been keeping time to your music for the last half
hour."
It Covers Errors
Poetic fame can be won this way:
If you happen to have not a thing to say,
And you happen to be close-pressed for time,
And you can't for your life get a word to rhyme,
And your knowledge of English is somewhat small,
And you have no poetic turn at all,
And can't write a hand anybody can read.
You are in a first-rate way to succeed;
For who in the world can mix things worse
Than a popular writer of dialect verse?
Recognition
The new woman came in with a firm and confident tread. She hung her
hat on a nail, stood her cane in the corner, and kissed her husband
gayly as he was mixing the biscuit for supper.
"Any luck today, dearie?" asked the man as his careworn face took on
an anxious expression.
"The best of luck," she said with a joyous smile. "The day has come
when the world recognizes woman as man's equal in everything. She is
no longer content to occupy a lower plane than his, and is his
competitor in all the fields of action. I obtained a position today at
fifty dollars per week for the entire season."
"What is the position?"
"Female impersonator at the new theater."
His Doubt
They lived in a neat little cottage on Prairie Avenue, and had been
married about a year. She was young and sentimental and he was a clerk
at fifty dollars per month. She sat rocking the cradle and looking at
a bunch of something pink and white that was lying asleep, and he was
reading the paper.
"Charlie," she said, presently, "you must begin to realize that you
must economize and lay aside something each month for the future. You
must realize that the new addition to our home that will bring us joy
arid pleasure and make sweet music around our fireside must be
provided for. You must be ready to meet the obligations that will be
imposed upon you, and remember that another than ourselves must be
considered, and that as our hands strike the chords so shall either
harmony or discord be made, and as the notes mount higher and higher,
we shall be held to account for our trust here below. Do you realize
the responsibility?"
Charlie said "Yes," and then went out in the woodshed and muttered to
himself: "I wonder whether she was talking about the kid, or means to
buy a piano on the installment plan."
A Cheering Thought
A weary-looking man with dejected auburn whiskers, walked into the
police station yesterday afternoon and said to the officer in charge:
"I want to give myself up. I expect you had better handcuff me and put
me into a real dark cell where there are plenty of spiders and mice.
I'm one of the worst men you ever saw, and I waive trial. Please tell
the jailer to give me moldy bread to eat, and hydrant water with
plenty of sulphur in it."
"What have you done?" asked the officer.
"I'm a miserable, low-down, lying, good-for-nothing, slandering,
drunken, villainous, sacrilegious galoot, and I'm not fit to die. You
might ask the jailer, also, to bring little boys in to look at me
through the bars, while I gnash my teeth and curse in demoniac rage."
"We can't put you in jail unless you have committed some offense.
Can't you bring some more specific charge against yourself?"
"No, I just want to give myself up on general principles. You see, I
went to hear Sam Jones last night, and he saw me in the crowd and
diagnosed my case to a _T_. Up to that time I thought I was a
four-horse team with a yellow dog under the wagon, but Sam took the
negative side and won. I'm a danged old sore-eyed hound dog; I
wouldn't mind if you kicked me a few times before you locked me up,
and sent my wife word that the old villain that has been abusin' her
for twenty years has met his deserts."
"Aw, come now," said the officer, "I don't believe you are as bad as
you think you are. You don't know that Sam Jones was talking about you
at all. It might have been somebody else he was hitting. Brace up and
don't let it worry you."
"Lemme see," said the weary-looking man reflectively. "Come to think
of it there was one of my neighbors sitting right behind me who is the
meanest man in Houston. He is a mangy pup, and no mistake. He beats
his wife and has refused to loan me three dollars five different
times. What Sam said just fits his case exactly. If I thought now--"
"That's the way to look at it," said the officer. "The chances are Sam
wasn't thinking about you at all."
"Durned if I believe he was, now I remember about that neighbor of
mine," said the penitent, beginning to brighten up. "You don't know
what a weight you've taken off my mind. I was just feeling like I was
one of the worst sinners in the world. I'll bet any man ten dollars he
was talking right straight at that miserable, contemptible scalawag
that sat right behind me. Say, come on and let's go out and take
somethin', will you?"
The officer declined and the weary-looking man ran his finger down his
neck and pulled his collar up into sight and said:
"I'll never forget your kindness, sir, in helping me out of this
worry. It has made me feel bad all day. I am going out to the
racetrack now, and take the field against the favorite for a few
plunks. Good day, I shall always remember your kindness."
What It Was
There was something the matter with the electric lights Tuesday night,
and Houston was as dark as Egypt when Moses blew the gas out. They
were on Rusk Avenue, out on the lawn, taking advantage of the
situation, and were holding as close a session as possible.
Presently she said:
"George, I know you love me, and I am sure that nothing in the world
can change my affection for you, yet I feel that something has come
between us, and although I have hesitated long to tell you, it is
paining me very much."
"What is it, my darling?" asked George, in an agony of suspense.
"Speak, my own, and tell me what it is that has come between you and
me?"
"I think, George" she softly sighed, "it is your watch."
And George loosened his hold for a moment and shifted his Waterbury.
Vanity
A poet sang a song so wondrous sweet,
That toiling thousands paused and listened long;
So lofty, strong, and noble were his themes,
It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.
He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,
And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears.
Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,
And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.
The poet groveled on a fresh-heaped mound
Raised o'er the grave of one he fondly loved,
And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears,
And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.
Identified
A stranger walked into a Houston bank the other day and presented a
draft to the cashier for payment.
"You will have to be identified," said the cashier, "by someone who
knows your name to be Henry B. Saunders."
"But I don't know anybody in Houston," said the stranger. "Here's a
lot of letters addressed to me, and a telegram from my firm, and a lot
of business cards. Won't they be identification enough?"
"I am sorry," said the cashier, "but while I have no doubt that you
are the party, our rule is to require better identification."
The man unbuttoned his vest and showed the initial, H. B. S., on his
shirt. "Does that go?" he asked. The cashier shook his head. "You
might have Henry B. Saunders' letters, and his papers, and also his
shirt on, without being the right man. We are forced to be very
careful."
The stranger tore open his shirt front, and exhibited a large mustard
plaster, covering his entire chest. "There," he shouted, "if I wasn't
Henry B. Saunders, do you suppose I would go around wearing one of his
mustard plasters stuck all over me? Do you think I would carry my
impersonation of anybody far enough to blister myself to look like
him? Gimme tens and fives, now, I haven't got time to fool any more."
The cashier hesitated and then shoved out the money. After the
stranger had gone, the official rubbed his chin gently and said softly
to himself: "That plaster might be somebody else's after all, but no
doubt it's all right."
The Apple
A youth held in his hand a round, red, luscious apple.
"Eat," said the Spirit, "it is the apple of life."
"I will have none of it," said the Youth, and threw it far from him.
"I will have success. I will have fame, fortune, power and knowledge."
"Come, then," said the Spirit.
They went together up steep and rocky paths. The sun scorched, the
rain fell upon them, the mountain mists clung about them, and the snow
fell in beautiful and treacherous softness, obscuring the way as they
climbed. Time swiftly passed and the golden locks of the Youth took on
the whiteness of the snow. His form grew bent with the toil of
climbing; his hand grew weak and his voice quivering and high.
The Spirit had not changed and upon his face was the inscrutable smile
of wisdom.
They stood at last upon the topmost peak. The old man that was the
Youth said to the Spirit: "Give me the apple of Success. I have come
upon the heights where it grows and it is mine. Be quick, for there is
a strange dimness in my sight."
The Spirit gave him an apple round and red and fair to behold.
The man bit into it and found rottenness and bitter dust.
"What is this?" he asked.
"It was the apple of Life," said the Spirit. "It is now the apple of
Success."
How It Started
"You had better move your chair a little further back," said the old
resident. "I saw one of the Judkinses go into the newspaper office
just now with his gun, and there may be some shooting."
The reporter, who was in the town gathering information for the big
edition, got his chair quickly behind a pillar of the hotel piazza,
and asked what the trouble was about.
"It's an old feud of several years' standing," said the old resident,
"between the editor and the Judkins family. About every two months
they get to shooting at one another. Everybody in town knows about it.
This is the way it started. The Judkinses live in another town, and
one time a good-looking young lady of the family came here on a visit
to a Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown gave her a big party--a regular high-toned
affair, to get the young men acquainted with her. One young fellow
fell in love with her, and sent a little poem to our paper, the
_Observer_. This is the way it read:
To Miss Judkins
(Visiting Mrs. T. Montcalm Brown.)
"We love to see her wear
A gown of simple white.
Nothing but a rose in her hair
At Mrs. Brown's that night,
The fairest of them all
She stood, with blushes red,
While bright the gaslight shone
Upon her lovely head.
"That poem, now, was what started the feud."
"I don't see anything wrong with the poem," said the reporter. "It
seems a little crude, but contains nothing to give offense."
"Well," said the old resident, "the poem was all right as it was
written. The trouble originated in the newspaper office. The morning
after it was sent in the society editress got hold of it first. She is
an old maid and she didn't think the second line quite proper, so she
ran her pencil through it. Then the advertising manager prowled around
through the editor's mail as usual, and read the poem. Old Brown owed
the office $17 back subscription, and the advertising manager struck
out the fourth line. He said old Brown shouldn't get any free
advertising in that office.
"Then the editor's wife happened to come in to see if there was any
square, perfumed envelopes among his mail, and she read it. She was at
the Brown's party herself, and when she read the line that proclaimed
Miss Judkins 'The fairest of them all' she turned up her nose and
scratched that out.
"Then the editor himself got hold of it. He is heavily interested in
our new electric light plant, and his blue pencil jumped on the line
'While bright the gaslight shone' in a hurry. Later on one of the
printers came in and grabbed a lot of copy, and this poem was among
it. You know what printers will do if you give them a chance, so here
is the way the poem came out in the paper:
To Miss Judkins
(Visiting Mrs. T. Montcalm Brown.)
"We loved to see her wear
Nothing but a rose in her hair.
She stood with blushes red
Upon her lovely head.
"And you see," continued the old resident, "the Judkinses got mad."
Red Conlin's Eloquence
They were speaking of the power of great orators, and each one had
something to say of his especial favorite.
The drummer was for backing Bourke Cockran for oratory against the
world, the young lawyer thought the suave Ingersoll the most
persuasive pleader, and the insurance agent advanced the claims of the
magnetic W. C. P. Breckenridge.
"They all talk some," said the old cattle man, who was puffing his
pipe and listening, "but they couldn't hold a candle to Red Conlin,
that run cattle below Santone in '80. Ever know Red?"
Nobody had had the honor.
"Red Conlin was a natural orator; he wasn't overcrowded with book
learnin', but his words come free and easy, like whisky out of a new
faucet from a full barrel. He was always in a good humor and smilin'
clear across his face, and if he asked for a hot biscuit he did it
like he was pleadin' for his life. He was one man who had the gift of
gab, and it never failed him.
"I remember once, in Atascosa County, the hoss thieves worried us
right smart. There was a gang of 'em, and they got runnin' off a
caballaro every week or so. Some of us got together and raised a p'int
of order and concluded to sustain it. The head of the gang was a
fellow named Mullens, and a tough cuss he was. Fight, too, and warn't
particular when. Twenty of us saddled up and went into camp, loaded
down with six-shooters and Winchesters. That Mullens had the nerve to
try to cut off our saddle horses the first night, but we heard him,
got mounted, and went hot on his trail. There was five or six others
with Mullens.
"It was dark as thunder, and pretty soon we run one of them down. His
horse was lame, and we knew it was Mullens by his big white hat and
black beard. We didn't hardly give him time to speak, we was so mad,
but in two minutes there was a rope 'round his neck and Mullens was
swung up at last. We waited about ten minutes till he was still, and
then some fellow strikes a match out of curiosity and screeches out:
"'Gosh a'mighty, boys, we've strung up the wrong man!"
"And we had.
"We reopened the fellow's case and give him a new trial, and acquitted
him, but it was too late to do him any good. He was as dead as Davy
Crockett.
"It was Sandy McNeagh, one of the quietest, straightest, and
best-respected men in the county, and what was worse, hadn't been
married but about three months.
"'Whatever are we to do?' says I, and it sure was a case to think
about.
"'We ought to be nigh Sandy's house now,' said one of the men, who
was tryin' to peer around and kind of locate the scene of our
brilliant coop detaw, as they say.
"Just then we seen a light from a door that opened in the dark, and
the house wasn't two hundred yards away, and we saw what we knew must
be Sandy's wife in the door a-lookin' for him.
"'Somebody's got to go and tell her,' said I. I was kind o' leadin'
the boys. 'Who'll do it?' Nobody jumped at the proposition.
"'Red Conlin' says I, 'you're the man to tell her, and the only man
here what could open his mouth to the poor girl. Go, like a man, and
may the Lord teach you what to say, for d---d if I can.'
"That boy never hesitated. I saw him kind o' wet his hand, and smooth
back his red curls in the dark, and I seen his teeth shinin' as he
said:
"'I'll go, boys; wait for me.'
"He went and we saw the door open and let him in.
"'May the Lord help that poor widder,' we all said, 'and d--n us for
bunglin', murderin' butchers what ain't no right to call ourselves
men.'
"It was fifteen minutes, maybe, when Red came back.
"'How is it'?' we whispered, almost afraid to hear him speak.
"'It's fixed,' says Red, 'and the widdy and I asks ye to the weddin'
nixt Chuesday night.'
"That fellow Red Conlin could talk."
Why He Hesitated
A man with a worn, haggard countenance that showed traces of deep
sorrow and suffering rushed excitedly up the stairs into the editorial
rooms of the Post.
The literary editor was alone in his corner and the man threw himself
into a chair nearby and said:
"Excuse me, sir, for inflicting my troubles upon you, but I must
unbosom myself to someone. I am the unhappiest of men. Two months ago,
in a quiet little town in Eastern Texas, there was a family dwelling
in the midst of peace and contentment. Hezekiah Skinner was the head
of that family, and he almost idolized his wife, who appeared to
completely return his affection. Alas, sir, she was deceiving him. Her
protestations of love were but honeyed lies, intended to beguile and
blind him. She had become infatuated with William Wagstaff, a
neighbor, who had insidiously planned to capture her affections. She
listened to Wagstaff's pleadings and fled with him, leaving her
husband with a wrecked home and a broken heart. Can you not feel for
me, sir?"
"I do, indeed," said the literary editor. "I can conceive the agony,
the sorrow, the deep suffering that you must have felt."
"For two months," continued the man, "the home of Hezekiah Skinner has
been desolate, and this woman and Wagstaff have been flying from his
wrath."
"What do you intend to do?" asked the literary editor.
"I scarcely know. I do not care for the woman any longer, but I cannot
escape the tortures my mind is undergoing day after day."
At this point a shrill woman's voice was heard in the outer office,
making some inquiry of the office boy.
"Great heavens, her voice!" said the man, rising to his feet greatly
agitated. "I must get out of here. Quick! Is there no way for me to
escape? A window--a side door--anywhere before she finds me."
The literary editor rose with indignation in his face.
"For shame, sir," he said, "do not act so unworthy a part. Confront
your faithless wife, Mr. Skinner, and denounce her for wrecking your
life and home. Why do you hesitate to stand up for your honor and your
rights?"
"You do not understand," said the man, his face white with fear and
apprehension, as he climbed out the window upon a shed. "I am William
Wagstaff."
Turkish Questions
Oh, Sultan, tell us quick, we pray
What was it Pasha Said?
And have they burned the vilayet?
So many tales we've read.
Who was it passed the Dardanelles?
And were they counterfeit?
And why was Kharput beaten so?
Was there much dust in it?
Oh, Ottoman, to do like you
Who Hassan eye to see
The woes your country has to hear--
Armenia heart must be!
And tell us, is the Bosphorus?
Or is it still for you?
Why is it that you every day
Mustafa head or two?
Somebody Lied
Two men went into a saloon on Main Street yesterday and braced up
solemnly to the bar. One was an old man with gray whiskers, the other
was a long, lanky youth, evidently his son. Both were dressed like
farm hands and they appeared somewhat bewildered at the splendor of
the saloon.
The bartender asked them what they would have.
The old man leaned across the bar and said hoarsely and mysteriously:
"You see, mister, me an' Lem just sold a load of tomatters and green
corn fer nineteen dollars en a half. The old woman at home figgered
we'd git just sixteen dollars and a quarter fer the truck, so me and
Lem is three twenty-five ahead. When folks makes a big strike they
most al'ays gets drunk, and es me and Lem never was drunk, we says,
we'll git drunk and see how it feels. The feelin's pretty bully, ain't
it?"
"Some think so," said the bartender, "what'll you have?"
They both called for whisky and stood against the bar until they had
taken some five or six drinks apiece.
"Feel good, Lem?" asked the old man.
"Not a dam bit," said the son.
"Don't feel like shoutin' and raisin' Cain?"
"No."
"Don't feel good at all?"
"No. Feel like the devil. Feel sick, en burnin' inside."
"Is yer head buzzin', Lem, and er achin'?"
"Yes, Dad, en is yer knees a kind er wobblin', en yer eyes a
waterin'?"
"You bet, en is yer stummick er gripin' en does yer feel like yer had
swallowed a wild cat en er litter of kittens?"
"Yes, Dad, and don't you wish we wuz to home, whar we could lie down
in ther clover patch en kick?"
"Yes, sonny, this here is what comes of goin' back on yer ma. Does yer
feel real bad?"
"Bad ez ther devil, Dad."
"Look a here, mister," said the old man to the bartender, "somebody
has lied to us about the fun in gettin' drunk. We're a goin' home and
never goin' to do it again. I'd ruther hev the blind staggers, the
itch, en the cramp colic all to onct, then ter git drunk. Come on,
sonny, en let's hunt the waggin."
Marvelous
There is one man we know who is about as clever a reasoner as this
country has yet produced. He has a way of thinking out a problem that
is sometimes little short of divination. One day last week his wife
told him to make some purchases, and as with all his logical powers he
is rather forgetful on ordinary subjects, she tied a string around his
finger so he would not forget his errand. About nine o'clock that
night while hurrying homeward, he suddenly felt the string on his
finger and stopped short. Then for the life of him he could not
remember for what purpose the string had been placed there.
"Let's see," he said. "The string was tied on my finger so I would not
forget. Therefore it is a forget-me-not. Now forget-me-not is a
flower. Ah, yes, that's it. I was to get a sack of flour."
The giant intellect had got in its work.
The Confession of a Murderer
He is dead and I killed him.
I gaze upon him, lying cold and still, with the crimson blood welling
from his wound, and I laugh with joy. On my hand his life blood leaped
and I hold it proudly aloft bearing it accusing stain and in my heart
there is no pity, no remorse, no softness. Seeing him lie there
crushed and pulseless is to me more than the pleasure of paradise. For
months he escaped me. With all the intense hate I bore him at times, I
felt admiration for his marvelous courage, his brazen effrontery, his
absolute ignorance of fear. Why did I kill him? Because he had with a
fixed purpose and a diabolical, persistent effrontery, conspired to
rob me of that which is as dear to me as my life. Brave as I have said
he was, he scarcely dared to cross my path openly, but with insidious
cunning had ever sought to strike me a blow in the dark.
I did not fear him, but I knew his power, and I dared not give him his
opportunity.
Many a sleepless night I have spent, planning some means to rid myself
of his devilish machinations. He even attempted to torture me by
seeking to harm her whom I love. He approached herewith the utmost
care and cunning, wearing the guise of a friend, but striving to
instill his poison into her innocent heart.
But, thank heaven, she was faithful and true and his honeyed songs and
wiles had no effect. When she would tell me of his approaches, how I
would grind my teeth and clench my hands in fury, and long for the
time when I would wreak a just vengeance upon him. The time has come.
I found him worn and helpless from cold and hunger, but there was no
pity in my heart. I struck him down and reveled with heartfelt joy
when I saw him sink down, bathed in blood, and die by my hands. I do
not fear the consequences. When I tell my tale I will be upheld by
all.
He is dead and I am satisfied.
I think he is the largest and fattest mosquito I ever saw.
"Get Off the Earth"
"Get off the earth," says I,
"With your muddy boots and your dirty face;
Such a bother I never see,
You're the biggest torment in the place;
Forever worryin' an' pesterin' me.
"Get off the earth," says I.
I didn't mean that, but I was so vexed
At the boy's disturbin' way;
I never knew what he would do next
In his noisy, mischief-makin' play.
"Get off the earth," says I.
And that very night the fever came;
And now I'm cryin' to heaven in vain
For just one more touch of them same
Lost little grimy hands again.
The Stranger's Appeal
He was tall and angular and had a keen gray eye and a solemn face. His
dark coat was buttoned high and had something of a clerical cut. His
pepper and salt trousers almost cleared the tops of his shoes, but his
tall hat was undeniably respectable, and one would have said he was a
country preacher out for a holiday. He was driving a light wagon, and
he stopped and climbed out when he came up to where five or six men
were sitting on the post-office porch in a little country town in
Texas.
"My friends," he said, "you all look like intelligent men, and I feel
it my duty to say a few words to you in regard to the terrible and
deplorable state of things now existing in this section of the
country. I refer to the horrible barbarities recently perpetrated in
the midst of some of the most civilized of Texas towns, when human
beings created in the image of their Maker were subjected to cruel
torture and then inhumanly burned in the public streets. Something
must be done to wipe the stigma from the fair name of your state. Do
you not agree with me?"
"Are you from Galveston, stranger?" asked one of the men.
"No, sir. I am from Massachusetts, the cradle of liberty of the
downtrodden negro, and the home of the champions of his cause. These
burnings are causing us to weep tears of blood and I am here to see if
I can not move your hearts to pity on his behalf."
"I guess you might as well drive on," said one of the group. "We are
going to look out for ourselves and just so long as negroes keep on
committing the crimes they have, just so long will we punish them."
"And you will not repent of the lives you have taken by the horrible
agency of fire?"
"Nary repent."
"And you will continue to visit upon them the horrible suffering of
being burned to death?"
"If the occasion demands it."
"Well, then, gentlemen, since you are so determined, I want to sell
you a few gross of the cheapest matches you ever laid your eyes upon.
Step out to the wagon and see them. Warranted not to go out in a
strong wind, and to strike on anything, wood, bricks, glass, bloomers,
boot soles and iron. How many boxes will you take, gentlemen?"
The Good Boy
(Mostly in Words of One Syllable)
James was a good boy.
He w'ould not tease his cat or his dog.
He went to school.
One day as he went home he saw a lady cross the street, and some rude
boys tried to guy her.
James took the lady by the hand and led her to a safe place.
"Oh, fie!" he said to the boys. "For shame, to talk so to the nice
lady. A good, kind boy will be mild and love to help the old."
At this the boys did rail and laugh.
"Oh, boys," said James, "do not be rude and speak so harsh. At home, I
have a dear old grandma, and this kind lady may be one, too."
The lady took James by the ear and said: "You contemptible little
rapscallion. I've a good mind to spank you until you can't navigate.
Grandmother, indeed! I'm only twenty-nine my last birthday, and I
don't feel a day over eighteen. Now, you clear out, or I'll slap you
good."
The Colonel's Romance
They were sitting around a stove and the tobacco was passed around.
They began to grow introspective.
The talk turned upon their old homes and the changes that the cycling
years bring about. They had lived in Houston for many years, but only
one was a native Texan.
The colonel hailed from Alabama, the judge was born in the swamps of
Mississippi, the grocer first saw the light in a frozen town of Maine,
and the major proudly claimed Tennessee as his birthplace.
"Have any of you fellows been back home since you left there?" asked
the colonel.
The judge had been back twice in twenty years, the major once, the
grocer never.
"It's a curious feeling," said the colonel, "to go back to the old
home where you were raised, after an absence of fifteen years. It is
like seeing ghosts to be among people whom you have not seen in so
long a time. Now I went back to Crosstree, Alabama, just fifteen years
after I left there. The impression made upon me was one that never
will be obliterated.
"There was a girl in Crosstree once that I loved better than anything
in the world. One day I slipped away from everybody and went down to
the little grove where I used to walk with her. I walked along the
paths we used to tread. The oaks along the side had scarcely changed;
the little blue flowers on either hand might have been the same ones
she used to twine in her hair when she came to meet me.
"Our favorite walk had been along a line of thick laurels beyond which
ran a little stream. Everything was the same. There was no change
there to oppress my heart. Above were the same great sycamores and
poplars; there ran the same brook; my feet trod the same path they had
so often walked with her. It seemed that if I waited she would surely
come again, tripping so lightly through the gloaming with her starry
eyes, and nut-brown curls, and she loved me, too. It seemed then that
nothing could ever have parted us--no doubt, no misunderstanding, no
falsehood. But who can tell?
"I went to the end of the path. There stood the old hollow tree in
which we used to place notes to each other. What sweet words that old
tree could tell if it had known! I had fancied that during the rubs
and knocks I had received from the world my heart had grown calloused,
but such was not the case.
"I looked down into the hollow of the tree, and saw something white.
It was a folded piece of paper, yellow and stained with age. I opened
it and read it with difficulty.
"'Dearest Richard: You know I will marry you if you want
me to. Come round early tonight and I will give you my
answer in a better way. Your own Nellie.'
"Gentlemen, I stood there holding that little piece of paper in my
hand like one in a dream. I had written her a note asking her to marry
me and telling her to leave her answer in the old tree. She must have
done so, and I never got it, and all those years had rolled away
since."
The crowd was silent. The major wiped his eyes, and the judge sniffed
a little. They were middle-aged men now, but they, too, had known
love.
"And then," said the grocer, "you left right away for Texas and never
saw her again?"
"No," said the colonel. "When I didn't come round that night she sent
her father after me, and we were married two months later. She and the
five kids are up at the house now. Pass the tobacco, please."
A Narrow Escape
A meek-looking man, with one eye and a timid, shuffling gait, entered
a Houston saloon while no one was in except the bartender, and said:
"Excuse me, sir, but would you permit me to step behind the bar for
just a moment? You can keep your eye on me. There is something there I
wanted to look at."
The bartender was not busy, and humored him through curiosity.
The meek-looking man stepped around and toward the shelf back of the
bar.
"Would you kindly remove that wine bottle and those glasses for a
moment?"
The bartender did so, and disclosed a little plowed streak on the
shelf and a small hole bored for quite a distance into the wall.
"Thanks, that's all," said the meek man, as he went around to the
front again.
He leaned thoughtfully on the bar and said: "I shot that hole in there
just nine years ago. I came in feeling pretty thirsty and had no
money. The bartender refused me a drink and I commenced firing. That
ball went through his ear and five bottles of champagne before it
stopped. I then yelled quite loudly, and two men broke their arms
trying to get out the door, and the bartender trembled so when he
mixed a drink for me you would have thought he was putting up a milk
shake for a girl who wanted to catch a street car."
"Yes?" said the bartender.
"Yes, sir, I am feeling a little out of sorts today, and it always
makes me real cross and impatient when I get that way. A little gin
and bitters always helps me. It was six times, I think, that I fired,
the time I was telling you about. Straight whisky would do if the gin
is out."
"If I had any fly paper," said the bartender, sweetly, "I would stick
you on it and set you in the back window; but I am out, consequently,
I shall have to adopt harsher measures. I shall tie a knot in this
towel, and then count ten, and walk around the end of the bar. That
will give you time to do your shooting, and I'll see that you let out
that same old yell that you spoke of."
"Wait a moment," said the meek man. "Come to think of it, my doctor
ordered me not to drink anything for six weeks. But you had a narrow
escape all the same. I think I shall go down to the next drug store
and fall in a fit on the sidewalk. That's good for some peppermint and
aromatic spirits of ammonia, anyhow."
A Years Supply
He was one of the city's wealthiest men, but he made no ostentatious
display of his wealth. A little, thin, poorly clad girl stood looking
in the window of the restaurant at the good things to eat. The man
approached and touched her on the shoulder.
"What is your name, little girl?" he asked.
"Susie Tompkins, sir," she answered, looking up at him with great,
haunting, blue eyes.
There was something in her pleading, innocent voice that stirred a
strange feeling in the millionaire's heart. Still it may have been
indigestion.
"Have you a father?" he asked.
"Oh, no, sir, mother has only me to support."
"Is your mother very poor?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"What is your mother's name?"
"Susan, sir. Just like mine."
"Tell me, child," said the wealthy man, clutching her arm in an agony
of suspense. "Has your mother a wart on her nose, and does her breath
smell of onions?"
"Yes, sir."
The millionaire covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then
said in a trembling voice:
"Little one, your mother and I once knew each other. You have her
voice, her hair, and her eyes. If it had not been for a
misunderstanding--perhaps--but that is all past now."
The man unbuttoned his overcoat and took from his vest pocket a
package.
"Take this," he said. "I have more than I want. It will last you and
your mother a year."
The little girl took the package and ran home in glee.
"Oh, see, mama!" she cried. "A gentleman gave me this. He said it
would last us a whole year."
The pale woman unrolled the package with trembling hands.
It was a nice new calendar.
Eugene Field
No gift his genius might have had
Of titles high, in church and state,
Could charm him as the one he bore,
Of children's poet-laureate.
He smilingly pressed aside his bays
And laurel garlands that he won,
And bowed his head for baby hands
To place a daisy wreath upon.
He found his kingdom in the ways,
Of little ones he loved so well,
For them he tuned his lyre and sang.
Sweet simple songs of magic spell.
Ah! greater feat to storm the gates
Of children's pure and cleanly hearts,
Than to subdue a warring world
By stratagems and doubtful arts.
A tribute paid by chanting choirs
And pealing organs rises high;
But soft and clear, somewhere he hears
Through all, a child's low lullaby.
Slightly Mixed
A certain Houston racing man was married some months ago. He also is
the proud possessor of a fine two-year-old filly that has made five
and a half furlongs in 1:09 and he expects her to do better at the
next races. He has named the filly after his wife and both of them are
dear to his heart. A Post man who ran across him yesterday found him
quite willing to talk.
"Yes," he said, "I am the happiest man in Texas. Bessie and I are
keeping house now and getting quite well settled down. That filly of
mine is going to do wonders yet. Bessie takes as much interest in her
as I do. You know I have named her for my wife. She is a thoroughbred.
I tell you it's fine to see her trotting around at home."
"Who, the filly?"
"No, my wife. She's going to bet twelve dozen pairs of kid gloves on
Bessie next time she goes in. I have but one objection to her. She
goes with her head on one side and is cross-legged, and tears off her
shoes.
"Your w-w-wife?"
"No, what's the matter with you? The filly. It pleases me very much to
have my friends inquire about Bessie. She is getting to be quite a
favorite. I had hard work to get her, too. She trots double without a
break."
"The filly, you mean?"
"No, my wife. I took Bessie out driving with the filly yesterday.
Bessie's a daisy. She's a little high in one shoulder, and a trifle
stiff in one leg, but her wind is all right. What do you think of her
back?"
"Really, I--I--I never had the pleasure of meeting your wife, but I have
no doubt--"
"What are you talking about? I mean the filly. The races come off just
on the anniversary of our marriage. The races are going to be a big
thing. You know we have been married just a year. I expect Bessie to
do wonders. There's a newcomer going to be here, that we are looking
for with much interest. You must really come out and see our first
event."
"I--I--I really, it would be indelicate--you must really excuse me. I
never saw anything of the kind. I--I--"
"Oh, there's nothing wrong about horse racing. It's fine sport. So
long now. I've got to go and take Bessie out and sweat her a little."
Knew What Was Needed
A gentleman from Ohio, who has come South on a hunting trip, arrived
in Houston, rather late one night last week, and on his way to a hotel
stopped in a certain saloon to get a drink. A colored man was behind
the bar temporarily and served him with what he wanted. The gentleman
had his shotgun in its case, and he laid it upon the bar while
waiting.
"Is there any game about here?" he asked, after paying for his drink.
"I guess dey is, boss," said the colored man, looking doubtfully at
the gun on the counter, "but you jest wait a minute, boss, till I
fixes you up in better shape."
He opened a drawer and handed the gentleman a six-shooter.
"You take dis, Boss," he said. "Dat dar gun ob yourn am too long fur
you to get quick action in de game what we hab here. Now you jest go
up dem steps and knock free times on de doah to your left."
Some Ancient News Notes
It will be remembered that a short while ago, some very ancient
documents and records were discovered in an old monastery on
Mt. Sinai, where they have been kept filed away by the monks among
their dusty archives. Some of them antedate the oldest writings
previously known by one hundred years. The finders claim that among
them are the original Scripture traced in Syriac language, and that
they differ in many material ways from the translation in use. We have
procured some advance sheets from the discoverers and in a few
fragments given below our readers will perceive that human nature was
pretty much the same a thousand years ago. It is evident from the
palimpsests in our possession that newspapers were not entirely
unknown even at that early date. We give some random translations from
the original manuscripts:
* * * * *
"Commodore Noah, one of our oldest citizens, predicts a big rain soon.
The commodore is building an up-to-date houseboat and expects to spend
about six weeks afloat with his family and his private menagerie."
* * * * *
"Colonel Goliath of Gath, and the new middleweight, Mr. David, are at
their old tricks again blowing about the championship. Mr. David has
one hand in a sling, but says he will be all right when the affair is
pulled off. A little more fighting and less talking would please the
readers of the Daily Cymbal."
* * * * *
"Ladies, get one of those new fig leaves at the Eden Bazaar before the
style is dropped."
* * * * *
"The exposition at Shinar is going to be a grand success. Work on the
New Woman's Building called the Tower of Babel has been stopped on
account of a misunderstanding. The lady managers have been holding
meetings in the Tower for some time."
* * * * *
"See Professor Daniel and his performing lions next Sunday."
* * * * *
"Colonel Job, who has been suffering from quite a siege of boils at
his residence on Avenue C, was arrested yesterday for cussing and
disturbing the neighborhood. The colonel has generally a very equable
temper, but completely lost his balance on finding that Mrs. Job had
put a large quantity of starch in his only night robe."
* * * * *
"About 1,500 extra deputy clerks were put on by the county clerk
yesterday to assist in getting out summonses for witnesses in the
divorce case recently brought by Judge Solomon against the last batch
of his wives."
A Sure Method
The editor sat in his palatially furnished sanctum bending over a mass
of manuscripts, resting his beetling brow upon his hand. It wanted but
one hour of the time of going to press and there was that editorial on
the Venezuelan question to write. A pale, intellectual youth
approached him with a rolled manuscript tied with a pink ribbon.
"It is a little thing," said the youth, "that I dashed off in an idle
moment."
The editor unrolled the poem and glanced down the long row of verses.
He then drew from his pocket a $20 bill and held it toward the poet. A
heavy thud was heard, and at the tinkle of an electric bell the
editor's minions entered and carried the lifeless form of the poet
away.
"That's three today," muttered the great editor as he returned the
bill to his pocket. "It works better than a gun or a club and the
coroner always brings in a verdict of heart failure."