uv the hotel. The Chairman asked who shood make speeches after dinner,
wen every man uv em pulled from his right side coat pocket a roll uv
manuscript, and sed he hed jotted down a few ijees wich he hed
conclooded to present extemporaneously to the Convenshun. That Babel
over, the Chairman sed he presoomed some one shood be selected to
prepare a address; whereupon every delegate rose, and pulled a roll uv
manuscript from his left side coat pocket, and sed he had jotted down a
few ijees on the situashn, wich he proposed to present, et settry. This
occasioned another shindy; wen the Chairman remarked "Resolushens," wen
every delegate rose, pulled a roll uv manuscript from his right breast
coat pocket, and sed he hed jotted down a few ijees, wich, etc.
I stood it until some one mentioned me ez Chaplin to the expedition
West, when the pressure becum unendurable. They sposed I was keeper uv
the President's conscience, and I hed not a minit's peece after that. In
vain I ashoored em that, there bein no consciences about the White
House, no one could hold sich a offis; in vain I ashoored em that I hed
no influence with His Majesty. Two-thirds uv em pulled applicashens for
places they wanted from the left breast coat pocket, and insistid on my
takin em, and seem that they was appinted. I told em that I cood do
nuthin for em; but they laft me to skorn. "You are jist the style uv
man," said they, "who hez inflooence with His Eggslency, and yoo must do
it." Hemmed in, there wuz but one way uv escape, and that way I took.
Seezin a carpet sack, wich, by the way, belonged to a delegate (I took
it to give myself the look of a traveler), I rushed to the depot, and
startid home, entirely satisfied that ef Cleveland may be taken as a
sample, the less His Majesty depends on soljers, the better.
PETROLEUM V. NASBY, P.M. (wich is Postmaster), and likewise late
Chaplain to the expedishn.
P.S.--I opened the carpet sack on the train, spectin to find a clean
shirt in it, at least. It contained, to my disgust, an address to be
read before the Cleveland Convention, a set uv resolutions, a speech,
and a petition uv the proprietor thereof for a collectorship, signed by
eight hundred names, and a copy uv the Indiana State Directory for 1864.
The names wuz in one hand-writin, and wuz arranged alphabetically.
PETROLEUM V. NASBY.
FAMILIAR AUTHORS AT WORK
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH
MISS TRIPP
Miss Tripp for years has lived alone,
Without display or fuss or pother.
The house she dwells in is her own--
She got it from her dying father.
Miss T. delights in all good works,
She goes to church three times on Sunday,
Her daily duty never shirks,
Nor keeps her goodness for this one day.
She loves to bake and knit and sew,
For wider fields she doesn't hanker;
Yet for the things they have I know
A-many poor folk have to thank her.
The simple life she truly leads,
She loves her small domestic labors;
In spring she plants her garden seeds
And shares the product with her neighbors.
By _Books and Authors_ now I see
In literature she's made a foray:
"The Yellow Shadow"--said to be
"A crackerjack detective-story."
CAPTAIN BROWN
Bluff Captain Brown is somewhat queer,
But of the sea he's very knowing.
I scarcely meet him once a year--
He's off in search of whales a-blowing.
For fifty years--perhaps for more--
He's sailed about upon the ocean.
He thinks that if he lived ashore
He'd die. But this is just a notion.
Still when the Captain comes to port
With barrels of oil from whales caught napping,
He'll pace the deck, and loudly snort,
"This land air is my strength a-sapping.
"I call this living on hard terms;
I wish that I had never seen land;
I wish I were a-chasing sperms
Abaft the nor'east coast of Greenland."
Yet on his latest cruise, 'tween whales
The Captain wrote a book most charming.
It's called--and it is having sales--
"Some Practical Advice on Farming."
T.H. SMITH
Tom Henry Smith I long have known
Although he really is a hermit--
At least, Tom Henry lives alone,
And that's what people always term it.
Tom Henry never is annoyed
By fashion's change. He wears a collar
Constructed out of celluloid.
His hats ne'er cost above a dollar.
Tom loves about his room to mess,
And cook a sausage at the fireplace.
It doesn't serve to help his dress--
Grease spatters over the entire place.
Tom Henry likes to read a book,
And writes a little for the papers,
But scarcely ever leaves his nook,
And takes no part in social capers.
Now Tom has penned a book himself.
I hope he'll never feel compunctions!
Its title is--it's on my shelf--
"Pink Teas and Other Social Functions."
RUTH JONES
I've found the Joneses pleasant folk--
I've watched them all their children fetch up.
Jones loves to have a quiet smoke--
_She's_ famous for tomato catchup.
Ruth is their eldest--now fifteen,
A tallish girl with pleasing features.
Each school-day morn she can be seen
As she trips by to meet her teachers.
A serious-minded miss, you'd say,
Not given much to school-girl follies.
She still sometimes will slip away
To spend a half-hour with her dollies.
She's learned to sweep, to sew, to bake--
She's quite a helpmate to her mother.
On Saturday she loves to take
The go-cart out with little brother.
At writing now she bids for fame--
Her book a great success is reckoned.
"By Right of Flashing Sword," its name,
A strong romance of James the Second.
THE LOST WORD
BY JOHN PAUL
Seated one day at the typewriter,
I was weary of a's and e's,
And my fingers wandered wildly,
Over the consonant keys.
I know not what I was writing,
With that thing so like a pen;
But I struck one word astounding--
Unknown to the speech of men.
It flooded the sense of my verses,
Like the break of a tinker's dam,
And I felt as one feels when the printer
Of your "infinite calm" makes clam.
It mixed up s's and x's
Like an alphabet coming to strife.
It seemed the discordant echo
Of a row between husband and wife.
It brought a perplexed meaning
Into my perfect piece,
And set the machinery creaking
As though it were scant of grease.
I have tried, but I try it vainly,
The one last word to divine
Which came from the keys of my typewriter
And so would pass as mine.
It may be some other typewriter
Will produce that word again,
It may be, but only for others--
_I_ shall write henceforth with a pen.
THE DUTCHMAN WHO HAD THE "SMALL POX"
BY HENRY P. LELAND
Very dry, indeed, is the drive from Blackberry to Squash Point,--dry
even for New Jersey; and when you remember that it's fifty miles between
the two towns, its division into five drinks seems very natural. When
you are packed, three on one narrow seat, in a Jersey stage, it is
necessary.
A Jersey stage! It is not on record, but when Dante winds up his Tenth
"Canter" into the Inferno with--
Each, as his back was laden, came indeed
Or more or less contracted; and it seemed
As he who showed most patience in his look,
Wailing, exclaimed, "I can endure no more!"
the conclusion that he alluded to a crowded Jersey stage-load is
irresistible. A man with long legs, on a back seat, in one of these
vehicles, suffers like a snipe shut up in a snuff-box. For this reason,
the long-legged man should sit on the front seat with the driver; there,
like the hen-turkey who tried to sit on a hundred eggs, he can "spread
himself." The writer sat alongside the driver one morning, just at break
of day, as the stage drove out of Blackberry: he was a through passenger
to Squash Point. It was a very cold morning. In order to break the ice
for a conversation, he praised the fine points of an off horse. The
driver thawed:
"Ya-as; she's a goot hoss, und I knows how to trive him!" It was
evidently a case of mixed breed.
"Where is Wood, who used to drive this stage?"
"He be's lait up mit ter rummatiz sence yesterweek, und I trives for
him. So--" I went on reading a newspaper: a fellow-passenger, on a back
seat, not having the fear of murdered English on his hands, coaxed the
Dutch driver into a long conversation, much to the delight of a very
pretty Jersey-blue belle, who laughed so merrily that it was contagious;
and in a few minutes, from being like unto a conventicle, we were all as
wide awake as one of Christy's audiences. By sunrise we were in
excellent spirits, up to all sorts of fun; and when, a little later on,
our stage stopped at the first watering-place, the driver found himself
the center of a group of treaters to the distilled "juice of apples." It
is just as easy to say "apple-jack," and be done with it; but the
writer, being very anxious to form a style, cribs from all quarters. The
so oft-repeated expression "juice of the grape" has been for a long time
on his hands, and, wishing to work it up, he would have done it in this
case, only he fears the skepticism of his readers. By courtesy, they may
wink at the poetical license of a reporter of a public dinner who calls
turnip-juice and painted whisky "juice of the grape," but they would not
allow the existence, for one minute, of such application to the liquors
of a Jersey tavern. It's out of place.
"Here's a package to leave at Mr. Scudder's, the third house on the
left-hand side after you get into Jericho. What do you charge?" asked a
man who seemed to know the driver.
"Pout a leffy," answered he. Receiving the silver, he gathered up the
reins, and put the square package in the stage-box. Just as he started
the horses, he leaned his head out of the stage, and, looking back to
the man who gave him the package, shouted out the question:
"Ter fird haus on ter lef hant out of Yeriko?" The man didn't hear him,
but the driver was satisfied. On we went at a pretty good rate,
considering how heavy the roads were. Another tavern, more watering,
more apple-jack. Another long stretch of sand, and we were coming into
Jericho.
"Anypotty know ter Miss Scutter haus?" asked the driver, bracing his
feet on the mail-bag which lay in front of him, and screwing his head
round so as to face in. There seemed to be a consultation going on
inside the stage.
"I don't know nobody o' that name in Jericho. Do you, Lishe?" asked a
weather-beaten-looking man, who evidently "went by water," of another
one who apparently went the same way.
"There wos ole Square Gow's da'ter, she marri'd a Scudder; moved up here
some two years back. Come to think on't, guess she lives nigher to
Glass-house," answered Lishe.
The driver, finding he could get no light out of the passengers, seeing
a tall, raw-boned woman washing some clothes in front of a house, and
who flew out of sight as the stage flew in, handed me the reins as he
jumped from his seat and chased the fugitive, hallooing,--
"I'fe got der small pox, I'fe got der--" Here his voice was lost as he
dashed into the open door of the house. But in a minute he reappeared,
followed by a broom with an enraged woman annexed, and a loud voice
shouting out,--
"You git out of this! Clear yourself, quicker! I ain't goin' to have you
diseasin' honest folks, ef you have got the smallpox."
"I dells you I'fe got der small pox. Ton't you versteh? der SMALL POX!"
This time he shouted it out in capital letters!
"Clear out! I'll call the men-folks ef you don't clear;" and at once she
shouted, in a tip-top voice, "Ike, you Ike, where air you?"
Ike made his appearance on the full run.
"W-w-what's the matter, mother?"--_Miss_ Scudder his mother! I should
have been shocked, as I was on my first visit to New Jersey, if I had
not had a key to this. "That is a very pretty girl," I said on that
occasion to a Jersey-man; "who is she?"--"She's old _Miss_ Perrine's
da'ter," was the reply. I looked at the innocent victim of man's
criminal conduct with commiseration. "What a pity!" I remarked.
"Not such a very great pity," said Jersey, eying me very severely. "I
reckon old man Perrine's got as big a cedar-swamp as you, or I either,
would like to own."
"Her grandfather you speak of?"
"No, I don't: I'm talking 'bout her father,--he that married Abe Simm's
da'ter and got a power of land by it; and that gal, their da'ter, one of
these days will step right into them swamps."
"Oh," I replied, "_Mrs._ Perrine's daughter," accenting the "Missis!"
"Mussus or Miss, it's all the same in Jersey," he answered.
Knowing this, Ike's appeal was intelligible. To proceed with our story,
the driver, very angry by this time, shouted,--
"I dells you oonst more for der last dime. I'fe got der small pox! unt
Mishter Ellis he gifs me a leffy to gif der small pox to Miss Scutter;
unt if dat vrow is Miss Scutter, I bromised to gif her ter small pox."
It was _Miss_ Scudder, and I explained to her that it was a _small box_
he had for her. The affair was soon settled as regarded its delivery,
but not as regards the laughter and shouts of the occupants of the old
stage-coach as we rolled away from Jericho. The driver joined in,
although he had no earthly idea as to its cause, and added not a little
to it by saying, in a triumphant tone of voice,--
"I vos pound to gif ter olt voomans ter small pox!"
WALK
BY WILLIAM DEVERE
Up the dusty road from Denver town
To where the mines their treasures hide,
The road is long, and many miles,
The golden styre and town divide.
Along this road one summer's day,
There toiled a tired man,
Begrimed with dust, the weary way
He cussed, as some folks can.
The stranger hailed a passing team
That slowly dragged its load along;
His hail roused up the teamster old,
And checked his merry song.
"Say-y, stranger!" "Wal, whoap."
"Ken I walk behind your load
A spell in this road?"
"Wal, no, yer can't walk, but git
Up on this seat an' ride; git up hyer."
"Nop, that ain't what I want,
Fur it's in yer dust, that's like a smudge,
I want to trudge, for I desarve it."
"Wal, pards, I ain't no hog, an' I don't
Own this road, afore nor 'hind.
So jest git right in the dust
An' walk, if that's the way yer 'clined.
Gee up, ger lang!" the driver said.
The creaking wagon moved amain,
While close behind the stranger trudged,
And clouds of dust rose up again.
The teamster heard the stranger talk
As if two trudged behind his van,
Yet, looking 'round, could only spy
A single lonely man.
Yet heard the teamster words like these
Come from the dust as from a cloud,
For the weary traveler spoke his mind.
His thoughts he uttered loud,
And this the burden of his talk:
"Walk, now, you ----, walk!
Not the way you went to Denver?
Walk, ---- ----! Jest walk!
"Went up in the mines an' made yer stake,
'Nuff to take yer back to ther state
Whar yer wur born.
Whar'n hell's yer corn?
Wal, walk, you ----, walk!
"Dust in yer eyes, dust in yer nose,
Dust down yer throat, and thick
On yer clothes. Can't hardly talk?
I know it, but walk, you ----, walk!
"What did yer do with all yer tin?
Ya-s, blew every cent of it in;
Got drunk, got sober, got drunk agin.
Wal, walk, ----! Jest walk.
"What did yer do? What didn't yer do?
Why, when ye war thar, yer gold-dust flew,
Yer thought it fine to keep op'nin' wine.
Now walk, you ----, walk.
"Stop to drink? What--water?
Why, thar
Water with you warn't anywhere.
'Twas wine, Extra Dry. Oh,
You flew high--
Now walk, you ----, walk.
"Chokes yer, this dust? Wal, that
Ain't the wust,
When yer get back whar the
Diggins are
No pick, no shovel, no pan;
Wal, yer a healthy man,
Walk--jest walk."
The fools don't all go to Denver town,
Nor do they all from the mines come down.
'Most all of us have in our day--
In some sort of shape, some kind of way--
Painted the town with the old stuff,
Dipped in stocks or made some bluff,
Mixed wines, old and new,
Got caught in wedlock by a shrew,
Stayed out all night, tight,
Rolled home in the morning light,
With crumpled tie and torn clawhammer,
'N' woke up next day with a katzenjammer,
And walked, oh ----, how we walked.
Now, don't try to yank every bun,
Don't try to have all the fun,
Don't think that you know it all,
Don't think real estate won't fall,
Don't try to bluff on an ace,
Don't get stuck on a pretty face,
Don't believe every jay's talk--
For if you do you can bet you'll walk!
MR. DOOLEY ON GOLD-SEEKING
BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE
"Well, sir," said Mr. Hennessy, "that Alaska's th' gr-reat place. I
thought 'twas nawthin' but an iceberg with a few seals roostin' on it,
an' wan or two hundherd Ohio politicians that can't be killed on account
iv th' threaty iv Pawrs. But here they tell me 'tis fairly smothered in
goold. A man stubs his toe on th' ground, an' lifts th' top off iv a
goold mine. Ye go to bed at night, an' wake up with goold fillin' in
ye'er teeth."
"Yes," said Mr. Dooley, "Clancy's son was in here this mornin', an' he
says a frind iv his wint to sleep out in th' open wan night, an' whin he
got up his pants assayed four ounces iv goold to th' pound, an' his
whiskers panned out as much as thirty dollars net."
"If I was a young man an' not tied down here," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd
go there: I wud so."
"I wud not," said Mr. Dooley. "Whin I was a young man in th' ol'
counthry, we heerd th' same story about all America. We used to set be
th' tur-rf fire o' nights, kickin' our bare legs on th' flure an'
wishin' we was in New York, where all ye had to do was to hold ye'er hat
an' th' goold guineas'd dhrop into it. An' whin I got to be a man, I
come over here with a ham and a bag iv oatmeal, as sure that I'd return
in a year with money enough to dhrive me own ca-ar as I was that me name
was Martin Dooley. An' that was a cinch.
"But, faith, whin I'd been here a week, I seen that there was nawthin'
but mud undher th' pavement,--I larned that be means iv a pick-axe at
tin shillin's th' day,--an' that, though there was plenty iv goold, thim
that had it were froze to it; an' I come west, still lookin' f'r mines.
Th' on'y mine I sthruck at Pittsburgh was a hole f'r sewer pipe. I made
it. Siven shillin's th' day. Smaller thin New York, but th' livin' was
cheaper, with Mon'gahela rye at five a throw, put ye'er hand around th'
glass.
"I was still dreamin' goold, an' I wint down to Saint Looey. Th' nearest
I come to a fortune there was findin' a quarther on th' sthreet as I
leaned over th' dashboord iv a car to whack th' off mule. Whin I got to
Chicago, I looked around f'r the goold mine. They was Injuns here thin.
But they wasn't anny mines I cud see. They was mud to be shovelled an'
dhrays to be dhruv an' beats to be walked. I choose th' dhray; f'r I was
niver cut out f'r a copper, an' I'd had me fill iv excavatin'. An' I
dhruv th' dhray till I wint into business.
"Me experyence with goold minin' is it's always in th' nex' county. If I
was to go to Alaska, they'd tell me iv th' finds in Seeberya. So I think
I'll stay here. I'm a silver man, annyhow; an' I'm contint if I can see
goold wanst a year, whin some prominent citizen smiles over his
newspaper. I'm thinkin' that ivry man has a goold mine undher his own
dure-step or in his neighbor's pocket at th' farthest."
"Well, annyhow," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd like to kick up th' sod, an'
find a ton iv gold undher me fut."
"What wud ye do if ye found it?" demanded Mr. Dooley.
"I--I dinnaw," said Mr. Hennessy, whose dreaming had not gone this far.
Then, recovering himself, he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "I'd throw
up me job an'--an' live like a prince."
"I tell ye what ye'd do," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye'd come back here an'
sthrut up an' down th' sthreet with ye'er thumbs in ye'er armpits; an'
ye'd dhrink too much, an' ride in sthreet ca-ars. Thin ye'd buy foldin'
beds an' piannies, an' start a reel estate office. Ye'd be fooled a good
deal an' lose a lot iv ye'er money, an' thin ye'd tighten up. Ye'd be in
a cold fear night an' day that ye'd lose ye'er fortune. Ye'd wake up in
th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' that ye was back at th' gas-house
with ye'er money gone. Ye'd be prisidint iv a charitable society. Ye'd
have to wear ye'er shoes in th' house, an' ye'er wife'd have ye around
to rayciptions an' dances. Ye'd move to Mitchigan Avnoo, an' ye'd hire a
coachman that'd laugh at ye. Ye'er boys'd be joods an' ashamed iv ye,
an' ye'd support ye'er daughters' husbands. Ye'd rackrint ye'er tinants
an' lie about ye'er taxes. Ye'd go back to Ireland on a visit, an' put
on airs with ye'er cousin Mike. Ye'd be a mane, close-fisted,
onscrupulous ol' curmudgeon; an', whin ye'd die, it'd take haf ye'er
fortune f'r rayqueems to put ye r-right. I don't want ye iver to speak
to me whin ye get rich, Hinnissy."
"I won't," said Mr. Hennessy.
LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM
BY WALLACE IRWIN
I
Say, will she treat me white, or throw me down,
Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand,
Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand,
Knife me, or make me think I own the town?
Will she be on the level, do me brown,
Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand,
Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band,
Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown?
I do not know, nor do I give a whoop,
But this I know: if she is so inclined
She can come play with me on our back stoop,
Even in office hours, I do not mind--
In fact I know I'm nice and good and ready
To get an option on her as my steady.
VIII
I sometimes think that I am not so good,
That there are foxier, warmer babes than I,
That Fate has given me the calm go-by
And my long suit is sawing mother's wood.
Then would I duck from under if I could,
Catch the hog special on the jump and fly
To some Goat Island planned by destiny
For dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood.
But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree,
The trade in lager beer is still a-humming,
A schooner can be purchased for a V
Or even grafted if you're fierce at bumming.
My finish then less clearly do I see,
For lo! I have another think a-coming.
IX
Last night I tumbled off the water cart--
It was a peacherino of a drunk;
I put the cocktail market on the punk
And tore up all the sidewalks from the start.
The package that I carried was a tart
That beat Vesuvius out for sizz and spunk,
And when they put me in my little bunk
You couldn't tell my jag and me apart.
Oh! would I were the ice man for a space,
Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut,
Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly race
Around the eaves that from my forehead jut--
Or will a carpenter please come instead
And build a picket fence around my head?
XII
Life is a combination hard to buck,
A proposition difficult to beat,
E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet,
In forty flickers, it's the same hard luck,
And you are up against it nip and tuck,
Shanghaied without a steady place to eat,
Guyed by the very copper on your beat
Who lays to jug you when you run amuck.
O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain.
On the T square I do not like your style;
For you are playing favorites again
And you have got me handicapped a mile.
Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf:
Go take a running jump and chase yourself!
XIV
O mommer! wasn't Mame a looty toot
Last night when at the Rainbow Social Club
She did the bunny hug with every scrub
From Hogan's Alley to the Dutchman's Boot,
While little Willie, like a plug-eared mute,
Papered the wall and helped absorb the grub,
Played nest-egg with the benches like a dub
When hot society was easy fruit!
Am I a turnip? On the strict Q.T.,
Why do my Trilbys get so ossified?
Why am I minus when it's up to me
To brace my Paris Pansy for a glide?
Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scored
A flock of zeros on my tally-board.
XXI
At noon to-day Murphy and Mame were tied.
A gospel huckster did the referee,
And all the Drug Clerks' Union loped to see
The queen of Minnie Street become a bride,
And that bad actor, Murphy, by her side,
Standing where Yours Despondent ought to be.
I went to hang a smile in front of me,
But weeps were in my glimmers when I tried.
The pastor murmured, "Two and two make one,"
And slipped a sixteen K on Mamie's grab;
And when the game was tied and all was done
The guests shied footwear at the bridal cab,
And Murphy's little gilt-roofed brother Jim
Snickered, "She's left her happy home for him."
HOW "RUBY" PLAYED
BY GEORGE W. BAGBY
(Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes to hear Rubinstein, and gives
the following description of his playing.)
Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you
ever laid eyes on; somethin' like a distracted billiard-table on three
legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't been,
he'd 'a' tore the entire inside clean out and shattered 'em to the four
winds of heaven.