phenomenon in military science unprecedented in the annals of mankind--a
phenomenon that has reversed all the traditions of the past as it has
disappointed all the expectations of the present. A great and warlike
people, renowned alike for their skill and valor, have been swept away
before the triumphant advance of an inferior foe, like autumn stubble
before a hurricane of fire. For aught I know, the next flash of electric
fire that shimmers along the ocean cable may tell us that Paris, with
every fibre quivering with the agony of impotent despair, writhes
beneath the conquering heel of her loathed invader. Ere another moon
shall wax and wane the brightest star in the galaxy of nations may fall
from the zenith of her glory never to rise again. Ere the modest violets
of early spring shall ope their beauteous eyes, the genius of
civilization may chant the wailing requiem of the proudest nationality
the world has ever seen, as she scatters her withered and tear-moistened
lilies o'er the bloody tomb of butchered France. But, sir, I wish to ask
if you honestly and candidly believe that the Dutch would have ever
overrun the French in that kind of style if General Sheridan had not
gone over there and told King William and Von Moltke how he had managed
to whip the Piegan Indians. (Great laughter.)
And here, sir, recurring to this map, I find in the immediate vicinity
of the Piegans "vast herds of buffalo" and "immense fields of rich wheat
lands."
(Here the hammer fell.)
(Many cries: "Go on!" "Go on!")
The Speaker. Is there objection to the gentleman from Kentucky
continuing his remarks? The Chair hears none. The gentleman will
proceed.
Mr. Knott. I was remarking, sir, upon these vast "wheat fields"
represented on this map as in the immediate neighborhood of the
buffaloes and the Piegans, and was about to say that the idea of there
being these immense wheat fields in the very heart of a wilderness,
hundreds and hundreds of miles beyond the utmost verge of civilization,
may appear to some gentlemen as rather incongruous, as rather too great
a strain on the "blankets" of veracity. But to my mind there is no
difficulty in the matter whatever. The phenomenon is very easily
accounted for. It is evident, sir, that the Piegans sowed that wheat
there and plowed it with buffalo bulls. (Great laughter.) Now, sir, this
fortunate combination of buffaloes and Piegans, considering their
relative positions to each other and to Duluth, as they are arranged on
this map, satisfies me that Duluth is destined to be the beef market of
the world.
Here, you will observe (pointing to the map), are the buffaloes,
directly between the Piegans and Duluth; and here, right on the road to
Duluth, are the Creeks. Now, sir, when the buffaloes are sufficiently
fat from grazing on these immense wheat fields, you see it will be the
easiest thing in the world for the Piegans to drive them on down, stay
all night with their friends, the Creeks, and go into Duluth in the
morning. (Great laughter.) I think I see them now, sir, a vast herd of
buffaloes, with their heads down, their eyes glaring, their nostrils
dilated, their tongues out, and their tails curled over their backs,
tearing along toward Duluth, with about a thousand Piegans on their
grass-bellied ponies yelling at their heels! (Great laughter.) On they
come! And as they sweep past the Creeks, they join in the chase, and
away they all go, yelling, bellowing, ripping, and tearing along, amid
clouds of dust, until the last buffalo is safely penned in the
stockyards of Duluth! (Shouts of laughter.)
Sir, I might stand here for hours and hours, and expatiate with rapture
upon the gorgeous prospects of Duluth, as depicted upon this map. But
human life is too short and the time of this House far too valuable to
allow me to linger longer upon the delightful theme, (Laughter.) I think
every gentleman on this floor is as well satisfied as I am that Duluth
is destined to become the commercial metropolis of the universe, and
that this road should be built at once. I am fully persuaded that no
patriotic representative of the American people, who has a proper
appreciation of the associated glories of Duluth and the St. Croix, will
hesitate a moment to say that every able-bodied female in the land,
between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, who is in favor of "women's
rights" should be drafted and set to work upon this great work without
delay. (Roars of laughter.) Nevertheless, sir, it grieves my very soul
to be compelled to say that I can not vote for the grant of lands
provided for in this bill.
Ah, sir, you can have no conception of the poignancy of my anguish that
I am deprived of that blessed privilege! (Laughter.) There are two
insuperable obstacles in the way. In the first place, my constituents,
for whom I am acting here, have no more interest in this road than they
have in the great question of culinary taste now perhaps agitating the
public mind of Dominica, as to whether the illustrious commissioners who
recently left this capital for that free and enlightened republic would
be better fricasseed, boiled, or roasted (great laughter); and, in the
second place, these lands which I am asked to give away, alas, are not
mine to bestow! My relation to them is simply that of trustee to an
express trust. And shall I ever betray that trust? Never, sir! Rather
perish Duluth! (Shouts of laughter.) Perish the paragon of cities!
Rather let the freezing cyclones of the bleak Northwest bury it forever
beneath the eddying sands of the raging St. Croix! (Great laughter.)
DICTUM SAPIENTI
BY JOHN PAUL
That 'tis well to be off with the old love
Before one is on with the new
Has somehow passed into a proverb,--
But I never have found it true.
No love can be quite like the old love,
Whate'er may be said for the new--
And if you dismiss me, my darling,
You may come to this thinking, too.
Were the proverb not wiser if mended,
And the fickle and wavering told
To be sure they're on with the new love
Before they are off with the old?
HARD[10]
BY TOM MASSON
I wrote some foolish verses once
On love. Unhappy churl!
The metre makes me shudder still,
I sent them to a girl.
I know that girl, and if I should,
Like Byron, wake some day
To find Fame written on my brow,
She'd give those lines away.
So now I have to watch myself
Each hour. Oh, hapless plight!
For if I should be great, of course,
Those lines would come to light.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] By permission of Life Publishing Company.
THE SCEPTICS
BY BLISS CARMAN
It was the little leaves beside the road.
Said Grass, "What is that sound
So dismally profound,
That detonates and desolates the air?"
"That is St. Peter's bell,"
Said rain-wise Pimpernel;
"He is music to the godly,
Though to us he sounds so oddly,
And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer."
Then something very like a groan
Escaped the naughty little leaves.
Said Grass, "And whither track
These creatures all in black,
So woebegone and penitent and meek?"
"They're mortals bound for church,"
Said the little Silver Birch;
"They hope to get to heaven
And have their sins forgiven,
If they talk to God about it once a week."
And something very like a smile
Ran through the naughty little leaves.
Said Grass, "What is that noise
That startles and destroys
Our blessed summer brooding when we're tired?"
"That's folk a-praising God,"
Said the tough old cynic Clod;
"They do it every Sunday,
They'll be all right on Monday;
It's just a little habit they've acquired."
And laughter spread among the little leaves.
"THE DAY IS DONE"
BY PHOEBE CARY
The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That I can not well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper,--
A good and regular meal--
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn't give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the "finally, brethren,"
That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
MR. DOOLEY ON GOLF
BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE
"An' what's this game iv goluf like, I dinnaw?" said Mr. Hennessy,
lighting his pipe with much unnecessary noise. "Ye're a good deal iv a
spoort, Jawnny: did ye iver thry it?"
"No," said Mr. McKenna. "I used to roll a hoop onct upon a time, but I'm
out of condition now."
"It ain't like base-ball," said Mr. Hennessy, "an' it ain't like shinny,
an' it ain't like lawn-teenis, an' it ain't like forty-fives, an' it
ain't"--
"Like canvas-back duck or anny other game ye know," said Mr. Dooley.
"Thin what is it like?" said Mr. Hennessy. "I see be th' pa-aper that
Hobart What-d'ye-call-him is wan iv th' best at it. Th' other day he
made a scoor iv wan hundherd an' sixty-eight, but whether 'twas miles or
stitches I cudden't make out fr'm th' raypoorts."
"'Tis little ye know," said Mr. Dooley. "Th' game iv goluf is as old as
th' hills. Me father had goluf links all over his place, an', whin I was
a kid, 'twas wan iv th' principal spoorts iv me life, afther I'd dug the
turf f'r th' avenin', to go out and putt"--
"Poot, ye mean," said Mr. Hennessy. "They'se no such wurrud in th'
English language as putt. Belinda called me down ha-ard on it no more
thin las' night."
"There ye go!" said Mr. Dooley, angrily. "There ye go! D'ye think this
here game iv goluf is a spellin' match? 'Tis like ye, Hinnissy, to be
refereein' a twinty-round glove contest be th' rule iv three. I tell ye
I used to go out in th' avenin' an' putt me mashie like hell-an'-all,
till I was knowed fr'm wan end iv th' county to th' other as th'
champeen putter. I putted two men fr'm Roscommon in wan day, an' they
had to be took home on a dure.
"In America th' ga-ame is played more ginteel, an' is more like
cigareet-smokin', though less onhealthy f'r th' lungs. 'Tis a good game
to play in a hammick whin ye're all tired out fr'm social duties or
shovellin' coke. Out-iv-dure golf is played be th' followin' rules. If
ye bring ye'er wife f'r to see th' game, an' she has her name in th'
paper, that counts ye wan. So th' first thing ye do is to find th'
raypoorter, an' tell him ye're there. Thin ye ordher a bottle iv brown
pop, an' have ye'er second fan ye with a towel. Afther this ye'd dhress,
an' here ye've got to be dam particklar or ye'll be stuck f'r th'
dhrinks. If ye'er necktie is not on sthraight, that counts ye'er
opponent wan. If both ye an' ye'er opponent have ye'er neckties on
crooked, th' first man that sees it gets th' stakes. Thin ye ordher a
carredge"--
"Order what?" demanded Mr. McKenna.
"A carredge."
"What for?"
"F'r to take ye 'round th' links. Ye have a little boy followin' ye,
carryin' ye'er clubs. Th' man that has th' smallest little boy it counts
him two. If th' little boy has th' rickets, it counts th' man in th'
carredge three. The little boys is called caddies; but Clarence Heaney
that tol' me all this--he belongs to th' Foorth Wa-ard Goluf an'
McKinley Club--said what th' little boys calls th' players'd not be fit
f'r to repeat.
"Well, whin ye dhrive up to th' tea grounds"--
"Th' what?" demanded Mr. Hennessy.
"Th' tea grounds, that's like th' home-plate in base-ball or ordherin' a
piece iv chalk in a game iv spoil five. It's th' be-ginnin' iv
ivrything. Whin ye get to th' tea grounds, ye step out, an' have ye'er
hat irned be th' caddie. Thin ye'er man that ye're goin' aginst comes
up, an' he asks ye, 'Do you know Potther Pammer?' Well, if ye don't know
Potther Pammer, it's all up with ye: ye lose two points. But ye come
right back at him with an upper cut: 'Do ye live on th' Lake Shore
dhrive?' If he doesn't, ye have him in th' nine hole. Ye needn't play
with him anny more. But, if ye do play with him, he has to spot three
balls. If he's a good man an' shifty on his feet, he'll counter be
askin' ye where ye spend th' summer. Now ye can't tell him that ye spent
th' summer with wan hook on th' free lunch an' another on th' ticker
tape, an' so ye go back three. That needn't discourage ye at all, at
all. Here's yer chance to mix up, an' ye ask him if he was iver in
Scotland. If he wasn't, it counts ye five. Thin ye tell him that ye had
an aunt wanst that heerd th' Jook iv Argyle talk in a phonograph; an',
onless he comes back an' shoots it into ye that he was wanst run over be
th' Prince iv Wales, ye have him groggy. I don't know whether th' Jook
iv Argyle or th' Prince iv Wales counts f'r most. They're like th' right
an' left bower iv thrumps. Th' best players is called scratch-men."
"What's that f'r?" Mr. Hennessy asked.
"It's a Scotch game," said Mr. Dooley, with a wave of his hand. "I
wonder how it come out to-day. Here's th' pa-aper. Let me see. McKinley
at Canton. Still there. He niver cared to wandher fr'm his own fireside.
Collar-button men f'r th' goold standard. Statues iv Heidelback,
Ickleheimer an' Company to be erected in Washington. Another Vanderbilt
weddin'. That sounds like goluf, but it ain't. Newport society livin'
in Mrs. Potther Pammer's cellar. Green-goods men declare f'r honest
money. Anson in foorth place some more. Pianny tuners f'r McKinley. Li
Hung Chang smells a rat. Abner McKinley supports th' goold standard.
Wait a minyit. Here it is: 'Goluf in gay attire.' Let me see. H'm.
'Foozled his aproach,'--nasty thing. 'Topped th' ball.' 'Three up an'
two to play.' Ah, here's the scoor. 'Among those prisint were Messrs.
an' Mesdames'"--
"Hol' on!" cried Mr. Hennessy, grabbing the paper out of his friend's
hands. "That's thim that was there."
"Well," said Mr. Dooley, decisively, "that's th' goluf scoor."
WHEN THE SIRUP'S ON THE FLAPJACK
BY BERT LESTON TAYLOR
When the sirup's on the flapjack and the coffee's in the pot;
When the fly is in the butter--where he'd rather be than not;
When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;
When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken's in the broth;
When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher's on the tray,
And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn't on the way;
When the rind is on the bacon, and likewise upon the cheese,
Then I somehow feel inspired to do a lot of rhymes like these.
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