Mr. O'Shea.
"Good-by," said he gently. "I gives you presents, from gold presents,
the while you're friends mit Teacher. I'm loving much mit her, too."
At this moment the Principal turned, and Mr. O'Shea, in a desperate
attempt to retrieve his dignity, began: "As to class management and
discipline--"
But the Principal was not to be deceived.
"Don't you think, Mr. O'Shea," said he, "that you and I had better leave
the management of the little ones to the women? You have noticed,
perhaps, that this is Nature's method."
[Footnote 3: From _Little Citizens_; reprinted by permission of McClure,
Phillips & Company.
Copyright 1903 by the S.S. McClure Company.
Copyright 1904 by McClure, Phillips & Company.]
THE GENIAL IDIOT SUGGESTS A COMIC OPERA
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
"There's a harvest for you," said the Idiot, as he perused a recently
published criticism of a comic opera. "There have been thirty-nine new
comic operas produced this year and four of 'em were worth seeing. It is
very evident that the Gilbert and Sullivan industry hasn't gone to the
wall whatever slumps other enterprises have suffered from."
"That is a goodly number," said the Poet. "Thirty-nine, eh? I knew there
was a raft of them, but I had no idea there were as many as that."
"Why don't you go in and do one, Mr. Poet?" suggested the Idiot. "They
tell me it's as easy as rolling off a log. All you've got to do is to
forget all your ideas and remember all the old jokes you ever heard.
Slap 'em together around a lot of dances, write two dozen lyrics about
some Googoo Belle, hire a composer, and there you are. Hanged if I
haven't thought of writing one myself."
"I fancy it isn't as easy as it looks," observed the Poet. "It requires
just as much thought to be thoughtless as it does to be thoughtful."
"Nonsense," said the Idiot. "I'd undertake the job cheerfully if some
manager would make it worth my while, and what's more, if I ever got
into the swing of the business I'll bet I could turn out a libretto a
day for three days of the week for the next two months."
"If I had your confidence I'd try it," laughed the Poet, "but alas, in
making me Nature did not design a confidence man."
"Nonsense again," said the Idiot. "Any man who can get the editors to
print Sonnets to Diana's Eyebrow, and little lyrics of Madison Square,
Longacre Square, Battery Place and Boston Common, the way you do, has a
right to consider himself an adept at bunco. I tell you what I'll do
with you. I'll swap off my confidence for your lyrical facility and see
what I can do. Why can't we collaborate and get up a libretto for next
season? They tell me there's large money in it."
"There certainly is if you catch on," said the Poet. "Vastly more than
in any other kind of writing that I know. I don't know but that I would
like to collaborate with you on something of the sort. What is your
idea?"
"Mind's a blank on the subject," sighed the Idiot. "That's the reason I
think I can turn the trick. As I said before, you don't need ideas.
Better off without 'em. Just sit down and write."
"But you must have some kind of a story," persisted the Poet.
"Not to begin with," said the Idiot. "Just write your choruses and
songs, slap in your jokes, fasten 'em together, and the thing is done.
First act, get your hero and heroine into trouble. Second act, get 'em
out."
"And for the third?" queried the Poet.
"Don't have a third," said the Idiot. "A third is always
superfluous--but if you must have it, make up some kind of a vaudeville
show and stick it in between the first and second."
"Tush!" said the Bibliomaniac. "That would make a gay comic opera."
"Of course it would, Mr. Bib," the Idiot agreed. "And that's what we
want. If there's anything in this world that I hate more than another
it is a sombre comic opera. I've been to a lot of 'em, and I give you my
word of honor that next to a funeral a comic opera that lacks gaiety is
one of the most depressing functions known to modern science. Some of
'em are enough to make an undertaker weep with jealous rage. I went to
one of 'em last week called 'The Skylark' with an old chum of mine, who
is a surgeon. You can imagine what sort of a thing it was when I tell
you that after the first act he suggested we leave the theater and come
back here and have some fun cutting my leg off. He vowed that if he ever
went to another opera by the same people he'd take ether beforehand."
"I shouldn't think that would be necessary," sneered the Bibliomaniac.
"If it was as bad as all that why didn't it put you to sleep?"
"It did," said the Idiot. "But the music kept waking us up again. There
was no escape from it except that of actual physical flight."
"Well--about this collaboration of ours," suggested the Poet. "What do
you think we should do first?"
"Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did you
suppose? A finale? Something like this:
"If you want to know who we are,
Just ask the Evening Star,
As he smiles on high
In the deep blue sky,
With his tralala-la-la-la.
We are maidens sweet
With tripping feet,
And the Googoo eyes
Of the Skippity-hi's,
And the smile of the fair Gazoo;
And you'll find our names
'Mongst the wondrous dames
Of the Whos Who-hoo-hoo-hoo.
"Get that sung with spirit by sixty-five ladies with blonde wigs and
gold slippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a troop of Russian
Cavalry, and you've got your venture launched."
"Where can you find people like that?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"New York's full of 'em," replied the Idiot.
"I don't mean the people to act that sort of thing--but where would you
lay your scene?" explained the Bibliomaniac.
"Oh, any old place in the Pacific Ocean," said the Idiot. "Make your own
geography--everybody else does. There's a million islands out there of
one kind or another, and as defenseless as a two weeks' old infant. If
you want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make one
up for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of that
sort. After you've got your chorus going, introduce your villain, who
should be a man with a deep bass voice and a piratical past. He's the
chap who rules the roost and is going to marry the heroine to-morrow.
That will make a bully song:
"I'm a pirate bold
With a heart so cold
That it turns the biggest joys to solemn sorrow;
And the hero-ine,
With her eyes so fine,
I am going to-marry--to-morrow.
CHORUS:
"He is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow
The maid with a heart full of sorrow;
For her we are sorry
For she weds to-morry--
She is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow.
"Gee!" added the Idiot enthusiastically. "Can't you almost hear that
already?"
"I am sorry to say," said Mr. Brief, "that I can. You ought to call your
heroine Drivelina."
"Splendid," cried the Idiot. "Drivelina goes. Well, then on comes
Drivelina and this beast of a Pirate grabs her by the hand and makes
love to her as if he thought wooing was a game of snap the whip. She
sings a soprano solo of protest and the Pirate summons his hirelings to
cast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell when, boom! an American warship
appears on the horizon. The crew under the leadership of a man with a
squeaky tenor voice named Lieutenant Somebody or other comes ashore,
puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag while his crew
sings the following:
"We are Jackies, Jackies, Jackies,
And we smoke the best tobaccys
You can find from Zanzibar to Honeyloo.
And we fight for Uncle Sammy,
Yes indeed we do, for damme
You can bet your life that that's the thing to do--doodle-do!
You can bet your life that that's the thing to
doodle--doodle--doodle--doodle-do.
"Eh! What?" demanded the Idiot.
"Well--what yourself?" asked the Lawyer. "This is your job. What next?"
"Well--the Pirate gets lively, tries to assassinate the Lieutenant, who
kills half the natives with his sword and is about to slay the Pirate
when he discovers that he is his long lost father," said the Idiot. "The
heroine then sings a pathetic love song about her Baboon Baby, in a
green light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys banging
cocoa-nut shells together. This drowsy lullaby puts the Lieutenant and
his forces to sleep and the curtain falls on their capture by the
Pirate and his followers, with the chorus singing:
"Hooray for the Pirate bold,
With his pockets full of gold,
He's going to marry to-morrow.
To-morrow he'll marry,
Yes, by the Lord Harry,
He's go-ing--to-marry--to-mor-row!
And that's a thing to doodle-doodle-doo.
"There," said the Idiot, after a pause. "How is that for a first act?"
"It's about as lucid as most of them," said the Poet, "but after all you
have got a story there, and you said you didn't need one."
"I said you didn't need one to start with," corrected the Idiot. "And
I've proved it. I didn't have that story in mind when I started. That's
where the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn't even have to
think of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped right
out of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina had
been written on his heart for centuries. Then the title--Isle of
Piccolo--that's a dandy and I give you my word of honor I'd never even
thought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash
from the blue; and as for the coon song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there's a
chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner and
Reginald De Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the lilt of
it:
"My Bab-boon--ba-habee,
My Bab-boon--ba-habee--
I love you dee-her-lee
Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee.
My Baboon--ba-ha-bee,
My Baboon--ba-ha-bee,
My baboon--Ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee.
"And all those pink satin monkeys bumping their cocoanut shells together
in the green moonlight--"
"Well, after the first act, what?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"The usual intermission," said the Idiot. "You don't have to write that.
The audience generally knows what to do."
"But your second act?" asked the Poet.
"Oh, come off," said the Idiot rising. "We were to do this thing in
collaboration. So far I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leave
the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to do
a little collabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to
do--collect the royalties?"
"I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thing
to do in a comic opera."
"Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my full
share of it."
"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced in
the right place might stand a chance of a run."
"Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some
penetration. How long a run?"
"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.
"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot with a smile.
"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac severely.
"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr.
Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the Superintendent."
WAMSLEY'S AUTOMATIC PASTOR
BY FRANK CRANE
"Yes, sir," said the short, chunky man, as he leaned back against the
gorgeous upholstery of his seat in the smoking compartment of the
sleeping-car; "yes, sir, I knew you was a preacher the minute I laid
eyes on you. You don't wear your collar buttoned behind, nor a black
thingumbob over your shirt front, nor Presbyterian whiskers, nor a
little gold cross on a black string watch chain; them's the usual marks,
I know, and you hain't got any of 'em. But I knew you just the same. You
can't fool J.P. Wamsley. You see, there's a peculiar air about a man
that's accustomed to handle any particular line of goods. You can tell
'em all, if you'll just notice,--any of 'em,--white-goods counter,
lawyer, doctor, travelin' man, politician, railroad,--every one of 'em's
got his sign out, and it don't take a Sherlock Holmes to read it,
neither. It's the same way with them gospel goods. You'll excuse me, but
when I saw you come in here and light a cigar, with an air of
I-will-now-give-you-a-correct-imitation-of-a-human-being, I says to
myself, 'There's one of my gospel friends.' Murder will out, as the
feller says.
"Experience, did you say? I must have had considerable experience? Well,
I guess yes! Didn't you never hear of my invention, Wamsley's Automatic
Pastor, Self-feedin' Preacher and Lightning Caller? Say, that was the
hottest scheme ever. I'll tell you about it.
"You see, it's this way. I'm not a church member myself--believe in it,
you know, and all that sort of thing,--I'm for religion strong, and when
it comes to payin' I'm right there with the goods. My wife is a member,
and a good one; in fact, she's so blame good that we average up pretty
well.
"Well, one day they elected me to the board of trustees at the church;
because I was the heaviest payer, I suppose. I kicked some, not bein'
anxious to pose as a pious individual, owin' to certain brethren in the
town who had a little confidential information on J.P. and might be
inclined to get funny. But they insisted, allowin' that me bein' the
most prominent and successful merchant in the town, and similar rot, I
ought to line up and help out the cause, and so on; so finally I give
in.
"I went to two or three of their meetin's--and say, honest, they were
the fiercest things ever."
The minister smiled knowingly.
"You're on, I see. Ain't those official meetin's of a church the limit?
Gee! Once I went--a cold winter night--waded through snow knee-deep to a
giraffe--and sat there two hours, while they discussed whether they'd
fix the pastor's back fence or not--price six dollars! I didn't say
anything, bein' sort o' new, you know, but I made up my mind that next
time I'd turn loose on 'em, if it was the last thing I did.
"I says to my wife when I got home, 'Em,' says I, 'if gittin' religion
gives a man softenin' of the brain, like I see it workin' on them men
there to-night, I'm afraid I ain't on prayin' ground and intercedin'
terms, as the feller says. The men in that bunch to-night was worth over
eight hundred thousand dollars, and they took eleven dollars and a
half's worth o' my time chewin' the rag over fixin' the parson's fence.
I'm goin' to bed,' I says, 'and if I shouldn't wake up in the mornin',
if you should miss petty in the mornin', you may know his vital powers
was exhausted by the hilarious proceedin's of this evenin'.'
"But I must get along to my story, about my automatic pastor. One day
the preacher resigned,--life probably hectored out of him by a lot o'
cheap skates whose notion of holdin' office in church consisted in
cuttin' down expenses and findin' fault with the preacher because he
didn't draw in sinners enough to fill the pews and pay their bills for
'em.
"When it come to selectin' a committee to get a new pastor, I butted
right in. I had an idea, so--me to the front, leadin' trumps and bangin'
my cards down hard on the table. Excuse my gay and festive reference to
playin'-cards, but what I mean is, that I thought the fullness of time
had arrived and was a-hollerin' for J.P. Wamsley.
"Well, sir, it was right then and there I invented my automatic pastor,
continuous revolving hand-shaker and circular jolly-hander.
"I brung it before the official brethren one night and explained its
modus operandi. I had a wax figger made by the same firm that supplies
me with the manikins for my show-windows. And it was a peach, if I do
say it myself. Tall, handsome figger, benevolent face, elegant smile
that won't come off, as the feller says, Chauncey Depew spinnage in
front of each ear. It was a sure lu-lu.
"'Now,' I says to 'em, 'gentlemen, speakin' o' pastors, I got one here I
want to recommend. It has one advantage anyhow; it won't cost you a
cent. I'll make you a present of it, and also chip in, as heretofore,
toward operatin' expenses.' That caught old Jake Hicks--worth a hundred
thousand dollars, and stingier 'n all git-out. He leaned over and
listened, same as if he was takin' 'em right off the bat. He's a retired
farmer. If you'll find me a closer boy than a retired farmer moved to
town, you can have the best plug hat in my store.
"'You observe,' I says, 'that he has the leadin' qualifications of all
and comes a heap cheaper than most. He is swivel mounted; that is, the
torso, so to speak, is pinioned onto the legs, so that the upper part of
the body can revolve. This enables him to rotate freely without bustin'
his pants, the vest bein' unconnected with the trousers.
"'Now, you stand this here, whom we will call John Henry, at the door of
the church as the congregation enters, havin' previously wound him up,
and there he stays, turning around and givin' the glad hand and cheery
smile, and so doth his unchangin' power display as the unwearied sun
from day to day, as the feller says. Nobody neglected, all pleased. You
remember the last pastor wasn't sociable enough, and there was
considerable complaint because he didn't hike right down after the
benediction and jolly the flock as they passed out. We'll have a wire
run the length of the meetin' house, with a gentle slant from the pulpit
to the front door, and as soon as meetin's over, up goes John Henry and
slides down to the front exit, and there he stands, gyratin' and handin'
out pleasant greeting to all,--merry Christmas and happy New Year to
beat the band.
"'Now as for preachin',' I continued, 'you see all you have to do is to
raise up the coat-tails and insert a record on the phonograph concealed
here in the back of the chest, with a speakin' tube runnin' up to the
mouth. John Henry bein' a regular minister, he can get the Homiletic
Review at a dollar and a half a year; we can subscribe for that, get the
up-to-datest sermons by the most distinguished divines, get some gent
that's afflicted with elocution to say 'em into a record, and on Sunday
our friend and pastor here will reel 'em off fine. You press the
button--he does the rest, as the feller says.'
"'How about callin' on the members?' inquires Andy Robinson.
"'Easy,' says I. 'Hire a buggy of Brother Jinks here, who keeps a livery
stable, at one dollar per P.M. Get a nigger to chauffeur the pastor at
fifty cents per same. There you are. Let the boy be provided with an
assortment of records to suit the people--pleasant and sad, consolatory
and gay, encouragin' or reprovin', and so forth. The coon drives up,
puts in a cartridge, sets the pastor in the door, and when the family
gets through with him they sets him out again.
"'There are, say about three hundred callin' days in the year. He can
easy make fifteen calls a day on an average--equals four thousand five
hundred calls a year, at $450. Of course, there's the records, but they
won't cost over $50 at the outside--you can shave 'em off and use 'em
over again, you know.'
"'But there's the personality of the pastor,' somebody speaks up. 'It's
that which attracts folks and fills the pews.'
"'Personality shucks!' says I. 'Haven't we had personality enough? For
every man it attracts it repels two. Your last preacher was one of the
best fellers that ever struck this town. He was a plum brick, and had
lots o' horse sense, to boot. He could preach, too, like a house afire.
But you kicked him out because he wasn't sociable enough. You're askin'
an impossibility. No man can be a student and get up the rattlin'
sermons he did, and put in his time trottin' around callin' on the
sisters.
"'Now, let's apply business sense to this problem. That's the way I run
my store. Find out what the people want and give it to 'em, is my motto.
Now, people ain't comin' to church unless there's somethin' to draw 'em.
We've tried preachin', and it won't draw. They say they want
sociability, so let's give it to 'em strong. They want attention paid to
'em. You turn my friend here loose in the community, and he'll make each
and every man, woman and child think they're it in less'n a month. If
anybody gets disgruntled, you sic John Henry here on 'em, and you'll
have 'em come right back a-runnin', and payin' their pew rent in
advance.
"'Then,' I continued, 'that ain't all. There's another idea I propose,
to go along with the pastor, as a sort of side line. That's tradin'
stamps. Simple, ain't it? Wonder why you never thought of it yourselves,
don't you? That's the way with all bright ideas. People drink soda water
all their lives, and along comes a genius and hears the fizz, and goes
and invents a Westinghouse brake. Same as Newton and the apple, and
Columbus and the egg.
"'All you have to do is to give tradin' stamps for attendance, and your
church fills right up, and John Henry keeps 'em happy. Stamps can be
redeemed at any store. So many stamps gets, say a parlor lamp or a
masterpiece of Italian art in a gilt frame; so many more draws a steam
cooker or an oil stove; so many more and you have a bicycle or a hair
mattress or a what-not; and so on up to where a hat full of 'em gets an
automobile.
"'I tell you when a family has a what-not in their eye they ain't goin'
to let a little rain keep 'em home from church. If they're all really
too sick to go they'll hire a substitute. And I opine these here stamps
will have a powerful alleviatin' effect on Sunday-sickness.
"'And then,' I went on, waxin' eloquent, and leanin' the pastor against
the wall, so I could put one hand in my coat and gesture with the other
and make it more impressive,--'and then,' I says, 'just think of them
other churches. We won't do a thing to 'em. That Baptist preacher thinks
he's a wizz because he makes six hundred calls a year. You just wait
till the nigger gets to haulin' John Henry here around town and loadin'
him up with rapid-fire conversations. That Baptist gent will look like
thirty cents, that's what he'll look like. He'll think he's Rojessvinsky
and the Japanese fleet's after him. And the Campbellites think they done
it when they got their new pastor, with a voice like a Bull o' Bashan
comin' down hill. Just wait till we load a few of them extra-sized
records with megaphone attachment into our pastor, and gear him up to
two hundred and fifty words a minute, and then where, oh, where is
Mister Campbellite, as the feller says.
"'Besides, brethren, this pastor, havin' no family, won't need his back
fence fixed; in fact, he won't need the parsonage; we can rent it, and
the proceeds will go toward operatin' expenses.
"'What we need to do,' I says in conclusion, 'is to get in line, get up
to date, give the people what they want. We have no way of judgin' the
future but by the past, as the feller says. We know they ain't no human
bein' can measure up to our requirements, so let's take a fall out of
science, and have enterprise and business sense.'"
J.P. Wamsley reached for a match.
"Did they accept your offer?" asked his companion. "I am anxious to know
how your plan worked. It has many points in its favor, I confess."
"No," replied J.P. Wamsley, as he meditatively puffed his cigar and
seemed to be lovingly reviewing the past. "No, they didn't. I'm kind o'
sorry, too. I'd like to have seen the thing tried myself. But," he
added, with a slow and solemn wink, "they passed a unanimous resolution
callin' back the old pastor at an increased salary."
"I should say, then, that your invention was a success."
"Well, I didn't lose out on it, anyhow. I've got John Henry rigged up
with a new bunch of whiskers, and posin' in my show-window as Dewitt,
signin' the peace treaty, in an elegant suit of all-wool at $11.50."
THE BOHEMIANS OF BOSTON
BY GELETT BURGESS