Chapter XXVII: Part II (6)

Old George Washington’s Fort was not to hev eny public man of the present day resemble him to eny alarmin extent. Whare bowts can George’s ekal be found? I ask, & boldly answer no whares, or any whare else.

Old man Townsin’s Fort was to maik Sassyperiller. “Goy to the world! anuther life saived!” (Cotashun from Townsin’s advertisement.)

Cyrus Field’s Fort is to lay a sub-machine telegraf under the boundin billers of the Oshun, and then have it Bust.

Spaldin’s Fort is to maik Prepared Gloo, which mends every thing. Wonder ef it will mend a sinner’s wickid waze. (Impromptoo goak.)

Zoary’s Fort is to be a femaile circus feller.

My Fort is the grate moral show bizniss & ritin choice famerly literatoor for the noospapers. That’s what’s the matter with _me_.

&., &., &. So I mite go on to a indefinit extent.

Twict I’ve endevered to do things which thay wasn’t my Fort. The fust time was when I undertuk to lick a owdashus cuss who cut a hole in my tent & krawld threw. Sez I, “My jentle Sir, go out or I shall fall on to you putty hevy.” Sez he, “Wade in, Old wax figgers,” whereupon I went for him, but he cawt me powerful on the bed & knockt me threw the tent into a cow pastur. He pursood the attach & flung me into a mud puddle. As I arose & rung out my drencht garmints I koncluded fitin wasn’t my Fort. Ile now rize the kurtin upon Seen 2nd: It is rarely seldum that I seek consolation in the Flowin Bole. But in a certain town in Injianny in the Faul of 18--, my orgin grinder got sick with the fever & died. I never felt so ashamed in my life, & I thowt I’d hist in a few swallers of suthin strengthnin. Konsequents was I histid in so much I dident zackly know whare bowts I was. I turned my livin wild beasts of Pray loose into the streets and spilt all my wax wurks. I then bet I cood play hoss. So I hitched myself to a Kanawl bote, there bein two other hosses hicht on also, one behind and anuther ahead of me. The driver hollerd for us to git up, and we did. But the hosses bein onused to sich a arrangemunt begun to kick & squeal and rair up. Konsequents was I fownd myself in the Kanawl with the other hosses, kickin & yellin like a tribe of Cusscaroorus savvijis. I was rescood, & as I was bein carrid to the tavern on a hemlock Bored I sed in a feeble voise, “Boys, playin hoss isn’t my Fort.”

_Morul._--Never don’t do nothin which isn’t your Fort, for ef you do you’ll find yourself splashin round in the Kanawl, figgeratively speakin.

* * * * *

Frank R. Stockton was a nobleman among the humorists.

His quiet and often subtle humor, his delightful style and his unique originality made all his stories a joy and some masterpieces. No quotations can be given, for any Stockton story must be read in its entirety. _The Lady and the Tiger_ is doubtless the most celebrated one, but many others are even more clever and unusual.

* * * * *

Francis Bret Harte, famed for his short stories, also wrote humorous verse. _The Heathen Chinee_ is a byword in all households, and _Truthful James_ is nearly as well known.

_THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS_

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;
And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow man,
And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones an animal that was extremely rare,
And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault;
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order--when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

_TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL_

“Speak, O man less recent!
Fragmentary fossil!
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,
Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum
Of volcanic tufa!

“Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
Of earth’s epidermis!

“Eo--Mio--Plio--Whatsoe’er the ’cene’ was
That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder--
Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches--
Tell us thy strange story!

“Or has the professor slightly antedated
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,
Giving thee an air that’s somewhat better fitted
For cold-blooded creatures?

“Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest
When above thy head the stately Sigillaria
Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant
Carboniferous epoch?

“Tell us of that scene--the dim and watery woodland
Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect;
Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall clubmosses,
Lycopodiacea,

When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,
While from time to time above thee flew and circled
Cheerful Pterodactyls.

“Tell us of thy food--those half-marine refections,
Crinoids on the shell and brachipods _au naturel_--
Cuttle-fish to which the _pieuvre_ of Victor Hugo
Seems a periwinkle.

“Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth’s creation,
Solitary fragment of remains organic!
Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence--
Speak! thou oldest primate!”

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,
Ground the teeth together.

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition,
Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,
Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
Of expectoration:

“Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county,
But I’d take it kindly if you’d send the pieces
Home to old Missouri!”

Pioneering in the West marked a distinct epoch in American humor. Bret Harte owed his meteoric success largely to the fact of his utilizing the background of the Golden West. And so did Joaquin Miller, John Hay and Edward Rowland Sill.

The Pike County Ballads of John Hay were national favorites.

_LITTLE BREECHES_

I don’t go much on religion,
I never ain’t had no show;
But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,
On the handful o’ things I know.
I don’t pan out on the prophets
And free-will and that sort of thing--
But I b’lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along--
No four-year-old in the county
Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Peart and chipper and sassy,
Always ready to swear and fight--
And I’d larnt him to chaw terbacker
Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart’s store;
I went in for a jug of molasses
And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started--
I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie
Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!
I was almost froze with skeer;
But we rousted up some torches,
And sarched for ’em far and near.
At last we struck horses and wagon,
Snowed under a soft white mound,
Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe
Nor hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me,
Of my fellow-critter’s aid--
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

* * * * *

By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;
And THAR sot Little Breeches, and chirped,
As peart as ever you see:
“I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm;
They jest scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And bringing him to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
Then loafing around The Throne.

Joaquin Miller, whose true name was Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, was called the Poet of the Sierras.

He seldom wrote in humorous vein, but some of his verse must fall into that category.

_THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON TOWN_

AN IDYL OF OREGON

Two webfoot brothers loved a fair
Young lady, rich and good to see;
And oh, her black abundant hair!
And oh, her wondrous witchery!
Her father kept a cattle farm,
These brothers kept her safe from harm:

From harm of cattle on the hill;
From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing
The livelong morning, loud and shrill,
And lashing sides like anything;
From roaring bulls that tossed the sand
And pawed the lilies from the land.

There came a third young man. He came
From far and famous Boston town.
He was not handsome, was not “game,”
But he could “cook a goose” as brown
As any man that set foot on
The sunlit shores of Oregon.

This Boston man he taught the school,
Taught gentleness and love alway,
Said love and kindness, as a rule,
Would ultimately “make it pay.”
He was so gentle, kind, that he
Could make a noun and verb agree.

So when one day the brothers grew
All jealous and did strip to fight,
He gently stood between the two,
And meekly told them ’twas not right.
“I have a higher, better plan,”
Outspake this gentle Boston man.

“My plan is this: Forget this fray
About that lily hand of hers;
Go take your guns and hunt all day
High up yon lofty hill of firs,
And while you hunt, my loving doves,
Why, I will learn which one she loves.”

The brothers sat the windy hill,
Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold,
Their rifles crossed their laps, but still
They sat and sighed and shook with cold.
Their hearts lay bleeding far below;
Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.

Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat;
A spotted circle in the grass.
The valley lay beneath their feet;
They heard the wide-winged eagles pass.
The eagles cleft the clouds above;
Yet what could they but sigh and love?

“If I could die,” the elder sighed,
“My dear young brother here might wed.”
“Oh, would to Heaven I had died!”
The younger sighed, with bended head.
Then each looked each full in the face
And each sprang up and stood in place.

“If I could die,”--the elder spake,--
“Die by your hand, the world would say
’Twas accident;--and for her sake,
Dear brother, be it so, I pray.”
“Not that!” the younger nobly said;
Then tossed his gun and turned his head.

And fifty paces back he paced!
And as he paced he drew the ball;
Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced
His brother to the death and fall!
Two shots rang wild upon the air!
But lo! the two stood harmless there!

An eagle poised high in the air;
Far, far below the bellowing
Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere
Vast silence sat all questioning.
The spotted hounds ran circling round
Their red, wet noses to the ground.

And now each brother came to know
That each had drawn the deadly ball;
And for that fair girl far below
Had sought in vain to silent fall.
And then the two did gladly “shake,”
And thus the elder bravely spake:

“Now let us run right hastily
And tell the kind schoolmaster all!
Yea! yea! and if she choose not me,
But all on you her favors fall,
This valiant scene, till all life ends,
Dear brother, binds us best of friends.”

The hounds sped down, a spotted line,
The bulls in tall, abundant grass,
Shook back their horns from bloom and vine,
And trumpeted to see them pass--
They loved so good, they loved so true,
These brothers scarce knew what to do.

They sought the kind schoolmaster out
As swift as sweeps the light of morn;
They could but love, they could not doubt
This man so gentle, “in a horn,”
They cried, “Now whose the lily hand--
That lady’s of this webfoot land?”

They bowed before that big-nosed man,
That long-nosed man from Boston town;
They talked as only lovers can,
They talked, but he could only frown;
And still they talked, and still they plead;
It was as pleading with the dead.

At last this Boston man did speak--
“Her father has a thousand ceows,
An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek;
He also had this ample heouse.”
The brothers’ eyes stuck out thereat,
So far you might have hung your hat.

“I liked the looks of this big heouse--
My lovely boys, won’t you come in?
Her father has a thousand ceows,
He also had a heap of tin.
The guirl? Of yes, the guirl, you see--
The guirl, just neow she married me.”

Robert Henry Newell, a popular journalist and humorist, wrote over the name of Orpheus C. Kerr. His best known work is the Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, but as a parodist he gives us these burlesque National Hymns.

I

BY H--Y W. L-NGF---- W

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch
Over the sea-ribb’d land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens--
Ursa--the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,
Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him
Flutter’d and flam’d the original Star Spangled Banner.

II

BY J-HN GR--NL--F WH--T--R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish--
To keep the virtues of Preservèd Fish.

Preservèd Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Told our New England what her sons should do,
And if they swerve from loyalty and right,
Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III

BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES

A diagnosis of our hist’ry proves
Our native land a land its native loves;
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores;
Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand--
The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land.

IV

BY R-LPH W-LDO EM-R--N

Source immaterial of material naught,
Focus of light infinitesimal,
Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars
To the stars bent incipient on our flag,
The beam translucent, neutrifying death,
And raise to immortality the rag.

V

By W-LL--M C-LL-N B-Y-NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev’ning Post,
The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;
Yet not a star our Flag of Heav’n has lost,
And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those
New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
But still our Country’s nobler planet glows
While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VI

By N. P. W-LL-S

One hue of our Flag is taken
From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,
And its stars beat time and sparkle
Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow
That hides in her dreamy eyes,
It conquers all men, like her,
And still for a Union flies.

VII

BY TH-M-S B-IL-Y ALD--CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
The cricket quaintly sings,
The emerald pigeon nods his head,
And the shad in the river springs,
The dainty sunflow’r hangs its head
On the shore of the summer sea;
And better far that I were dead,
If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
And the cricket that quaintly sings;
And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
And the shad that gaily springs.
I love the dainty sunflow ’r, too.
And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all;--but I love--I love--
I love my country best.

Edward Rowland Sill, writing of the West for many years, wrote delightful humor on other subjects as well.

_EVE’s DAUGHTER_

I waited in the little sunny room:
The cool breeze waved the window-lace at play,
The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,
And out upon the bay
I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.
“Such an old friend--she would not make me stay
While she bound up her hair.” I turned, and lo,
Danæ in her shower! and fit to slay
All a man’s hoarded prudence at a blow:
Gold hair, that streamed away
As round some nymph a sunlit fountain’s flow.
“She would not make me wait!”--but well I know
She took a good half-hour to loose and lay
Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

Newspaper humor of this period included the _Danbury News Man_, _Peck’s Bad Boy_ and _Eli Perkins_ (Melville D. Landon).

Charles E. Carryl, though his books are called Juveniles, wrote delicious nonsense, approaching nearer to Lewis Carroll than any other American writer.

_THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND_

A capital ship for an ocean trip
Was the “Walloping Window-blind”--
No gale that blew dismayed her crew
Or troubled the captain’s mind.
The man at the wheel was taught to feel
Contempt for the wildest blow,
And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,
That he’d been in his bunk below.

The boatswain’s mate was very sedate,
Yet fond of amusement, too;
And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch,
While the captain tickled the crew.
And the gunner we had was apparently mad,
For he sat on the after rail,
And fired salutes with the captain’s boots,
In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore’s hat
And dined in a royal way
On toasted pigs and pickles and figs
And gummery bread each day.
But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such:
For the food he gave the crew
Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns
Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will,
On a diet that’s cheap and rude;
And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook
In a tub of his gluesome food.
Then nautical pride we laid aside,
And we cast the vessel ashore
On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,
And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land,
And trimmed with cinnamon straws;
And pink and blue was the pleasing hue
Of the Tickletoeteaser’s claws.
And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge
And shot at the whistling bee;
And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats
As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,
We fed, till we all had grown
Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk
Came by from the torriby zone.
She was stubby and square, but we didn’t much care,
And we cheerily put to sea;
And we left the crew of the junk to chew
The bark of the rubagub tree.

Robert Jones Burdette, known as the Burlington Hawkeye Man, was one of the prototypes of our present day newspaper columnists.

His witty verse and prose has lived, and he ranks with the humorists of our land.

_WHAT WILL WE DO?_

What will we do when the good days come--
When the prima donna’s lips are dumb.
And the man who reads us his “little things”
Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;
When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,
And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;
When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums--
Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?
Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,
When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime!
And the scornful dame who stands on your feet
Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;
And the man you hire to work by the day,
Will allow you to do his work your way;
And the cook who trieth your appetite
Will steal no more than she thinks is right;
When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”
Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;
When the funny man is humorsome--
How can we stand the millennium?

“_SOLDIER, REST!_”

A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea
Just when the war was growing hot,
And he shouted, “I’m Tjalikavakeree--
Karindabrolikanavandorot--
Schipkadirova--
Ivandiszstova--
Sanilik--
Danilik--
Varagobhot!”

A Turk was standing upon the shore
Right where the terrible Russian crossed;
And he cried, “Bismillah! I’m Abd el Kor--
Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk--
Getzinpravadi--
Kilgekosladji--
Grivido--
Blivido--
Jenikodosk!”

So they stood like brave men, long and well,
And they called each other their proper names,
Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell
They buried them both by the Irdosholames--
Kalatalustchuk--
Mischaribustchup--
Bulgari--
Dulgari--
Sagharimainz.

Marietta Holley wrote with shrewd observation and much homely common sense. Her books about Betsey Bobbet and Josiah Allen’s Wife were best sellers in the seventies or thereabouts.

Like many of her contemporaries for her fun she depended largely on misspelling.

* * * * *

Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the _Augah_ has no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite authar. You have devorhed him haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.

“Mahtan Fahqueah Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.

“No, mam,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper, nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.”

“Oh, you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet tender lines.”

“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and so I read:

_GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL_

“‘Oh, let who will,
Oh, let who can,
Be tied onto
A horrid male man.’

“Thus said I ere
My tendah heart was touched;
Thus said I ere
My tendah feelings gushed.

“But oh, a change
Hath swept ore me,
As billows sweep
The ‘deep blue sea.’

“A voice, a noble form
One day I saw;
An arrow flew,
My heart is nearly raw.

“His first pardner lies
Beneath the turf;
He is wondering now
In sorrow’s briny surf.

“Two twins, the little
Death cherub creechahs,
Now wipe the teahs
From off his classic feachahs.

“Oh, sweet lot, worthy
Angel arisen,
To wipe teahs
From eyes like hisen.”

“What think you of it?” says she, as I finished readin’.

I looked right at her ’most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of her false curls and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter. I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yellow bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain’t the editor of the _Augur_ a widower with a pair of twins?”

“Yes,” says she, with a happy look.

Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one.... There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly.

“We kindred soles soah above such petty feelin’s--we soah far above them.”

“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and to tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.” “The editah of the _Augah_,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen the stand and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the editah of this paper is a kindred sole; he appreciates me, he undahstands me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah go down to posterety togathah?”

“Then,” says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you was both of you in posterity now.”

--_My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet’s._

George Thomas Lanigan wrote clever verse, of which _The Akhoond of Swat_ is among the best.

_A THRENODY_

“The Akhoond of Swat is dead,”--_London Papers of January 22, 1878_.

What, what, what,
What’s the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Cometh by cable led
Through the Indian Ocean’s bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea and the Med-
Iterranean: he’s dead,--
The Akhoond is dead!

For the Akhoond I mourn.
Who wouldn’t?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Akhoondn’t.

Dead, dead, dead;
(Sorrow, Swats!)
Swats wha hae wi’ Akhoond bled,
Swats wham he hath often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to victory,
As the case might be,--
Sorrow, Swats!
Tears shed,
Shed tears like water,
Your great Akhoond is dead!
That’s Swat’s the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat,
Your great Akhoond is not,
But laid ’mid worms to rot,--
His mortal part alone: his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Akhoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his frame surround
(Forever hallowed be the ground),
And sceptics mock the lowly mound
And say, “He’s now of no Akhoond!”
His soul is in the skies,--
The azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat;
He sees, with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries;
He knows what’s Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Akhoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Akhoond
With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength.
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned,
Dead lies the great Akhoond,
The great Akhoond of Swat,
Is not!

Lanigan also wrote Fables, which he signed G. Washington Æsop.

_THE OSTRICH AND THE HEN_

An Ostrich and a Hen chanced to occupy adjacent apartments, and the former complained loudly that her rest was disturbed by the cackling of her humble neighbor. “Why is it,” she finally asked the Hen, “that you make such an intolerable noise?” The Hen replied, “Because I have laid an egg.” “Oh, no,” said the Ostrich, with a superior smile, “it is because you are a Hen and don’t know any better.”

_Moral._--The moral of the foregoing is not very clear, but it contains some reference to the Agitation for Female Suffrage.

_THE KIND-HEARTED SHE-ELEPHANT_

A kind-hearted She-Elephant, while walking through the Jungle where the Spicy Breezes blow soft o’er Ceylon’s Isle, heedlessly set foot upon a Partridge, which she crushed to death within a few inches of the Nest containing its Callow Brood. “Poor little things!” said the generous Mammoth. “I have been a Mother myself, and my affection shall atone for the Fatal Consequences of my neglect.” So saying, she sat down upon the Orphaned Birds.

_Moral._--The above Teaches us What Home is Without a Mother; also, that it is not every Person who should be entrusted with the Care of an Orphan Asylum.

* * * * *

James Jeffrey Roche wrote delightful verse, which is properly classed as _Vers de Société_, but which shows more wit than much of that type.

_THE V-A-S-E_

From the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell, from sight alone,
In which had Culture ripest grown--

The Gotham Million, fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo--

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshiped; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who blushing said, “What a lovely vace!”

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,
She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”

But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”

And glances round with an anxious thrill,
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,
And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

“I did not catch your remark, because
I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!”

_Dies erit praegelida
Sinistra quum Bostonia._

_A BOSTON LULLABY_

Baby’s brain is tired of thinking
On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby’s precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning
Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature
Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
Bids my darling close his eyes,

And his pneumogastrics tell him
Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,
Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling, leave Creation
To its chances for the night.

Joel Chandler Harris is in a class by himself. Although he wrote other things, he will always be remembered for the immortal Uncle Remus stories. _The Tar Baby_ and _Brer Rabbit_ are known and loved of all American families. A short bit is given from:

_THE SAD END OF BRER WOLF_

“Bimeby, one day w’en Brer Rabbit wuz fixin’ fer ter call on Miss Coon, he heered a monst’us fussen clatter up de big road, en ’mos’ ’fo’ he could fix his years fer ter lissen, Brer Wolf run in de do’. De little Rabbits dey went inter dere hole in de cellar, dey did, like blowin’ out a cannle. Brer Wolf wuz far’ly kiver’d wid mud, en mighty nigh outer win’.

“‘Oh, do pray save me, Brer Rabbit!’ sez Brer Wolf, sezee. ‘Do, please, Brer Rabbit! de dogs is atter me, en dey’ll t’ar me up. Don’t you year um comin’? Oh, do please save me Brer Rabbit! Hide me some’rs whar de dogs won’t git me.’

“No quicker sed dan done.

“‘Jump in dat big chist dar, Brer Wolf,’ sez Brer Rabbit sezee; ‘jump in dar en make yo’se’f at home.’

“In jump Brer Wolf, down come de lid, en inter de hasp went de hook, en dar Mr. Wolf wuz. Den Brer Rabbit went ter de lookin’-glass, he did, en wink at hisse’f, en den he draw’d de rockin’-cheer in front er de fier, he did, en tuck a big chaw terbarker.”

“Tobacco, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy incredulously.

“Rabbit terbarker, honey. You know dis yer life ev’lastin’ w’at Miss Sally puts ’mong de cloze in de trunk; well, dat’s rabbit terbarker. Den Brer Rabbit sot dar long time, he did, turnin’ his mine over en wukken’ his thinkin’ masheen. Bimeby he got up, en sorter stir ’roun’. Den Brer Wolf open up:

“‘Is de dogs all gone, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Seem like I hear one un um smellin’ roun’ de chimbly cornder des now.’

“Den Brer Rabbit git de kittle en fill it full er water, en put it on de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m fixin’ fer ter make you a nice cup er tea, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went ter de cubberd, en git de gimlet, en commence for ter bo’ little holes in de chist-lid.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-bo’in’ little holes so you kin get bref, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went out en git some mo’ wood, en fling it on de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-chunkin’ up de fier so you won’t git cole, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went down inter de cellar en fotch out all his chilluns.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-tellin’ my chilluns w’at a nice man you is, Brer Wolf.’

“En de chilluns, dey had ter put der han’s on her moufs fer ter keep fum laffin’. Den Brer Rabbit he got de kittle en commenced fer to po’ de hot water on de chist-lid.

“‘W’at dat I hear, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You hear de win’ a-blowin’, Brer Wolf.’

“Den de water begin fer ter sif’ thoo.

“‘W’at dat I feel, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You feels de fleas a-bitin’, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er bitin’ mighty hard, Brer Rabbit.’

“‘Tu’n over on de udder side, Brer Wolf.’

“‘W’at dat I feel now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Still you feels de fleas, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er eatin’ me up, Brer Rabbit,’ en dem wuz de las’ words er Brer Wolf, kase de scaldin’ water done de bizness.

“Den Brer Rabbit call in his nabers, he did, en dey hilt a reg’lar juberlee; en ef you go ter Brer Rabbit’s house right now, I dunno but w’at you’ll fine Brer Wolf’s hide hangin’ in de back-po’ch, en all bekaze he wuz so bizzy wid udder fo’kses doin’s.”

--_From Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings._

Eugene Field, beside being the greatest of newspaper paragraphers was a versatile writer of all sorts, from Christmas Hymns to the most flippant themes.

His own personal charm imbued his work, and whether writing _Echoes of Horace_ or appalling tales of _Little Willie_, he was always original and truly funny.

_THE DINKEY-BIRD_

In an ocean, ’way out yonder
(As all sapient people know),
Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
Whither children love to go;
It’s their playing, romping, swinging,
That give great joy to me
While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
In the Amfalula-tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
And taffy’s thick as peas,--
Caramels you pick like berries
When, and where, and how you please:
Big red sugar-plums are clinging
To the cliffs beside that sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

So when children shout and scamper
And make merry all the day,
When there’s naught to put a damper
To the ardor of their play;
When I hear their laughter ringing,
Then I’m sure as sure can be
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras
And staccatos are so sweet--
His roulades, appogiaturas,
And robustos so complete,
That the youth of every nation--
Be they near or far away--
Have especial delectation
In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
Their lungs begin to crow,
Their hearts get light and lighter,
And their cheeks are all aglow;
For an echo cometh bringing
The news to all and me.
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

I’m sure you’d like to go there
To see your feathered friend--
And so many goodies grow there
You would like to comprehend!
_Speed, little dreams, your winging
To that land across the sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-Tree!_

_THE LITTLE PEACH_

A little peach in the orchard grew,
A little peach of emerald hue:
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew,
It grew.

One day, walking the orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue--
Those two.

Up at the peach a club they threw:
Down from the limb on which it grew,
Fell the little peach of emerald hue--
Too true!

John took a bite, and Sue took a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,--
Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,--
Paregoric too.

Under the turf where the daisies grew,
They planted John and his sister Sue;
And their little souls to the angels flew--
Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?
Ah, well! its mission on earth is through--
Adieu!

_GOOD JAMES AND NAUGHTY REGINALD_

Once upon a Time there was a Bad boy whose Name was Reginald and there was a Good boy whose Name was James. Reginald would go Fishing when his Mamma told him Not to, and he Cut off the Cat’s Tail with the Bread Knife one Day, and then told Mamma the Baby had Driven it in with the Rolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when his Mamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go into a Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said. That is why they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came Christmas. Mamma said, You have been so Bad, my son Reginald, you will not Get any Presents from Santa Claus this Year; but you, my Son James, will get Oodles of Presents, because you have Been Good. Will you Believe it, Children, that Bad boy Reginald said he didn’t Care a Darn and he Kicked three Feet of Veneering off the Piano just for Meanness. Poor James was so sorry for Reginald that he cried for Half an Hour after he Went to Bed that Night. Reginald lay wide Awake until he saw James was Asleep and then he Said if these people think they can Fool me, they are Mistaken. Just then Santa Claus came down the Chimney. He had lots of Pretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes and Pretended to be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said, Reginald is Bad and I will not Put any nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James, I will Fill your Stocking Plumb full of Toys, because You are Good. So Santa Claus went to Work and Put, Oh! heaps and Heaps of Goodies in James’ stocking but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald’s stocking. And then he Laughed to himself and Said, I guess Reginald will be sorry to-morrow because he Was so Bad. As he said this he Crawled up the chimney and rode off in his Sleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots Reginald was no Spring Chicken. He just Got right Straight out of Bed and changed all those Toys and Truck from James’ stocking into his own. Santa Claus will Have to Sit up all Night, said He, when he Expects to get away with my Baggage. The next morning James got out of Bed and when He had Said his Prayers he Limped over to his Stocking, licking his chops and Carrying his Head as High as a Bull going through a Brush Fence. But when he found there was Nothing in his stocking and that Reginald’s Stocking was as Full as Papa Is when he comes home Late from the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and began to Wonder why on Earth he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent a Happy Christmas and James was very Miserable. After all, Children, it Pays to be Bad, so Long as you Combine Intellect with Crime.

--_From the Tribune Primer._

Edgar Wilson Nye, known commonly as Bill Nye, wrote in prose and also made a success on the lecture platform, as well as in his newspaper work.

_THE GARDEN HOSE_

It is now the proper time for the cross-eyed woman to fool with the garden hose. I have faced death in almost every form, and I do not know what fear is, but when a woman with one eye gazing into the zodiac and the other peering into the middle of next week, and wearing one of those floppy sun-bonnets, picks up the nozzle of the garden hose and turns on the full force of the institution, I fly wildly to the Mountains of Hepsidam.

Water won’t hurt any one, of course, if care is used not to forget and drink any of it, but it is this horrible suspense and uncertainty about facing the nozzle of a garden hose in the hands of a cross-eyed woman that unnerves and paralyzes me.

Instantaneous death is nothing to me. I am as cool and collected where leaden rain and iron hail are thickest as I would be in my own office writing the obituary of the man who steals my jokes. But I hate to be drowned slowly in my good clothes and on dry land, and have my dying gaze rest on a woman whose ravishing beauty would drive a narrow-gage mule into convulsions and make him hate himself t’death.

* * * * *

Richard Kendall Munkittrick wielded a graceful pen and his verses show an original wit.

_WHAT’S IN A NAME?_

In letters large upon a frame,
That visitors might see,
The painter placed his humble name,
O’Callaghan McGee.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,
The critics with a nod
Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman
Adores his native sod.

“His stout heart’s patriotic flame
There’s naught on earth can quell
He takes no wild romantic name
To make his pictures sell!”

Then poets praised in sonnets neat
His stroke so bold and free;
No parlor wall was thought complete
That hadn’t a McGee.

All patriots before McGee
Threw lavishly their gold;
His works in the Academy
Were very quickly sold.

His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”
His “When the Morning Smiled,”
His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”
His “Portrait of a Child,”
Were purchased in a single day
And lauded as divine.

* * * * *

That night as in his _atelier_
The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames,
He grinned from ear to ear:
“They little think my _real_ name’s
V. Stuyvesant De Vere!”

Edward Waterman Townsend, varied the time-honored tradition of misspelling by introducing an example of Bowery slang. His _Chimmie Fadden_ took a firm hold on the public notice and the vogue lasted for many years.

* * * * *

“Naw, I ain’t stringin’ ye. ‘Is Whiskers is de loidy’s fadder. Sure!

“’E comes ter me room wid der loidy, ’is Whiskers does, an’ he says, says ’e, ‘Is dis Chimmie Fadden?’ says ’e.

“‘Yer dead on,’ says I.

“‘Wot t’ell?’ ’e says, turning to ’is daughter. ‘Wot does de young man say?’ ’e says.

“Den de loidy she kinder smiled--say, ye otter seed ’er smile. Say, it’s outter sight. Dat’s right. Well, she says: ‘I t’ink I understan’ Chimmie’s langwudge,’ she says. ‘‘E means ’e’s de kid youse lookin’ fer. ’E’s de very mug.’

“Dat’s wot she says; somet’n like dat, only a felly can’t just remember ’er langwudge.

“Den ’is Whiskers gives me a song an’ dance ’bout me bein’ a brave young man fer t’umpin’ der mug wot insulted ’is daughter, an’ ’bout ’is heart bein’ all broke dat ’is daughter should be doin’ missioner work in de slums.

“I says, ‘Wot tell’; but der loidy, she says, ‘Chimmie,’ says she, ‘me fadder needs a footman,’ she says, ‘an’ I taut you’d be de very mug fer de job,’ says she. See?

“Say, I was all broke up, an’ couldn’t say nottin’, fer ’is Whiskers was so solemn. See?

“‘Wot’s yer lay now?’ says ’is Whiskers, or somet’n’ like dat.

“Say, I could ’ave give ’im a string ’bout me bein’ a hard-workin’ boy, but I knowed der loidy was dead on ter me, so I only says, says I, ‘Wot t’ell?’ says I, like dat, ‘Wot t’ell?’ See?

“Den ’is Whiskers was kinder paralized like, an’ ’e turns to ’is daughter an’ ’e says--dese is ’is very words--’e says:

“Really, Fannie,’ ’e says, ‘really, Fannie, you must enterpret dis young man’s langwudge.’

“Den she laffs an’ says, says she:

“Chimmie is a good boy if ’e only had a chance,’ she says.

“Den ’is Whiskers ’e says, ‘I dare say,’ like dat. See? ‘I dare say.’ See? Say, did ye ever ’ear words like dem? Say, I was fer tellin’ ’is Whiskers ter git t’ell outter dat, only fer der loidy. See?

“Well, den we all give each odder a song an’ dance, an’ de end was I was took fer a footman. See? Tiger, ye say? Naw, dey don’t call me no tiger.

“Say, wouldn’t de gang on de Bow’ry be paralized if dey seed me in dis harness? Ain’t it great? Sure! Wot am I doin’? Well, I’m doin’ pretty well. I had ter t’ump a felly dey calls de butler de first night I was dere for callin’ me a heathen. See? Say, dere’s a kid in de house wot opens de front door when youse ring de bell, an’ I win all ’is boodle de second night I was dere showin’ ’im how ter play Crusoe. Say, it’s a dead easy game, but de loidy she axed me not to bunco de farmers--dey’s all farmers up in dat house, dead farmers--so I leaves ’em alone. ’Scuse me now, dat’s me loidy comin’ outter der shop. I opens de door of de carriage an’ she says, ‘Home, Chames.’ Den I jumps on de box an’ strings de driver. Say, ’e’s a farmer, too. I’ll tell you some more ’bout de game next time. So long.”

--_Chimmie Fadden._

Sam Walter Foss added to his misspelling a certain understanding of human nature and produced many mildly satirical verses.

_A PHILOSOPHER_

Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize
About the ocean and the skies,
An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon
About the other side the moon;
An’ ’bout the natur of the place
Ten miles beyend the end of space.
An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank
If he wouldn’t kinder try to yank
Hisself outdoors an’ git some wood
To make her kitchen fire good,
So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,
He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize
About the natur an’ the size
Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,
An’ wonder how they made ’em flop.
He’d calkerlate how long a skid
’Twould take to move the sun, he did;
An’ if the skid wuz strong an’ prime,
It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.
An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout
If he wouldn’t kinder waltz about
An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,
He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize
’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,
Then lettin’ out the lots to rent
So’s he could make an honest cent.
An’ if he’d find it pooty tough
To borry cash fer fencin’ stuff.
An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth
An’ go to Europe for his health,
Or save his cash till he’d enough
To buy some more of fencin’ stuff.
Then, if his wife she’d ask the gump
If he wouldn’t kinder try to hump
Hisself to t’other side the door
So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,
He’d look at her with mournful eyes,
An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize
’Bout w’at it wuz held up the skies,
An’ how God made this earthly ball
Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,
An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form
Of nawthin’ that He made it from.
Then, if his wife sh’d ask the freak
If he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak
Out to the barn an’ find some aigs,
He’d never move, nor lift his laigs,
He’d never stir, nor try to rise,
But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize
About the earth an’ sea an’ skies,
An’ scratch his head an’ ask the cause
Of w’at there wuz before time wuz,
An’ w’at the universe’d do
Bimeby w’en time had all got through;
An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb
If we sh’d travel out er time,
An’ if we’d need, w’en we got there
To keep our watches in repair.
Then, if his wife she’d ask the gawk
If he wouldn’t kinder try to walk
To where she had the table spread
An’ kinder git his stomach fed,
He’d leap for that ’ar kitchen door,
An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”
An’ w’en he’d got his supper et,
He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,
An’ fold his arms an’ shet his eyes,
An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.

Finley Peter Dunne created the immortal Mr. Dooley about the time of the Spanish War.

The Irish dialect is perfect, the humor most droll and the wit quiet and clean-cut.

Among the best of the chapters is the one that burlesques the proceedings that took place at a celebrated murder trial of the day.

_ON EXPERT TESTIMONY_

“Annything new?” said Mr. Hennessy, who had been waiting patiently for Mr. Dooley to put down his newspaper.

“I’ve been r-readin’ th’ tistimony iv th’ Lootgert case,” said Mr. Dooley.

“What d’ye think iv it?”

“I think so,” said Mr. Dooley.

“Think what?”

“How do I know?” said Mr. Dooley. “How do I know what I think? I’m no combination iv chemist, doctor, osteologist, polisman, an’ sausage-maker, that I can give ye an opinion right off th’ bat. A man needs to be all iv thim things to detarmine annything about a murdher trile in these days. This shows how intilligent our methods is, as Hogan says. A large German man is charged with puttin’ his wife away into a breakfas’-dish, an’ he says he didn’t do it. Th’ question thin is, Did or did not Alphonse Lootgert stick Mrs. L. into a vat, an’ rayjooce her to a quick lunch? Am I right?”

“Ye ar-re,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“That’s simple enough. What th’ Coort ought to’ve done was to call him up, an’ say: ‘Lootgert, where’s ye’er good woman?’ If Lootgert cudden’t tell, he ought to be hanged on gin’ral principles; f’r a man must keep his wife around th’ house, an’ whin she isn’t there it shows he’s a poor provider. But, if Lootgert says, ‘I don’t know where me wife is,’ the Coort shud say:’ Go out an’ find her. If ye can’t projooce her in a week, I’ll fix ye.’ An’ let that be th’ end iv it.

“But what do they do? They get Lootgert into coort an’ stand him up befure a gang iv young rayporthers an’ th’ likes iv thim to make pitchers iv him. Thin they summon a jury composed iv poor tired, sleepy expressmen an’ tailors an’ clerks. Thin they call in a profissor from a college. ‘Professor,’ says th’ lawyer f’r the State, ‘I put it to ye if a wooden vat three hundherd an’ sixty feet long, twenty-eight feet deep, an’ sivinty-five feet wide, an’ if three hundherd pounds iv caustic soda boiled, an’ if the leg iv a guinea-pig, an’ ye said yestherdah about bi-carbonate iv soda, an’ if it washes up an’ washes over, an’ th’ slimy, slippery stuff, an’ if a false tooth or a lock iv hair or a jawbone or a goluf ball across th’ cellar eleven feet nine inches--that is, two inches this way an’ five gallons that?’ ‘I agree with ye intirely,’ says th’ profissor. I made lab’ratory experiments in an’ ir’n basin, with bichloride iv gool, which I will call soup-stock, an’ coal-tar, which I will call ir’n filings. I mixed th’ two over a hot fire, an’ left in a cool place to harden. I thin packed it in ice, which I will call glue, an’ rock-salt, which I will call fried eggs, an’ obtained a dark queer solution that is a cure f’r freckles, which I will call antimony or doughnuts or annything I blamed please.’