Chapter V: Part II: Humorous Hits (1)

THE TRAIN-MISSER

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin--
Ef I haint missed that train agin!
Chuff! and whistle! and toot! and ring!
But blast and blister the dasted train!--
How it does it I can't explain!
Git here thirty-five minutes before
The dern thing's due!--and, drat the thing!
It'll manage to git past--shore!

The more I travel around, the more
I got no sense!-- To stand right here
And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!
I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!
Ticket-agent's a dad-burned bore!--
Sell you a ticket's all they keer!--
Ticket-agents ort to all be
Prosecuted--and that's jes' what!--
How'd I know which train's fer me?
And how'd I know which train was not?--
Goern and comin' and gone astray,
And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way!

Ef I could jes' sneak round behind
Myse'f, where I could git full swing,
I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing!
Till I jes' got jerked up and fined!--
Fer here I stood, as a dern fool's apt
To, and let that train jes' chuff and choo
Right apast me--and mouth jes' gapped
Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!

"Afterwhiles," copyright 1898, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Used by special permission of the publishers.

THE ELOCUTIONIST'S CURFEW

BY W. D. NESBIT

England's sun was slowly setting--(Raise your right hand to
your brow),
Filling all the land with beauty--(Wear a gaze of rapture now);
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair
(With a movement slow and graceful you may now push back
your hair);
He with sad, bowed head--(A drooping of your head will be all
right,
Till you hoarsely, sadly whisper)--"Curfew must not ring
to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered--(Try here to resemble
Bess,
Tho of course you know she'd never worn quite such a charming
dress),
"I've a lover in that prison"--(Don't forget to roll your r's
And to shiver as tho gazing through the iron prison bars),
"Cromwell will not come till sunset"--(Speak each word as
tho you'd bite
Every syllable to pieces)--"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton--(Here extend your velvet
palm,
Let it tremble like the sexton's as tho striving to be calm),
"Long, long y'ars I've rung the curfew"--(Don't forget to make
it y'ars
With a pitiful inflection that a world of sorrow bears),
"I have done my duty ever"--(Draw yourself up to your height,
For you're speaking as the sexton)--"Gyurl, the curfew rings
to-night!"

Out she swung, far out--(Now here is where you've got to do
your best;
Let your head be twisted backward, let great sobs heave up your
chest,
Swing your right foot through an arc of ninety lineal degrees,
Then come down and swing your left foot, and be sure don't
bend your knees;
Keep this up for fifteen minutes till your face is worn and white,
Then gaze at your mangled fingers)--"Curfew shall not ring
to-night!"

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell--(Right hand to the brow
once more;
Let your eyes look down the distance, say above the entrance
door)--
At his foot she told her story--(Lift your hands as tho they
hurt)--
And her sweet young face so haggard--(Now your pathos you
assert,
Then you straighten up as Cromwell, and be sure you get it right;
Don't say "Go, your liver loves!")--well: "Curfew shall not ring
to-night!"

Reprinted from _Harper's Magazine_, by permission of Harper and Brothers.

MELPOMENUS JONES

BY STEPHEN LEACOCK

Some people find great difficulty in saying good-by when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away, he rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think----" Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues.

I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate--such a dear young man and only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own--absolutely nothing to do. He chatted a while, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly:

"Well, I think I----"

But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no, Mr. Jones, can't you really stay a little longer?"

Jones was always truthful--"Oh, yes, of course, I--er--can."

"Then please don't go."

He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again.

"Well, now, I think I really----"

"You must go? I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner----"

"Oh, well, so I could, you know, if----"

"Then please stay; I'm sure my husband will be delighted."

"All right, I'll stay"; and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable.

Father came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid.

After dinner mother undertook to "draw him out" and showed him photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them--photos of father's uncle and his wife, and mother's brother and his little boy, and awfully interesting photos of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of father's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of father as the devil for a fancy-dress ball.

At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose.

"I must say good-night now," he pleaded.

"Say good-night! why it's only half-past eight! Have you anything to do?"

"Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably.

Just then it turned out that the favorite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones' hat; so father said that he _must_ stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Father had the pipe and gave Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. Then father began to get very tired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better stay all night--they could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and father put Jones to bed in the spare-room and curst him heartily.

After breakfast next day, father went off to his work in the city and left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. When father came home in the evening he was surprized and chagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockey him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his board, he! he! The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then wrung father's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed like a child.

In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on his health. He passed his time in drinking tea and looking at photographs. He would stand for hours together gazing at the photograph of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform--talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing.

At length the crash came. They carried him up-stairs in a raging delirium of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, not even father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would start up from his bed and shriek: "Well, I think I----" and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry: "Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! Hear! Hear!"

At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation he passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said: "Well--the angels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon."

HER FIFTEEN MINUTES

BY TOM MASSON

At exactly fifteen minutes to eight
His step was heard at the garden gate.

And then, with heart that was light and gay,
He laughed to himself in a jubilant way,

And rang the bell for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him;

And told the servant, with joyous air,
To say there were fifteen minutes to spare.

And then for fifteen minutes he sat
In the parlor dim, and he held his hat,

And waited and sighed for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him,

Until, as the clock overhead struck eight,
He muttered: "Great Scott! it is getting late";

And took a turn on the parlor floor,
And waited for fifteen minutes more;

And thought of those seats in the front parquet.
And midnight came, and the break of day;

That day and the next, and the next one, too,
He sat and waited the long hours through.

Then time flew on and the years sped by,
And still he sat, with expectant eye

And lengthening beard, for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him;

Until one night, as with palsied hand
He sat in the chair, for he couldn't stand,

And drummed in an aimless way, she came
And opened the door with her withered frame.

The moon's bright rays touched the silvered hair
Of her who had fifteen minutes to spare.

And then in tones that he strained to hear,
She spoke, and she said: "Are you ready, dear?"

Reprinted by permission of _Life_ Publishing Company.

THE FOXES' TAILS

ANONYMOUS

_Minister_--Weel, Sandy, man; and how did ye like the sermon the day?

_Precentor_--Eh?

_Minister_--What did you think o' the discourse as a whole?

_Precentor_--All I was gaun to say was jeest this, that every noo and then in your discoorse the day--I dinna say oftener than noo and then--jeest occasionally--it struck me that there was maybe--frae time to time--jeest a wee bit o' _exaggeration_.

_Minister_--Exagger--what, Sir?

_Precentor_--Weel, maybe that's ower strong a word, I dinna want to offend ye. I mean jeest--_amplification_, like.

_Minister_--Exaggeration! amplification! What the deil mischief d'ye mean, Sir?

_Precentor_--There, there, there! I'll no say anither word. I dinna mean to rouse ye like that. All I meant to say was that you jeest _streetched the pint_ a wee bit.

_Minister_--_Streetched the pint!_ D'ye mean to say, Sir, that I tell _lees_?

_Precentor_--Oh! no, no, no--but I didna gang sae far as a' that.

_Minister_--Ye went quite far enough, Sir. Sandy, I call upon you, if ever ye should hear me say another word out o' joint, to pull me up there and then.

_Precentor_--Losh! Sir; but how could I pull ye up i' the kirk?

_Minister_--Ye can give me sort o' a signal.

_Precentor_--How could I gie ye a signal i' the kirk?

_Minister_--Ye could make some kind o' a noise.

_Precentor_--A noise i' the kirk?

_Minister_--Ay. Ye're sittin' just down aneath me, ye ken; so ye might just put up your held, and give a bit whustle (whistles), like that.

_Precentor_--A whustle!

_Minister_--Ay, a whustle!

_Precentor_--But would it no be an awfu' sin?

_Minister_--Hoots, man; doesna the wind whustle on the Sawbbath?

_Precentor_--Ay; I never thought o' that afore. Yes, the wind whustles.

_Minister_--Well, just a wee bit soughing whustle like the wind (whistles softly).

_Precentor_--Well, if there's nae harm in 't, I'll do my best.

So, ultimately, it was agreed between the minister and precentor, that the first word of exaggeration from the pulpit was to elicit the signal from the desk below.

Next Sunday came. Had the minister only stuck to his sermon that day, he would have done very well. But it was his habit, before the sermon, to read a chapter from the Bible, adding such remarks and explanations of his own as he thought necessary. On the present occasion he had chosen one that bristled with difficulties. It was that chapter which describes Samson as catching three hundred foxes, tying them tail to tail, setting firebrands in their midst, starting them among the standing corn of the Philistines, and burning it down. As he closed the description, he shut the book, and commenced the _eloocidation_ as follows:

"My dear freends, I daresay you have been wondering in your minds how it was possible that Samson could catch three hundred foxes.

"Well, then, we are told in the Scriptures that Samson was the strongest man that ever lived. But, we are not told that he was a great runner. But if he catched these three hundred foxes he must have been a great runner, and therefore I contend that we have a perfect right to assume, by all the laws of Logic and Scientific History, that he was the fastest runner that ever was born; and that was how he catched his three hundred foxes!

"But after we get rid of this difficulty, my freends, another crops up--after he has catched his three hundred foxes, how does he manage to keep them all together?

"Now you will please bear in mind, in the _first place_, that it was _foxes_ that Samson catched. Now we don't catch foxes, as a general rule, in the streets of a _toon_; therefore it is more than probable that Samson catched them in the _country_, and if he catched them in the country it is natural to suppose that he 'bided in the country; and if he 'bided in the country it is not unlikely that he lived at a farm-house. Now at farm-houses we have stables and barns, and _therefore_ we may now consider it a settled pint, that as he catched his foxes, one by one, he stapped them into a good-sized barn, and steeked the door and locked it,--_here we overcome the second stumbling-block_. But no sooner have we done this, than a third rock of offense loups up to fickle us. After he has catched his foxes; after he has got them all snug in the barn under lock and key--_how in the world did he tie their tails together?_ There is a fickler. But it is a great thing for poor, ignorant folk like you, that there has been great and learned men who have been to colleges, and universities, and seats o' learning--the same as mysel', ye ken--and instead o' going into the kirk, like me, they have gone traveling into foreign parts; and they have written books o' their travels; and we can read their books. Now, among other places, some of these learned men have traveled into _Canaan_, and some into _Palestine_, and some few into the _Holy Land_; and these last mentioned travelers tell us, that in these Eastern or Oriental climes, the foxes there are _a total different breed o' cattle a'thegither frae our foxes_; that they are _great, big beasts_--and, what's the most astonishing thing about them, and what helps to explain this wonderful feat of Samson's, is, that they've all got _most extraordinary long tails_; in fact, these Eastern travelers tell us that these foxes' tails are actually _forty feet long_.

_Precentor_ (whistles).

_Minister_ (somewhat disturbed)--"Oh! I ought to say that there are _other travelers_, and _later travelers_ than the travelers I've been talking to you about, and they say this statement is rather an _exaggeration_ on the whole, and that these foxes' tails are never more than _twenty feet long_.

_Precentor_ (whistles).

_Minister_ (disturbed and confused)--"Be--be--before I leave this subject a'thegither, my freends, I may just add that there has been a considerable diversity o' opinion about the length o' these animals' tails. Ye see one man says one thing, and anither, anither; and I've spent a good lot o' learned research in the matter mysel'; and after examining one authority, and anither authority, and putting one authority again the ither, I've come to the conclusion that these foxes' tails, on an average, are seldom more than _fifteen and a half feet long_.

_Precentor_ (whistles).

_Minister_ (angrily)--"Sandy McDonald, I'll no tak anither inch off o' the beasts' tails, even gin ye should whustle every tooth oot o' your head. Do ye think the foxes o' the Scriptures had na tails at a'?"

THE DEAD KITTEN

ANONYMOUS

You's as stiff an' cold as a stone, little cat;
Dey's done frowed out an' left you all alone, little cat;
I's a-strokin' you's fur
But you don't never purr,
Nor hump up anywhere--
Little cat, why is dat?
Is you's purrin' an' humpin' up done?

An' why is you's little foot tied, little cat?
Did dey pisen you's tummick inside, little cat?
Did dey pound you wif bricks
Or wif big nasty sticks
Or abuse you wif kicks?
Little cat, tell me dat.
Did dey laff whenever you cried?

Did it hurt werry bad when you died, little cat?
Oh, why didn't you wun off and hide, little cat?
Dey is tears in my eyes,
'Cause I most always cries
When a pussy-cat dies,
Little cat, tink of dat,
An' I am awfully solly, besides.

Des lay still, down in de sof' groun', little cat,
While I tucks the green grass awound, little cat,
Dey can't hurt you no more,
W'en you's tired and so sore;
Des' sleep quiet, you pore
Little cat, wif a pat,
And forget all the kicks of the town.

THE WEATHER FIEND

ANONYMOUS

One hot day last summer, a young man dressed in thin clothes, entered a Broadway car, and seating himself opposite a stout old gentleman, said, pleasantly:

"Pretty warm, isn't it?"

"What's pretty warm?"

"Why, the weather."

"What weather?"

"Why, this weather."

"Well, how's this different from any other weather?"

"Well, it is warmer."

"How do you know it is?"

"I suppose it is."

"Isn't the weather the same everywhere?"

"Why, no,--no; it's warmer in some places and it's colder in others."

"What makes it warmer in some places than it's colder in others?"

"Why, the sun,--the effect of the sun's heat."

"Makes it colder in some places than it's warmer in others? Never heard of such a thing."

"No, no, no. I didn't mean that. The sun makes it warmer."

"Then what makes it colder?"

"I believe it's the ice."

"What ice?"

"Why, the ice,--the ice,--the ice that was frozen by--by--by the frost."

"Have you ever seen any ice that wasn't frozen?"

"No,--that is, I believe I haven't."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"I was just trying to talk about the weather."

"And what do you know about it,--what do you know about the weather?"

"Well, I thought I knew something, but I see I don't and that's a fact."

"No, sir, I should say you didn't! Yet you come into this car and force yourself upon the attention of a stranger and begin to talk about the weather as tho you owned it, and I find you don't know a solitary thing about the matter you yourself selected for a topic of conversation. You don't know one thing about meteorological conditions, principles, or phenomena; you can't tell me why it is warm in August and cold in December; you don't know why icicles form faster in the sunlight than they do in the shade; you don't know why the earth grows colder as it comes nearer the sun; you can't tell why a man can be sun-struck in the shade; you can't tell me how a cyclone is formed nor how the trade-winds blow; you couldn't find the calm-center of a storm if your life depended on it; you don't know what a sirocco is nor where the southwest monsoon blows; you don't know the average rainfall in the United States for the past and current year; you don't know why the wind dries up the ground more quickly than a hot sun; you don't know why the dew falls at night and dries up in the day; you can't explain the formation of fog; you don't know one solitary thing about the weather and you are just like a thousand and one other people who always begin talking about the weather because they don't know anything else, when, by the Aurora Borealis, they know less about the weather than they do about anything else in the world, sir!"

THE RACE QUESTION

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

SCENE: _Race-track. Enter old colored man, seating himself._

"Oomph, oomph. De work of de devil sho' do p'ospah. How 'do, suh? Des tol'able, thankee, suh. How you come on? Oh, I was des asayin' how de wo'k of de ol' boy do p'ospah. Doesn't I frequent the race-track? No, suh; no, suh. I's Baptis' myse'f an' I 'low hit's all devil's doin's. Wouldn't 'a' be'n hyeah to-day, but I got a boy named Jim dat's long gone in sin an' he gwine ride one dem hosses. Oomph, dat boy! I sut'ny has talked to him and labohed wid him night an' day, but it was allers in vain, an' I's feahed dat de day of his reckonin' is at han'.

"Ain't I nevah been intrusted in racin'? Humph, you don't s'pose I been dead all my life, does you? What you laffin at? Oh, scuse me, scuse me, you unnerstan' what I means. You don' give a ol' man time to splain hisse'f. What I means is dat dey has been days when I walked in de counsels of de ongawdly and set in de seats of sinnahs; and long erbout dem times I did tek most ovahly strong to racin'.

"How long dat been? Oh, dat's way long back, 'fo I got religion, mo'n thuty years ago, dough I got to own I has fell from grace several times sense.

"Yes, suh, I ust to ride. Ki-yi! I nevah furgit de day dat my ol' Mas' Jack put me on 'June Boy,' his black geldin', an' say to me, 'Si,' says he, 'if you don' ride de tail offen Cunnel Scott's mare, "No Quit," I's gwine to larrup you twell you cain't set in de saddle no mo'.' Hyah, hyah. My ol' Mas' was a mighty han' fu' a joke. I knowed he wan't gwine to do nuffin' to me.

"Did I win? Why, whut you spec' I's doin' hyeah ef I hadn' winned? W'y, ef I'd 'a' let dat Scott maih beat my 'June Boy' I'd 'a' drowned myse'f in Bull Skin Crick.

"Yes, suh, I winned; w'y, at de finish I come down dat track lak hit was de Jedgment Day an' I was de las' one up! 'f I didn't race dat maih's tail clean off. I 'low I made hit do a lot o' switchin'. An' aftah dat my wife Mandy she ma'ed me. Hyah, hyah, I ain't bin much on hol'in' de reins sence.

"Sh! dey comin' in to wa'm up. Dat Jim, dat Jim, dat my boy; you nasty, putrid little raskil. Des a hundred an' eight, suh, des a hundred an' eight. Yas, suh, dat's my Jim; I don' know whaih he gits his dev'ment at.

"What's de mattah wid dat boy? Whyn't he hunch hisse'f up on dat saddle right? Jim, Jim, whyn't you limber up, boy; hunch yo'sef up on dat hose lak you belonged to him and knowed you was dah. What I done showed you? De black raskil, goin' out dah tryin' to disgrace his own daddy. Hyeah he come back. Dat's bettah, you scoun'ril.

"Dat's a right smaht-lookin' hoss he's a-ridin', but I ain't a-trustin' dat bay wid de white feet--dat is, not altogethah. She's a favourwright, too; but dey's sumpin' else in dis worl' sides playin' favourwrights. Jim battah had win dis race. His hoss ain't a five to one shot, but I spec's to go way fum hyeah wid money ernuff to mek a donation on de pa'sonage.

"Does I bet? Well, I don' des call hit bettin'; but I resks a little w'en I t'inks I kin he'p de cause. 'Tain't gamblin', o' co'se; I wouldn't gamble fu nothin', dough my ol' Mastah did ust to say dat a hones' gamblah was ez good ez a hones' preachah an' mos' nigh ez skace.

"Look out dah, man, dey's off, dat nasty bay maih wid de white feet leadin' right f'um de pos'. I knowed it! I knowed it! I had my eye on huh all de time. O Jim, Jim, why didn't you git in bettah, way back dah fouf? Dah go de gong! I knowed dat wasn't no staht. Troop back dah, you raskils, hyah, hyah.

"I wush day boy wouldn't do so much jummyin erroun' wid day hoss. Fust t'ing he know he ain't gwine to know whaih he's at.

"Dah, dah dey go ag'in. Hit's a sho' t'ing dis time. Bettah, Jim, bettah. Dey didn't leave you dis time. Hug dat bay maih, hug her close, boy. Don't press dat hoss yit. He holdin' back a lot o' t'ings.

"He's gainin'! doggone my cats, he's gainin'! an' dat hoss o' his'n gwine des ez stiddy ez a rockin'-chair. Jim allus was a good boy.

"Counfound these spec's, I cain't see 'em skacely; huh, you say dey's neck an' neck; now I see 'em! and Jimmy's a-ridin' like---- Huh, huh, I laik to said sumpin'.

"De bay maih's done huh bes', she's done huh bes'! Dey's turned into the stretch an' still see-sawin'. Let him out, Jimmy, let him out! Dat boy done th'owed de reins away. Come on, Jimmy, come on! He's leadin' by a nose. Come on, I tell you, you black rapscallion, come on! Give 'em hell, Jimmy! give 'em hell! Under de wire an'a len'th ahead. Doggone my cats! wake me up wen dat othah hoss comes in.

"No, suh, I ain't gwine stay no longah--I don't app'ove o' racin'; I's gwine 'roun' an' see dis hyeah bookmakah an' den I's gwine dreckly home, suh, dreckly home. I's Baptis' myse'f, an' I don't app'ove o' no sich doin's!"

Reprinted by permission from "The Heart of Happy Hollow," Dodd, Mead & Company, New York.

WHEN THE WOODBINE TURNS RED

ANONYMOUS

They sat in a garden of springing flowers,
In a tangle of woodland ways;
And theirs was the sweetest of summer bowers,
Where they passed long summer days.
But, alas, when the sunbeams faded away,
And those brightest of days had fled
'Neath the old trysting trees they parted for aye,
When the woodbine leaves turned red.

When the woodbine leaves turned red,
And their last farewell was said,
They swore to be true, as all lovers do,
When the woodbine leaves turn red.
She gave him a flower sweet;
They vowed they would surely meet
In a year and a day; tho they parted for aye
When the woodbine leaves turned red.

They met in the garden again next year,
And their ways had been far apart.
He grasped both hands with a sigh and a tear,
And murmured, "My old sweetheart,
I have to confess it, I can't marry you,
For already have I been wed."
And she answered, blushing, "So have I, too."
_And the woodbine turned red._

CUPID'S CASUISTRY

BY W. J. LAMPTON

We were sitting in the moonlight
Of a radiant, rosy June night,
When I whispered: "Kitty, don't you
Wish I'd kiss you? Let me, won't you?"

Kitty was a rustic maiden,
And I thought not heavy laden
With the wisdom of the ages
Writ on cultured cupid's pages.

Kitty answered: "No, I mustn't
Let you kiss me: my ma doesn't
Think it proper that her Kitty
Be like maidens in the city."

"Oh!" I stammered. Then did Kitty
Whisper in a tone of pity:
"I might kiss _you_ and be true, sir,
To my mother; would that do, sir?"

WHEN MAH LADY YAWNS

BY CHARLES T. GRILLEY

When mah Cah'line yawns, ah'm 'spicious
Dat she tinks de time po'pitious
Fo' me to tu'n mah 'tention to de clock upon de wall.
Dat's de cue to quit mah talkin',
An' a gentle hint dat walkin'
Would flicitate de briefness of mah call.

Th' fus' gal that ah coh'ted
Ouah ma'idge it was thwa'ted
Because ah was so green ah didn' know.
When she yawns it was behoovin'
Dat dis dahkey should be movin',
Twell at las' she says, "Fo Lawd's sake, niggah, go!"

Den ah took mah hat an' stah'ted,
An f'om dat hour we pah'ted,
An ah nevah seen dat cullud gal no mo'.
But it taught me dis yer lesson
Dat a yawn am de expression
Dat invites yo' to be movin' to'ards de do'.

So take dis friendly wah'nin',--
Should yo' lady love stah't yawnin'
Altho de sudden pah'ting cost yo' pain,
If she's one you'd like t' marry,
Aftah one good yawn don' tarry,
Den yo sho'ly will be welcome da again.

WATCHIN' THE SPARKIN'

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Say, Jim, ye wanter see the fun?
Jemimy's sparkin's jess begun!
Git deown--this box won't hold but one
Fer peekin' through the winder!
Yeou stay down thar jess whar ye be;
I'll tell ye all thar is to see;
Then you'll enjoy it well as me;
An' deon't yeou try to hinder!

That teacher is the dumbdest goose
That Cupid ever turned eout loose;
His learnin' hain't no sort o' use
In sparkin' our Jemimy!
Tho peekin's 'ginst the golden reule,
He told us t'other day in scheool
To watch him close; so git a steool
An' stand up here close by me.

Neow he's got suthin' in his head
That somehow ruther's gotter be said;
Keeps hitchin' up, an' blushin' red,
With one leg over t'other.
He wants to do the thing up breown.
Wall, he's the biggest gawk in teown:
Showin' her pictur's upside deown;
An' she don't know it nuther!

He's got his arm areound her chair,
And wonders if she'll leave it there.
But she looks like she didn't care!
I'll bet he's goin' to kiss 'er;
He's gittin' closer to her face,
An' pickin' out the softest place,
An' sort o' measurin' off the space,
Jess so as not to miss 'er.

If she'd git mad, an' box his ear,
'Twould knock his plans clean out o' gear,
An' set him back another year;
But she ain't goin' to do it:
She thinks the teacher's jess tip-top,
An' she won't let no chances drop;
If ever he sets in to pop,
She's goin' to pull him through it!

I gum! an' if he ain't the wust!
Waitin' fer her to kiss him fust!
He's goin' to do it neow er bu'st:
He's makin' preparation!
Neow watch him steppin' on her toes--
That's jess to keep her down, I s'pose.
Wall, thar, he's kissed her on the nose!
So much fer edecation!

By permission of Messrs. Forbes & Co., Chicago.

THE WAY OF A WOMAN

BY BYRON W. KING

It was the last night before leap-year; it was the last hour before leap-year; in fact, the minute-hand had moved round the dial face of the clock until it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,--fifteen minutes of leap-year. John and Mary were seated in Mary's father's parlor. There was plenty of furniture there but they were using only a limited portion of it. John watched the minute-hand move round the dial face of the clock until, like the finger of destiny, it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,--fifteen minutes of leap-year, when he gasped hard, clutched his coat collar, and said,--

"Mary, in just fifteen minutes, Mary,--fifteen minutes by that clock, Mary,--another year, Mary,--like the six thousand years that have gone before it, Mary,--will have gone into the great Past and be forgotten in oblivion, Mary,--and I want to ask you, Mary,--to-night, Mary,--on this sofa, Mary,--if for the next six thousand years,--Mary!!!----"

"John," she said with a winning smile, "you seem very much excited, John,--can I do anything to help you, John?"

"Just sit still, Mary,--just sit still. In just twelve minutes, Mary,--twelve minutes by this clock, Mary,--like the six thousand clocks that have gone before it, Mary,--will be forgotten, Mary,--and I want to ask this clock, Mary,--to-night, on this sofa, Mary,--if when we've been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,--in oblivion, Mary,--and six thousand sofas, Mary!!----"

"John," she said, more smilingly than ever, "you seem quite nervous; would you like to see father?"

"Not for the world, Mary, not for the world! In just eight minutes, Mary,--eight minutes by that awful clock, we'll be forgotten, Mary,--and I want to ask six thousand fathers, Mary,--if when this sofa, Mary,--has been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,--in six thousand oblivions,--I want to ask six thousand Marys six thousand times, Mary!!!!----"

"John," she said, "you don't seem very well. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Mary,--in just three minutes, Mary,--three minutes by that dreadful clock, Mary,--we'll be forgotten, Mary,--six thousand times,--and I want to ask six thousand sofas, Mary,--if when six thousand oblivions have forgotten six thousand fathers in six thousand years, I want to ask six thousand Marys, six thousand times, Mary!!!!----"

Bang! the clock struck. It was leap-year. The clock struck twelve and Mary turning to John, sweetly said:

"John, it's leap-year; will you marry me?"

"Yes!!!"

Gentlemen, there is no use talking, the way of a woman beats you all.

THE YACHT CLUB SPEECH

ANONYMOUS

Mr. Chairman--a--a--a--Mr. Commodore--beg pardon--I assure you that until this moment I had not the remotest expectation that I should be called upon to reply to this toast. (_Pauses, turns round, pulls MS. out of pocket and looks at it._) Therefore I must beg of you, Mr. Captain--a--a--Mr. Commatain--a--a--Mr.--Mr. Cappadore--that you will pardon the confused nature of these remarks, being as they must necessarily be altogether impromptu and extempore. (_Pauses, turns round and looks at MS._) But Mr. Bos'an--a--a--Mr. Bosadore--I feel--I feel even in these few confused expromptu and intempore--intomptu and exprempore--extemptu and imprempore--exprompore remarks--I feel that I can say in the words of the poet, words of the poet--poet--I feel that I can say in the words of the poet--of the poet--poet, and in these few confused remarks--in the words of the poet--(_turns round, looks at MS._)--I feel that I can say in the words of the poet that I feel my heart swell within me. Now Mr. Capasun, Mr. Commasun, why does my heart swell within me--in the few confused--why does my heart swell within me--swell within me--swell within me--what makes my heart swell within me--why does it swell--swell within me? (_Turns round and looks at MS._) Why, Mr. Cappadore--look at George Washington--what did he do?--in the few confused----(_Strikes dramatic attitude with swelled chest and outstretched arm, preparing for burst of eloquence which will not come._) He--huh--he--huh--he--huh--(_turns round and looks at MS._)--he took his stand upon the ship of state--he stood upon the maintopgallant-jib-boomsail and reefed the quivering sail--and when the storms were waging rildly round to wreck his fragile bark, through all the howling tempest he guided her in safety into the harbor of perdition--a--a--a--into the haven of safety. And what did he do then? What did he do then? What did he do then? He--he--he--(_looks at MS._)--there he stood. And then his grateful country-men gathered round him--they gathered round George Washington--they placed him on the summit of the cipadel--their capadol--they held him up before the eyes of the assembled world--around his brow they placed a never-dying wreath--and then in thunder tones which all the world might hear----(_Flourishes MS. before his face, notices it and sits down in great confusion._)

MAMMY'S LI'L' BOY

BY H. S. EDWARDS

Who all time dodgin' en de cott'n en de corn?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time stealin' ole massa's dinner-horn?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, run ter es mammy
En she tek 'im in 'er arms,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time runnin' ole gobble roun' de yard?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who tek 'e stick 'n hit ole possum dog so hard?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, run ter es mammy
En climb up en 'er lap,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time stumpin' es toe ergin er rock?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time er-rippin' big hole en es frock?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, run ter es mammy
En she wipe es li'l' eyes,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time er-losin' de shovel en de rake?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time tryin' ter ride 'e lazy drake?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, scoot fer yer mammy
En she hide yer f'om yer ma,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time er-trottin' ter de kitchen fer er bite?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who mess 'esef wi' taters twell his clothes dey look er sight?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o, li'l boy!
En 'e run ter es mammy
Fer ter git 'im out er trouble,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time er-frettin' en de middle er de day?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time er-gettin' so sleepy 'e can't play?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
En 'e come ter es mammy
Ter rock 'im en 'er arms,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.
Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo,
Shoo, shoo, shoo!

Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo,
Shoo, li'l' baby, shoo!
Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo,
Shoo, shoo, shoo,
Shoo....

Deir now, lay right down on mammy's bed en go 'long back
ter sleep,--shoo-shoo!

Reprinted by permission

CORYDON

BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

_Shepherd_

Good sir, have you seen pass this way
A mischief straight from market-day?
You'd know her at a glance, I think;
Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink;
She has a way of looking back
Over her shoulder, and, alack!
Who gets that look one time, good sir,
Has naught to do but follow her.

_Pilgrim_

I have not seen this maid, methinks,
Tho she that passed had lips like pinks.

_Shepherd_

Or like two strawberries made one
By some sly trick of dew and sun.

_Pilgrim_

A poet!

_Shepherd_

Nay, a simple swain
That tends his flock on yonder plain,
Naught else, I swear by book and bell.
But she that passed--you marked her well.
Was she not smooth as any be
That dwell herein in Arcady?

_Pilgrim_

Her skin was as the satin bark
Of birches.

_Shepherd_

Light or dark?

_Pilgrim_

Quite dark.

_Shepherd_

Then 't was not she.

_Pilgrim_

The peach's side
That gets the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a somber mist.

_Shepherd_

No, that is not the maid I seek,--
_Her_ hair lies gold against the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken tassels of the corn.
And yet--brown locks are far from bad.

_Pilgrim_

Now I bethink me, this one had
A figure like the willow tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;
A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at all;
Her hand--in sooth I lack the words--
Her hand, five slender snow-white birds;
Her voice--tho she but said "Godspeed"--
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.
And her eye--my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's desire--
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.

_Shepherd--thoughtfully_

Good sir, which way did _this_ one go?

* * * * *

_Pilgrim--solus_

So, he is off! the silly youth
Knoweth not Love in sober sooth.
He loves--thus lads at first are blind--
No woman, only womankind.

From the Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Household Edition, by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

GIB HIM ONE UB MINE

BY DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS

A little urchin, ragged, black,
An old cigar "stump" found,
And visions of a jolly smoke,
Began to hover 'round.
But finding that he had no match,
A big store he espied,
And straightway for it made a dash
To have his wants supplied.

"I have no match!" the owner said,
"And, even if I do,
I have no match, you understand,
For such a thing as you!"
Down in the ragged pantaloons,
The little black hand went,
And forth it came, now holding fast
A big old-fashioned cent.

"Gib me a box," the urchin said,
His bosom filled with joy;
And calmly lighted his "cigar,"
A radiant happy boy.
Then handing back the box, he said,
As his face with pride did shine:
"Nex' time a gent'mun wants a match,
Jes' gib him one ub mine!"

A LESSON WITH THE FAN

ANONYMOUS

If you want to learn a lesson with the fan,
I'm quite prepared to teach you all I can.
So ladies, everyone, pray observe how it is done,
This simple little lesson with the fan!

If you chance to be invited to a ball,
To meet someone you don't expect at all,
And you want him close beside you, while a dozen friends divide you,
Well, of course--it's most unladylike to call.

So you look at him a minute, nothing more,
And you cast your eyes demurely on the floor,
Then you wave your fan, just so, well--toward you, don't you know,--
It's a delicate suggestion,--nothing more!

When you see him coming to you (simple you),
Oh! be very, very careful what you do;
With your fan just idly play, and look down, as if to say
It's a matter of indifference to you!

Then you flutter and you fidget with it, so!
And you hide your little nose behind it low,
Till, when he begins to speak, you just lay it on your cheek,
In that fascinating manner that you know!

And when he tells the old tale o'er and o'er,
And vows that he will love you evermore,--
Gather up your little fan, and secure him while you can,--
It's a delicate suggestion,--nothing more!

THE UNDERTOW

BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN

You hadn't ought to blame a man fer things he hasn't done
Fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won;
The waters may look placid on the surface all aroun',
Yet there may be an undertow a-keepin' of him down.

Since the days of Eve and Adam, when the fight of life began,
It aint been safe, my brethren, fer to lightly judge a man;
He may be tryin' faithful fer to make his life a go,
And yet his feet git tangled in the treacherous undertow.

He may not lack in learnin' and he may not want fer brains;
He may be always workin' with the patientest of pains,
And yet go unrewarded, an', my friends, how can we know
What heights he might have climbed to but fer the undertow?

You've heard the Yankee story of the hen's nest with a hole,
An' how the hen kept layin' eggs with all her might an' soul,
Yet never got a settin', not a single egg, I trow;
That hen was simply kickin' 'gainst a hidden undertow.

There's holes in lots of hen's nests, an' you've got to peep below
To see the eggs a-rollin' where they hadn't ought to go.
Don't blame a man fer failin' to achieve a laurel crown
Until you're sure the undertow aint draggin' of him down.

MARKETING

ANONYMOUS

A little girl goes to market for her mother.

_Butcher._--"Well, little girl, what can I do for you?"

_Little Girl._--"How much is chops this morning, mister?"

_B._--"Chops, 20 cents a pound, little girl."

_L. G._--"Oh! 20 cents a pound for chops; that's awful expensive. How much is steak?"

_B._--"Steak is 22 cents a pound."

_L. G._--"That's too much! How much is chicken?"

_B._--"Chicken is 25 cents a pound" (_impatiently_).

_L. G._--"Oh! 25 cents for chicken. Well my ma don't want any of them!"

_B._--"Well, little girl, what _do_ you want?"

_L. G._--"Oh, I want an automobile, but my ma wants 5 cents' worth of liver!"

A SPRING IDYL ON "GRASS"

BY NIXON WATERMAN

Oh, the gentle grass is growing
In the vale and on the hill;
We can not hear it growing,
Still 'tis growing very still:
And in the spring it springs to life,
With gladness and delight;
I see it growing day by day,--
It also grows by night.
And, now, once more as mowers whisk
The whiskers from the lawn,
They'll rouse us from our slumbers,--
At the dawning of the dawn:
It saddens my poor heart to think
What we should do for hay,
If grass instead of growing up
Would grow the other way.
Its present rate of growing,
Makes it safe to say that soon,
'Twill cover all the hills at morn
And in the afternoon.
And I have often noticed
As I watched it o'er and o'er,
It grows, and grows, and grows, awhile,
And then it grows some more,--
If it keeps growing right along
It shortly will be tall;
It humps itself thro' strikes,
And legal holidays and all;
It's growing up down all the streets;
And clean around the square;
One end is growing in the ground,
The other in the air:
If the earth possest no grass
Methinks its beauty would be dead;
We'd have to make the best of it,
And use baled hay instead.

From "A Book of Verses," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago.

INTRODUCIN' THE SPEECHER

BY EDWIN L. BARKER

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. This selection is a little caricature, introducing two characters. "The Speecher" is one of those young men who has passed through college in one year,--passed _through_,--and has increasing difficulty in finding a hat large enough to fit his head. His oratorical powers have been praised by his friends, and he never misses an opportunity to exhibit his "great natural talent." "The Chairman" is frequently met in the smaller towns. He has lived there a long time, is acquainted with everybody, makes it a point to form the acquaintance of all newcomers, takes an interest in public affairs, and is often called upon to introduce the speakers who visit the town. His principal weakness is that in the course of his introductory remarks he usually says more than the speaker himself.

THE CHAIRMAN. (_Comes forward to table at center, stands at right, looks nervously at audience, goes to left of table, does not know what to do with hands, returns to right of table, begins in high, nervous voice._) "Gentlemen an' ladies--an' the rest on ye--(_goes left of table_) I s'pose ye all knowed afore, as per'aps ye do now, that I did not come out to make a speech; but to--to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher has jes come, an' is right in there. (_Points with thumb over shoulder to L. and goes R. of table._) I don't know why 'twas they called on me to 'nounce the speecher, unless it is that I've lived here in your midst fer a long while, an' am 'quainted with very nigh every one fer four or five miles about, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to--to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is--right in there. (Points L. and goes L.) I s'pose I'm as well calc'lated to 'nounce the speecher as any on ye, an' I s'pose that's why I'm here to--to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is--right in there. (_Points L. and goes R._) You know I've lived here in your midst a long time, an' have allus tuk an active part in all public affairs, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to--to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is right in there. (_Points L. and goes L._) As I said once afore, I've lived here in your midst fer a long time, an' have allus tuk active part in all public affairs, an' public doin's ginerally. Ye know I was 'pinted tax collector once, an' was road-overseer fer a little while, an' run fer constable of this here township--but I--I didn't git it. (_Quickly._) Now, the speecher is--right there. (_Points L. and goes R. Wipes forehead with handkerchief._) I jes want to say a word to the young men this evenin'--as I see quite a sprinklin' of 'em here--an' that is that I'd like fer all the young men to grow up an' hold high and honorable offices like I've done. But there, I can't stop any longer, 'cause the speecher is--right in there. (_Starts to go, but returns._) Now, I don't want you to think I don't want to talk to ye, fer I do. I do so like to talk to the young men, an' the old men, an' them that are not men. (_Smiles._) I love to talk to ye. But, of course, I can't talk to you now, 'cause the speecher is--right in there. (_Points L._) But some other time when the speecher's not here--I think there'll be a time afore long--why, I'll talk to you. (_Grows confused._) Of course, you know, I'd talk to you now; but--uh--that is--I think there'll be a time afore long--at some other--you know--I--you--the--(_desperately_) the speecher is right in there. (_Rushes to L., stops, and with back to audience, concludes._) I will now interdoose to ye Charles William Albright, of Snigger's Crossroads, a very promisin' young attorney of that place, who will talk to ye. As I said afore, the speecher is right in here. Now, the speecher is right out there." (_While standing with back to audience, run fingers through hair to give it a long, scholarly appearance, put on glasses, and take from chair roll of paper and place under arm. To be effective, this paper should be about one foot wide and ten feet long, folded in about five or six-inch folds. At conclusion of chairman's speech, turn and walk to table as the speecher._)

THE SPEECHER. (_Walks to table with a strut. Face should have a wise, solemn, self-satisfied expression. Stops at table, surveys the audience with solemn dignity, clears the throat, lays roll of paper on table, takes out handkerchief, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, lays handkerchief on table, surveys audience again, slowly unrolls paper and lays on table, surveys audience again, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, poses with one hand on table._) "Ladies--and--gentlemen--and fellow citizens. (_Rises on toes and comes back on heels, as practised by some public speakers._) I have fully realized the magnitude of this auspicious occasion, and have brought from out the archives of wisdom one of those bright, extemporaneous subjects, to which, you know, I always do (_rising inflection_) ample justice. (_Rises on toes, clears throat, applies handkerchief to forehead._) The subject for this evening's discussion (_very solemn_) is coal oil. (_Clears throat and looks wise._) Now, the first question that arises is: How do they get it? (_In measured tone, on toes, tapping words off on fingers of left hand with forefinger of right hand._) How--do--they--get--it? (_Soaringly._) My dear friends, some get it by the pint, and some by the quart. (_Clears throat, wipes perspiration from forehead._) But, you say, how do they get it in the first place? (_Tragically._) Ah, my dear friends, as Horace Greeley has so fittingly exprest it--that is the question. (_Quickly._) But I will explain. When they want to get it they take a great, mammoth auger (_imitates_) and they bore, and they bore, and they bore, and--(_looks at paper quickly_)--and they bore! And when they strike the oil it just squirts up. That's how they get it! (_Rises on toes, smacks lips and looks wise._) Now, you all know, coal oil is used for a great many things. It is used for medicine, to burn in the lamp, to blow up servant girls when they make a fire with it, and--many other useful things. (_Wipes mouth and puts handkerchief in pocket._) The gentlemen in charge will now pass the hat, being careful to lock the door back there so that none of those boys from Squeedunk can get out before they chip in. (_Takes paper and rolls it up._) I will say that I expect to deliver another lecture here two weeks from to-night--two weeks from to-night--upon which occasion I would like to see all the children present, as the subject will be of special interest to (_rises on toes, closes eyes_) the little ones. The subject on that occasion will be 'Will We Bust the Trusts, or Will the Trusts Bust Us?'" (_Puts roll of paper under arm and stalks off as if having captured the world._)

As recited by Edwin L. Barker and used by permission.

COUNTING ONE HUNDRED

BY JAMES M. BAILEY

A Danbury man named Reubens, recently saw a statement that counting one hundred when tempted to speak an angry word would save a man a great deal of trouble. This statement sounded a little singular at first, but the more he read it over the more favorably he became imprest with it, and finally concluded to adopt it.