Chapter XXIII: Introduction (21)

MANIFESS destiny iz the science ov going tew bust, or enny other place before yu git thare. I may be rong in this centiment, but that iz the way it strikes me; and i am so put together that when enny thing strikes me i immejiately strike back. Manifess destiny mite perhaps be blocked out agin as the condishun that man and things find themselfs in with a ring in their nozes and sumboddy hold ov the ring. I may be rong agin, but if i am, awl i have got tew sa iz i don’t kno it, and what a man don’t kno ain’t no damage tew enny boddy else. The tru way that manifess destiny had better be sot down iz the exact distance that a frog kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him; i don’t kno but i may be rong onst more, but if the frog don’t git ketched the destiny iz jist what he iz a looking for.

When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and makes up hiz minde tew stay thare, that ain’t manifess destiny enny more than having yure hair cut short iz; but if he almost gits out and then falls down in agin 16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in the same plase and dies and iz buried thare at low water, that iz manifess destiny on the square. Standing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked twice at one time must feel a good deal like manifess destiny. Being about 10 seckunds tew late tew git an express train, and then chasing the train with yure wife, and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, and not getting as near tew the train az you waz when started, looks a leetle like manifess destiny on a rale rode trak. Going into a tempranse house and calling for a leetle old Bourbon on ice, and being told in a mild way that “the Bourbon iz jist out, but they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in Paris,” sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov most tempranse houses.

Mi dear reader, don’t beleave in manifess destiny until yu see it. Thare is such a thing az manifess destiny, but when it occurs it iz like the number ov rings on the rakoon’s tale, ov no great consequense onla for ornament. Man wan’t made for a machine, if he waz, it was a locomotiff machine, and manifess destiny must git oph from the trak when the bell rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold. Manifess destiny iz a disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal; i have seen it in its wust stages cured bi sawing a cord ov dri hickory wood. i thought i had it onse; it broke out in the shape ov poetry; i sent a speciment ov the disseaze tew a magazine; the magazine man wrote me next day az follers:

“_Dear Sur_: You may be a phule, but you are no poeck. Yures, in haste.”

* * * * *

LETTERS TO FARMERS.

BELOVED FARMERS: Agrikultur iz the mother ov farm produce; she is also the step-mother ov gardin sass.

Rize at half-past 2 o’clock in the morning, bild up a big fire in the kitchen, burn out two pounds ov kandles, and grease yure boots. Wait pashuntly for dabrake. When day duz brake, then commence tew stir up the geese and worry the hogs.

Too mutch sleep iz ruinous tew geese and tew hogs. Remember yu kant git rich on a farm, unless yu rize at 2 o’clock in the morning, and stir up the hogs and worry the geese.

The happyest man in the world iz the farmer; he rizes at 2 o’clock in the morning, he watches for da lite tew brake, and when she duz brake, he goes out and stirs up the geese and worrys the hogs.

What iz a lawyer!――What iz a merchant?――What iz a doktor?――What iz a minister?――I answer, nothing!

A farmer is the nobless work ov God; he rizes at 2 o’clock in the morning, and burns out a half a pound ov wood and two kords of kandles, and then goes out tew worry the geese and stir up the hogs.

Beloved farmers, adew.

JOSH BILLINGS.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS.

(MARK TWAIN).

MARK TWAIN has a world wide reputation as the great American humorist, a reputation which has been steadily growing at home and abroad since the publication of “Innocents Abroad” in 1869, and he is undoubtedly one of the most popular authors in the United States. The story of his life is the record of a career which could have been possible in no other country in the world.

He was born in Florida in 1835, though most of his boyhood was passed at ♦Hannibal, Mo., where he attended the village school until he was thirteen, which was his only opportunity for educational training. At this early age he was apprenticed to a printer and worked at this trade in St. Louis, ♠Cincinnati, Philadelphia and New York. During his boyhood his great ambition, his one yearning, had been to become one day a pilot on a Mississippi steamboat. He realized this ambition in 1851 and the experiences of this pilot life are told in his “Life on the Mississippi.” His pen-name was suggested by the expression used in Mississippi navigation where in sounding a depth of two fathoms, the leadsman calls out, “Mark Twain!”

♦ ‘Hanibal’ replaced with ‘Hannibal’

♠ ‘Cincinnatti’ replaced with ‘Cincinnati’

After serving in 1861 in Nevada as private secretary to his brother who was at this time secretary of the Territory, he became city editor of the Virginia City “Enterprise,” and here his literary labors began, and the pseudonym now so familiar was first used.

In 1865, he was reporter on the staff of the San Francisco “Morning Call,” though his newspaper work was interspersed with unsuccessful attempts at gold digging and a six months’ trip to Hawaii.

This was followed by a lecture trip through California and Nevada, which gave unmistakable evidence that he had the “gift” of humor.

His fame, however, was really made by the publication of “Innocents Abroad” (Hartford, 1869), 125,000 copies of which were sold in three years. This book is a brilliant, humorous account of the travels, experiences and opinions of a party of tourists to the Mediterranean, Egypt, Palestine, France and Italy.

His next literary work of note was the publication of “Roughing It” (Hartford, 1872), which shook the sides of readers all over the United States. This contained inimitable sketches of the rough border life and personal experiences in California, Nevada and Utah. In fact all Mark Twain’s literary work which bears the stamp of permanent worth and merit is personal and autobiographical. He is never so successful in works that are purely of an imaginative character.

In 1873, in conjunction with Charles Dudley Warner, he produced a story entitled the “Gilded Age” which was dramatized and had a marked success on the stage. His other well-known works are: “Sketches Old and New;” “Adventures of Tom Sawyer” (1876), a story of boy life in Missouri and one of his best productions, “Punch, Brothers, Punch” (1878); “A Tramp Abroad” (1880), containing some of his most humorous and successful descriptions of personal experiences on a trip through Germany and Switzerland; “The Stolen White Elephant” (1882); “Prince and the Pauper” (1882); “Life on the Mississippi” (1883); “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” (1885), a sequel to “Tom Sawyer;” “A Yankee at King Arthur’s Court” and “Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc” (1896).

In 1884, he established in New York City the publishing house of C. L. Webster & Co., which issued in the following year the “Memoirs” of U. S. Grant, the profits from which publication to the amount of $350,000 were paid to Mrs. Grant in accordance with an agreement previously signed with General Grant.

By the unfortunate failure of this company in 1895, Mark Twain found himself a poor man and morally, though not legally, responsible for large sums due the creditors. Like Sir Walter Scott, he resolved to wipe out the last dollar of the debt and at once entered upon a lecturing trip around the world, which effort is proving financially a success. He is also at work upon a new book soon to be published. His home is at Hartford, Connecticut, where he has lived in delightful friendship and intercourse with Charles Dudley Warner, Harriet Beecher Stowe and other literary characters of that city. His writings have been translated into German and they have met with large sales both in England and on the continent.

* * * * *

JIM SMILEY’S FROG.

WELL, this yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken-cocks, and all them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal’klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet he _did_ learn him, too. He’d give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut,――see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most anything; and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor,――Dan’l Webster was the name of the frog,――and sing out, “Flies, Dan’l, flies,” and quicker’n you could wink he’d spring straight up, and snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again, as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doing any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it came to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywhere, all said he laid over any frog that ever _they_ see.

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down town sometimes, and lay for a bet. One day a feller,――a stranger in the camp he was,――came across him with his box, and says:

“What might it be that you’ve got in the box?”

And Smiley says sorter indifferent like, “It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it ain’t,――it’s only just a frog.”

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, “H’m! so ’tis. Well, what’s _he_ good for?”

“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “he’s good enough for one thing, I should judge――he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.”

The feller took the box again, and took another long particular look, and gave it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well, I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

“May be you don’t,” Smiley says. “May be you understand frogs, and may be you don’t understand ’em; may be you’ve had experience, and may be you an’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got _my_ opinion, and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.”

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, “Well, I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet you.”

And then Smiley says, “That’s all right, that’s all right; if you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s and set down to wait. So he set there a good while, thinking and thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open, and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot,――filled him pretty near up to his chin,――and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp, and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:

“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his fore-paws just even with Dan’l, and I’ll give the word.” Then he says, “One――two――three――jump;” and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan’l gave a heave and hysted up his shoulders,――so,――like a Frenchman, but it wasn’t no use,――he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted, too, but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders,――this way,――at Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well, _I_ don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, “I do wonder what in the nation that frog throwed off for; I wonder if there an’t something the matter with him, he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up, and says, “Why, blame my cats, if he don’t weigh five pound!” and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man. He set the frog down, and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him.

* * * * *

UNCLE DAN’L’S APPARITION AND PRAYER.

(FROM “THE GILDED AGE” OF CLEMENS AND WARNER.)

A DEEP coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession.

“What is it? Oh, what _is_ it, Uncle Dan’l!”

With deep solemnity the answer came:

“It’s de Almighty! Git down on yo’ knees!”

It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling in a moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro’s voice lifted up its supplications:

“O Lord, we’s ben mighty wicked, an’ we knows dat we ’zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we ain’t ready yit, we ain’t ready――let these po’ chil’en hab one mo’ chance, jes’ one mo’ chance. Take de old niggah if you’s got to hab somebody. Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don’t know whah you’s a gwine to, we don’t know who you’s got yo’ eye on, but we knows by de way you’s a comin’, we knows by the way you’s a tiltin’ along in yo’ charyot o’ fiah dat some po’ sinner’s a gwine to ketch it. But, good Lord, dese chil’en don’ b’long heah, dey’s f’m Obedstown whah dey don’t know nuffin, an’ yo’ knows, yo’ own sef, dat dey ain’t ’sponsible. An’ deah Lord, good Lord, it ain’t like yo’ mercy, it ain’t like yo’ pity, it ain’t like yo’ long-sufferin’ lovin’-kindness for to take dis kind o’ ’vantage o’ sich little chil’en as dese is when dey’s so many onery grown folks chuck full o’ cussedness dat wants roastin’ down dah. O Lord, spah de little chil’en, don’t tar de little chil’en away f’m dey frens, jes’ let ’em off dis once, and take it out’n de ole niggah. HEAH I IS, LORD, HEAH I IS! De ole niggah’s ready, Lord, de ole――――”

The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan’l snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted (but rather feebly):

“Heah I is, Lord, heah I is!”

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan’l headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough “the Lord” was just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by degrees and presently ceased altogether.

“H’wsh! Well, now, dey’s some folks says dey ain’t no ’ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we’d a ben _now_ if it warn’t fo’ dat prah! Dat’s it. Dat’s it!”

“Uncle Dan’l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us?” said Clay.

“Does I _reckon_? Don’t I _know_ it! Whah was yo’ eyes? Warn’t de Lord jes’ a comin’ _chow!_ _chow!_ CHOW! an’ a goin’ on turrible――an’ do de Lord carry on dat way ’dout dey’s sumfin don’t suit him? An’ warn’t he a lookin’ right at dis gang heah, an’ warn’t he jes’ a reachin’ fer ’em? An’ d’you spec’ he gwine to let ’em off ’dout somebody ast him to do it? No indeedy!”

“Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan’l?”

“De law sakes, chile, didn’t I see him a lookin’ at us?”

“Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan’l?”

“_No_ sah! When a man is ’gaged in prah he ain’t ’fraid o’ nuffin――dey can’t nuffin tech him.”

“Well, what did you run for?”

“Well, I――I――Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit, he do-no what he’s ’bout――no sah; dat man do-no what he’s ’bout. You might take an’ tah de head off’n dat man an’ he wouldn’t scasely fine it out. Dah’s de Hebrew chil’en dat went frough de fiah; dey was burnt considable――ob coase dey was; but _dey_ did’nt know nuffin ’bout it――heal right up agin; if dey’d been gals dey’d missed dey long haah (hair), maybe, but dey wouldn’t felt de burn.”

“_I_ don’t know but what they _were_ girls. I think they were.”

“Now, Mars Clay, you knows better’n dat. Sometimes a body can’t tell whedder you’s a sayin’ what you means or whedder you’s a saying what you don’t mean, ’case you says ’em bofe de same way.”

“But how should _I_ know whether they were boys or girls?”

“Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don’t de good book say? ’Sides don’t it call ’em de _He_-brew chil’en? If dey was gals wouldn’t dey be de she-brew chil’en? Some people dat kin read don’t ’pear to take no notice when dey _do_ read.”

“Well, Uncle Dan’l, I think that―――― My! here comes another one up the river! There can’t be _two_.”

“We gone dis time――we done gone dis time sho’! Dey ain’t, two, Mars Clay, dat’s de same one. De Lord kin ’pear everywhah in a second. Goodness, how de fiah an’ de smoke do belch up! Dat means business, honey. He comin’ now like he forgot sumfin. Come ’long, chil’en, time you’s gone to roos’. Go ’long wid you――ole Uncle Dan’l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah――de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you agin!”

He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far that he doubted himself if the Lord heard him when he went by.

* * * * *

THE BABIES.

From a speech of Mark Twain at the banquet given in honor of
Gen. Grant, by the Army of the Tennessee, at the Palmer House,
Chicago, Nov. 14, 1879.

TOAST:――“The Babies――As they comfort us in our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities.”

I like that. We haven’t all had the good fortune to be ladies; we haven’t all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the babies, we stand on common ground, for we have all been babies. It is a shame that for a thousand years the world’s banquets have utterly ignored the baby――as if _he_ didn’t amount to anything! If you gentlemen will stop and think a minute,――if you will go back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married life, and recontemplate your first baby, you will remember that he amounted to a good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when that little fellow arrived at family head-quarters you had to hand in your resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere body-servant, and you had to stand around, too. He was not a commander who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. And there was only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and disrespect, and the bravest of you didn’t dare to say a word. You could face the death-storm of Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were sounding in your ears, you set your faces toward the batteries and advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his war-whoop, you advanced in the other direction――and mighty glad of the chance, too. When he called for soothing syrup, did you venture to throw out any side remarks about certain services unbecoming an officer and a gentleman? No,――you got up and got it. If he ordered his bottle, and it wasn’t warm, did you talk back? Not you,――you went to work and warmed it. You even descended so far in your menial office as to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was right,――three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccups. I can taste that stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you went along; sentimental young folks still took stock in that beautiful old saying that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, but “too thin,”――simply wind on the stomach, my friends! If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual hour, 2:30 in the morning, didn’t you rise up promptly and remark――with a mental addition which wouldn’t improve a Sunday-school book much――that that was the very thing you were about to propose yourself! Oh, you were under good discipline! And as you went fluttering up and down the room in your “undress uniform” you not only prattled undignified baby-talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing “Rockaby baby in a tree-top,” for instance. What a spectacle for an Army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction for the neighbors, too,――for it isn’t everybody within a mile around that likes military music at three in the morning. And when you had been keeping this sort of thing up two or three hours, and your little velvet-head intimated that nothing suited him like exercise and noise,――“Go on!”――what did you do? You simply _went_ on, till you disappeared in the last ditch.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

MISS MARIETTA HOLLEY.

(“JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE.”)

THE poetic declaration that “genius unbidden rises to the top” is fully verified in the now famous “Josiah Allen’s Wife.” Miss Holley commenced to write at an early age both verses and sketches, but was so timid that she jealously hid them away from every eye until she had accumulated quite a collection of manuscript. This most famous humorist among women was born in a country place near Adams, New York, where she still lives, and where five generations of her ancestors have resided. Her first appearance in print was in a newspaper published in Adams. The editor of the paper, it is said, praised her article, and she was also encouraged by Charles J. Peterson, for whom she wrote later. She wrote also for “The Independent” and other journals. Most of her early articles were poems, and were widely copied both in America and Europe.

Miss Holley’s first pen-name was ♦“Jemyma.” It was not until she wrote a dialectic sketch for “Peterson’s Magazine” that she began to sign her name as “Josiah Allen’s Wife.” This sketch brought her into prominence, and ♠Elijah Bliss, President of The American Publishing Company, of Hartford, Connecticut, it is said, against the protests of his company, published “Josiah Allen’s Wife” in book form, and encouraged her to write another book, which he issued under the name of “My Opinions and Betsy Bobbet’s” (1872). Since this Miss Holley’s fame has steadily increased, and she has issued a book every few years. “Samantha at the Centennial” appeared in 1877, describing the experiences of herself and Josiah at that great international exhibition. It is extremely humorous and added to her already great fame. “My Wayward Pardner” appeared in 1880. In 1882 she published “Miss Richards’ Boy,” a book of stories, but not written in dialect. All of the above works were issued by her Hartford publisher, as was also her illustrated poem entitled “The Mormon Wife.” In 1885 “Sweet Cicely, or Josiah Allen’s Wife as a Politician,” appeared in New York. In 1887 her famous book, “Samantha at Saratoga,” was issued in Philadelphia, for the manuscript of which she was paid $10,000 in cash, in addition to which sum she also received a considerable amount from the “Ladies’ Home Journal” for parts of the work published in serial form in that magazine. Nearly a quarter of a million copies of her “Samantha at Saratoga” have already been sold. During the same year she issued a book of poems in New York, and further popularized her _nom-de-plume_ by “Samantha Among the Brethren” in 1891. In 1893 “Samantha on the Race Problem” created considerable amusement by the mixture of grotesque humor and philosophy on this much discussed and serious problem, the illustrations in the work adding no small quota to its popularity. In 1894 appeared “Samantha at the World’s Fair” in which the experiences of herself and her partner, Josiah, are even more amusing than those at the Centennial in 1876.

♦ ‘Jemyme’ replaced with ‘Jemyma’

♠ ‘Elija’ replaced with ‘Elijah’

Through all of Miss Holley’s works there runs a vein of homely philosophy and practical common sense. It is in a most delightfully good-humored manner that she takes off the foibles and follies of “racin’ after fashion.” Her humor is remarkably wholesome, and while it is not remiss in laughter-provoking quality, is always clear, and above all things pure. Her books have been widely circulated both in America and in Europe, and some of them have been translated into other languages.

* * * * *

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE CALLS ON THE PRESIDENT.¹

Josiah Alien has a violent attack of political fever and his
wife being greatly exercised over it finally concludes to
visit Washington, and take the advice of the President on the
disturbing question. This interview with the President is a
fair example of the author’s style.

¹ From “Sweet Cicely.” Permission of Funk & Wagnalls.

AND so we wended our way down the broad, beautiful streets towards the White House. Handsomer streets I never see. I had thought Jonesville streets wus middlin’ handsome and roomy. Why, two double wagons can go by each other with perfect safety, right in front of the grocery-stores, where there is lots of boxes too; and wimmen can be a-walkin’ there too at the same time, hefty ones.

But, good land! loads of hay could pass each other here, and droves of dromedaries, and camels, and not touch each other, and then there would be lots of room for men and wimmen, and for wagons to rumble, and perioguers to float up and down――if perioguers could sail on dry land.

Roomier, handsomer, well-shadeder streets I never want to see, nor don’t expect to. Why Jonesville streets are like tape compared with ’em; and Loontown and Toad Holler, they are like thread, No. 50 (allegory).

Bub Smith wus well acquainted with the President’s hired man, so he let us in without parlay.

I don’t believe in talkin’ big as a general thing. But think’es I, Here I be, a-holdin’ up the dignity of Jonesville: and here I be, on a deep, heart-searchin’ errent to the Nation. So I said, in words and axents a good deal like them I have read of in “Children of the Abbey” and “Charlotte Temple,”――

“Is the President of the United States within?”

He said he was, but said sunthin’ about his not receiving calls in the mornings.

But I says in a very polite way,――for I like to put folks at their ease, presidents or peddlers or anything,――

It hain’t no matter at all if he hain’t dressed up; of course he wuzn’t expectin’ company. Josiah don’t dress up mornin’s.”

And then he says something about “he didn’t know but he was engaged.”

Says I, “That hain’t no news to me, nor the Nation. We have been a-hearin’ that for three years, right along. And if he is engaged, it hain’t no good reason why he shouldn’t speak to other wimmen,――good, honorable married ones too.”

“Well,” says he, finally, “I will take up your card.”

“No, you won’t!” says I, firmly. “I am a Methodist! I guess I can start off on a short tower without takin’ a pack of cards with me. And if I had ’em right here in my pocket, or a set of dominoes, I shouldn’t expect to take up the time of the President of the United States a-playin’ games at this time of the day.” Says I, in deep tones, “I am a-carrien’ errents to the President that the world knows not of.”

He blushed up red; he was ashamed; and he said, “he would see if I could be admitted.”

* * * * *

I was jest a-thinkin’ this when the hired man came back, and said,――

“The President would receive me.”

“Wall,” says I, calmly, “I am ready to be received.”

So I follered him; and he led the way into a beautiful room, kinder round, and red-colored, with lots of elegant pictures and lookin’-glasses and books.

* * * * *

He then shook hands with me, and I with him. I, too, am a perfect lady. And then he drawed up a chair for me with his own hands (hands that grip holt of the same hellum that G. W. had gripped holt of. O soul! be calm when I think on’t), and asked me to set down; and consequently I sot.

I leaned my umberell in a easy, careless position against a adjacent chair, adjusted my long green veil in long, graceful folds,――I hain’t vain, but I like to look well,――and then I at once told him of my errents. I told him――

“I had brought three errents to him from Jonesville,――one for myself, and two for Dorlesky Burpy.”

He bowed, but didn’t say nothin’: he looked tired. Josiah always looks tired in the mornin’ when he has got his milkin’ and barn-chores done, so it didn’t surprise me. And havin’ calculated to tackle him on my own errent first, consequently I tackled him.

I told him how deep my love and devotion to my pardner wuz.

And he said “he had heard of it.”

And I says, “I s’pose so. I s’pose such things will spread, bein’ a sort of a rarity. I’d heard that it had got out, ’way beyend Loontown, and all round.”

“Yes,” he said, “it was spoke of a good deal.”

“Wall,” says I, “the cast-iron love and devotion I feel for that man don’t show off the brightest in hours of joy and peace. It towers up strongest in dangers and troubles.” And then I went on to tell him how Josiah wanted to come there as a senator, and what a dangerous place I had always heard Washington wuz, and how I had felt it was impossible for me to lay down on my goose-feather pillow at home, in peace and safety, while my pardner was a-grapplin’ with dangers of which I did not know the exact size and heft. Then, says I, solemnly, “I ask you, not as a politician, but as a human bein’, would you dast to let Josiah come?”

The President didn’t act surprised a mite. And finally he told me, what I had always mistrusted, but never knew, that Josiah had wrote to him all his political views and aspirations, and offered his help to the government. And says he, “I think I know all about the man.”

“Then,” says I, “you see he is a good deal like other men.”

And he said, sort o’ dreamily, “that he was.”

And then again silence rained. He was a-thinkin’, I knew, on all the deep dangers that hedged in Josiah Allen and America if he come. And a-musin’ on all the probable dangers of the Plan. And a-thinkin’ it over how to do jest right in the matter,――right by Josiah, right by the nation, right by me.

Finally the suspense of the moment wore onto me too deep to bear, and I says, in almost harrowin’ tones of anxiety and suspense,――

“Would it be safe for my pardner to come to Washington? Would it be safe for Josiah, safe for the nation?” Says I, in deeper, mournfuller tones,――

“Would you――would you dast to let him come?”

Pity and good feelin’ then seemed to overpower for a moment the statesman and courteous diplomat.

And he said, in gentle, gracious tones, “If I tell you just what I think, I would not like to say it officially, but would say it in confidence, as from an Allen to an Allen.”

“Says I, “It shan’t go no further.”

And so I would warn everybody that it must not be told.

Then says he, “I will tell you. I wouldn’t dast.”

Says I, “That settles it. If human efforts can avail, Josiah Allen will not be United States Senator.” And says I, “You have only confirmed my fears. I knew, feelin’ as he felt, that it wuzn’t safe for Josiah or the nation to have him come.”

Agin he reminded me that it was told to me in confidence, and agin I want to say that it _must_ be kep’.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

AUTHOR OF “LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.”

THE humorous and dialectic literature of America owes more to Charles Follen Adams perhaps than to any other contributor who has not made literature a business or depended upon his pen for his livelihood. There is not a pretentious book of humorous readings or popular selections of late years which has not enriched its pages from this pleasingly funny man who delineates the German-American character and imitates its dialect with an art that is so true to nature as to be well-nigh perfection. “The Puzzled Dutchman;” “Mine Vamily;” “Mine Moder-in-Law;” “Der Vater Mill;” “Der Drummer,” and, above all, “Dot Leedle Yawcob Strauss,” have become classics of their kind and will not soon suffer their author to be forgotten.

Charles Follen Adams was born in Dorchester, Mass., April 21, 1842, where he received a common school education, leaving school at fifteen years of age to take a position in a business house in Boston. This place he occupied until August, 1862, when he enlisted, at the age of twenty, in the Thirteenth Massachusetts Regiment of Volunteers, and saw service in a number of hard-fought battles. At Gettysburg, in 1863, he was wounded and held a prisoner for three days until the Union forces recaptured the town. After the close of the war he resumed business, and succeeded in placing himself at the head of a large business house in Boston, where he has continued to reside.

It was not until 1870 that Mr. Adams wrote his first poem, and it was two years later that his first dialectic effort, “The Puzzled Dutchman,” appeared and made his name known. From that time he begun to contribute “as the spirit moved him” to the local papers, “Oliver Optic’s Magazine,” and, now and then, to “Scribner’s.” In 1876 he became a regular contributor to the “Detroit Free Press,” his “Leedle Yawcob Strauss” being published in that paper in June, 1876. For many years all his productions were published in that journal, and did much to enhance its growing popularity as a humorous paper.

As a genial, companionable man in business and social circles, Mr. Adams has as great distinction among his friends as he holds in the literary world as a humorist. His house is one of marked hospitality where the fortunate guest always finds a cordial welcome.

* * * * *

DER DRUMMER.¹

¹ Special Permission of the Author.

WHO puts oup at der pest hotel,
Und dakes his oysders on der schell,
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell?
Der drummer.

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore,
Drows down his pundles on der vloor,
Und nefer schtops to shut der door?
Der drummer.

Who dakes me py der handt, und say,
“Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?”
Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay?
Der drummer.

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice,
Und dells me, “Look, und see how nice?”
Und says I get “der bottom price?”
Der drummer.

Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought,
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort,
But lets dem go as he vas “short?”
Der drummer.

Who says der tings vas eggstra vine,――
“Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine,”――
Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine?
Der drummer.

Who varrants all der goots to suit
Der gustomers ubon his _route_,
Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot?
Der drummer.

Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt,
Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut,
Und kiss Katrina in der mout’?
Der drummer.

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay,
Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say,
Und mit a plack eye goes avay?
Der drummer.

* * * * *

HANS AND FRITZ.¹

¹ Special Permission of the Author.

HANS and Fritz were two Deutschers who lived side by side,
Remote from the world, its deceit and its pride:
With their pretzels and beer the spare moments were spent,
And the fruits of their labor were peace and content.

Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one day,
And, lacking a part of the _Geld_,――as they say,――
Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan
To help him to pay for his beautiful roan.

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend,
And gave the required amount to his friend;
Remarking,――his own simple language to quote,――
“Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note.”

The note was drawn up in their primitive way,――
“I, Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to-day;”
When the question arose, the note being made,
“Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid?”

“You geeps dot,” says Fritz, “und den you vill know
You owes me dot money.” Says Hans, “Dot ish so:
Dot makes me remempers I half dot to bay,
Und I prings you der note und der money some day.”

A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed,
Paid back the amount, and from debt he was freed.
Says Fritz, “Now dot settles us.” Hans replies, “Yaw:
Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law?”

“I geeps dot now, aind’t it?” says Fritz; “den you see,
I alvays remempers you paid dot to me.”
Says Hans, “Dot ish so: it vas now shust so blain,
Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again.”

* * * * *

YAWCOB STRAUSS.¹

¹ Special Permission of the Author.

I HAF von funny leedle poy,
Vot gomes schust to mine knee;
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As efer you dit see,
He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:
But vot off dot? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot’s oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut,
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese.――
Dot vas der roughest chouse:
I’d dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der schticks to beat it mit.――
Mine cracious dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene er der glim I douse.
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So guiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, “Dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

* * * * *

MINE MODER-IN-LAW.¹

¹ Copyright, Harper & Bros.

THERE vas many qveer dings in dis land of der free,
I neffer could qvite understand;
Der beoples dhey all seem so deefrent to me
As dhose in mine own faderland.
Dhey gets blendy droubles, und indo mishaps
Mitout der least bit off a cause;
Und vould you pelief it? dhose mean Yangee shaps
Dhey fights mit dheir moder-in-laws?

Shust dink off a vhite man so vicked as dot!
Vhy not gife der oldt lady a show?
Who vas it gets oup, ven der nighdt id vas hot,
Mit mine baby, I shust like to know?
Und dhen in dher vinter vhen Katrine vas sick
Und der mornings vas shnowy und raw,
Who made righdt avay oup dot fire so quick?
Vhy, dot vas mine moder-in-law.

Id vas von off dhose voman’s righdts vellers I been
Dhere vas noding dot’s mean aboudt me;
Vhen der oldt lady vishes to run dot masheen,
Vhy, I shust let her run id, you see.
Und vhen dot shly Yawcob vas cutting some dricks
(A block off der oldt chip he vas, yaw!)
Ef he goes for dot shap like some dousand off bricks,
Dot’s all righdt! She’s mine moder-in-law.

Veek oudt und veek in, id vas always der same,
Dot vomen vas boss off der house;
But, dehn, neffer mindt! I vas glad dot she came
She vas kind to mine young Yawcob Strauss.
Und ven dhere vas vater to get vrom der spring
Und firevood to shplit oup und saw
She vas velcome to do it. Dhere’s not anyding
Dot’s too good for mine moder-in-law.

* * * * *

YAWCOB’S DRIBULATIONS.¹

(SEQUEL TO “LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.”)

¹ Copyright, Lee & Shepard.

MAYBE dot you don’d rememper,
Eighdeen――dwendy years ago,
How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob――
Dot young rashkell, don’t you know,
Who got schicken-box und measles;
Filled mine bipe mit Limburg sheeze;
Cut mine cane oup indo dhrum-schticks,
Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese.

Vell! dhose times dhey vas been ofer,
Und dot son off mine, py shings!
Now vas taller as hees fader,
Und vas oup to all sooch dhings
Like shimnasdic dricks und pase pall;
Und der oder day he say
Dot he boxes mit “adthledics,”
Somevheres ofer on Back Bay.

Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you,
As vhen he vas been a lad;
Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers
Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad;
Dhey vas cut so full und baggy,
Dot id dook more as a fool
To find oudt eef he vas going,
Or vas coming home vrom school.

Now, dhere vas no making ofer
Off mine clothes to make a suit
For dot poy――der times vas schanged;
“Der leg vas on der oder boot;”
For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin,
Und sort off “schlazy” roundt der knee,
Dot Mrs. Strauss she dake der sceessors
Und she cuts dhem down for me.

Shust der oder day dot Yawcob
Gife me von electric shock,
Vhen he say he vants fife-hundord
To invesht in railroadt schtock.
Dhen I dell him id vas beddher
Dot he leaf der schtocks alone,
Or some fellar dot vas schmardter
Dake der meat und leaf der bone.

Und vhen I vas got oxcited,
Und say he get “schwiped” und fooled,
Dhen he say he haf a “pointer”
Vrom soom frendts off Sage und Gould;
Und dot he vas on “rock bottom;”
Had der “inside drack” on “Atch――”
Dot vas too mooch fur hees fader,
Und I coom oup to der scratch.

Dhen in bolitics he dabbles,
Und all qvesdions, great und schmall,
Make no deeferent to dot Yawcob――
For dot poy he knows id all.
Und he say dot dhose oldt fogies
Must be laid oup on der shelf,
Und der governors und mayors
Should pe young men――like himself.

Vell! I vish I vas dransborted
To dhose days of long ago,
Vhen dot schafer beat der milk-ban,
Und schkydoodled droo der schnow.
I could schtand der mumbs und measles,
Und der ruckshuns in der house;
Budt mine presendt dribulations
Vas too mooch for Meester Strauss.

* * * * *

THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN.¹

The copy for this selection was forwarded to us by the author
himself with the notation on the side, “My First Dialect Poem.”

¹ Copyright, Lee & Shepard.

I’M a broken-hearted Deutscher,
Vots villed mit crief unt shame.
I dells you vot der drouble ish――
I doesn’t know my name.

You dinks it ferry vunny, eh?
Ven you der story hear,
You vill not wonder den so mooch,
It vas so shtrange und queer.

Mein mudder had dwo liddle dwins――
Dey vas me und mein brudder;
Ve lookt so very mooch alike
No von knew vich from toder.

Von of der poys was Yawcob
Und Hans der oder’s name;
But den it made no different――
Ve both got called der same.

Vell, von of us got tead――
Yaw, Mynheer, dat is so;
But vedder Hans or Yawcob,
Mein mudder she don’t know.

Und so I am in droubles;
I gan’t git droo mein hed
Vedder I’m Hans vot’s living,
Or Yawcob vot is tead.

* * * * *

DER OAK AND DER VINE.¹

¹ From “Dialect Ballads.” Copyright, 1887, by Harper
& Brothers.

I DON’D vas preaching voman’s righdts,
Or anyding like dot,
Und I likes to see all beoples
Shust gondented mit dheir lot;
Budt I vants to gondradict dot shap
Dot made dis leedle shoke;
“A voman vas der glinging vine,
Und man, der shturdy oak.”

Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue;
Budt, den dimes oudt off nine,
I find me oudt dot man himself
Vas peen der glinging vine;
Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone,
Und he vas shust “tead proke,”
Dot’s vhen der voman shteps righdt in,
Und peen der shturdy oak.

Shust go oup to der paseball groundts
Und see dhose “shturdy oaks”
All planted roundt ubon der seats――
Shust hear dheir laughs and shokes!
Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs,
Mit glothes oudt on der lines;
Vhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine friendts,
Und vhich der glinging vines?

Ven sickness in der householdt comes,
Und veeks und veeks he shtays,
Who vas id fighdts him mitoudt resdt,
Dhose veary nighdts und days?
Who beace und gomfort alvays prings,
Und cools dot fefered prow?
More like id vas der tender vine
Dot oak he glings to, now.

“Man vants budt leedle here below,”
Der boet von time said;
Dhere’s leedle dot man he don’d vant,
I dink id means, inshted;
Und ven der years keep rolling on,
Dheir cares und droubles pringing,
He vants to pe der shturdy oak,
Und, also, do der glinging.

Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more,
Und don’d so shturdy peen,
Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance
To helb run life’s masheen.
In helt und sickness, shoy und pain,
In calm or shtormy veddher,
’Twas beddher dot dhose oaks und vines
Should alvays gling togeddher.

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

Illustration: (‡ decoration)

EDGAR WILSON NYE.

(BILL NYE.)

AMONG those who have shaken the sides of the fun-loving citizens of the United States and many in the old world with genuine wit and droll humor, our familiar and purely American “Bill Nye” must be numbered.

Edgar Wilson Nye was a born “funny man” whose humor was as irrepressible as his disposition to breathe air. The very face of the man, while far from being homely, as is frequently judged from comic pictures of him, was enough to provoke the risibility of the most sedate and unsmiling citizens in any community. When Mr. Nye walked out on the platform to exhibit in his plain manner a few samples of his “Baled Hay,” or offer what he was pleased to term a few “Remarks,” or to narrate one or more of the tales told by those famous creatures of his imagination known as “The Forty Liars,”――before a word was uttered an infectious smile often grew into a roaring laugh.

Edgar Wilson Nye was born at Shirley, Maine, 1850. His parents removed to Wisconsin, and thence to Wyoming Territory when he was but a boy, and he grew up amid the hardships and humorous aspects of frontier life, which he has so amusingly woven into the warp and the woof of his early “yarns.” Mr. Nye studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1876; but practiced his profession only one year. Afterwards he reported for the newspapers, and, in 1878, began to write regularly a weekly humorous letter for the Sunday papers in the West. This he continued to do for several years, receiving good compensation therefor, and his reputation as a humorous writer grew steadily and rapidly.

In 1884, Mr. Nye came to New York and organized the Nye Trust, or Syndicate, through which a weekly letter from him should simultaneously appear in the journals of the principal cities of the Union. This increased his fame; and during the later years of his life he was engaged much of his time on the lecture platform, sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with other prominent authors. He and the poet, James Whitcomb Riley, did considerable touring together and were enthusiastically welcomed wherever they went, the people invariably turning out in large numbers to enjoy a feast of fun and good feeling which this pair of prominent and typical Westerners never failed to treat them to.

Among the most humorous of Mr. Nye’s recent writings were his famous letters from Buck’s Shoals, North Carolina, where, in his imagination, he established himself as a southern farmer, and dealt out his rural philosophy and comments on current events to the delight, not only of the farmers――many of whom imagined that he was really one of them――but of every class of readers throughout the country.

In 1894 Mr. Nye turned his attention to another branch of humor, and brought out “Bill Nye’s History of the United States.” The drollery and humor of this work is unsurpassed――the interest and delight of the reader being greatly enhanced by the fact that he followed the chronological thread of the real historic narrative on which he pours the sidelights of his side-splitting humor. The success of this book was so great that Mr. Nye was preparing to go abroad to write humorous histories of England and other European countries when he suddenly died in 1896, in the 47th year of his age.