Chapter XXI: Part II: Readings and Recitations From the Most Celebrated Authors (7)

All Americans ought to feel kindly disposed toward this eloquent Irish patriot, for he not only risked his life in the cause of Irish liberty, but also in our own Civil War. This oration has a rugged strength and blunt earnestness quite characteristic of the man. Let it not be delivered in any feeble halting manner, but with all your nerve and energy.

Sir, the pursuit of liberty must cease to be a traffic. It must
resume among us its ancient glory—be with us an active heroism.
Once for all, sir, we must have an end of this money making in
the public forum. We must ennoble the strife for liberty; make
it a gallant sacrifice, not a vulgar game; rescue the cause of
Ireland from the profanation of those who beg, and from the
control of those who bribe!

Ah! trust not those dull philosophers of the age, those wretched
sceptics, who, to rebuke our enthusiasm, our folly, would
persuade us that patriotism is but a delusion, a dream of
youth, a wild and glittering passion; that it has died out in
this nineteenth century; that it cannot exist with our advanced
civilization—with the steam-engine and free trade!

False—false!—The virtue that gave to Paganism its dazzling
lustre, to Barbarism its redeeming trait, to Christianity
its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives, to preserve,
to console, to sanctify humanity. It has its altar in every
clime—its worship and festivities. On the heathered hills of
Scotland, the sword of Wallace is yet a bright tradition. The
genius of France, in the brilliant literature of the day, pays
its high homage to the piety and heroism of the young Maid of
Orleans.

In her new senate hall, England bids her sculptor place among
the effigies of her greatest sons the images of Hampden and
of Russell. By the soft blue waters of Lake Lucerne stands the
chapel of William Tell. At Innsbruck, in the black aisle of the
old cathedral, the peasant of the Tyrol kneels before the statue
of Andrew Hofer. In the great American republic—in that capital
city which bears his name—rises the monument of the Father of his
country.

Sir, shall we not join in this glorious homage, and here in this
island, consecrated by the blood of many a good and gallant man,
shall we not have the faith, the duties, the festivities, of
patriotism? You discard the weapons of these heroic men—do not
discard the virtues. Elevate the national character; confront
corruption wherever it appears; scourge it from the hustings;
scourge it from the public forum; and, whilst proceeding with the
noble task to which you have devoted your lives and fortunes,
let this thought enrapture and invigorate your hearts: That in
seeking the independence of your country, you have preserved her
virtue—preserved it at once from the seductions of a powerful
minister, and from the infidelity of bad citizens.

THE GLORY OF ATHENS.

BY LORD MACAULAY.

As a historian Macaulay has a world-wide reputation. As a poet he takes high rank. As an orator his speeches are characterized by lofty thought, felicitious language and the most elaborate style. I would call him a graceful giant. The last paragraph of the following selection in which he predicts the final decay of England, has created an endless amount of comment and criticism. Concerning the beauty and grandeur of this selection from his writings, there can be but one opinion.

All the triumphs of truth and genius over prejudice and power,
in every country and in every age, have been the triumphs of
Athens. Whenever a few great minds have made a stand against
violence and fraud, in the cause of liberty and reason, there has
been her spirit in the midst of them; inspiring, encouraging,
and consoling. It stood by the lonely lamp of Erasmus; by the
restless bed of Pascal; in the tribune of Mirabeau; in the cell
of Galileo; on the scaffold of Sidney.

But who shall estimate her influence on private happiness? Who
shall say how many thousands have been made wiser, happier,
and better, by those pursuits in which she has taught mankind
to engage; to how many the studies which took their rise from
her have been wealth in poverty; liberty in bondage; health in
sickness; society in solitude. Her power is indeed manifested at
the bar, in the senate; in the field of battle, in the schools of
philosophy.

But these are not her glory. Surely it is no exaggeration
to say, that no external advantage is to be compared with
that purification of the intellectual eye, which gives us to
contemplate the infinite wealth of the mental world; all the
hoarded treasures of the primeval dynasties, all the shapeless
ore of the yet unexplored mines.

This is the gift of Athens to man. Her freedom and her power
have for more than twenty centuries been annihilated. Her
people have degenerated into timid slaves; her language, into
a barbarous jargon. Her temples have been given up to the
successive depredations of Romans, Turks, and Scotchmen; but her
intellectual empire is imperishable.

And, when those who have rivaled her greatness, shall have shared
her fate; when civilization and knowledge shall have fixed
their abode in distant continents; when the sceptre shall have
passed away from England; when, perhaps, travelers from distant
regions shall in vain labor to decipher on some mouldering
pedestal the name of our proudest chief; and shall see a single
naked fisherman wash his nets in the river of the ten thousand
masts; her influence and her glory will still survive, fresh in
eternal youth, exempt from mutability and decay, immortal as the
intellectual principle from which they derived their origin, and
over which they exercise their control.

THE IRISH CHURCH.

BY WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE.

No man in England, or in fact in the whole world, has gained so high a distinction in modern times for statesmanship and eloquence as Mr. Gladstone. Possessed of vast resources of brain and culture, a remarkable command of language, an iron will and an enthusiasm in behalf of every cause he espoused that was checked by no opposition, the “Grand Old Man,” as he was called, was the most majestic and commanding figure in English politics and literature for a generation. His oration on the Irish Church is a good specimen of his impassioned oratory.

If we are prudent men, I hope we shall endeavor as far as in us
lies to make some provision for a contingent, a doubtful, and
probably a dangerous future. If we be chivalrous men, I trust we
shall endeavor to wipe away all those stains which the civilized
world has for ages seen, or seemed to see, on the shield of
England in her treatment of Ireland. If we be compassionate
men, I hope we shall now, once for all, listen to the tale of
woe which comes from her, and the reality of which, if not
its justice, is testified by the continuous emigration of her
people—that we shall endeavor to—

“Pluck from her memory a rooted sorrow,
And raze the written troubles from her brain.”

But, above all, if we be just men, we shall go forward in the
name of truth and right, bearing this in mind—that, when the case
is proved and the hour is come, justice delayed is justice denied.

There are many who think that to lay hands upon the national
Church Establishment of a country is a profane and unhallowed
act. I respect that feeling. I sympathize with it. I sympathize
with it while I think it my duty to overcome and repress it. But
if it be an error, it is an error entitled to respect. There is
something in the idea of a national establishment of religion,
of a solemn appropriation of a part of the Commonwealth for
conferring upon all who are ready to receive it what we know
to be an inestimable benefit; of saving that portion of the
inheritance from private selfishness, in order to extract from
it, if we can, pure and unmixed advantages of the highest order
for the population at large.

There is something in this so attractive that it is an image that
must always command the homage of the many. It is somewhat like
the kingly ghost in Hamlet, of which one of the characters of
Shakespeare says:—

“We do it wrong, being so majestical,
To offer it the show of violence;
For it is, as the air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows malicious mockery”

But, sir, this is to view a religious establishment upon one
side, only upon what I may call the ethereal side. It has
likewise a side of earth; and here I cannot do better than quote
some lines written by the Archbishop of Dublin, at a time when
his genius was devoted to the muses. He said, in speaking of
mankind:

“We who did our lineage high
Draw from beyond the starry sky,
Are yet upon the other side,
To earth and to its dust allied.”

And so the Church Establishment, regarded in its theory and in
its aim, is beautiful and attractive. Yet what is it but an
appropriation of public property, an appropriation of the fruits
of labor and of skill to certain purposes, and unless these
purposes are fulfilled, that appropriation cannot be justified.
Therefore, Sir, I cannot but feel that we must set aside fears
which thrust themselves upon the imagination, and act upon the
sober dictates of our judgment.

I think it has been shown that the cause for action is strong—not
for precipitate action, not for action beyond our powers, but for
such action as the opportunities of the times and the condition
of Parliament, if there be but a ready will, will amply and
easily admit of. If I am asked as to my expectations of the issue
of this struggle, I begin frankly by avowing that I, for one,
would not have entered into it unless I believed that the final
hour was about to sound.

And I hope that the noble lord will forgive me if I say that
before Friday last I thought that the thread of the remaining
life of the Irish Established Church was short, but that since
Friday last, when at half-past four o’clock in the afternoon
the noble lord stood at that table, I have regarded it as being
shorter still. The issue is not in our hands.

What we had and have to do is to consider well and deeply before
we take the first step in an engagement such as this; but having
entered into the controversy, there and then to acquit ourselves
like men, and to use every effort to remove what still remains of
the scandals and calamities in the relations which exist between
England and Ireland, and use our best efforts at least to fill up
with the cement of human concord the noble fabric of the British
empire.

APPEAL TO THE HUNGARIANS.

BY LOUIS KOSSUTH.

The eminent Hungarian orator and statesman, whose name for a whole generation stood for liberty, visited our country in his early manhood and received an ovation wherever he went. His progress was a triumphal march. This was due not merely to the fact that he was exerting all his energies to liberate his country, but his reception was a tribute to his brilliant genius and overpowering eloquence. Kossuth was one of the most remarkable orators of modern times. The following selection is a fine illustration of his impassioned, burning eloquence.

Our fatherland is in danger. Citizens of the fatherland! To arms!
To arms! If we believed the country could be saved by ordinary
means, we would not cry that it is in danger. If we stood at the
head of a cowardly, childish nation, which, in the hour of peril,
prefers defeat to defence, we would not sound the alarm-bell.
But because we know that the people of our land compose a manly
nation, determined to defend itself against oppression, we call
out in the loudest voice, “Our fatherland is in danger!” Because
we are sure that the nation is able to defend its hearths and
homes, we announce the peril in all its magnitude, and appeal to
our brethren, in the name of God and their country, to look the
danger boldly in the face.

We will not smile and flatter. We say it plainly, that unless the
nation rise, to a man, prepared to shed the last drop of blood,
all our previous struggles will have been in vain. The noble
blood that has flowed like water, will have been wasted. Our
fatherland will be crushed to the earth. On the soil, where rest
the ashes of our ancestors, the Russian knout will be wielded
over a people reduced beneath the yoke of slavery.

If we wish to shut our eyes to the danger, we shall thereby save
no one from its power. If we represent the matter as it is, we
make our country master of its own fate. If the breath of life is
in our people, they will save themselves and their fatherland.
But, if paralyzed by coward fear, they remain supine, all will be
lost. God will help no man who does not help himself. We tell you
that the Austrian Emperor sends the hordes of Russian barbarians
for your destruction.

People of Hungary! Would you die under the destroying sword of
the barbarous Russians? If not, defend your own lives! Would
you see the Cossacks of the distant north trampling under foot
the dishonored bodies of your fathers, your wives, and your
children? If not, defend yourselves! Do you wish that your
fellow-countrymen should be dragged away to Siberia, or should
fight for tyrants in a foreign land, or writhe in slavery beneath
a Russian scourge? If not, defend yourselves! Would you see your
villages in flames, and your harvest-fields in ruins? Would you
die of hunger on the soil which you have cultivated with sweat
and blood? If not, defend yourselves!

This strife is not a strife between two hostile camps, but a war
of tyranny against freedom, of barbarians against the collective
might of a free nation. Therefore must the whole people arise
with the army. If these millions sustain our army, we have
gained freedom and victory for universal Europe, as well as for
ourselves. Therefore, O strong, gigantic people, unite with the
army, and rush to the conflict. Ho! every freeman! To arms! To
arms! Thus alone is victory certain.

THE TYRANT VERRES DENOUNCED.

BY CICERO.

This oration is inserted here to furnish an example of the style of the great Roman orator whose eloquence has been proverbial from his time to the present. His patriotic utterances should stir the blood of the reciter, and if they do this his hearers will share the inspiration.

An opinion has long prevailed, fathers, that, in public
prosecutions, men of wealth, however clearly convicted, are
always safe. This opinion, so injurious to your order, so
detrimental to the state, it is now in your power to refute. A
man is on trial before you who is rich, and he hopes his riches
will compass his acquittal; but whose life and actions are his
sufficient condemnation in the eyes of all candid men. I speak of
Caius Verres, who, if he now receive not the sentence his crimes
deserve, it shall not be through the lack of a criminal or of a
prosecutor, but through the failure of the ministers of justice
to do their duty.

Passing over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what
does the quæstorship of Verres exhibit but one continued scene
of villanies? The public treasure squandered, a consul stripped
and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a province
robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people trampled
on! But his prætorship in Sicily has crowned his career of
wickedness, and completed the lasting monument of his infamy.
His decisions have violated all law, all precedent, all right.
His extortions from the industrious poor have been beyond
computation. Our most faithful allies have been treated as
enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with
tortures. Men the most worthy have been condemned and banished
without a hearing, while the most atrocious criminals have, with
money, purchased exemption from the punishment due to their guilt.

I ask now, Verres, what have you to advance against these
charges? Art thou not the tyrant Prætor, who, at no greater
distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, dared
to put to an infamous death, on the cross, that ill-fated and
innocent citizen, Publius Gavius Cosanus? And what was his
offence? He had declared his intention of appealing to the
justice of his country against your brutal persecutions!

For this, when about to embark for home, he was seized, brought
before you, charged with being a spy, scourged and tortured. In
vain did he exclaim: “I am a Roman citizen! I have served under
Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and who will attest my
innocence!” Deaf to all remonstrance, remorseless, thirsting
for innocent blood, you ordered the savage punishment to be
inflicted! While the sacred words, “I am a Roman citizen,” were
on his lips—words which, in the remotest regions, are a passport
to protection—you ordered him to death—to a death upon the cross!

O liberty! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! O sacred
privilege of Roman citizenship! once sacred—now trampled on! Is
it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate—a governor, who
holds his whole power of the Roman people—in a Roman province,
within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to an
infamous death, a Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of
innocence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying spectators, the
majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice
of his country, restrain the merciless monster, who, in the
confidence of his riches, strikes at the very root of liberty,
and sets mankind at defiance? And shall this man escape? Fathers,
it must not be! It must not be unless you would undermine the
very foundations of social safety, strangle justice, and call
down anarchy, massacre, and ruin on the commonwealth.

HUMOROUS RECITATIONS.

A recitation that has a touch of humor, one that is quaint and droll, one that has comical situations, or one that hits off any popular absurdity, is sure to be well received by your audience. A school exhibition or an evening’s entertainment without something of this kind would be pronounced dull and dry.

Some readers are especially adapted to recitals of this description. They have an innate sense of the ludicrous and are able to convey it by voice and manner. Those who are not favored with the very desirable gift of humor should confine themselves to selections of a graver character. The department of Wit and Humor here presented is large and complete, containing a great variety of readings that cannot fail to be enthusiastically received when properly rendered.

BILL’S IN TROUBLE!

I’ve got a letter, parson, from my son away out West,
An’ my ol’ heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast,
To think the boy whose futur’ I had once so proudly planned
Should wander from the path o’ right an’ come to sich an end!

Bill made a faithful promise to be keerful, an’ allowed
He’d build a reputation that’d make us mighty proud,
But it seems as how my counsel sort o’ faded from his mind,
An’ now the boy’s in trouble o’ the very wustest kind!

His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o’ knowed
That Billy was a-trampin’ on a mighty rocky road,
But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame,
An’ in the dust’d waller his ol’ daddy’s honored name.

He writes from out in Denver, an’ the story’s mighty short;
I just can’t tell his mother; it’ll crush her poor ol’ heart!
An’ so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her—
Bill’s in the Legislatur, but he doesn’t say what fur.

“’SPACIALLY JIM.”

I wus mighty good-lookin’ when I was young,
Peert an’ black-eyed an’ slim,
With fellers a courtin’ me Sunday nights,
’Spacially Jim.

The likeliest one of ’em all was he,
Chipper an’ han’som’ an’ trim,
But I tossed up my head an’ made fun o’ the crowd,
’Spacially Jim!

I said I hadn’t no ’pinion o’ men,
An’ I wouldn’t take stock in him!
But they kep’ up a-comin’ in spite o’ my talk,
’Spacially Jim!

I got so tired o’ havin’ ’em roun’
(’Spacially Jim!)
I made up my mind I’d settle down
An’ take up with him.

So we was married one Sunday in church,
’Twas crowded full to the brim;
’Twas the only way to get rid of ’em all,
’Spacially Jim.

THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY.

Be careful, in all dialect recitations, to enunciate as the piece requires. A good part of the humor is brought out in the accent, and you should study this until you are master of it.

You promise now, you goot man dere,
Vot shtunds upon de floor,
To take dis woman for your vrow,
And luff her efermore;
You’ll feed her well on sauerkraut,
Beans, buttermilk and cheese,
And in all dings to lend your aid
Vot vill promote her ease?

—Yah!

Yes, and you, good voman, too—
Do you pledge your vord dis day
Dat you vill take dis husband here
And mit him alvays shtay?
Dat you vill bet and board mit him,
Vash, iron and mend his clothes;
Laugh when he schmiles, veep when he sighs
Und share his joys and voes?

—Yah!

Vel, den, mitin these sacred halls,
Mit joy and not mit grief,
I do bronounce you man and vife;
Von name, von home, von beef!
I publish now dese sacred bonts,
Dese matrimonial dies,
Pefore mine Got, mine vrow, minezelf
Und all dese gazing eyes.

Und now, you pridegroom standing dere,
I’ll not let go yoz collar
Undil you dell me one ding more,
Dat ish: vere ish mine tollar?

BLASTED HOPES.

We said good-bye! My lips to hers were pressed.
We looked into each other’s eyes and sighed;
I pressed the maiden fondly to my breast,
And went my way across the foamy tide.

I stood upon the spot where Cæsar fell,
I mused beside the great Napoleon’s tomb;
I loitered where dark-visaged houris dwell,
And saw the fabled lotus land abloom.

I heard Parisian revelers, and so
Forgot the maiden who had wept for me;
I saw my face reflected in the Po,
And saw Italian suns sink in the sea.

Aweary of it all, at last, I turned
My face back to my glorious native land;
I thought of her again—my bosom burned—
And joyfully I left the ancient strand.

At last, I held her little hand again,
But, oh, the seasons had kept rolling on,
I did not stroke her head or kiss her then—
Another had appeared while I was gone.

I’d brought her trinkets from across the sea—
Ah, well! she shall not have them now, of course;
Alas! the only thing that’s left for me
Is to give her little boy a hobby horse!

TIM MURPHY MAKES A FEW REMARKS.

A good specimen of the Irish brogue and wit.

I saw Teddy Reagan the other day; he told me he had been dealing
in hogs. “Is business good?” says I. “Yis,” says he. “Talking
about hogs, Teddy, how do you find yourself?” sez I. I wint to
buy a clock the other day, to make a present to Mary Jane. “Will
you have a Frinch clock?” says the jeweler. “The deuce take
your Frinch clock,” sez I. “I want a clock that my sister can
understand when it strikes.” “I have a Dutch clock,” sez he, “an’
you kin put that on the shtairs.” “It might run down if I put it
there,” sez I. “Well,” sez he, “here’s a Yankee clock, with a
lookin’-glass in the front, so that you can see yourself,” sez
he. “It’s too ugly,” sez I. “Thin I’ll take the lookin’-glass
out, an’ whin you look at it you’ll not find it so ugly,” sez he.

I wint to Chatham Sthreet to buy a shirt, for the one I had on
was a thrifle soiled. The Jew who kept the sthore looked at my
bosom, an’ said: “So hellup me gracious! how long do you vear a
shirt?” “Twinty-eight inches,” sez I. “Have you any fine shirts?”
sez I. “Yis,” sez he. “Are they clane?” says I. “Yis,” sez he.
“Thin you had better put one on,” sez I.

You may talk about bringin’ up childer in the way they should
go, but I believe in bringing them up by the hair of the head.
Talking about bringing up childer—I hear my childer’s prayers
every night. The other night I let thim up to bed without thim.
I skipped and sthood behind the door. I heard the big boy say:
“Give us this day our daily bread.” The little fellow said:
“Sthrike him for pie, Johnny.” I have one of the most economical
boys in the Citty of New York; he hasn’t spint one cint for the
last two years. I am expecting him down from Sing Sing prison
next week.

Talking about boys, I have a nephew who, five years ago, couldn’t
write a word. Last week he wrote his name for $10,000; he’ll git
tin years in the pinatintiary. I can’t write, but I threw a brick
at a policeman and made my mark.

They had a fight at Tim Owen’s wake last week. Mary Jane was
there. She says, barrin’ herself, there was only one whole nose
left in the party, an’ that belonged to the tay-kettle.

PASSING OF THE HORSE.

I drove my old horse, Dobbin, full slowly toward the town,
One beautiful spring morning. The rising sun looked down
And saw us slowly jogging and drinking in the balm
Of honeyed breath of clover fields. We lissed, in Nature’s calm,
To chirping squirrel, and whistling bird, the robin and the wren;
The sound of life and love and peace came o’er the fields again.
’Way back behind the wagon there came a tandem bike,
A pedaling ’long to beat the wind, I never saw the like.
They started by—the road was wide, old Dobbin feeling good,
The quiet calmness of the morn had livened up his mood,
And stretching out adown the road he chased these cyclers two,
And Dobbin in his younger days was distanced by but few.
We sped along about a mile, it was a merry chase,
But Dobbin gave it up at last, and, dropping from the race,
He looked at me, as if to say: “Old man, I’m in disgrace.
The horse is surely passing by, the bike has got his place”
And all that day, while in the town, old Dobbin’s spirits fell;
His stout old pride was broken sure; the reason I could tell.
But when that night we trotted back from town, below the hill
We met two weary cyclers who waved at us a bill
That had a big V on it, and said it would be mine
If I would let them ride with us and put their bike behind,
And so I whistled softly; and Dobbin winked at me,
“I guess the horse will stay, old man; he’s puncture proof—you see?”

A SCHOOL-DAY.

Don’t overdo the whimpering and crying, but make the facial expressions and imitate the sobbing of one in tears. Make use of a handkerchief to render the imitation more effective.

“Now, John,” the district teacher says
With frown that scarce can hide
The dimpling smiles around her mouth,
Where Cupid’s hosts abide,
“What have you done to Mary Ann,
That she is crying so?
Don’t say ’twas ‘nothing’—don’t, I say,
For, John, that can’t be so;

“For Mary Ann would never cry
At nothing, I am sure;
And if you’ve wounded justice, John,
You know the only cure
Is punishment! So, come, stand up;
Transgression must abide
The pain attendant on the scheme
That makes it justified.”

So John steps forth with sun-burnt face,
And hair all in a tumble,
His laughing eyes a contrast to
His drooping mouth so humble.
“Now, Mary, you must tell me all—
I see that John will not,
And if he’s been unkind or rude,
I’ll whip him on the spot.”

“W—we were p—playin’ p—pris’ner’s b—base,
An’ h—he is s—such a t—tease,
An’ w—when I w—wasn’t l—lookin’, m—ma’am’
H—he _k—kissed_ me—if you please.”
Upon the teacher’s face the smiles
Have triumphed o’er the frown,
A pleasant thought runs through her mind
The stick comes harmless down.

But outraged law must be avenged!
Begone, ye smiles, begone!
Away, ye little dreams of love,
Come on, ye frowns, come on!
“I think I’ll have to whip you, John,
Such conduct breaks the rule;
No boy, except a naughty one,
Would kiss a girl—at school.”

Again the teacher’s rod is raised,
A Nemesis she stands—
A premium were put on sin,
If punished by such hands!
As when the bee explores the rose
We see the petals tremble,
So trembled Mary’s rosebud lips—
Her heart would not dissemble.

“I wouldn’t whip him _very_ hard”—
The stick stops in its fall—
“It wasn’t right to do it, but—
It didn’t hurt at all!”
“What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?”
The school’s noise makes a pause,
And out upon the listening air,
From Mary comes—“Because!”

W. F. MCSPARRAN.

THE BICYCLE AND THE PUP.

’Tis a bicycle man, over his broken wheel,
That grieveth himself full sore,
For the joy of its newness his heart shall feel,
Alack and alas! no more.

When the bright sun tippeth the hills with gold,
That rider upriseth gay,
And with hat all beribboned and heart that is bold,
Pursueth his jaunty way.

He gazeth at folks in the lowly crowd
With a most superior air.
He thinketh ha! ha! and he smileth aloud
As he masheth the maiden fair.

Oh, he masheth her much in his nice new clothes,
Nor seeth the cheerful pup,
Till he roots up the road with his proud, proud nose,
While the little wheel tilteth up.

Oh, that youth on his knees—though he doth not pray—
Is a pitiful sight to see,
For his pants in their utterest part give way,
While merrily laugheth she.

And that bicycle man in his heart doth feel
That the worst of unsanctified jokes
Is the small dog that sniffeth anon at his wheel,
But getteth mixed up in the spokes.

THE PUZZLED CENSUS TAKER.

Before reciting this state to your audience that “nein” is the German for “no.”

“Got any boys?” the marshal said,
To a lady from over the Rhine;
And the lady shook her flaxen head.
And civilly answered “nein!”

“Got any girls?” the marshal said,
To that lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered “nein!”

“But some are dead,” the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered “nein!”

“Husband, of course?” the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered “nein!”

“The duce you have!” the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered “nein!”

“Now what do you mean by shaking your head
And always answering “nein?”
“Ich kann nicht Englisch,” civilly said
The lady from over the Rhine.

IT MADE A DIFFERENCE.

“Now, then,” said the short and fat and anxious-looking man as he
sat down in the street car and unfolded a map he had just bought
of a fakir. “I want to know how this old thing works. Let me
first find the Philippine Islands and Manila. Here I am, and here
is Ca-vitt.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man on his left, “but that
name is pronounced Kah-vee-tay.”

“Then why ain’t it spelled that way?” demanded the short and fat
man. “No wonder Dooye has been left there a whole month without
reinforcements when they mix up things that way.”

“You mean Dewey,” corrected the man on his right.

“I heard it called Dooye, sir.”

“But it isn’t right.”

“Then why don’t this map give it right? Is it the plan of our
map-makers to bamboozle the American patriot? Let us turn to
Cuba. Ah! here is that San Jew-an they are talking so much about.”

“Will you allow me to say that the name is pronounced San Wan?”
softly observed the man on the left.

“By whom, sir?”

“By everybody.”

“I deny it, sir!” exclaimed the fat man. “If J-u-a-n don’t spell
‘Juan’ then I can’t read. If I am wrong then why don’t this map
set me right? Is it the idea to mix up the American patriot until
he can’t tell whether he’s in Cuba or the United States?”

“Where is that Ci-en-fue-gos I’ve read about?”

“Do you wish for the correct pronunciation of that name?” asked a
man on the other side of the car.

“Haven’t I got it?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Then let her slide. The men who got out this map ought to be
indicted for swindling. Maybe I’m wrong in calling it Ma-tan-zas?”

“It is hardly correct, sir.”

“And I’m off on Por-to Ri-co?”

“Just a little off.”

“That settles it, sir—that settles it!” said the short man as
he folded up the map and tossed it away on the street. “I had a
grandfather in the Revolutionary War, a father in the war with
Mexico, and two brothers in the late Civil War, and I was going
to offer my services to Uncle Sam in this emergency; but it’s
off, sir—all off.”

“But what difference does the pronunciation make?” protested the
man on the right.

“All the difference in the world, sir. My wife is tongue-tied
and my only child has got a hare-lip, and if I should get killed
neither one of them would be able to ever make any one understand
whether I poured out my blood in a battle in Cuba or was run over
by an ice-wagon in front of my own house!”

BRIDGET O’FLANNAGAN ON CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND COCKROACHES.

Och, Mollie Moriarty, I’ve been havin’ the quare iksparyincis
since yiz hurrud from me, an’ if I’d known how it wud be whin I
lift ould Oireland, I’d nivir have sit fut intil this coonthry
befoor landin’. Me prisint misthriss that I had befoor the lasht
wan is a discoiple av a new koind av relijun called Christian
Soience. She’s been afthur takin’ a sooccission av coorsis av
coolchur (I belave that’s fwhat they call it), an’ she knows all
aboot this Christian Soience.

I’ve hurrud her talkin’ wid the other ladies about moind an’
matther, an’ as will as I can undherstand, Christian Soience
manes that iverything is all moind an’ no matther, or all matther
an’ nivir moind, an’ that ivery wan’s nobody, an’ iverything’s
nothing ilse. The misthriss ses there’s no disase nor trooble,
an’ no nade av physic; nivirthiliss, whin she dishcoovered
cockroaches intil the panthry, she sint me out wid the money to
buy an iksterminatin’ powdher.

Thinks I to mesilf, “I’ll give thim roaches a dose av Christian
Soience, or fwhat the ladies call an ‘absint thratemint.’” So
I fixed the powers av me moind on the middlesoom craythers
an’ shpint the money till me own binifit. Afther a few days
the misthriss goes intil the panthry, an’ foinds thim roaches
roonin’ ’round as if they’d nivir been kilt at all. I throied
to iksplain, but wid the inconsishtency av her six she wouldn’t
listhin till a worrud, but ses I was addin’ impertinince to
desaving’. So I’m afther lookin’ fur a place, an’ if yiz know
av any lady widout notions that do be bewildherin’ to me moind,
address,

MISS BRIDGET O’FLANNAGAN,
Post Office, Ameriky.
M. BOURCHIER.

CONVERSATIONAL

“How’s your father?” Came the whisper,
Bashful Ned the silence breaking;
“Oh, he’s nicely,” Annie murmured,
Smilingly the question taking.

Conversation flagged a moment,
Hopeless, Ned essayed another:
“Annie, I—I,” then a coughing,
And the question, “How’s your mother!”

“Mother? Oh, she’s doing nicely!”
Fleeting fast was all forbearance,
When in low, despairing accents
Came the climax, “How’s your parents?”

WANTED, A MINISTER’S WIFE.

Wanted, a perfect lady,
Delicate, gentle, refined,
With every beauty of person
And every endowment of mind;
Fitted by early culture
To move in a fashionable life.
Please notice our advertisement:
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

Wanted, a thoroughbred worker,
Who well to her household looks
(Shall we see our money wasted
By extravagant, stupid cooks?)
Who cuts the daily expenses
With economy as sharp as a knife,
And washes and scrubs in the kitchen.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

A very domestic person.
To “callers” she must not be “out;”
It has such a bad appearance
For her to be gadding about.
Only to visit the parish
Every day of her life,
And attend the funerals and weddings.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

Conduct the ladies’ meeting,
The sewing-circle attend,
And when we work for the needy,
Her ready assistance to lend.
To clothe the destitute children
Where sorrow and want are rife;
To hunt up Sunday-school scholars.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

Careful to entertain strangers,
Traveling agents, and “such;”
Of this kind of “angel visits”
The leaders have had so much
As to prove a perfect nuisance,
And “hope these plagues of their life
Can soon be sent to their parson’s.”
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

A perfect pattern of prudence
To all others, spending less,
But never disgracing the parish
By looking shabby in dress.
Playing the organ on Sunday
Would aid our laudable strife
To save the society’s money.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”

HOW A MARRIED MAN SEWS ON A BUTTON.

It is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is
the embodiment of grace alongside a married man. Necessity has
compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter
has depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately
for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to
the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right
hand, or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that
hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck,
and, forgetting to tie a knot on the thread, commences to put on
the button.

It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes
after this he is expected to be down street. He lays the button
on exactly the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle
through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving
about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to
himself, “Well, if women don’t have the easiest time I ever see.”

Then he comes back the other way and gets the needle through the
cloth easy enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but,
in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point
persists in bucking against the solid parts of the button, and
finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread,
and that three inches he has left to hold the button slips
through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely
across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of
respect for his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it.

This time, when coming back with the needle, he keeps both the
thread and button from slipping, by covering them with his
thumb; and it is out of regard for that part of him that he
feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner,
but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more
and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and
savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening
and comes up the button and part way through his thumb with a
celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays
down the things with a few familiar quotations, and presses the
injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other
arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he
prances and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there
has never been anything like it since the world was created, and
howls, and whistles, and moans and sobs. After a while he calms
down and puts on his pants and fastens them together with a
stick, and goes to his business a changed man.

J. M. BAILEY.

THE DUTCHMAN’S SERENADE.

You do not need any set tune for the words to be sung. It will be more amusing to have none, but to extemporize as you go along. Stop singing when you come to the words in parenthesis and speak them. To complete the impersonation, you should have a violin. Do not recite German dialect pieces too rapidly; the words should be pronounced very distinctly.

Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe!
Der moon dot can’t been seen abofe.
Vake oud your eyes, und dough it’s late,
I’ll make you oud a serenate.

Der shtreet dot’s kinder dampy vet,
Und dhere vas no goot blace to set;
My fiddle’s getting oud of dune,
So blease get vakey wery soon.

O my lofe! my lofely lofe!
Am you avake ub dhere abofe,
Feeling sad und nice to hear
Schneider’s fiddle schrabin near?

Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear,
Und try to saw if you kin hear
From dem bedclose vat you’m among,
Der little song I’m going to sung:

SING.

O lady! vake! Get vake!
Und hear der tale I’ll tell;
O you vot’s schleebin’ sound ub dhere,
I like you pooty vell!

SING.

Your plack eyes dhem don’t shine
When you’m ashleep—so vake!
(Yes, hurry upp, and voke up quick,
For gootness gracious sake!)

SING.

My schveet imbatience, lofe,
I hope you vill excuse;
I’m singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks!
Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)

SING.

O putiful, schveet maid!
O vill she ever voke?
Der moon is mooning—(Jimminy! dhere
Anoder shtring vent proke!)

I say, you schleeby, vake!
Vake oud! Vake loose! Vake ub!
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!
O cracious! do vake ub!

Dot girl she schleebed—dot rain it rained
Und I looked shtoopid like a fool,
Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off
So vet und shlobby like a mool!

BIDDY’S TROUBLES.

If this selection were recited in the costume of a housemaid, with apron, sunbonnet and bare arms, the effect would be intensified. Place the hands on the hips except when gesticulating.

“It’s thru for me, Katy, that I never seed the like of this
people afore. It’s a time I’ve been having since coming to this
house, twelve months agone this week Thursday. Yer know, honey,
that my fourth coosin, Ann Macarthy, recommended me to Mrs.
Whaler, and told the lady that I knew about genteel housework
and the likes; while at the same time I had niver seed inter an
American lady’s kitchen.

“So she engaged me, and my heart was jist ready to burst wid
grief for the story that Ann had told, for Mrs. Whaler was a
swate-spoken lady, and never looked cross-like in her life; that
I knew by her smooth, kind face. Well, jist the first thing she
told me to do, after I dressed the children, was to dress the
ducks for dinner. I stood looking at the lady for a couple of
minutes, before I could make out any maneing at all to her words.

“Thin I went searching after clothes for the ducks; and such
a time as I had, to be sure. High and low I went till at last
my mistress axed me for what I was looking; and I told her the
clothes for the ducks, to be sure. Och, how she scramed and
laughed, till my face was as rid as the sun wid shame, and she
showed me in her kind swate way what her maneing was. Thin she
told me how to air the beds; and it was a day for me, indade,
when I could go up chamber alone and clare up the rooms. One day
Mrs. Whaler said to me:

“‘Biddy, an’ ye may give the baby an airin’, if yees will.’

“What should I do—and it’s thru what I am saying this blessed
minute—but go upstairs wid the child, and shake it, and then
howld it out of the winder. Such a scraming and kicking as the
baby gave—but I hild on the harder. Everybody thin in the strate’
looked at me; at last misthress came up to see what for was so
much noise.

“‘I am thrying to air the baby,’ I said, ‘but it kicks and
scrames dridfully.’

“There was company down below; and whin Mrs. Whaler told them
what I had been after doing, I thought they would scare the folks
in the strate wid scraming.

“And then I was told I must do up Mr. Whaler’s sharts one day
when my mistress was out shopping. She told me repeatedly to do
them up nice, for master was going away, so I takes the sharts
and did them all up in some paper that I was after bringing from
the ould country wid me, and tied some nice pink ribbon around
the bundle.

“‘Where are the sharts, Biddy?’ axed Mrs. Whaler, when she comed
home.

“‘I have been doing them up in a quair nice way,’ I said,
bringing her the bundle.

“‘Will you iver be done wid your graneness!’ she axed me with a
loud scrame.

“I can’t for the life of me be tellin’ what their talkin’ manes.
At home we call the likes of this fine work starching; and a deal
of it I have done, too. Och! and may the blessed Vargin pity me,
for I never’ll be cured of my graneness!”

THE INVENTOR’S WIFE.

It’s easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph! Job hed nothin’ to
try him!
Ef _he’d_ been married to ’Bijah Brown, folks wouldn’t have dared
come nigh him.

Trials, indeed! Now I’ll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your
life,
Jest come and change places with me a spell—for I’m an inventor’s wife.

And sech inventions! I’m never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot,
That ’Bijah hain’t been “improvin’” it, and it mayn’t go off like a shot.
Why, didn’t he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin’;
And didn’t it pitch the baby out, and wasn’t his head bruised shockin’?

And there was his “Patent Peeler,” too—a wonderful thing, I’ll say;
But it hed one fault—it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.
As for locks, and clocks, and mowin’ machines, and reapers, and all sech
trash,
Why, ’Bijah’s invented heaps of em, but they don’t bring in no _cash_.

Law! that don’t worry him—not at all; he’s the aggravatin’est man—
He’ll set in his little workship there, and whistle, and think, and plan.
Inventin’ a jew’s-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn,
While the children’s goin’ barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin’
our corn.

When I’ve been forced to chop the wood, and tend to the farm beside,
And look at ’Bijah a-settin there, I’ve jest dropped down and cried.
We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin’ a gun;
But I counted it one of my marcies when it bust before ’twas done.

So he turned it into a “burglar alarm.” It ought to give thieves a
fright—
’Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.
Sometimes I wonder ef ’Bijah’s crazy, he does such cur’ous things.
Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?—’Twas full of wheels and springs;

It had a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head;
All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said,
That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor,
And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn’t sleep any more.

Wa’al ’Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five,
But he hadn’t more’n got into it when—dear me! sakes alive!
Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heerd a fearful snap!
And there was that bedstead, with ’Bijah inside, shet up jest like
a trap!

I screamed, of course, but ’twan’t no use; then I worked that hull
long night
A-tryin’ to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright;
I couldn’t hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin;
So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.—There was ’Bijah, peacefully
lyin’,

Inventin’ a way to git out again. That was all very well to say,
But I don’t b’lieve he’d have found it out if I’d left him in all day.
Now, sence I’ve told you my story, do you wonder I’m tired of life?
Or think it strange I often wish I warn’t an inventor’s wife?

MRS. E. T. CORBETT.

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG.

“My sister’ll be down in a minute, and says you’re to wait, if you
please;
And says I might stay till she came, if I’d promise her never to tease,
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that’s nonsense; for how would
you know
What she told me to say, if I didn’t? Don’t you really and truly think
so?

“And then you’d feel strange here alone. And you wouldn’t know just
where to sit;
For that chair isn’t strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit:
We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would be like you
To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw.

“Suppose you try! I won’t tell. You’re afraid to! Oh! you’re afraid
they would think it was mean!
Well, then, there’s the album: that’s pretty, if you’re sure that your
fingers are clean.
For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she’s
cross.
There’s her picture. You know it? It’s like her; but she ain’t as
good-looking, of course.

“This is ME. It’s the best of ’em all. Now, tell me, you’d never have
thought
That once I was little as that? It’s the only one that could be bought;
For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I sat—
That he wouldn’t print off any more till he first got his money for that.

“What? Maybe you’re tired of waiting. Why, often she’s longer than this.
There’s all her back hair to do up, and all of her front curls to friz.
But it’s nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you
and me!
Do you think you’ll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don’t come like
Tom Lee—

“Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and
night,
Till the folks thought he’d be her husband; and Jack says that gave him
a fright;
You won’t run away then, as he did? for you’re not a rich man, they say.
Pa says you’re poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you? and how poor are
they?

“Ain’t you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair
isn’t red;
But what there is left of it’s mousy, and not what that naughty Jack
said.
But there! I must go; sister’s coming! But I wish I could wait, just
to see
If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the way she used to kiss
Lee.”

BRET HARTE.

THE MAN WHO HAS ALL DISEASES AT ONCE.

Imitate the cough. Put your hands on different parts of your body in describing your aches and pains. Wear a long dismal face. Bend forward and limp as you change your position.

Good Morning, Doctor; how do you do? I hain’t quite as well as
I have been; but I think I’m some better than I was. I don’t
think that last medicine that you gin me did me much good. I
had a terrible time with the earache last night; my wife got up
and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved
it some; but I didn’t get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight.
For nearly a week, Doctor, I’ve had the worst kind of a narvous
headache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head
would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I’m the most
afflictedest human that ever lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I
have had every winter for the last fifteen years, has began to
pester me agin. (_Coughs._) Doctor, do you think you can give me
any thing that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that
I can’t turn my head without turning the hull of my body.
(_Coughs._)