Punchinello, Volume 1, No. 23, September 3, 1870

Chapter III: Canto V

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"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head,
"Tarry awhile," says Slow;
"Put on the pot," says Greedy Gut,
"We'll sup before we go."

These lines the observant student of nursery literature will perceive are satirical. Was there ever a poet who was not satirical? How could he be a genius and not be able to point out the folly he sees around him and comment upon it. In this case, the poor poet,--who lived in a roseate cloud-land of his own, not desiring such mundane things as sleep and food, was undoubtedly troubled and plagued to death by having brothers and sisters who were of the earth, earthy; and who never neglected on opportunity to laugh at his poems; to squirt water on him when in the heavenly mood, his eyes in frenzy rolling; to put spiders down his back; to stick pins in his elbows when writing; or upset his inkstand.

Fine natures always have a deal to bear, in this world, from the coarse, unfeeling natures that cannot appreciate their delicacy; and this one had more than his share.

Many a time has he been goaded to frenzy by the cruel sneers and jokes of those who should have been proud of his talents; and rushed with wild-eyed eagerness down to the gentle frog pond, intending there to bury his sorrows beneath its glassy surface. He saw in imagination the grief-stricken faces of those cruel ones as they gazed upon his cold corpus, with his damp locks clinging to his noble brow, the green slimy weeds clasped in his pale hands, and the mud oozing from his pockets and the legs of his pants; and he gloried in the remorse and anguish they would feel when they knew that the Poet of the family was gone forever.

All this he pictured as he stood on the bank, and, while thinking, the desire to plunge in grew smaller by degrees and beautifully less, till at last it vanished entirely, and he concluded he had better go home, finish his book first and drown himself afterwards, if necessary. It would make much more stir in the world, and his name and works might live forever.

A happy thought strikes him as he slowly meanders homeward. He would have revenge. He would punish these wretches by handing down--to posterity their peculiarities. He would put it in verse and have it printed in his book, and then they'd see that even the gentle worm could turn and sting.

Ah! blessed thought. He flies to his garret bedroom, seizes his goose-quill and paper, and sits down. What shall he write about? He nibbles the feather end of his pen, plunges the point into the ink, looks at it intently to see if he has hooked up an idea, sees none, and falls to nibbling again. Ah! now he has it. There is TOM, the dunderhead, who is always sleepy and he will put that down about him. Squaring his shoulders, he writes:

"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head.

Gleefully he rubs his hands. Won't that cut TOM. Ah! Ha! I guess TOM won't say much more about staring at the moon. Now for DICK, the old stupid. What shall he say about him? The end of the pen diminishes slowly but surely, and then he writes:

"Tarry awhile," says Slow.

That will answer for DICK. Now let him give HARRY something scorching, withering, and cutting--so that he'll never open his mouth again unless it is to put something in it. Oh, that is it, he is always hungry--rub him on that. He thinks intently. Determination shows in every line of his face; the pen is almost gone only an inch remains, and then the Poet masters his subject. He has got the last two lines.

"Put on the pot," says Greedy Gut,
"We'll sup before we go."

He throws down the stump of the pen and bounces up. His object in life is accomplished; he is master of the situation, now, and holds the trump card. See the quiet smile' and knowing look as he folds the paper up, and thrusts it into his pocket. He is going down-stairs to read it to the family. Now is the time for sweet revenge and for the overthrow of those Philistines, his brothers. He descends slowly, like an avenging angel, enters the room, and--gentle reader, imagine the rest.

* * * * *

Masculine or Feminine?

It now seems that the new and terrible fagot-gun used in the French army is to be spoken of in the feminine gender--_mitrailleuse_ instead of _mitrailleur_, as hitherto spelt by correspondents. That a virago is sometimes termed a "spit-fire" we all know, but that is hardly reason enough to excuse the French for such a lapse of gallantry as calling a thunderous and fatal implement of war by a soft feminine name. Let them stick to _mitrailleur_. Yet we would not rashly throw the other word away. _Mitrailleuse_ would be a capital acquisition to the English language, and very handy for any man having a vixen of a wife, with no nice pet name convenient with which to conciliate her.

* * * * *

A Ridiculous Rub-a-dub.

A quiet gentleman who occupies lodgings immediately opposite one of the city armories, writes to us asking whether the drum corps that practice there two or three evenings in the week should not be supplied with noiseless drums, as PUNCHINELLO has suggested regarding the street organs. PUNCHINELLO thinks the suggestion a good one. He would like to see the beating of drums after night-fall abolished altogether In fact, it is the only kind of Dead Beat to which he would lend his countenance.

* * * * *

A Clear Case.

Some wiseacre has been trying to demonstrate, through the public press, that POE did not write "The Raven."

The man must be a Raven lunatic.

* * * * *

THE BALLARD OF THE GOOD LITTLE BOY, AGED TEN, AND HIS BAD BROTHER.

An obituary notice of a boy, 10 years old, in _The Wilmington Commercial_, contains the following statement: "In his dying moments he charged his brother WILLIAM not to dance, or sing any more songs. Funeral services preached by the Rev WM. R. TUBB."

This pious Boy lay on his bed,
A dying very fast;
'Most every word this good Boy said,
They thought 'twould be his last.

The Reverend Mr. TUBB was there,
A praying very slow;
It was a solemn, sad affair;
Twas plain the Boy must go.

His brother WILLIAM:, he come o'er,
To which this good Boy cried,
"Oh, BILL, don't sing nor dance no more!"
And following which he died.

Now WILLIAM, he had learnt a song
That pleased him very much:
He didn't know that it was wrong
To carol any such.

He said he couldn't leave it go,
Not if he was to die;
And that same song, as all should know,
Was called by him, "Shoo Fly."

He was informed by Mr. TUBBS
That he would fall down dead,
Or else get killed by stones or clubs,
With that thing in his head.

But, such is life! Poor WILLIAM went
And sung his Shoo Fly o'er:
Not knowing that he would be sent
Where Shoo Flies are no more,

He was a singing, one wet day,
And likewise dancing too,
When lightning took his sole away--
Let this warn me and you!

* * * * *

HINTS FOR THE CENSUS.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I have always been in favor of the Census, the system is questionable, perhaps, though that depends on how you like it. I have found that it answers very well where the parties are highly intelligent-like myself, for example.

I drew up the following proclamation to read to the U.S. official in my district:

_Q._ What is your name? _A_ SARSFIELD YOUNG. What is yours?

_Q._ What is your age? _A._ A., being asked how old he was, replied: If I live as long again, and half as long again, and two years and a half,--how old shall I be?

_Q._ Where is your residence? _A._ I live at home with the family, have often thought that, amid pleasures and palaces, there is no place like home, unless it be a boarding house with hot and cold water.

_Q._ What is your occupation? _A._ Taxpayer. This takes my whole time

_Q._ Where were you born? _A._ Having made no minute of it at the time, it has passed out of my memory.

_Q._ What kind of a house do you live in? _A._ A mortgaged house, painted flesh color, a front exposure, brick windows and a brass lightning rod. A good deal of back yard, (and back rent,) to it.

_Q._ At what age did your grandfather die? _A._ If he died last night, (I saw him yesterday at a horse race,) he was turning ninety-eight, perhaps he got tipped over in the turn.

_Q._ Do you hold any official position: if so, what? _A._ Inspector of fish,--every Friday.

_Q._ Are you insured? A. I am agent for half a dozen companies. So are all my neighbors. My life is insured against fire for several thousands.

_Q._ Are you troubled with chilblains? _A._ Quitely. I soak my feet in oil of vitriol.

_Q._ Were you in the war? _A._ I have the scar on my arm which I got in the service. I was vaccinated severely, while clerk to a substitute broker at Troy, N. Y.

_Q._ Are you a graduate of any College. _A._ Yes, of one. I forget which one. I only remember that I was one of the most remarkable men they ever turned out.

_Q._ Have you suffered from the potato rot? _A,_ Not myself. My uncle had it bad. He found that whiskey and warm water was a very good thing. I've made an independent discovery of the same fact, also.

_Q._ Are you in favor of Free Trade or Protection? _A_. I can only say that, if elected, gentlemen, I shall endeavor to do my whole duty. I am.

_Q._ What do you think of deep plowing? _A._ In a scanty population, I should say it has a bad effect. I can recommend it, however, in a sandy soil, where school privileges are first-class.

_Q._ Does anything else occur to you which it is important for the Government to know? _A._ Yes: a hay fever occurs to me regularly once a year. I have no policy to enforce against the will of the people: Still I would call the attention of the medicine-loving public to my friend Dr. EZRA CUTLER'S "Noon-day Bitters." For ringing in the ears, loss of memory, bankruptcy, teething, and general debility, they are without a rival. No family should live more than five minutes walk from a bottle. They gild the morning of youth, cherish manhood, and comfort old age, with the name blown on the bottle in plain letters. Beware of impositions--at all respectable druggists.

* * I believe in taking things easy, and I shall cheerfully assist the Administration, when it calls at my door on Census business.

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

* * * * *

Facilis Descensus

The daily papers frequently have articles respecting the "Hell Gate Obstructions." We do not, however, remember having seen that subject handled in the _Sun._ Perhaps it is that DANA and DYER, conscious of their deserts, do not anticipate any obstructions in that quarter.

* * * * *

_Lady_, (responsively.) "THAT FASHIONABLY DRESSED WOMAN WHO HAS JUST PASSED, DEAR? OH, THAT'S MY COOK, TAKING HER SUNDAY WITH THE GROCER'S YOUNG MAN. SHE NEVER ACKNOWLEDGES ME ON SUCH OCCASIONS."]

* * * * *

WHAT SHALL WE CALL IT?

Having made up my mind to become a novelist, I naturally studied the productions of my predecessors, and found out, I assure you, in a very brief period of time, the little tricks of the trade. As I do not wish to have the business flooded with neophytes, I refrain from informing your readers how every man can become his own novel writer. One very curious thing, however, which I discovered, I will here relate.

I was very much puzzled by the curious titles which novelists selected for their books, and very much annoyed by my inability to discover where they picked them up. I persevered, however, and discovered that they found them in the daily papers. In fact, I shrewdly suspect that I have discovered, in these veracious sheets, the very incidents which suggested the names of a number of volumes. Let me place before you the extracts, which I have culled from the papers.

_"Put Yourself in his Place."_--READE.

"Yesterday morning an unknown man was found hanging from the limbs of a tree in JONES' Wood. He was quite dead when discovered."

_"Red as a Rose is She."_

"Bridget Flynn was arrested for vagrancy. When brought before the Court she was quite drunk. She had evidently been a hard drinker for years, as her face was of a brilliant carmine color."

_"Man and Wife."_ COLLINS.

"Married.--At Salt Lake City, on the 1st day of August, 1870, BRIGHAM YOUNG, Esq., to Miss LETITIA BLACK, Mrs. SUSAN BROWN and Miss JENNIE SMITH."

_"What will he do with it?"_ BULWER.

"It is stated by the police authorities, that the description of Mr. NATHAN'S watch has been spread so widely, that the robber will be unable to dispose of it to any jeweler or pawnbroker."

_"Our Mutual Friend"_--DICKENS.

"England is supplying both France and Prussia with horses."

_"John."_--Mrs. OLIPHANT.

"Mr. SAMPSON has sent to California for another cargo of Chinese shoemakers."

_"Friends in Council."_--HELPS.

"Mr. Drew and Mr. Fisk were closeted together for more than an hour yesterday."

_"A Tale of Two Cities."_--DICKENS.

"The census will show that our city has a population of at least 500,000."--_Chicago paper._

"St Louis has undoubtedly a population of 400,000."--_St. Louis paper._

"Chicago, 300,000; St. Louis, 190,000."--_Census returns._

_"Stern Necessity."_--F.W. ROBINSON.

"It is stated that a well-known yacht failed to win the prize in the late race, because her rudder slipped out of her fastenings and was lost."

* * * * *

ITEMS FROM OUR RURAL REPORTERS.

A German farmer, living not one hundred miles from Cincinnati, is raising trichinated pork for the supply of the French army.

The artist who drew the Newfoundland dog (out of the water,) at Newport, R.I., has received a medal from the Royal Humane Society of England, on condition that he will not Meddle with dogs any more.

Near Ashland, in Virginia, a spring has been discovered that runs chicken soup. So great was the commotion in culinary arrangements, when the discovery was made public, that "the dish ran after the spoon."

The curious crustacean known as the "fiddler crab" is unusually numerous in the marshes of Long Island, this summer. It differs from impecunious persons inasmuch as it is a burrowing, not a borrowing, creature. It differs from ordinary fiddlers by two letters, in that it bores the earth, but not the ear.

It is an established fact that persona who sleep on mattresses stuffed with pigeon's feathers never die. Near Salem, Mass., there is now a woman nearly two hundred years old, who has been bed-ridden and confined to a pigeon-feather bed for one hundred and fifty years. One of her descendants a shrewd man-has discovered that the pigeon feathers are growing musty, and proposes to replace them with the plumage of geese.

There is a wild man at large in the woods of Sullivan County, N.Y. He was once a fast man of New York City, and is so fast, still, that nobody can catch him.

A gentleman residing in the vicinity of Glen Cove had a Newfoundland dog that was very expert at catching lobsters. The faithful animal has been missing for some time, but a clue to its fate was yesterday obtained by its owner, who found the brass collar of the dog inside a large lobster with which he was about to construct a salad.

An English nobleman has taken up his residence in the centre of the Dismal Swamp, Va. Blighted affections are supposed to be the cause of his trouble, as he always wears at the top buttonhole of his coat a _chignon_ made of red hair.

* * * * *

"That's what's the Matter."

Among the lectures announced for the coming season is Mrs. CECILIA BURLEIGH'S "Woman's right to be a Woman." We quite agree with Mrs. BURLEIGH'S remark. Woman _is_ right to be a woman, but the matter just now is that woman wants to be a man.

* * * * *

Couplet from a Shaker Song.

O! Mr. President, you'll have to keep on pegging
At this English Mission, which seems to go a-begging.
Hi! yi! yi! etc.

Geo. W. Wheat & Co. Printers, No. 8 Spruce Street.

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Punchinello, Volume 1, No. 23, September 3, 1870Chapter III: Canto V

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