THE HOBGOBLIN

There is a Hobgoblin that stalks in the path of the athletic young writers of the day and frightens them almost out of their wits.

The Hobgoblin is the third person singular, past tense, of the verb “Say,” and his name is SAID.

The Hobgoblin SAID does not stalk alone; with him stalk his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, indeed, all the SAID family except old Gran’ma QUOTH. Old Gran’ma QUOTH, who is much too old to stalk, stays at home and dreams of the good old days when she was a verb of fashion, honored and courted by all the greatest writers of the day.

And when her grandchildren come home in the evening and tell how they frightened the athletic young writers almost out of their wits, she nearly bursts her old-fashioned stays, laughing at the drollery of it. “Egad!” she cries. “An’ I were an hundred years younger, I’d like nought better than to take a hand myself, and lay my stick about their backs, the young whippersnappers!”

And I for one, would like to see her do it.

How the SAID family ever became professional Hobgoblins, I can not say. All I know is that, once a hardworking and highly respected family, suddenly they found themselves shunned. There was nothing left for them but to become HOBGOBLINS. Now their only pleasure in life is to see what funny antics they can make the athletic young writers perform in trying to escape from them.

And funny they certainly are.

Here are a few specimens from some of our leading “best sellers”:

“To think I have fallen to that!” grated Gilstar with clenched teeth.

“I get rather a good price,” Gilstar dared.

“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars,” he offered wildly.

“What are your terms?” he clucked.

But why bother about “best sellers,” when you can make almost as funny ones at home? Here is a home-brewed one:

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?”

“I’m going to the Doctor’s, to ask his aid,

I caught a cold when I slept in the loft,”

“Sir,” she coughed,

“I’m going to the Doctor’s sir,” she coughed.

“May I go with you, my pretty maid?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, if you’re not afraid

Of catching my cold, I shall be pleased,”

“Sir,” she sneezed,

“Oh, yes, if you please, kind sir,” she sneezed.

“Of catching your cold I have no fear,

For I’ll take no chances, my pretty dear!”

At this the maiden was sorely ruffled,

“Sir?” she snuffled,

“What do you mean, kind sir,” she snuffled.

“I mean I won’t kiss you, my pretty maid!”

“Nobody asked you, my smart young Blade!”

In her pocket-handkerchief, large and new,

“Sir!” she blew,

“Nobody asked you, sir!” she blew.