An outline of humor / Being a true chronicle from prehistoric ages to the twentieth century

by Unknown

AMERICAN HUMOR

There may have been previous mute, inglorious Miltons, but doubtless the first American to be recognized as a true humorist was Benjamin Franklin.

In fact, one of the foremost essayists of the present day opines that the reason Franklin was not called upon to write the Declaration of Independence was because he was too fond of his joke.

“They were acute,” our essayist remarks, “those leaders of the Continental Congress, and they knew that every man has the defect of his qualities, and that a humorist is likely to be lacking in reverence, and that the writer of the Declaration of Independence had a theme which demanded most reverential treatment.”

It is generally conceded that the Americans are a humorous nation, is even said that we have a way of living humorously, and are conscious of the fact.

Aside from the annual work known as Poor Richard’s Almanack, Franklin wrote much prose and verse of a witty character.

A letter of his gave rise to the well known saying, “He paid too much for his whistle.”

Part of the letter is here given.

“When I was a child of seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

“This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don’t give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.

“As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

“When I saw one too ambitious to court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, This man gives too much for his whistle.

“When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that neglect, He pays, indeed, said I, too much for his whistle.

“If I knew a miser, who gave up any kind of a comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, Poor man, said I, you pay too much for your whistle.

“When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, Mistaken man, said I, you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure! you give too much for your whistle.

“If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, Alas! say I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.

“When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, What a pity, say I, that she should pay so much for a whistle!

“In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

“Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider, that with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put up to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.

“Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours, very sincerely and with unalterable affection.”

B. Franklin.

PAPER

Some wit of old—such wits of old there were—

Whose hints show’d meaning, whose allusions care,

By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,

Call’d clear blank paper every infant mind;

Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,

Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;

Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.

I (can you pardon my presumption?) I—

No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce,

The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.

Men are as various; and if right I scan,

Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray note the fop—half powder and half lace—

Nice as a band-box were his dwelling-place:

He’s the gilt paper, which apart you store,

And lock from vulgar hands in the ’scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,

Are copy-paper, of inferior worth;

Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed,

Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch, whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,

Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,

Is coarse brown paper! such as pedlars choose

To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser’s contrast, who destroys

Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.

Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,

He’s true sinking-paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician’s anxious thought

Deems this side always right, and that stark naught;

He foams with censure; with applause he raves—

A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves;

He’ll want no type his weakness to proclaim,

While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,

Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry,

Who can’t a jest, or hint, or look endure:

What is he? What? Touch-paper to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,

Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?

Them and their works in the same class you’ll find;

They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet,

She’s fair white-paper, an unsullied sheet;

On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,

May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I’ll bring;

’Tis the great man who scorns a little thing,

Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,

Form’d on the feelings of his heart alone:

True genuine royal-paper is his breast:

Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

Francis Hopkinson, a writer of miscellaneous essays, wrote “The Battle of the Keys,” which was founded upon a real historic incident.

THE BATTLE OF THE KEYS

Gallants attend and hear a friend

Trill forth harmonious ditty,

Strange things I’ll tell which late befell

In Philadelphia city.

’Twas early day, as poets say,

Just when the sun was rising,

A soldier stood on a log of wood,

And saw a thing surprising.

As in amaze he stood and gazed,

The truth can’t be denied, sir,

He spied a score of kegs or more

Come floating down the tide, sir.

A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,

This strange appearance viewing,

First damned his eyes, in great surprise,

Then said, “Some mischief’s brewing.

“These kegs, I’m told, the rebles hold,

Packed up like pickled herring;

And they’re come down to attack the town,

In this new way of ferrying.”

The soldier flew, the sailor too,

And scared almost to death, sir,

Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,

And ran till out of breath, sir.

Now up and down throughout the town,

Most frantic scenes were acted;

And some ran here, and others there,

Like men almost distracted.

Some “fire” cried, which some denied,

But said the earth had quaked;

And girls and boys, with hideous noise,

Ran through the streets half-naked.

Sir William he, snug as a flea,

Lay all this time a-snoring,

Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm,

In bed with Mrs. Loring.

Now in a fright he starts upright,

Awaked by such a clatter;

He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,

“For God’s sake, what’s the matter?”

At his bedside he then espied,

Sir Erskine at command, sir,

Upon one foot he had one boot,

And th’ other in his hand, sir.

“Arise, arise!” Sir Erskine cries,

“The rebels—more’s the pity,

Without a boat are all afloat,

And ranged before the city.

“The motley crew, in vessels new,

With Satan for their guide, sir,

Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs,

Come driving down the tide, sir.

“Therefore prepare for bloody war,

The kegs must all be routed,

Or surely we despised shall be,

And British courage doubted.”

The royal band now ready stand,

All ranged in dead array, sir,

With stomach stout to see it out,

And make a bloody day, sir.

The cannons roar from shore to shore,

The small arms make a rattle;

Since wars began I’m sure no man

E’er saw so strange a battle.

The rebel dales, the rebel vales,

With rebel trees surrounded,

The distant woods, the hills and floods,

With rebel echoes sounded.

The fish below swam to and fro,

Attacked from every quarter;

Why sure, thought they, the devil’s to pay

’Mongst folks above the water.

The kegs, ’tis said, though strongly made

Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,

Could not oppose their powerful foes,

And conquering British troops, sir.

From morn to night these men of might

Displayed amazing courage;

And when the sun was fairly down,

Retired to sup their porridge.

A hundred men with each a pen,

Or more, upon my word, sir,

It is most true would be too few,

Their valor to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day,

Against these wicked kegs, sir,

That, years to come, if they get home,

They’ll make their boasts and brags, sir.

—Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings.

Elizabeth Graeme Ferguson, one of the earliest women writers of our country, like many of her contemporaries, kept the style and effect of English poetry. Her lines on the Country Parson, show a fine vein of satire.

THE COUNTRY PARSON

How happy is the country parson’s lot!

Forgetting bishops, as by them forgot;

Tranquil of spirit, with an easy mind,

To all his vestry’s votes he sits resigned:

Of manners gentle, and of temper even,

He jogs his flocks, with easy pace, to heaven.

In Greek and Latin, pious books he keeps;

And, while his clerk sings psalms, he—soundly sleeps.

His garden fronts the sun’s sweet orient beams,

And fat church-wardens prompt his golden dreams.

The earliest fruit, in his fair orchard, blooms;

And cleanly pipes pour out tobacco’s fumes.

From rustic bridegroom oft he takes the ring;

And hears the milkmaid plaintive ballads sing.

Back-gammon cheats whole winter nights away,

And Pilgrim’s Progress helps a rainy day.

President John Quincy Adams so far relaxed from his political dignity as to write light verse.

TO SALLY

The man in righteousness arrayed,

A pure and blameless liver,

Needs not the keen Toledo blade,

Nor venom-freighted quiver.

What though he winds his toilsome way

O’er regions wild and weary—

Through Zara’s burning desert stray,

Or Asia’s jungles dreary:

What though he plough the billowy deep

By lunar light, or solar,

Meet the resistless Simoon’s sweep,

Or iceberg circumpolar!

In bog or quagmire deep and dank

His foot shall never settle;

He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc,

Or Popocatapetl.

On Chimborazo’s breathless height

He treads o’er burning lava;

Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight,

The deathful plant of Java.

Through every peril he shall pass,

By Virtue’s shield protected;

And still by Truth’s unerring glass

His path shall be directed.

Else wherefore was it, Thursday last,

While strolling down the valley,

Defenceless, musing as I passed

A canzonet to Sally,

A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout,

Forth from the thicket bounded—

I clapped my hands and raised a shout—

He heard—and fled—confounded.

Tangier nor Tunis never bred

An animal more crabbed;

Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed

A monster half so rabid;

Nor Ararat so fierce a beast

Has seen since days of Noah;

Nor stronger, eager for a feast,

The fell constrictor boa.

Oh! place me where the solar beam

Has scorched all verdure vernal;

Or on the polar verge extreme,

Blocked up with ice eternal—

Still shall my voice’s tender lays

Of love remain unbroken;

And still my charming Sally praise,

Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.

About this time, Clement C. Moore wrote the Christmas story which has since become a national classic.

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

Washington Irving, though his work is besprinkled with humor cannot be quoted at length.

A bit of his gay verse is given.

A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY

There’s a certain young lady,

Who’s just in her heyday,

And full of all mischief, I ween;

So teasing! so pleasing!

Capricious! delicious!

And you know very well whom I mean.

With an eye dark as night,

Yet than noonday more bright,

Was ever a black eye so keen?

It can thrill with a glance,

With a beam can entrance,

And you know very well whom I mean.

With a stately step—such as

You’d expect in a duchess—

And a brow might distinguish a queen,

With a mighty proud air,

That says “touch me who dare,”

And you know very well whom I mean.

With a toss of the head

That strikes one quite dead,

But a smile to revive one again;

That toss so appalling!

That smile so enthralling!

And you know very well whom I mean.

Confound her! devil take her!—

A cruel heart-breaker—

But hold! see that smile so serene.

God love her! God bless her!

May nothing distress her!

You know very well whom I mean.

Heaven help the adorer

Who happens to bore her,

The lover who wakens her spleen;

But too blest for a sinner

Is he who shall win her,

And you know very well whom I mean.

William Cullen Bryant, like most of the New England poets, was not often humorous in his work. Perhaps the nearest he came to it was in his Lines to a Mosquito.

TO A MOSQUITO

Fair insect! that with threadlike legs spread out,

And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing,

Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about,

In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing,

And tell how little our large veins should bleed,

Would we but yield them to thy bitter need?

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,

Full angrily men harken to thy plaint;

Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,

For saying thou art gaunt and starved and faint.

Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,

Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,

Has not the honor of so proud a birth—

Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,

The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;

For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,

The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong,

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,

Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,

And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence

Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,

And as its grateful odors met thy sense,

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.

Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight

Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway—

Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist;

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!

What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?

Thou wailest when I talk of beauty’s light,

As if it brought the memory of pain.

Thou art a wayward being—well—come near,

And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.

What say’st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick?

And China Bloom at best is sorry food?

And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood.

Go! ’Twas a just reward that met thy crime—

But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at—not to touch;

To worship—not approach—that radiant white;

And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.

Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired—

Murmur’d thy admiration and retired.

Thou’rt welcome to the town—but why come here

To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?

Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.

Look round—the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,

Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood

Enrich’d by gen’rous wine and costly meat;

On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,

Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet.

Go to the men for whom, in ocean’s halls,

The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,

To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now

The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose

Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;

And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,

No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

Fitz-Greene Halleck wrote much in collaboration with Joseph Rodman Drake, and it is often difficult to separate their work.

ODE TO FORTUNE

Fair lady with the bandaged eye!

I’ll pardon all thy scurvy tricks,

So thou wilt cut me, and deny

Alike thy kisses and thy kicks:

I’m quite contented as I am,

Have cash to keep my duns at bay,

Can choose between beefsteaks and ham,

And drink Madeira every day.

My station is the middle rank,

My fortune—just a competence—

Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank,

And twenty in the six per cents;

No amorous chains my heart enthrall,

I neither borrow, lend, nor sell;

Fearless I roam the City Hall,

And bite my thumb at Sheriff Bell.

The horse that twice a week I ride

At Mother Dawson’s eats his fill;

My books at Goodrich’s abide,

My country-seat is Weehawk hill;

My morning lounge is Eastburn’s shop,

At Poppleton’s I take my lunch,

Niblo prepares my mutton-chop,

And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch.

When merry, I the hours amuse

By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls,

And when I’m troubled with the blues

Damn Clinton and abuse cards:

Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize,

At least preserve me from thy frown!

The man who don’t attempt to rise

’Twere cruelty to tumble down.

Albert Gorton Greene also wrote in the manner of his English forebears, indeed, his Old Grimes is quite in line with Tom Hood or Goldsmith.

OLD CHIMES

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man

We never shall see more:

He used to wear a long, black coat,

All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day,

His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray—

He wore it in a queue.

Whene’er he heard the voice of pain,

His breast with pity burn’d;

The large, round head upon his cane

From ivory was turn’d.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,

His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind.

In friendship he was true:

His coat had pocket-holes behind,

His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm’d, the sin which earth pollutes

He pass’d securely o’er,

And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,

Nor fears misfortune’s frown:

He wore a double-breasted vest—

The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,

And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,

No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse—

Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes

And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,

He did not bring to view,

Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,

As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw

In trust to fortune’s chances,

But lived (as all his brothers do)

In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb’d by anxious cares,

His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman.

Ralph Waldo Emerson is seldom humorous or even in lighter vein. His Fable about the squirrel shows a graceful wit.

FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter “Little Prig”;

Bun replied,

“You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year

And a sphere,

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I’m not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

I’ll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.”

Nathaniel Parker Willis was a popular writer of society satire in both prose and verse.

LOVE IN A COTTAGE

They may talk of love in a cottage,

And bowers of trellised vine—

Of nature bewitchingly simple,

And milkmaids half-divine;

They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping

In the shade of a spreading tree,

And a walk in the fields at morning,

By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation

By the light of a chandelier—

With music to play in the pauses,

And nobody very near;

Or a seat on a silken sofa,

With a glass of pure old wine,

And mama too blind to discover

The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry,

Your vine is a nest for flies—

Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,

And simplicity talks of pies!

You lie down to your shady slumber

And wake with a bug in your ear,

And your damsel that walks in the morning

Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet,

And mightily likes his ease—

And true love has an eye for a dinner,

And starves beneath shady trees.

His wing is the fan of a lady.

His foot’s an invisible thing,

And his arrow is tipp’d with a jewel

And shot from a silver string.

Seba Smith, among the first to break away from English traditions, wrote over the pen name of Major Jack Downing. He was a pioneer in the matter of dialect writing and the first to poke fun at New England speech and manners.

Follows a part of his skit called

MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND

After I had walked about three or four hours, I come along towards the upper end of the town, where I found there were stores and shops of all sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I,—

“What place is this?”

“Why, this,” says he, “is Huckler’s Row.”

“What!” says I, “are these the stores where the traders in Huckler’s Row keep?”

And says he, “Yes.”

“Well, then,” says I to myself, “I have a pesky good mind to go in and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye-teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do what there ain’t a man in our place can do; and I should just like to know what sort of stuff these ’ere Portland chaps are made of.” So in I goes into the best-looking store among ’em. And I see some biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I,—

“Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them ’ere biscuits?”

“A cent apiece,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “I shan’t give you that, but, if you’ve a mind to, I’ll give you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as though I would like to take a bite.”

“Well,” says he, “I wouldn’t sell ’em to anybody else so, but, seeing it’s you, I don’t care if you take ’em.”

I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he handed down the biscuits, and I took ’em, and walked round the store awhile, to see what else he had to sell. At last says I,—

“Mister, have you got any good cider?”

Says he, “Yes, as good as ever ye see.”

“Well,” says I, “what do you ax a glass for it?”

“Two cents,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Ain’t you a mind to take these ’ere biscuits again and give me a glass of cider?” and says he:

“I don’t care if I do.”

So he took and laid ’em on the shelf again and poured out a glass of cider. I took the glass of cider and drinkt it down and, to tell you the truth about it, it was capital good cider Then says I:

“I guess it’s about time for me to be a-going,” and so I stept along toward the door; but he ups and says, says he:

“Stop, mister, I believe you haven’t paid me for the cider.’

“Not paid you for the cider!” says I; “what do you mean by that? Didn’t the biscuits that I give you just come to the cider?”

“Oh, ah, right!” says he.

So I started to go again, but before I had reached the door he says, says he:

“But stop, mister, you didn’t pay me for the biscuit.”

“What!” says I, “do you mean to impose upon me? Do you think I am going to pay you for the biscuits, and let you keep them, too? Ain’t they there now on your shelf? What more do you want? I guess, sir, you don’t whittle me in that way.”

So I turned about and marched off and left the feller staring and scratching his head as tho’ he was struck with a dunderment.

Howsomeever, I didn’t want to cheat him, only jest to show ’em it wa’n’t so easy a matter to pull my eye-teeth out; so I called in next day and paid him two cents.

---

And now humor began to creep into the newspapers, and it came about that American humorists, almost without exception, have been newspaper men.

Following Seba Smith’s plan each author created a character, usually of homely type, and through him as a mouthpiece gave to the world his own wit and wisdom.

Mrs. Frances Miriam Whitcher wrote the Widow Bedott papers, and Frederick Swartout Cozzens the Sparrowgrass Papers, but best known today is the Mrs. Partington, the American Mrs. Malaprop, created by Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber.

AFTER A WEDDING

“I like to tend weddings,” said Mrs. Partington, as she came back from a neighboring church where one had been celebrated, and hung up her shawl, and replaced the black bonnet in her long-preserved band-box. “I like to see young people come together with the promise to love, cherish, and nourish each other. But it is a solemn thing, is matrimony—a very solemn thing—where the pasture comes into the chancery, with his surplus on, and goes through with the cerement of making ’em man and wife. It ought to be husband and wife; for it ain’t every husband that turns out a man. I declare I shall never forget how I felt when I had the nuptial ring put on to my finger, when Paul said, ‘With my goods I thee endow.’ He used to keep a dry-goods store then, and I thought he was going to give me all there was in it. I was young and simple, and didn’t know till arterwards that it only meant one calico gound in a year. It is a lovely sight to see the young people plighting their trough, and coming up to consume their vows.”

She bustled about and got tea ready, but abstractedly she put on the broken teapot, that had lain away unused since Paul was alive, and the teacups, mended with putty, and dark with age, as if the idea had conjured the ghost of past enjoyment to dwell for the moment in the home of present widowhood.

A young lady, who expected to be married on Thanksgiving night, wept copiously at her remarks, but kept on hemming the veil that was to adorn her brideship, and Ike sat pulling bristles out of the hearth-brush in expressive silence.

Yet not all the wits of the day were newspaper men, for Oliver Wendell Holmes left his essays and novels now and then to give his native humor full play.

The “Deacon’s Masterpiece,” often called “The One Hoss Shay” is a classic, and many short poems are among our best witty verses, while Holmes’ genial humor pervades his Breakfast Table books.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

I wrote some lines once on a time,

In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,

I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;

How kind it was of him,

To mind a slender man like me,

He of the mighty limb!

“These to the printer,” I exclaimed,

And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),

“There’ll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watched,

And saw him peep within;

At the first line he read, his face

Was all upon the grin.

He read the next: the grin grew broad,

And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third: a chuckling noise

I now began to hear.

The fourth: he broke into a roar;

The fifth: his waistband split;

The sixth: he burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,

I watched that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I can.

ÆSTIVATION

In candent ire the solar splendor flames;

The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;

His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,

And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,

Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,

Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine,

And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine.

To me also, no verdurous visions come

Save you exiguous pool’s confervascum,—

No concave vast repeats the tender hue

That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!

Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!

Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous chump,—

Depart,—be off,—excede,—evade,—erump!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is charged with the perpetration of certain nonsense verses. His authorship of these has been stoutly denied as well as positively asseverated.

The two poems in question are appended, and if Longfellow did write them they are in no wise to his discredit.

THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

There was a little girl,

And she had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good

She was very, very good,

And when she was bad she was horrid.

One day she went upstairs,

When her parents, unawares,

In the kitchen were occupied with meals

And she stood upon her head

In her little trundle-bed,

And then began hooraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise,

And she thought it was the boys

A-playing at a combat in the attic;

But when she climbed the stair,

And found Jemima there,

She took and she did spank her most emphatic.

MR. FINNEY’S TURNIP

Mr. Finney had a turnip

And it grew and it grew;

And it grew behind the barn,

And that turnip did no harm.

There it grew and it grew

Till it could grow no taller;

Then his daughter Lizzie picked it

And put it in the cellar.

There it lay and it lay

Till it began to rot;

And his daughter Susie took it

And put it in the pot.

And they boiled it and boiled it

As long as they were able,

And then his daughters took it

And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife

They sat down to sup;

And they ate and they ate

And they ate that turnip up.

James Thomas Fields, an acknowledged humorist, wrote mostly homely narrative wit.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER

Many a long, long year ago,

Nantucket skippers had a plan

Of finding out, though “lying low,”

How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell,

And then, by sounding through the night,

Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,

They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim,

Could tell, by tasting, just the spot;

And so below he’d “dowse the glim,”—

After, of course, his “something hot.”

Snug in his berth at eight o’clock

This ancient skipper might be found;

No matter how his craft would rock,

He slept,—for skippers’ naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then

Run down and wake him, with the lead;

He’d up, and taste, and tell the men

How many miles they went ahead.

One night ’twas Jotham Marden’s watch,

A curious wag,—the peddler’s son,—

And so he mused (the wanton wretch),

“To-night I’ll have a grain of fun.

“We’re all a set of stupid fools

To think the skipper knows by tasting

What ground he’s on: Nantucket schools

Don’t teach such stuff, with all their basting!”

And so he took the well-greased lead

And rubbed it o’er a box of earth

That stood on deck,—a parsnip-bed,—

And then he sought the skipper’s berth.

“Where are we now, sir? Please to taste.”

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,

Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste,

And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair,

Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,

“Nantucket’s sunk, and here we are

Right over old Marm Hackett’s garden!”

John Godfrey Saxe has been called the American Tom Hood. His verses are among our very best humorous poems.

MY FAMILIAR

Again I hear that creaking step!—

He’s rapping at the door!—

Too well I know the boding sound

That ushers in a bore.

I do not tremble when I meet

The stoutest of my foes,

But heaven defend me from the friend

Who comes,—but never goes!

He drops into my easy-chair

And asks about the news;

He peers into my manuscript,

And gives his candid views;

He tells me where he likes the line,

And where he’s forced to grieve;

He takes the strangest liberties,—

But never takes his leave!

He reads my daily paper through

Before I’ve seen a word;

He scans the lyric (that I wrote)

And thinks it quite absurd;

He calmly smokes my last cigar,

And coolly asks for more;

He opens everything he sees—

Except the entry door!

He talks about his fragile health,

And tells me of his pains;

He suffers from a score of ills

Of which he ne’er complains;

And how he struggled once with death

To keep the fiend at bay;

On themes like those away he goes—

But never goes away!

He tells me of the carping words

Some shallow critic wrote;

And every precious paragraph

Familiarly can quote;

He thinks the writer did me wrong;

He’d like to run him through!

He says a thousand pleasant things—

But never says “Adieu!”

Whene’er he comes—that dreadful man—

Disguise it as I may,

I know that, like an autumn rain,

He’ll last throughout the day.

In vain I speak of urgent tasks;

In vain I scowl and pout;

A frown is no extinguisher—

It does not put him out!

I mean to take the knocker off,

Put crape upon the door,

Or hint to John that I am gone

To stay a month or more.

I do not tremble when I meet

The stoutest of my foes,

But Heaven defend me from the friend

Who never, never goes!

Henry Wheeler Shaw, creator of the character of Josh Billings, was a philosopher and essayist as well as a funny man.

Doubtless his work has lived largely because of its amusing misspelling, but there is much wisdom to be found in his wit.

The following essays are given only in part.

TIGHT BOOTS

I would jist like to kno who the man waz who fust invented tite boots.

He must hav bin a narrow and kontrakted kuss.

If he still lives, i hope he haz repented ov hiz sin, or iz enjoying grate agony ov sum kind.

I hay bin in a grate menny tite spots in mi life, but generally could manage to make them average; but thare iz no sich thing az making a pair of tite boots average.

Enny man who kan wear a pair ov tite boots, and be humble, and penitent, and not indulge profane literature, will make a good husband.

Oh! for the pen ov departed Wm. Shakspear, to write an anethema aginst tite boots, that would make anshunt Rome wake up, and howl agin az she did once before on a previous ockashun.

Oh! for the strength ov Herkules, to tare into shu strings all the tite boots ov creashun, and skatter them tew the 8 winds ov heaven.

Oh! for the buty ov Venus, tew make a bigg foot look hansum without a tite boot on it.

Oh! for the payshunce ov Job, the Apostle, to nuss a tite boot and bles it, and even pra for one a size smaller and more pinchfull.

Oh! for a pair of boots bigg enuff for the foot ov a mountain.

I have been led into the above assortment ov Oh’s! from having in my posseshun, at this moment, a pair ov number nine boots, with a pair ov number eleven feet in them.

Mi feet are az uneasy az a dog’s noze the fust time he wears a muzzle.

I think mi feet will eventually choke the boots to deth.

I liv in hopes they will.

I suppozed i had lived long enuff not to be phooled agin in this way, but i hav found out that an ounce ov vanity weighs more than a pound ov reazon, espeshily when a man mistakes a bigg foot for a small one.

Avoid tite boots, mi friend, az you would the grip of the devil; for menny a man haz cought for life a fust rate habit for swareing bi encouraging hiz feet to hurt hiz boots.

I hav promised mi two feet, at least a dozen ov times during mi checkured life, that they never should be strangled agin, but i find them to-day az phull ov pain az the stummuk ake from a suddin attak ov tite boots.

But this iz solemly the last pair ov tite boots i will ever wear; i will hereafter wear boots az bigg az mi feet, if i have to go barefoot to do it.

I am too old and too respektable to be a phool enny more.

Eazy boots iz one of the luxurys ov life, but i forgit what the other luxury iz, but i don’t kno az i care, provided i kan git rid ov this pair ov tite boots.

Enny man kan hav them for seven dollars, just half what they kost, and if they don’t make his feet ake wuss than an angle worm in hot ashes, he needn’t pay for them.

Methuseles iz the only man, that i kan kall to mind now who could hav afforded to hav wore tite boots, and enjoyed them, he had a grate deal ov waste time tew be miserable in but life now days, iz too short, and too full ov aktual bizzness to phool away enny ov it on tite boots.

Tite boots are an insult to enny man’s understanding.

He who wears tite boots will hav too acknowledge the corn.

Tite boots hav no bowells or mersy, their insides are wrath and promiskious cussing.

Beware ov tite boots.—

A HEN

A hen is a darn phool, they was born so bi natur.

When natur undertakes tew make a phool, she hits the mark the fust time.

Most all the animile kritters hav instinkt, which is wuth more to them than reason would be, for instinkt don’t make enny blunders.

If the animiles had reason, they would akt just as ridikilus as we men folks do.

But a hen don’t seem tew hav even instinkt, and was made expressly for a phool.

I hav seen a hen fly out ov a good warm shelter, on the 15th ov January, when the snow was 3 foot high, and lite on the top ov a stun wall, and coolly set thare, and freeze tew deth.

Noboddy but a darn phool would do this, unless it was tew save a bet.

I hav saw a human being do similar things, but they did it tew win a bet.

To save a bet, is self-preservashun, and self-preservashun, is the fust law ov natur, so sez Blakstone, and he is the best judge ov law now living.

If i couldn’t be Josh Billings, i would like, next in suit tew be Blakstone, and compoze sum law.

Not so far removed from the Josh Billings type of humor is the work of James Russell Lowell. His well known Biglow Papers exploit in perfection the back country New England politics as well as native character.

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Guvener B. is a sensible man;

He stays to his home an’ looks arter his folks;

He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,

An’ into nobody’s tater-patch pokes;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My ain’t it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can’t never choose him, o’ course,—thet’s flat;

Guess we shall hev to come round (don’t you?)

An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all that;

Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:

He’s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;

But consistency still was a part of his plan,—

He’s ben true to one party,—an’ thet is himself;—

So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;

He don’t vally principle more’n an old cud;

Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,

But glory an’ gunpowder, plunder an’ blood?

So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gettin’ on nicely up here to our village,

With good old idees o’ wut’s right an’ wut ain’t,

We kind o’ thought Christ went agin’ war an’ pillage,

An’ thet eppyletts worn’t the best mark of a saint;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,

An’ Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country,

An’ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book

Puts the debit to him, an’ to us the per contry!

An’ John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o’ the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;

Sez they’re nothin’ on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;

An’ thet all this big talk of our destinies

Is half on it ign’ance, an’ t’other half rum;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez it ain’t no sech thing; an’, of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life

Thet th’ Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,

An’ marched round in front of a drum an’ a fife,

To git some on ’em office, an’ some on ’em votes;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee.

Wall, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us

The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters, I vow,—

God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise fellers,

To start the world’s team wen it gits in a slough;

Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez the world’ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

Phoebe Cary, though a hymn writer of repute, did some extremely clever parodies. This work of hers is little known.

I REMEMBER

I remember, I remember,

The house where I was wed,

And the little room from which that night

My smiling bride was led.

She didn’t come a wink too soon,

Nor make too long a stay;

But now I often wish her folks

Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember,

Her dresses, red and white,

Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—

They cost an awful sight!

The “corner lot” on which I built,

And where my brother met

At first my wife, one washing-day,—

That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to court,

And thought that all of married life

Was just such pleasant sport:—

My spirit flew in feathers then,

No care was on my brow;

I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—

I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember,

My dear one’s smile and sigh;

I used to think her tender heart

Was close against the sky.

It was a childish ignorance,

But now it soothes me not

To know I’m farther off from Heaven

Than when she wasn’t got!

“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES”

There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard,

And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;

In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard

To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget,

But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,

I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,

Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?

No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,

But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;

And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave

All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;

As thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes,

Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.

JACOB

He dwelt among “Apartments let,”

About five stories high;

A man, I thought, that none would get,

And very few would try.

A boulder, by a larger stone

Half hidden in the mud,

Fair as a man when only one

Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell

When Jacob was not free;

But he has got a wife—and O!

The difference to me!

REUBEN

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not),

Walking between the garden and the barn,

Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took

At a young chicken, standing by a post,

And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,

As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.

But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot

Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,

And the domesticated fowl passed on,

In henly meditation, bullet free.

Edward Everett Hale, George William Curtis, Richard Grant White and Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) wrote about this time, but their prose articles are too long to quote in full and not adapted to condensation.

Again the newspaper writers forge to the front and in George Horatio Derby we find “the Father of” the new school of American humor. His sketches, over the name of John Phoenix, began to appear about the middle of the Nineteenth century and were later collected under the titles of Phoenixiana and Squibob Papers.

A fragment of one is given.

---

The dentist went to work, and in three days he invented an instrument which he was confident would pull anything. It was a combination of the lever, pulley, wheel and axle, inclined plane, wedge, and screw. The castings were made, and the machine put up in the office, over an iron chair rendered perfectly stationary by iron rods going down into the foundations of the granite building. In a week old Byles returned; he was clamped into the iron chair, the forceps connected with the machine attached firmly to the tooth, and Tushmaker, stationing himself in the rear, took hold of a lever four feet in length. He turned it slightly. Old Byles gave a groan and lifted his right leg. Another turn, another groan, and up went the leg again.

“What do you raise your leg for?” asked the Doctor.

“I can’t help it,” said the patient.

“Well,” rejoined Tushmaker, “that tooth is bound to come out now.”

He turned the lever clear round with a sudden jerk, and snapped old Byles’ head clean and clear from his shoulders, leaving a space of four inches between the severed parts!

They had a post-mortem examination—the roots of the tooth were found extending down the right side, through the right leg, and turning up in two prongs under the sole of the right foot!

“No wonder,” said Tushmaker, “he raised his right leg.”

The jury thought so, too, but they found the roots much decayed; and five surgeons swearing that mortification would have ensued in a few months, Tushmaker was clear on a verdict of “justifiable homicide.”

He was a little shy of that instrument for some time afterward; but one day an old lady, feeble and flaccid, came in to have a tooth drawn, and thinking it would come out very easy Tushmaker concluded, just by way of variety, to try the machine. He did so, and at the first turn drew the old lady’s skeleton completely and entirely from her body, leaving her a mass of quivering jelly in her chair! Tushmaker took her home in a pillow-case.

The woman lived-seven years after that, and they called her the “India-Rubber Woman.” She had suffered terribly with the rheumatism, but after this occurrence never had a pain in her bones. The dentist kept them in a glass case. After this, the machine was sold to the contract or of the Boston Custom-House, and it was found that a child of three years of age could, by a single turn of the screw, raise a stone weighing twenty-three tons. Smaller ones were made on the same principle and sold to the keepers of hotels and restaurants. They were used for boning turkeys. There is no moral to this story whatever, and it is possible that the circumstances may have become slightly exaggerated. Of course, there can be no doubt of the truth of the main incidents.

Charles Godfrey Leland, a humorist of Philadelphia, wrote almost entirely in a broken German dialect. His Hans Breitmann ballads are still among the famous examples of American humor.

BALLAD

Der noble Ritter Hugo

Von Schwillensaufenstein

Rode out mit shpeer and helmet,

Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

Und oop dere rose a meer maid,

Vod hadn’t got nodings on,

Und she say, “Oh, Ritter Hugo,

Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?”

Und he says, “I rides in de creenwood

Mit helmet und mit shpeer,

Till I cooms into em Gasthaus,

Und dere I trinks some beer.”

Und den outshpoke de maiden

Vot hadn’t got nodings on:

“I ton’t dink mooch of beoplesh

Dat goes mit demselfs alone.

“You’d petter coom down in de wasser,

Vere dere’s heaps of dings to see,

Und have a shplendid tinner

Und drafel along mit me.

“Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin,

Und you catches dem efery one”—

So sang dis wasser maiden

Vot hadn’t got nodings on.

“Dere ish drunks all full mit money

In ships dat vent down of old;

Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!

To shimmerin crowns of gold.

“Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches!

Shoost see dese diamant rings!

Coom down und full your bockets,

Und I’ll giss you like averydings.

“Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager?

Coom down into der Rhine!

Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne

Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!”

Dat fetched him—he shtood all shpellpound;

She pooled his coat-tails down,

She drawed him oonder der wasser,

De maiden mit nodings on.

William Allen Butler is remembered chiefly by his long humorous poem of Miss Flora M’Flimsey, or, as it is entitled, Nothing To Wear.

---

Charles Graham Halpine wrote in an Irish brogue the adventures of Private Miles O’Reilly.

---

John T. Trowbridge and Charles Dudley Warner are among the famous Nineteenth Century writers but their works are not adapted to quotation.

---

Which brings us to Mark Twain.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens is too well known both by his works and by his life to need any word of comment. His whole career, as printer, pilot, lecturer and writer is an open and conned book to all.

Difficult indeed it is to quote from his volumes of fun, but we append a short extract from The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.

... Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.

Well, Smiley kep’ 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—come acrost 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, maybe, 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 give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs and maybe you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got my opinion and I’ll resk 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 himself, 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 forepaws just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give the word.” Then he says, “One—two—three—git.” and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but it warn’t no use—he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as a church, 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 shoulder—so—at Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “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 throw’d off for—I wonder if there ain’t something the matter with him—e ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, “Why blame my cats if he don’t weight 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.

---

James Bayard Taylor and Thomas Bailey Aldrich, friends and congenial spirits, both despised American Dialect poetry.

Their own work shows a facile wit and graceful fancy, but, with Edmund Clarence Stedman, they must be classed as writers of light verse rather than as humorists.

Taylor was good at parody, and in his Echo Club, thus burlesques the style of Aldrich.

PALABRAS GRANDIOSAS
After T—— B—— A——

I lay i’ the bosom of the sun,

Under the roses dappled and dun.

I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer,

In his palace beside the Bendemeer,

With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind,

And the harem that stretched for a league behind.

The tulips bent i’ the summer breeze,

Under the broad chrysanthemum trees,

And the minstrel, playing his culverin,

Made for mine ears a merry din.

If I were the Sultan, and he were I,

Here i’ the grass he should loafing lie,

And I should bestride my zebra steed,

And the ride of the hunt of the centipede;

While the pet of the harem, Dandeline,

Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine,

And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff,

Should wipe my mouth when I sighed “Enough!”

And the gay court-poet, Fearfulbore,

Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o’er,

And chant me songs of silvery tone,

Not from Hafiz, but—mine own!

Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here,

I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer,

Nor you the odalisque Dandeline,

Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!

David Ross Locke, who wrote over the name of Petroleum V. Nasby, was a humorist of the newspapers. He achieved no success until he began to misspell his words, when he at once leaped into popularity.

But the Prince of Misspellers, excepting always Josh Billings, was Artemus Ward, the pseudonym of Charles Farrar Browne.

The trick of misspelling and the use of excessive exaggeration were his stock in trade, added to a certain plaintiveness and abounding good humor.

Browne was the only one of this group of American humorists, whose work was read in England, and he lectured over there with pronounced success.

ON “FORTS”

Every man has got a Fort. It’s sum men’s fort to do one thing, and some other men’s fort to do another, while there is numeris shiftliss critters goin’ round loose whose fort is not to do nothin’.

Shakspeer rote good plase, but he wouldn’t hav succeeded as a Washington coorespondent of a New York daily paper. He lacked the rekesit fancy and imagginashun.

That’s so!

Old George Washington’s Fort was not to hev eny public man of the present day resemble him to eny alarmin extent. Whare bowts can George’s ekal be found? I ask, & boldly answer no whares, or any whare else.

Old man Townsin’s Fort was to maik Sassyperiller. “Goy to the world! anuther life saived!” (Cotashun from Townsin’s advertisement.)

Cyrus Field’s Fort is to lay a sub-machine telegraf under the boundin billers of the Oshun, and then have it Bust.

Spaldin’s Fort is to maik Prepared Gloo, which mends every thing. Wonder ef it will mend a sinner’s wickid waze. (Impromptoo goak.)

Zoary’s Fort is to be a femaile circus feller.

My Fort is the grate moral show bizniss & ritin choice famerly literatoor for the noospapers. That’s what’s the matter with me.

&., &., &. So I mite go on to a indefinit extent.

Twict I’ve endevered to do things which thay wasn’t my Fort. The fust time was when I undertuk to lick a owdashus cuss who cut a hole in my tent & krawld threw. Sez I, “My jentle Sir, go out or I shall fall on to you putty hevy.” Sez he, “Wade in, Old wax figgers,” whereupon I went for him, but he cawt me powerful on the bed & knockt me threw the tent into a cow pastur. He pursood the attach & flung me into a mud puddle. As I arose & rung out my drencht garmints I koncluded fitin wasn’t my Fort. Ile now rize the kurtin upon Seen 2nd: It is rarely seldum that I seek consolation in the Flowin Bole. But in a certain town in Injianny in the Faul of 18—, my orgin grinder got sick with the fever & died. I never felt so ashamed in my life, & I thowt I’d hist in a few swallers of suthin strengthnin. Konsequents was I histid in so much I dident zackly know whare bowts I was. I turned my livin wild beasts of Pray loose into the streets and spilt all my wax wurks. I then bet I cood play hoss. So I hitched myself to a Kanawl bote, there bein two other hosses hicht on also, one behind and anuther ahead of me. The driver hollerd for us to git up, and we did. But the hosses bein onused to sich a arrangemunt begun to kick & squeal and rair up. Konsequents was I fownd myself in the Kanawl with the other hosses, kickin & yellin like a tribe of Cusscaroorus savvijis. I was rescood, & as I was bein carrid to the tavern on a hemlock Bored I sed in a feeble voise, “Boys, playin hoss isn’t my Fort.”

Morul.—Never don’t do nothin which isn’t your Fort, for ef you do you’ll find yourself splashin round in the Kanawl, figgeratively speakin.

---

Frank R. Stockton was a nobleman among the humorists.

His quiet and often subtle humor, his delightful style and his unique originality made all his stories a joy and some masterpieces. No quotations can be given, for any Stockton story must be read in its entirety. The Lady and the Tiger is doubtless the most celebrated one, but many others are even more clever and unusual.

---

Francis Bret Harte, famed for his short stories, also wrote humorous verse. The Heathen Chinee is a byword in all households, and Truthful James is nearly as well known.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;

And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow man,

And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,

To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see

Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same society,

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones

That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,

From those same bones an animal that was extremely rare,

And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault;

It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault

He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,

And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent

To say another is an ass—at least, to all intent;

Nor should the individual who happens to be meant

Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order—when

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage

In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age;

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL

“Speak, O man less recent!

Fragmentary fossil!

Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,

Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum

Of volcanic tufa!

“Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;

Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;

Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions

Of earth’s epidermis!

“Eo—Mio—Plio—Whatsoe’er the ’cene’ was

That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder—

Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches—

Tell us thy strange story!

“Or has the professor slightly antedated

By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,

Giving thee an air that’s somewhat better fitted

For cold-blooded creatures?

“Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest

When above thy head the stately Sigillaria

Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant

Carboniferous epoch?

“Tell us of that scene—the dim and watery woodland

Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect;

Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall clubmosses,

Lycopodiacea,

When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,

And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,

While from time to time above thee flew and circled

Cheerful Pterodactyls.

“Tell us of thy food—those half-marine refections,

Crinoids on the shell and brachipods au naturel—

Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo

Seems a periwinkle.

“Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth’s creation,

Solitary fragment of remains organic!

Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence—

Speak! thou oldest primate!”

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,

And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,

With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,

Ground the teeth together.

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition,

Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,

Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs

Of expectoration:

“Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted

Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county,

But I’d take it kindly if you’d send the pieces

Home to old Missouri!”

Pioneering in the West marked a distinct epoch in American humor. Bret Harte owed his meteoric success largely to the fact of his utilizing the background of the Golden West. And so did Joaquin Miller, John Hay and Edward Rowland Sill.

The Pike County Ballads of John Hay were national favorites.

LITTLE BREECHES

I don’t go much on religion,

I never ain’t had no show;

But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,

On the handful o’ things I know.

I don’t pan out on the prophets

And free-will and that sort of thing—

But I b’lieve in God and the angels,

Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,

And my little Gabe come along—

No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong,

Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight—

And I’d larnt him to chaw terbacker

Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket

As I passed by Taggart’s store;

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started—

I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer;

But we rousted up some torches,

And sarched for ’em far and near.

At last we struck horses and wagon,

Snowed under a soft white mound,

Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe

Nor hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me,

Of my fellow-critter’s aid—

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,

Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

*****

By this, the torches was played out,

And me and Isrul Parr

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold

That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed

Where they shut up the lambs at night.

We looked in and seen them huddled thar,

So warm and sleepy and white;

And THAR sot Little Breeches, and chirped,

As peart as ever you see:

“I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm;

They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child,

And bringing him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business

Then loafing around The Throne.

Joaquin Miller, whose true name was Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, was called the Poet of the Sierras.

He seldom wrote in humorous vein, but some of his verse must fall into that category.

THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON TOWN
AN IDYL OF OREGON

Two webfoot brothers loved a fair

Young lady, rich and good to see;

And oh, her black abundant hair!

And oh, her wondrous witchery!

Her father kept a cattle farm,

These brothers kept her safe from harm:

From harm of cattle on the hill;

From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing

The livelong morning, loud and shrill,

And lashing sides like anything;

From roaring bulls that tossed the sand

And pawed the lilies from the land.

There came a third young man. He came

From far and famous Boston town.

He was not handsome, was not “game,”

But he could “cook a goose” as brown

As any man that set foot on

The sunlit shores of Oregon.

This Boston man he taught the school,

Taught gentleness and love alway,

Said love and kindness, as a rule,

Would ultimately “make it pay.”

He was so gentle, kind, that he

Could make a noun and verb agree.

So when one day the brothers grew

All jealous and did strip to fight,

He gently stood between the two,

And meekly told them ’twas not right.

“I have a higher, better plan,”

Outspake this gentle Boston man.

“My plan is this: Forget this fray

About that lily hand of hers;

Go take your guns and hunt all day

High up yon lofty hill of firs,

And while you hunt, my loving doves,

Why, I will learn which one she loves.”

The brothers sat the windy hill,

Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold,

Their rifles crossed their laps, but still

They sat and sighed and shook with cold.

Their hearts lay bleeding far below;

Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.

Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat;

A spotted circle in the grass.

The valley lay beneath their feet;

They heard the wide-winged eagles pass.

The eagles cleft the clouds above;

Yet what could they but sigh and love?

“If I could die,” the elder sighed,

“My dear young brother here might wed.”

“Oh, would to Heaven I had died!”

The younger sighed, with bended head.

Then each looked each full in the face

And each sprang up and stood in place.

“If I could die,”—the elder spake,—

“Die by your hand, the world would say

’Twas accident;—and for her sake,

Dear brother, be it so, I pray.”

“Not that!” the younger nobly said;

Then tossed his gun and turned his head.

And fifty paces back he paced!

And as he paced he drew the ball;

Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced

His brother to the death and fall!

Two shots rang wild upon the air!

But lo! the two stood harmless there!

An eagle poised high in the air;

Far, far below the bellowing

Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere

Vast silence sat all questioning.

The spotted hounds ran circling round

Their red, wet noses to the ground.

And now each brother came to know

That each had drawn the deadly ball;

And for that fair girl far below

Had sought in vain to silent fall.

And then the two did gladly “shake,”

And thus the elder bravely spake:

“Now let us run right hastily

And tell the kind schoolmaster all!

Yea! yea! and if she choose not me,

But all on you her favors fall,

This valiant scene, till all life ends,

Dear brother, binds us best of friends.”

The hounds sped down, a spotted line,

The bulls in tall, abundant grass,

Shook back their horns from bloom and vine,

And trumpeted to see them pass—

They loved so good, they loved so true,

These brothers scarce knew what to do.

They sought the kind schoolmaster out

As swift as sweeps the light of morn;

They could but love, they could not doubt

This man so gentle, “in a horn,”

They cried, “Now whose the lily hand—

That lady’s of this webfoot land?”

They bowed before that big-nosed man,

That long-nosed man from Boston town;

They talked as only lovers can,

They talked, but he could only frown;

And still they talked, and still they plead;

It was as pleading with the dead.

At last this Boston man did speak—

“Her father has a thousand ceows,

An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek;

He also had this ample heouse.”

The brothers’ eyes stuck out thereat,

So far you might have hung your hat.

“I liked the looks of this big heouse—

My lovely boys, won’t you come in?

Her father has a thousand ceows,

He also had a heap of tin.

The guirl? Of yes, the guirl, you see—

The guirl, just neow she married me.”

Robert Henry Newell, a popular journalist and humorist, wrote over the name of Orpheus C. Kerr. His best known work is the Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, but as a parodist he gives us these burlesque National Hymns.

I
BY H—Y W. L-NGF—— W

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch

Over the sea-ribb’d land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,

Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens—

Ursa—the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,

Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,

Wildly he started,—for there in the heavens before him

Flutter’d and flam’d the original Star Spangled Banner.

II
BY J-HN GR—NL—F WH—T—R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock

Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,

And all thy sons unite in one grand wish—

To keep the virtues of Preservèd Fish.

Preservèd Fish, the Deacon stern and true,

Told our New England what her sons should do,

And if they swerve from loyalty and right,

Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III
BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES

A diagnosis of our hist’ry proves

Our native land a land its native loves;

Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,

Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores

Sink into nothingness beside its stores;

Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand—

The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land.

IV
BY R-LPH W-LDO EM-R—N

Source immaterial of material naught,

Focus of light infinitesimal,

Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,

Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars

To the stars bent incipient on our flag,

The beam translucent, neutrifying death,

And raise to immortality the rag.

V
By W-LL—M C-LL-N B-Y-NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev’ning Post,

The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;

Yet not a star our Flag of Heav’n has lost,

And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those

New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;

But still our Country’s nobler planet glows

While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VI
By N. P. W-LL-S

One hue of our Flag is taken

From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,

And its stars beat time and sparkle

Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow

That hides in her dreamy eyes,

It conquers all men, like her,

And still for a Union flies.

VII
BY TH-M-S B-IL-Y ALD—CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,

The cricket quaintly sings,

The emerald pigeon nods his head,

And the shad in the river springs,

The dainty sunflow’r hangs its head

On the shore of the summer sea;

And better far that I were dead,

If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,

And the cricket that quaintly sings;

And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,

And the shad that gaily springs.

I love the dainty sunflow ’r, too.

And Maud with her snowy breast;

I love them all;—but I love—I love—

I love my country best.

Edward Rowland Sill, writing of the West for many years, wrote delightful humor on other subjects as well.

EVE’s DAUGHTER

I waited in the little sunny room:

The cool breeze waved the window-lace at play,

The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,

And out upon the bay

I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.

“Such an old friend—she would not make me stay

While she bound up her hair.” I turned, and lo,

Danæ in her shower! and fit to slay

All a man’s hoarded prudence at a blow:

Gold hair, that streamed away

As round some nymph a sunlit fountain’s flow.

“She would not make me wait!”—but well I know

She took a good half-hour to loose and lay

Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

Newspaper humor of this period included the Danbury News Man, Peck’s Bad Boy and Eli Perkins (Melville D. Landon).

Charles E. Carryl, though his books are called Juveniles, wrote delicious nonsense, approaching nearer to Lewis Carroll than any other American writer.

THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND

A capital ship for an ocean trip

Was the “Walloping Window-blind”—

No gale that blew dismayed her crew

Or troubled the captain’s mind.

The man at the wheel was taught to feel

Contempt for the wildest blow,

And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,

That he’d been in his bunk below.

The boatswain’s mate was very sedate,

Yet fond of amusement, too;

And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch,

While the captain tickled the crew.

And the gunner we had was apparently mad,

For he sat on the after rail,

And fired salutes with the captain’s boots,

In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore’s hat

And dined in a royal way

On toasted pigs and pickles and figs

And gummery bread each day.

But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such:

For the food he gave the crew

Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns

Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will,

On a diet that’s cheap and rude;

And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook

In a tub of his gluesome food.

Then nautical pride we laid aside,

And we cast the vessel ashore

On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,

And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land,

And trimmed with cinnamon straws;

And pink and blue was the pleasing hue

Of the Tickletoeteaser’s claws.

And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge

And shot at the whistling bee;

And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats

As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,

We fed, till we all had grown

Uncommonly shrunk,—when a Chinese junk

Came by from the torriby zone.

She was stubby and square, but we didn’t much care,

And we cheerily put to sea;

And we left the crew of the junk to chew

The bark of the rubagub tree.

Robert Jones Burdette, known as the Burlington Hawkeye Man, was one of the prototypes of our present day newspaper columnists.

His witty verse and prose has lived, and he ranks with the humorists of our land.

WHAT WILL WE DO?

What will we do when the good days come—

When the prima donna’s lips are dumb.

And the man who reads us his “little things”

Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;

When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,

And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;

When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums—

Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?

Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,

When the tramp will work—oh, thing sublime!

And the scornful dame who stands on your feet

Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;

And the man you hire to work by the day,

Will allow you to do his work your way;

And the cook who trieth your appetite

Will steal no more than she thinks is right;

When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”

Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;

When the funny man is humorsome—

How can we stand the millennium?

“SOLDIER, REST!”

A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea

Just when the war was growing hot,

And he shouted, “I’m Tjalikavakeree—

Karindabrolikanavandorot—

Schipkadirova—

Ivandiszstova—

Sanilik—

Danilik—

Varagobhot!”

A Turk was standing upon the shore

Right where the terrible Russian crossed;

And he cried, “Bismillah! I’m Abd el Kor—

Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk—

Getzinpravadi—

Kilgekosladji—

Grivido—

Blivido—

Jenikodosk!”

So they stood like brave men, long and well,

And they called each other their proper names,

Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell

They buried them both by the Irdosholames—

Kalatalustchuk—

Mischaribustchup—

Bulgari—

Dulgari—

Sagharimainz.

Marietta Holley wrote with shrewd observation and much homely common sense. Her books about Betsey Bobbet and Josiah Allen’s Wife were best sellers in the seventies or thereabouts.

Like many of her contemporaries for her fun she depended largely on misspelling.

---

Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the Augah has no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite authar. You have devorhed him haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.

“Mahtan Fahqueah Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.

“No, mam,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper, nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.”

“Oh, you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet tender lines.”

“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and so I read:

GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL

“‘Oh, let who will,

Oh, let who can,

Be tied onto

A horrid male man.’

“Thus said I ere

My tendah heart was touched;

Thus said I ere

My tendah feelings gushed.

“But oh, a change

Hath swept ore me,

As billows sweep

The ‘deep blue sea.’

“A voice, a noble form

One day I saw;

An arrow flew,

My heart is nearly raw.

“His first pardner lies

Beneath the turf;

He is wondering now

In sorrow’s briny surf.

“Two twins, the little

Death cherub creechahs,

Now wipe the teahs

From off his classic feachahs.

“Oh, sweet lot, worthy

Angel arisen,

To wipe teahs

From eyes like hisen.”

“What think you of it?” says she, as I finished readin’.

I looked right at her ’most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of her false curls and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter. I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yellow bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain’t the editor of the Augur a widower with a pair of twins?”

“Yes,” says she, with a happy look.

Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one.... There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly.

“We kindred soles soah above such petty feelin’s—we soah far above them.”

“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and to tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.” “The editah of the Augah,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen the stand and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the editah of this paper is a kindred sole; he appreciates me, he undahstands me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah go down to posterety togathah?”

“Then,” says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you was both of you in posterity now.”

—My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet’s.

George Thomas Lanigan wrote clever verse, of which The Akhoond of Swat is among the best.

A THRENODY
“The Akhoond of Swat is dead,”—London Papers of January 22, 1878.

What, what, what,

What’s the news from Swat?

Sad news,

Bad news,

Cometh by cable led

Through the Indian Ocean’s bed,

Through the Persian Gulf, the Red

Sea and the Med-

Iterranean: he’s dead,—

The Akhoond is dead!

For the Akhoond I mourn.

Who wouldn’t?

He strove to disregard the message stern,

But he Akhoondn’t.

Dead, dead, dead;

(Sorrow, Swats!)

Swats wha hae wi’ Akhoond bled,

Swats wham he hath often led

Onward to a gory bed,

Or to victory,

As the case might be,—

Sorrow, Swats!

Tears shed,

Shed tears like water,

Your great Akhoond is dead!

That’s Swat’s the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat,

Your great Akhoond is not,

But laid ’mid worms to rot,—

His mortal part alone: his soul was caught

(Because he was a good Akhoond)

Up to the bosom of Mahound.

Though earthly walls his frame surround

(Forever hallowed be the ground),

And sceptics mock the lowly mound

And say, “He’s now of no Akhoond!”

His soul is in the skies,—

The azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat;

He sees, with larger, other eyes,

Athwart all earthly mysteries;

He knows what’s Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Akhoond

With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!

Let Swat bury the great Akhoond

With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length

Its tower of strength.

Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned,

Dead lies the great Akhoond,

The great Akhoond of Swat,

Is not!

Lanigan also wrote Fables, which he signed G. Washington Æsop.

THE OSTRICH AND THE HEN

An Ostrich and a Hen chanced to occupy adjacent apartments, and the former complained loudly that her rest was disturbed by the cackling of her humble neighbor. “Why is it,” she finally asked the Hen, “that you make such an intolerable noise?” The Hen replied, “Because I have laid an egg.” “Oh, no,” said the Ostrich, with a superior smile, “it is because you are a Hen and don’t know any better.”

Moral.—The moral of the foregoing is not very clear, but it contains some reference to the Agitation for Female Suffrage.

THE KIND-HEARTED SHE-ELEPHANT

A kind-hearted She-Elephant, while walking through the Jungle where the Spicy Breezes blow soft o’er Ceylon’s Isle, heedlessly set foot upon a Partridge, which she crushed to death within a few inches of the Nest containing its Callow Brood. “Poor little things!” said the generous Mammoth. “I have been a Mother myself, and my affection shall atone for the Fatal Consequences of my neglect.” So saying, she sat down upon the Orphaned Birds.

Moral.—The above Teaches us What Home is Without a Mother; also, that it is not every Person who should be entrusted with the Care of an Orphan Asylum.

---

James Jeffrey Roche wrote delightful verse, which is properly classed as Vers de Société, but which shows more wit than much of that type.

THE V-A-S-E

From the madding crowd they stand apart,

The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell, from sight alone,

In which had Culture ripest grown—

The Gotham Million, fair to see,

The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,

Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo—

For all loved Art in a seemly way,

With an earnest soul and a capital A.

*****

Long they worshiped; but no one broke

The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,

Who blushing said, “What a lovely vace!”

Over three faces a sad smile flew,

And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred

To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,

She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”

But brief her unworthy triumph when

The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,

Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”

And glances round with an anxious thrill,

Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,

And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

“I did not catch your remark, because

I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!”

Dies erit praegelida

Sinistra quum Bostonia.

A BOSTON LULLABY

Baby’s brain is tired of thinking

On the Wherefore and the Whence;

Baby’s precious eyes are blinking

With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning

Heavy leaves of lexicon;

Little nose is fretted learning

How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature

Are beneficent and wise;

His medulla oblongata

Bids my darling close his eyes,

And his pneumogastrics tell him

Quietude is always best

When his little cerebellum

Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,

Let the world go wrong or right.

Sleep, my darling, leave Creation

To its chances for the night.

Joel Chandler Harris is in a class by himself. Although he wrote other things, he will always be remembered for the immortal Uncle Remus stories. The Tar Baby and Brer Rabbit are known and loved of all American families. A short bit is given from:

THE SAD END OF BRER WOLF

“Bimeby, one day w’en Brer Rabbit wuz fixin’ fer ter call on Miss Coon, he heered a monst’us fussen clatter up de big road, en ’mos’ ’fo’ he could fix his years fer ter lissen, Brer Wolf run in de do’. De little Rabbits dey went inter dere hole in de cellar, dey did, like blowin’ out a cannle. Brer Wolf wuz far’ly kiver’d wid mud, en mighty nigh outer win’.

“‘Oh, do pray save me, Brer Rabbit!’ sez Brer Wolf, sezee. ‘Do, please, Brer Rabbit! de dogs is atter me, en dey’ll t’ar me up. Don’t you year um comin’? Oh, do please save me Brer Rabbit! Hide me some’rs whar de dogs won’t git me.’

“No quicker sed dan done.

“‘Jump in dat big chist dar, Brer Wolf,’ sez Brer Rabbit sezee; ‘jump in dar en make yo’se’f at home.’

“In jump Brer Wolf, down come de lid, en inter de hasp went de hook, en dar Mr. Wolf wuz. Den Brer Rabbit went ter de lookin’-glass, he did, en wink at hisse’f, en den he draw’d de rockin’-cheer in front er de fier, he did, en tuck a big chaw terbarker.”

“Tobacco, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy incredulously.

“Rabbit terbarker, honey. You know dis yer life ev’lastin’ w’at Miss Sally puts ’mong de cloze in de trunk; well, dat’s rabbit terbarker. Den Brer Rabbit sot dar long time, he did, turnin’ his mine over en wukken’ his thinkin’ masheen. Bimeby he got up, en sorter stir ’roun’. Den Brer Wolf open up:

“‘Is de dogs all gone, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Seem like I hear one un um smellin’ roun’ de chimbly cornder des now.’

“Den Brer Rabbit git de kittle en fill it full er water, en put it on de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m fixin’ fer ter make you a nice cup er tea, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went ter de cubberd, en git de gimlet, en commence for ter bo’ little holes in de chist-lid.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-bo’in’ little holes so you kin get bref, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went out en git some mo’ wood, en fling it on de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-chunkin’ up de fier so you won’t git cole, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went down inter de cellar en fotch out all his chilluns.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-tellin’ my chilluns w’at a nice man you is, Brer Wolf.’

“En de chilluns, dey had ter put der han’s on her moufs fer ter keep fum laffin’. Den Brer Rabbit he got de kittle en commenced fer to po’ de hot water on de chist-lid.

“‘W’at dat I hear, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You hear de win’ a-blowin’, Brer Wolf.’

“Den de water begin fer ter sif’ thoo.

“‘W’at dat I feel, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You feels de fleas a-bitin’, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er bitin’ mighty hard, Brer Rabbit.’

“‘Tu’n over on de udder side, Brer Wolf.’

“‘W’at dat I feel now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Still you feels de fleas, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er eatin’ me up, Brer Rabbit,’ en dem wuz de las’ words er Brer Wolf, kase de scaldin’ water done de bizness.

“Den Brer Rabbit call in his nabers, he did, en dey hilt a reg’lar juberlee; en ef you go ter Brer Rabbit’s house right now, I dunno but w’at you’ll fine Brer Wolf’s hide hangin’ in de back-po’ch, en all bekaze he wuz so bizzy wid udder fo’kses doin’s.”

—From Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings.

Eugene Field, beside being the greatest of newspaper paragraphers was a versatile writer of all sorts, from Christmas Hymns to the most flippant themes.

His own personal charm imbued his work, and whether writing Echoes of Horace or appalling tales of Little Willie, he was always original and truly funny.

THE DINKEY-BIRD

In an ocean, ’way out yonder

(As all sapient people know),

Is the land of Wonder-Wander,

Whither children love to go;

It’s their playing, romping, swinging,

That give great joy to me

While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing

In the Amfalula-tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries,

And taffy’s thick as peas,—

Caramels you pick like berries

When, and where, and how you please:

Big red sugar-plums are clinging

To the cliffs beside that sea

Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-tree.

So when children shout and scamper

And make merry all the day,

When there’s naught to put a damper

To the ardor of their play;

When I hear their laughter ringing,

Then I’m sure as sure can be

That the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras

And staccatos are so sweet—

His roulades, appogiaturas,

And robustos so complete,

That the youth of every nation—

Be they near or far away—

Have especial delectation

In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter,

Their lungs begin to crow,

Their hearts get light and lighter,

And their cheeks are all aglow;

For an echo cometh bringing

The news to all and me.

That the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-tree.

I’m sure you’d like to go there

To see your feathered friend—

And so many goodies grow there

You would like to comprehend!

Speed, little dreams, your winging

To that land across the sea

Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing

In the Amfalula-Tree!

THE LITTLE PEACH

A little peach in the orchard grew,

A little peach of emerald hue:

Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew,

It grew.

One day, walking the orchard through,

That little peach dawned on the view

Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue—

Those two.

Up at the peach a club they threw:

Down from the limb on which it grew,

Fell the little peach of emerald hue—

Too true!

John took a bite, and Sue took a chew,

And then the trouble began to brew,—

Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,—

Paregoric too.

Under the turf where the daisies grew,

They planted John and his sister Sue;

And their little souls to the angels flew—

Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue,

Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?

Ah, well! its mission on earth is through—

Adieu!

GOOD JAMES AND NAUGHTY REGINALD

Once upon a Time there was a Bad boy whose Name was Reginald and there was a Good boy whose Name was James. Reginald would go Fishing when his Mamma told him Not to, and he Cut off the Cat’s Tail with the Bread Knife one Day, and then told Mamma the Baby had Driven it in with the Rolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when his Mamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go into a Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said. That is why they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came Christmas. Mamma said, You have been so Bad, my son Reginald, you will not Get any Presents from Santa Claus this Year; but you, my Son James, will get Oodles of Presents, because you have Been Good. Will you Believe it, Children, that Bad boy Reginald said he didn’t Care a Darn and he Kicked three Feet of Veneering off the Piano just for Meanness. Poor James was so sorry for Reginald that he cried for Half an Hour after he Went to Bed that Night. Reginald lay wide Awake until he saw James was Asleep and then he Said if these people think they can Fool me, they are Mistaken. Just then Santa Claus came down the Chimney. He had lots of Pretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes and Pretended to be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said, Reginald is Bad and I will not Put any nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James, I will Fill your Stocking Plumb full of Toys, because You are Good. So Santa Claus went to Work and Put, Oh! heaps and Heaps of Goodies in James’ stocking but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald’s stocking. And then he Laughed to himself and Said, I guess Reginald will be sorry to-morrow because he Was so Bad. As he said this he Crawled up the chimney and rode off in his Sleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots Reginald was no Spring Chicken. He just Got right Straight out of Bed and changed all those Toys and Truck from James’ stocking into his own. Santa Claus will Have to Sit up all Night, said He, when he Expects to get away with my Baggage. The next morning James got out of Bed and when He had Said his Prayers he Limped over to his Stocking, licking his chops and Carrying his Head as High as a Bull going through a Brush Fence. But when he found there was Nothing in his stocking and that Reginald’s Stocking was as Full as Papa Is when he comes home Late from the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and began to Wonder why on Earth he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent a Happy Christmas and James was very Miserable. After all, Children, it Pays to be Bad, so Long as you Combine Intellect with Crime.

—From the Tribune Primer.

Edgar Wilson Nye, known commonly as Bill Nye, wrote in prose and also made a success on the lecture platform, as well as in his newspaper work.

THE GARDEN HOSE

It is now the proper time for the cross-eyed woman to fool with the garden hose. I have faced death in almost every form, and I do not know what fear is, but when a woman with one eye gazing into the zodiac and the other peering into the middle of next week, and wearing one of those floppy sun-bonnets, picks up the nozzle of the garden hose and turns on the full force of the institution, I fly wildly to the Mountains of Hepsidam.

Water won’t hurt any one, of course, if care is used not to forget and drink any of it, but it is this horrible suspense and uncertainty about facing the nozzle of a garden hose in the hands of a cross-eyed woman that unnerves and paralyzes me.

Instantaneous death is nothing to me. I am as cool and collected where leaden rain and iron hail are thickest as I would be in my own office writing the obituary of the man who steals my jokes. But I hate to be drowned slowly in my good clothes and on dry land, and have my dying gaze rest on a woman whose ravishing beauty would drive a narrow-gage mule into convulsions and make him hate himself t’death.

---

Richard Kendall Munkittrick wielded a graceful pen and his verses show an original wit.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

In letters large upon a frame,

That visitors might see,

The painter placed his humble name,

O’Callaghan McGee.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,

The critics with a nod

Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman

Adores his native sod.

“His stout heart’s patriotic flame

There’s naught on earth can quell

He takes no wild romantic name

To make his pictures sell!”

Then poets praised in sonnets neat

His stroke so bold and free;

No parlor wall was thought complete

That hadn’t a McGee.

All patriots before McGee

Threw lavishly their gold;

His works in the Academy

Were very quickly sold.

His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”

His “When the Morning Smiled,”

His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”

His “Portrait of a Child,”

Were purchased in a single day

And lauded as divine.

*****

That night as in his atelier

The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames,

He grinned from ear to ear:

“They little think my real name’s

V. Stuyvesant De Vere!”

Edward Waterman Townsend, varied the time-honored tradition of misspelling by introducing an example of Bowery slang. His Chimmie Fadden took a firm hold on the public notice and the vogue lasted for many years.

---

“Naw, I ain’t stringin’ ye. ‘Is Whiskers is de loidy’s fadder. Sure!

“’E comes ter me room wid der loidy, ’is Whiskers does, an’ he says, says ’e, ‘Is dis Chimmie Fadden?’ says ’e.

“‘Yer dead on,’ says I.

“‘Wot t’ell?’ ’e says, turning to ’is daughter. ‘Wot does de young man say?’ ’e says.

“Den de loidy she kinder smiled—say, ye otter seed ’er smile. Say, it’s outter sight. Dat’s right. Well, she says: ‘I t’ink I understan’ Chimmie’s langwudge,’ she says. ‘‘E means ’e’s de kid youse lookin’ fer. ’E’s de very mug.’

“Dat’s wot she says; somet’n like dat, only a felly can’t just remember ’er langwudge.

“Den ’is Whiskers gives me a song an’ dance ’bout me bein’ a brave young man fer t’umpin’ der mug wot insulted ’is daughter, an’ ’bout ’is heart bein’ all broke dat ’is daughter should be doin’ missioner work in de slums.

“I says, ‘Wot tell’; but der loidy, she says, ‘Chimmie,’ says she, ‘me fadder needs a footman,’ she says, ‘an’ I taut you’d be de very mug fer de job,’ says she. See?

“Say, I was all broke up, an’ couldn’t say nottin’, fer ’is Whiskers was so solemn. See?

“‘Wot’s yer lay now?’ says ’is Whiskers, or somet’n’ like dat.

“Say, I could ’ave give ’im a string ’bout me bein’ a hard-workin’ boy, but I knowed der loidy was dead on ter me, so I only says, says I, ‘Wot t’ell?’ says I, like dat, ‘Wot t’ell?’ See?

“Den ’is Whiskers was kinder paralized like, an’ ’e turns to ’is daughter an’ ’e says—dese is ’is very words—’e says:

“Really, Fannie,’ ’e says, ‘really, Fannie, you must enterpret dis young man’s langwudge.’

“Den she laffs an’ says, says she:

“Chimmie is a good boy if ’e only had a chance,’ she says.

“Den ’is Whiskers ’e says, ‘I dare say,’ like dat. See? ‘I dare say.’ See? Say, did ye ever ’ear words like dem? Say, I was fer tellin’ ’is Whiskers ter git t’ell outter dat, only fer der loidy. See?

“Well, den we all give each odder a song an’ dance, an’ de end was I was took fer a footman. See? Tiger, ye say? Naw, dey don’t call me no tiger.

“Say, wouldn’t de gang on de Bow’ry be paralized if dey seed me in dis harness? Ain’t it great? Sure! Wot am I doin’? Well, I’m doin’ pretty well. I had ter t’ump a felly dey calls de butler de first night I was dere for callin’ me a heathen. See? Say, dere’s a kid in de house wot opens de front door when youse ring de bell, an’ I win all ’is boodle de second night I was dere showin’ ’im how ter play Crusoe. Say, it’s a dead easy game, but de loidy she axed me not to bunco de farmers—dey’s all farmers up in dat house, dead farmers—so I leaves ’em alone. ’Scuse me now, dat’s me loidy comin’ outter der shop. I opens de door of de carriage an’ she says, ‘Home, Chames.’ Den I jumps on de box an’ strings de driver. Say, ’e’s a farmer, too. I’ll tell you some more ’bout de game next time. So long.”

—Chimmie Fadden.

Sam Walter Foss added to his misspelling a certain understanding of human nature and produced many mildly satirical verses.

A PHILOSOPHER

Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize

About the ocean and the skies,

An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon

About the other side the moon;

An’ ’bout the natur of the place

Ten miles beyend the end of space.

An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank

If he wouldn’t kinder try to yank

Hisself outdoors an’ git some wood

To make her kitchen fire good,

So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,

He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the natur an’ the size

Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,

An’ wonder how they made ’em flop.

He’d calkerlate how long a skid

’Twould take to move the sun, he did;

An’ if the skid wuz strong an’ prime,

It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.

An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout

If he wouldn’t kinder waltz about

An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,

He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,

Then lettin’ out the lots to rent

So’s he could make an honest cent.

An’ if he’d find it pooty tough

To borry cash fer fencin’ stuff.

An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth

An’ go to Europe for his health,

Or save his cash till he’d enough

To buy some more of fencin’ stuff.

Then, if his wife she’d ask the gump

If he wouldn’t kinder try to hump

Hisself to t’other side the door

So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,

He’d look at her with mournful eyes,

An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout w’at it wuz held up the skies,

An’ how God made this earthly ball

Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,

An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form

Of nawthin’ that He made it from.

Then, if his wife sh’d ask the freak

If he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak

Out to the barn an’ find some aigs,

He’d never move, nor lift his laigs,

He’d never stir, nor try to rise,

But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the earth an’ sea an’ skies,

An’ scratch his head an’ ask the cause

Of w’at there wuz before time wuz,

An’ w’at the universe’d do

Bimeby w’en time had all got through;

An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb

If we sh’d travel out er time,

An’ if we’d need, w’en we got there

To keep our watches in repair.

Then, if his wife she’d ask the gawk

If he wouldn’t kinder try to walk

To where she had the table spread

An’ kinder git his stomach fed,

He’d leap for that ’ar kitchen door,

An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”

An’ w’en he’d got his supper et,

He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,

An’ fold his arms an’ shet his eyes,

An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.

Finley Peter Dunne created the immortal Mr. Dooley about the time of the Spanish War.

The Irish dialect is perfect, the humor most droll and the wit quiet and clean-cut.

Among the best of the chapters is the one that burlesques the proceedings that took place at a celebrated murder trial of the day.

ON EXPERT TESTIMONY

“Annything new?” said Mr. Hennessy, who had been waiting patiently for Mr. Dooley to put down his newspaper.

“I’ve been r-readin’ th’ tistimony iv th’ Lootgert case,” said Mr. Dooley.

“What d’ye think iv it?”

“I think so,” said Mr. Dooley.

“Think what?”

“How do I know?” said Mr. Dooley. “How do I know what I think? I’m no combination iv chemist, doctor, osteologist, polisman, an’ sausage-maker, that I can give ye an opinion right off th’ bat. A man needs to be all iv thim things to detarmine annything about a murdher trile in these days. This shows how intilligent our methods is, as Hogan says. A large German man is charged with puttin’ his wife away into a breakfas’-dish, an’ he says he didn’t do it. Th’ question thin is, Did or did not Alphonse Lootgert stick Mrs. L. into a vat, an’ rayjooce her to a quick lunch? Am I right?”

“Ye ar-re,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“That’s simple enough. What th’ Coort ought to’ve done was to call him up, an’ say: ‘Lootgert, where’s ye’er good woman?’ If Lootgert cudden’t tell, he ought to be hanged on gin’ral principles; f’r a man must keep his wife around th’ house, an’ whin she isn’t there it shows he’s a poor provider. But, if Lootgert says, ‘I don’t know where me wife is,’ the Coort shud say:’ Go out an’ find her. If ye can’t projooce her in a week, I’ll fix ye.’ An’ let that be th’ end iv it.

“But what do they do? They get Lootgert into coort an’ stand him up befure a gang iv young rayporthers an’ th’ likes iv thim to make pitchers iv him. Thin they summon a jury composed iv poor tired, sleepy expressmen an’ tailors an’ clerks. Thin they call in a profissor from a college. ‘Professor,’ says th’ lawyer f’r the State, ‘I put it to ye if a wooden vat three hundherd an’ sixty feet long, twenty-eight feet deep, an’ sivinty-five feet wide, an’ if three hundherd pounds iv caustic soda boiled, an’ if the leg iv a guinea-pig, an’ ye said yestherdah about bi-carbonate iv soda, an’ if it washes up an’ washes over, an’ th’ slimy, slippery stuff, an’ if a false tooth or a lock iv hair or a jawbone or a goluf ball across th’ cellar eleven feet nine inches—that is, two inches this way an’ five gallons that?’ ‘I agree with ye intirely,’ says th’ profissor. I made lab’ratory experiments in an’ ir’n basin, with bichloride iv gool, which I will call soup-stock, an’ coal-tar, which I will call ir’n filings. I mixed th’ two over a hot fire, an’ left in a cool place to harden. I thin packed it in ice, which I will call glue, an’ rock-salt, which I will call fried eggs, an’ obtained a dark queer solution that is a cure f’r freckles, which I will call antimony or doughnuts or annything I blamed please.’

“‘But,’ says th’ lawyer f’r th’ State, ‘measurin’ th’ vat with gas—an’ I lave it to ye whether this is not th’ on’y fair test—an’ supposin’ that two feet acrost is akel to tin feet sideways, an’ supposin’ that a thick green an’ hard substance, an’ I daresay it wud; an’ supposin’ you may, takin’ into account th’ measuremints—twelve be eight—th’ vat bein’ wound with twine six inches fr’m th’ handle an’ a rub iv th’ green, thin ar-re not human teeth often found in counthry sausage?’ ‘In th’ winter,’ says th’ profissor. ‘But th’ sisymoid bone is sometimes seen in th’ fut, sometimes worn as a watch-charm. I took two sisymoid bones, which I will call poker dice, an’ shook thim together in a cylinder, which I will call Fido, poored in a can iv milk, which I will call gum arabic, took two pounds iv rough-on-rats, which I rayfuse to call; but th’ raysult is th’ same.’ Question be th’ Coort: ‘Different?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Th’ Coort: ‘Th’ same.’ Be Misther McEwen: ‘Whose bones?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Be Misther Vincent: ‘Will ye go to th’ divvle?’ Answer: ‘It dissolves th’ hair.’

“Now what I want to know is where th’ jury gets off. What has that collection iv pure-minded pathrites to larn fr’m this here polite discussion, where no wan is so crool as to ask what anny wan else means? Thank th’ Lord, whin th’ case is all over, the jury’ll pitch th’ tistimony out iv th’ window, an’ consider three questions: ‘Did Lootgert look as though he’d kill his wife? Did his wife look as though she ought so be kilt? Isn’t it time we wint to supper?’ An’, howiver they answer, they’ll be right, an’ it’ll make little diff’rence wan way or th’ other. Th’ German vote is too large an’ ignorant annyhow.”

---

George Ade, in the Biographical Dictionaries, is classed almost exclusively as a playwright, but to those who know and love his Fables in Slang,—and who does not?—he will always be a humorist.

His slang is all that slang should be, witty, trenchant, picturesque and used but once. His own rule for slang stipulates that it shall be impromptu, spontaneous and never repeated.

From his opera The Sultan of Sulu, we quote one song.

THE COCKTAIL

The cocktail is a pleasant drink,

It’s mild and harmless—I don’t think!

When you have one, you call for two—

And then you don’t care what you do.

Last night I hoisted twenty-three

Of those arrangements into me;

My bosom heaved, I swelled with pride,

I was pickled, primed and ossified!

But R-E-M-O-R-S-E—

The water wagon is the place for me!

It is no time for mirth and laughter,

The cold, dark dawn of the Morning After!

THE FABLE OF THE CADDY WHO HURT HIS HEAD WHILE THINKING

One day a Caddy sat in the Long Grass near the Ninth Hole and wondered if he had a Soul. His number was 27, and he almost had forgotten his Real Name.

As he sat and Meditated, two Players passed him. They were going the Long Round, and the Frenzy was upon them.

They followed the Gutta-Percha Balls with the intent swiftness of trained Bird-Dogs, and each talked feverishly of Brassy Lies, and getting past the Bunker, and Lofting to the Green, and Slicing into the Bramble—each telling his own Game to the Ambient Air, and ignoring what the other Fellow had to say.

As they did the St. Andrews Full Swing for eighty Yards apiece and then Followed Through with the usual Explanations of how it Happened, the Caddy looked at them and Reflected that they were much inferior to his Father.

His Father was too Serious a Man to get out in Mardi Gras Clothes and hammer a Ball from one Red flag to another.

His Father worked in a Lumber-Yard.

He was an Earnest Citizen, who seldom Smiled, and he knew all about the Silver Question and how J. Pierpont Morgan done up a Free People on the Bond Issue.

The Caddy wondered why it was that his Father, a really Great Man, had to shove Lumber all day and could seldom get one Dollar to rub against another, while these superficial Johnnies who played Golf all the Time had Money to Throw at the Birds. The more he Thought the more his Head ached.

Moral.—Don’t try to Account for Anything.

---

Will Carleton wrote many long narrative ballads, of a homely type. His Betsey and I Are Out, and Over the Hills to the Poorhouse, in their day were known to every household.

A shorter work is:

ELIPHALET CHAPIN’S WEDDING

’Twas when the leaves of Autumn were by tempest-fingers picked,

Eliphalet Chapin started to become a benedict;

With an ancient two-ox waggon to bring back his new-found goods,

He hawed and gee’d and floundered through some twenty miles o’ woods;

With prematrimonial ardour he his hornèd steeds did press,

But Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t bristle with success.

Oh no,

Woe, woe!

With candour to digress,

Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t tremble with success.

He had not carried five miles his mouth-disputed face,

When his wedding garments parted in some inconvenient place;

He’d have given both his oxen to a wife that now was dead,

For her company two minutes with a needle and a thread.

But he pinned them up, with twinges of occasional distress,

Feeling that his wedding wouldn’t be a carnival of dress:

“Haw, Buck!

Gee, Bright!

Derned pretty mess!”

No; Eliphalet was not strictly a spectacular success.

He had not gone a ten-mile when a wheel demurely broke,

A disunited family of felloe, hub, and spoke;

It joined, with flattering prospects, the Society of Wrecks;

And he had to cut a sapling, and insert it ’neath the “ex.”

So he ploughed the hills and valleys with that Doric wheel and tire,

Feeling that his wedding journey was not all he could desire.

“Gee, Bright!

G’long, Buck!”

He shouted, hoarse with ire!

No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey none in candour could admire!

He had not gone fifteen miles with extended face forlorn,

When Night lay down upon him hard, and kept him there till morn;

And when the daylight chuckled at the gloom within his mind,

One ox was “Strayed or Stolen,” and the other hard to find.

So yoking Buck as usual, he assumed the part of Bright

(Constituting a menagerie diverting to the sight);

With “Haw, Buck!

Gee, Buck!

Sh’n’t get there till night!”

No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey was not one intense delight.

Now, when he drove his equipage up to his sweetheart’s door,

The wedding guests had tired and gone, just half-an-hour before;

The preacher had from sickness an unprofitable call,

And had sent a voice proclaiming that he couldn’t come at all;

The parents had been prejudiced by some one, more or less,

And the sire the bridegroom greeted with a different word from “bless.”

“Blank your head,

You blank!” he said;

“We’ll break this off, I guess!”

No; Eliphalet’s wedding was not an unqualified success.

Now, when the bride saw him arrive, she shook her crimson locks,

And vowed to goodness gracious she would never wed an ox;

And with a vim deserving rather better social luck,

She eloped that day by daylight with a swarthy Indian “buck,”

With the presents in the pockets of her woollen wedding-dress;

And “Things ain’t mostly with me,” quoth Eliphalet, “I confess,”

No—no;

As things go,

No fair mind ’twould impress,

That Eliphalet Chapin’s wedding was an unalloyed success.

Dr. William H. Drummond is best known humorously by his apt rendition of the French-Canadian dialect.

THE WRECK OF THE “JULIE PLANTE.”
A Legend of Lake St. Peter.

On wan dark night on Lac Saint Pierre,

De win’ she blow, blow, blow,

An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante”

Got scar’t, an’ run below—

For de win’ she blow lak hurricain,

Bimeby she blow some more,

An’ de scow buss h’up on Lac Saint Pierre

Wan h’arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk h’on de fronte deck,

An’ walk de hin’ deck too—

He call de crew from h’up de ’ole

He call de cook h’also.

De crew she’s name was Rosie,

She’s come from Montreal,

Was chambre maid h’on lombaire barge,

H’on de Grande La Chine Canal.

De win’ she’s blow from nor’-eass-wess—

De sout’ win’ she’s blow too,

W’en Rosie cry, “Mon cher captinne,

Mon cher, w’at I shall do?”

Den de captinne trow de big h’ankerre,

But steel de scow she dreef,

De crew he can’t pass on de shore,

Becos he loss hees skeef.

De night was dark lak’ wan black cat,

De wave run ’igh an’ fas’,

W’en de captinne tak’ de poor Rosie

An’ tie her to de mas’.

Den he h’also tak’ de life preserve,

An’ jomp h’off on de lak’,

An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,

I go drown for your sak’.”

Nex’ morning very h’early

Bout haf-pas’ two—t’ree—four—

De captinne—scow—an’ de poor Rosie

Was corpses on de shore.

For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricain,

Bimeby she blow some more,

An’ de scow bus’ h’up on Lac Saint Pierre,

Wan h’arpent from de shore.

Moral

Now h’all good wood scow sailor man

Tak’ warning by dat storm,

An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl

An’ leev on one beeg farm.

De win’ can blow lak hurricain

An’ s’pose she blow some more,

You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre

So long you stay on shore.

Ben King is responsible for at least two humorous jingles of wide popularity.

THE PESSIMIST

Nothing to do but work;

Nothing to eat but food;

Nothing to wear but clothes,

To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air;

Quick as a flash ’tis gone;

Nowhere to fall but off;

Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair;

Nowhere to sleep but in bed;

Nothing to weep but tears;

Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,

Ah, well, alas! alack!

Nowhere to go but out;

Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights;

Nothing to quench but thirst;

Nothing to have but what we’ve got;

Thus thro’ life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;

Everything moves that goes.

Nothing at all but common sense

Can ever withstand these woes.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

If I should die to-night,

And you should come to my cold corpse and say,

Weeping and heartsick o’er my lifeless clay—

If I should die to-night,

And you should come in deepest grief and wo—

And say, “Here’s that ten dollars that I owe,”

I might arise in my large white cravat,

And say, “What’s that?”

If I should die to-night,

And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,

Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,

I say, if I should die to-night,

And you should come to me, and there and then

Just even hint ’bout payin’ me that ten,

I might arise the while,

But I’d drop dead again.

A humorous jingle that achieved immediate vogue is Casey at the Bat. The authorship has been questioned but consensus of research seems to ascribe it to Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

CASEY AT THE BAT

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to six, with just an inning left to play;

And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,

A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,

With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast;

For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that

They’d put up even money, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake,

And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake;

So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all,

And the much-despised Blakie tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,

There was Blakie safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,

It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell;

It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat;

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,

There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face;

And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.

“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!”

But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

John Kendrick Bangs, one time Editor of Puck, of lamented memory, wrote tomes of humorous verse. As a pastime in tricky rhyming we quote:

MONA LISA

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar!

Who’s the Chap so bold and pinchey

Thus to swipe the great da Vinci,

Taking France’s first Chef d’œuvre

Squarely from old Mr. Louvre,

Easy as some pocket-picker

Would remove our handkerchicker

As we ride in careless folly

On some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Who’s your Captor? Doubtless he’s a

Crafty sort of treasure-seeker—

Ne’er a Turpin e’er was sleeker—

But, alas, if he can win you

Easily as I could chin you,

What is safe in all the nations

From his dreadful depredations?

He’s the style of Chap, I’m thinkin’

Who will drive us all to drinkin’!

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Next he’ll swipe the Tower of Pisa,

Pulling it from out its socket

For to hide it in his pocket;

Or perhaps he’ll up and steal, O,

Madame Venus, late of Milo;

Or maybe while on the grab he

Will annex Westminster Abbey,

And elope with that distinguished

Heap of Ashes long extinguished.

Maybe too, O Mona Lisa,

He will come across the seas a—

Searching for the style of treasure

That we have in richest measure.

Sunset Cox’s brazen statue,

Have a care lest he shall catch you

Or maybe he’ll set his eye on

Hammerstein’s, or the Flatiron,

Or some bit of White Wash done

By those lads at Washington—

Truly he’s a crafty geezer,

Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

Thomas L. Masson, humorous writer, and for many years editor of Life, has doubtless written more humor and books of humor than any one in the country.

THE KISS

“What other men have dared, I dare,”

He said. “I’m daring, too:

And tho’ they told me to beware,

One kiss I’ll take from you.

“Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;

That was a grave mistake,

For when I’ve taken one, I fear,

One hundred more I’ll take.

“’Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,

But to stop there? Oh, no!

One kiss is only to begin;

There is no end, you know.”

The maiden rose from where she sat

And gently raised her head:

“No man has ever talked like that—

You may begin,” she said.

DESOLATION

Somewhat back from the village street

Stands the old fashioned country seat.

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.

And there throughout the livelong day,

Jemima plays the pi-a-na.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,

And there Jemima plies her hands,

While her papa, beneath his cloak,

Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”

And swears to himself and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth

She plays as if she owned the earth

Through every swift vicissitude

She drums as if it did her good,

And still she sits from morn till night

And plunks away with main and might

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted hospitality;

But that was many years before

Jemima dallied with the score.

When she began her daily plunk,

Into their graves the neighbors sunk.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled,

All thankful that they’re safely dead.

They stood the racket while alive

Until Jemima rose at five.

And then they laid their burdens down,

And one and all they skipped the town.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Stephen Crane, a strange and often misunderstood genius, never waxed humorous in a broad sense. But the incisive, satirical wit of his lines can seldom be found bettered.

A man said to the universe,

“Sir, I exist!”

“However,” replied the universe,

“The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation.”

Upon the road of my life,

Passed me many fair creatures,

Clothed all in white, and radiant;

To one, finally, I made speech:

“Who art thou?”

But she, like the others,

Kept cowled her face,

And answered in haste, anxiously,

“I am Good Deed, forsooth;

You have often seen me.”

“Not uncowled,” I made reply.

And with rash and strong hand,

Though she resisted,

I drew away the veil,

And gazed at the features of Vanity.

She, shamefaced, went on;

And after I had mused a time,

I said of myself, “Fool!”

“Think as I think,” said a man,

“Or you are abominably wicked;

You are a toad.”

And after I had thought of it,

I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

Charles Battell Loomis was a favorably known writer of humorous jingles, and he wielded a facile pen in parody.

JACK AND JILL

(As Austin Dobson might have written it)

Their pail they must fill

In a crystalline springlet,

Brave Jack and fair Jill.

Their pail they must fill

At the top of the hill,

Then she gives him a ringlet.

Their pail they must fill

In a crystalline springlet.

They stumbled and fell,

And poor Jack broke his forehead,

Oh, how he did yell!

They stumbled and fell,

And went down pell-mell—

By Jove! it was horrid.

They stumbled and fell,

And poor Jack broke his forehead.

(As Swinburne might have written it)

The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees!

The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas!

The moaning of the night wind on the wold,

That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze!

On such a night as this went Jill and Jack

With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black

To find the hill’s high top and water cold,

Then toiling through the town to bear it back.

The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips

Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips,

And then with arms entwined they homeward go;

Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips.

Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight,

His crazèd cries and cranium cracked; the fright

Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo!

Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night!

(As Walt Whitman might have written it)

I celebrate the personality of Jack!

I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering.

Each wart upon his hands I sing,

Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades.

Also Jill!

Her I celebrate.

I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue,

Whoop her up!

What’s the matter with Jill?

Oh, she’s all right!

Who’s all right?

Jill.

Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands;

So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling.

I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and through the darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds of myriad creatures of the night.

I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their mother.

Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time.

She is simply immense!

But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill.

(I didn’t mean that rhyme.)

I must watch them.

I love to watch their walk,

And wonder as I watch;

He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound,

Yet lusty,

Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a paperweight.

She, erect, standing, her head uplifting,

Holding, but bearing not the bucket.

They have reached the spring.

They have filled the bucket.

Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”?

I will sing it:—

Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed!

Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born.

The father is happy, the mother is happy.

Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.”

Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms,

Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile,

A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping.

Here’s a large piece of black cloth!

“Have you any last words to say?”

“No.”

“Sheriff, do your work!”

Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill.

I see them descending, obstacles not heeding.

I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring, a noise from leathern lungs out-belching.

The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his pate with gore besmeared.

I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like

Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes.

Whoop!!!

Guy Wetmore Carryl, son of Charles E. Carryl, possessed a lovable and whimsical nature and wielded an exceedingly clever pen, both in verse and prose. His untimely death robbed us of one of our most delightful young humorists.

HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin,

Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;

Her general form was German,

By which I mean that you

Her waist could not determine

Within a foot or two.

And not only did she stammer,

But she used the kind of grammar

That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire

A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.

She was willing, she was active,

She was sober, she was kind,

But she never looked attractive

And she hadn’t any mind.

I knew her more than slightly,

And I treated her politely

When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,

She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,

And threw with much composure

A smallish rubber ball

At an inoffensive osier

By a little waterfall;

But Matilda’s way of throwing

Was like other people’s mowing,

And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried

To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.

And, before her eyes astounded,

On a fallen maple’s trunk

Ricochetted and rebounded

In the rivulet, and sunk!

Matilda, greatly frightened,

In her grammar unenlightened,

Remarked, “Well now I ast yer, who’d ’er thunk?”

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose

A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.

He beheld her fright and frenzy

And, her panic to dispel,

On his knee by Miss Mackenzie

He obsequiously fell.

With quite as much decorum

As a speaker in a forum

He started in his history to tell.

“Fair maid,” he said, “I beg you do not hesitate or wince,

If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince;

For a fairy, old and vicious,

An enchantment round me spun!”

Then he looked up, unsuspicious,

And he saw what he had won,

And in terms of sad reproach, he

Made some comments, sotto voce,

(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold;

“I never! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain’t you awful bold!”

Just a glance he paused to give her,

And his head was seen to clutch,

Then he darted to the river,

And he dived to beat the Dutch!

While the wrathful maiden panted

“I don’t think he was enchanted!”

(And he really didn’t look it overmuch!)

THE MORAL

In one’s language one conservative should be;

Speech is silver and it never should be free!

Edwin Arlington Robinson, among the greatest of our later poets, has a fine wit, nowhere better shown than in:

MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

And dreamed and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot

And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace,

And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediæval grace

Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

But sore annoyed he was without it;

Miniver thought and thought and thought

And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.

TWO MEN

There be two men of all mankind

That I should like to know about;

But search and question where I will,

I cannot ever find them out.

Melchizedek he praised the Lord,

And gave some wine to Abraham;

But who can tell what else he did

Must be more learned than I am.

Ucalegon he lost his house

When Agamemnon came to Troy;

But who can tell me who he was—

I’ll pray the gods to give him joy.

There be two men of all mankind

That I’m forever thinking on;

They chase me everywhere I go,—

Melchizedek, Ucalegon.

Arthur Guiterman, among the best of our present day humorous writers, never did anything better than this intensified bit of burlesque.

MAVRONE
ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES

From Arranmore the weary miles I’ve come;

An’ all the way I’ve heard

A Shrawn[2] that’s kep’ me silent, speechless, dumb,

Not sayin’ any word.

An’ was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[3] you’ll say,

For him that died the death on Carrisbool?

It was not that; nor was it, by the way,

The Sons of Garnim[4] blitherin’ their drool;

Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[5]

Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[6]

For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me.

’Twas but my own heart cryin’ out for you

Magraw![7] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru,

Aroon, Machree, Aboo![8]

ELEGY

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss

In what was once Persepolis.

Proud Babylon is but a trace

Upon the desert’s dusty face.

The topless towers of Ilium

Are ashes. Judah’s harp is dumb.

The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre

Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire

And all the oligarchies, kings,

And potentates that ruled these things

Are gone! But cheer up; don’t be sad;

Think what a lovely time they had!

Oliver Herford, born in England but living most of his life in America, has without doubt the most humorous soul in the world.

His art, which is pictorial as well as literary, is unique and of an intangible, indescribable nature.

As graceful of fancy as Spenser, as truly funny as Sir William Gilbert, he also possesses a deep philosophy and a perfect technique.

PHYLLIS LEE

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill

Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress

Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill

Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.

Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill

His Brush refused to work his Will.

“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes

I cannot paint to-day,” he said;

“Their Brightness shames the very Skies

And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”

Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies

And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,

Not dreaming of such Treachery,

Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,

“Without the Light, how can one See?”

“If you are sure that none can see

I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

SOME GEESE

Ev-er-y child who has the use

Of his sen-ses knows a goose.

See them un-der-neath the tree

Gath-er round the goose-girl’s knee,

While she reads them by the hour

From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.

How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!

But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend

What Scho-pen-hau-er’s driv-ing at?

Oh, not at all; but what of that?

Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;

And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

THE CHIMPANZEE

Children, behold the Chimpanzee:

He sits on the ancestral tree

From which we sprang in ages gone.

I’m glad we sprang: had we held on,

We might, for aught that I can say,

Be horrid Chimpanzees to-day.

THE HEN

Alas! my Child, where is the Pen

That can do Justice to the Hen?

Like Royalty, She goes her way,

Laying foundations every day,

Though not for Public Buildings, yet

For Custard, Cake and Omelette.

Or if too Old for such a use

They have their Fling at some Abuse,

As when to Censure Plays Unfit

Upon the Stage they make a Hit,

Or at elections Seal the Fate

Of an Obnoxious Candidate.

No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen,

Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.

MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM

Well I recall how first I met

Mark Twain—an infant barely three

Rolling a tiny cigarette

While cooing on his nurse’s knee.

Since then in every sort of place

I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,

Yet how can I describe his face?

I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a smokership,

At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)

His name was soon on every lip,

They made him “smoker” of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout

With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—

When Mount Vesuvius went out

And didn’t smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England’s King,

Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,

Offered him dukedoms—anything

To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,

“To no imperial command,

No ducal coronet for me,

My smoke is for my native land!”

For Mark there waits a brighter crown!

When Peter comes his card to read—

He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,

—Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

GOLD

Some take their gold

In minted mold,

And some in harps hereafter,

But give me mine

In tresses fine,

And keep the change in laughter!

AFTER HERRICK

SONG

Gather Kittens while you may,

Time brings only Sorrow;

And the Kittens of To-day

Will be Old Cats To-morrow.

THE PRODIGAL EGG

An egg of humble sphere

By vain ambition stung,

Once left his mother dear

When he was very young.

’Tis needless to dilate

Upon a tale so sad;

The egg, I grieve to state,

Grew very, very bad.

At last when old and blue,

He wandered home, and then

They gently broke it to

The loving mother hen.

She only said, in fun,

“I fear you’re spoiled, my son!”

Frank Gelett Burgess, one time editor of The Lark, a short-lived humorous periodical, is at his best in the realms of sheer nonsense. His Purple Cow has a nation-wide reputation and his humorous excursions into the French Forms are always marked by exact precision as to rule and law.

THE PURPLE COW

I never saw a Purple Cow,

I never hope to see one;

But I can tell you, anyhow,

I’d rather see than be one.

THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

I’d Never Dare to Walk across

A Bridge I Could Not See;

For Quite afraid of Falling off,

I fear that I Should Be!

VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING

These are the things that make me laugh—

Life’s a preposterous farce, say I!

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half.

The high-heeled antics of colt and calf,

The men who think they can act, and try—

These are the things that make me laugh.

The hard-boiled poses in photograph,

The groom still wearing his wedding tie—

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

These are the bubbles I gayly quaff

With the rank conceit of the new-born fly—

These are the things that make me laugh!

For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff,

And people will tickle me till I die—

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

So write me down in my epitaph

As one too fond of his health to cry—

These are the things that make me laugh,

And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

PSYCHOLOPHON
Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee

Twine then the rays

Round her soft Theban tissues!

All will be as She says,

When that dead past reissues.

Matters not what nor where,

Hark, to the moon’s dim cluster!

How was her heavy hair

Lithe as a feather duster!

Matters not when nor whence;

Flittertigibbet!

Sounds make the song, not sense,

Thus I inhibit!

Carolyn Wells has written much humorous verse and prose. Her work has appeared in many of the periodicals and in book form.

THE IDIOT’S DELIGHT

A curious man of the human clan

Is a man who fools himself;

Who thinks he can swing the Pierian spring

Through a conduit of books on a shelf!

Who thinks if he pores in the old bookstores

And browses among the rares,

He is fit to belong to the scholarly throng

And gives himself scholarly airs.

He gasps as he speaks of his worn antiques—

With emotion almost dumb!

Or he solemnly turns his Kilmarnock Burns

With an awed and reverent thumb;

He’ll scrimp to possess a Kelmscott Press,

And hoard up his hard-earned wage

Till he saves the cost of a Paradise Lost

With the right sort of title page.

If he has on his shelves some dumpy twelves,

Of which he’s a connoisseur,

The bibliophile, with a fatuous smile,

Believes he’s a littérateur!

Because he achieves incunabula leaves,

On himself as a scholar he’ll look;

Though I’m ready to bet no scholar I’ve met

Has ever collected a book!

The difference, you see, in the viewpoint must be,

And it is a distinction nice;

A scholar will look at the worth of a book,

A collector will think of its price.

He nearly bursts with pride in his firsts;

And you can’t get it into his dome

That he cannot affect his intellect

By buying a tattered tome!

A collector may have matter gray,

He may have wisdom, too;

As he may have a head of a carroty red

Or eyes of a chicory blue.

But he has these things by the grace of God;

Especially his good looks;

By Nature’s laws, and not because

The things he collects are books!

And so I maintain there is no brain,

No genius or talent or mind,

Required to look for a certain book,

Or to struggle that book to find.

No collector reads his precious screeds,

He appraises his books by sight;

And I make claim that the blooming game

Is the idiot’s delight!

THE MYSTERY

I can understand politics, civics and law,

Of national issues I have no great awe;

The theories of Einstein are simple to me,

And psychoanalysis mere A. B. C.

But there is one thing I can’t get in my head—

Why do people marry the people they wed?

I can do mathematics, no matter how high;

And to me fourth dimension is easy as pie;

Most intricate problems I readily solve,

And I know why the nebular spirals revolve.

But on this baffling question no light has been shed;

Why do people marry the people they wed?

Long hours over Nietzsche I frequently spend,

I’ve all his philosophy at my tongue’s end.

Of Freudian conclusions I haven’t a doubt.

I’ve got human complexes all straightened out.

But on this deep problem I muse in my bed—

Why do people marry the people they wed?

I’ve studied up ancient religions and cults,

I’ve tried spiritism with curious results;

I know the Piltdown and Neanderthal man,

How big is Betelgeuse and how old is Ann;

But this I shall wonder about till I’m dead—

Why do people marry the people they wed?

WOMAN

Women are dear and women are queer

Men call them, with a laugh,

The female of the species,

Or a husband’s better half.

They sing their praise in many ways,

They flatter them—but, oh,

How little they know of Woman

Who only women know!

Now women are pert and women will flirt,

And they’re catty and rude and vain;

And sometimes they’re witty and sometimes they’re pretty—

And sometimes they’re awfully plain.

But Woman is rare beyond compare,

The poets tell us so;

How little they know of Woman

Who only women know!

Women are petty and women are fretty,

They try to hide their years;

They steadily nag and nervously rag,

And frequently burst into tears.

But Woman is gracious, serene and calm,

Above all tricks or arts,

Her sympathy’s like a soothing balm

To sad and sorrowing hearts.

Women are very perverse and contrary,

They will contradict you flat;

Oh, women I’ll call the devil and all,

There’s no denying that!

But Woman, oh, men, is beyond our ken,

Too angelic for mortals below;

How little they know of Woman

Who only women know!

A SYMPOSIUM OF POETS

Once upon a time a few of the greatest Poets of all ages gathered together for the purpose of discussing the merits of the Classic Poem:

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater,

Had a wife and couldn’t keep her,

Put her in a Pumpkin shell,

And there he kept her very well.

In many ways this historic narrative called forth admiration. One must admit Peter’s great strength of character, his power of quick decision, and immediate achievement. Some hold that his inability to retain the lady’s affection in the first place, argues a defect in his nature; but remembering the lady’s youth and beauty (implied by the spirit of the whole poem), we can only reiterate our appreciation of the way he conquered circumstances, and proved himself master of his fate, and captain of his soul! Truly, the Pumpkin-Eaters must have been a forceful race, able to defend their rights and rule their people.

The Poets at their symposium unanimously felt that the style of the poem, though hardly to be called crude, was a little bare, and they took up with pleasure the somewhat arduous task of rewriting it.

Mr. Ed. Poe opined that there was lack of atmosphere, and that the facts of the narrative called for a more impressive setting. He therefore offered:

The skies, they were ashen and sober,

The lady was shivering with fear;

Her shoulders were shud’ring with fear.

On a dark night in dismal October,

Of his most Matrimonial Year.

It was hard by the cornfield of Auber,

In the musty Mud Meadows of Weir,

Down by the dank frog-pond of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted cornfield of Weir.

Now, his wife had a temper Satanic,

And when Peter roamed here with his Soul,

Through the corn with his conjugal Soul,

He spied a huge pumpkin Titanic,

And he popped her right in through a hole.

Then solemnly sealed up the hole.

And thus Peter Peter has kept her

Immured in Mausoleum gloom,

A moist, humid, damp sort of gloom.

And though there’s no doubt he bewept her,

She is still in her yellow hued tomb,

Her unhallowed, Hallowe’en tomb

And ever since Peter side-stepped her,

He calls her his lost Lulalume,

His Pumpkin-entombed Lulalume.

This was received with acclaim, but many objected to the mortuary theory.

---

Mrs. Robert Browning was sure that Peter’s love for his wife, though perhaps that of a primitive man, was of the true Portuguese stamp, and with this view composed the following pleasing Sonnet:

How do I keep thee? Let me count the ways.

I bar up every breadth and depth and height

My hands can reach, while feeling out of sight

For bolts that stick and hasps that will not raise.

I keep thee from the public’s idle gaze,

I keep thee in, by sun or candle light.

I keep thee, rude, as women strive for Right.

I keep thee boldly, as they seek for praise,

I keep thee with more effort than I’d use

To keep a dry-goods shop or big hotel.

I keep thee with a power I seemed to lose

With that last cook. I’ll keep thee down the well,

Or up the chimney-place! Or if I choose,

I shall but keep thee in a Pumpkin shell.

This was of course meritorious, though somewhat suggestive of the cave-men, who, we have never been told, were Pumpkin Eaters.

Austin Dobson’s version was really more ladylike:

BALLADE OF A PUMPKIN

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright,

Wondrous of texture and hue,

Bathed in a soft, sunny light,

Pearled with a silvery dew.

Fair as a flower to the view,

Ripened by summer’s soft heat,

Basking beneath Heaven’s blue,—

This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Peter consumed day and night,

Pumpkin in pie or in stew;

Hinted to Cook that she might

Can it for winter use, too.

Pumpkin croquettes, not a few,

Peter would happily eat;

Knowing content would ensue,—

This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Everything went along right,

Just as all things ought to do;

Till Peter,—unfortunate wight,—

Married a girl that he knew,

Each day he had to pursue,

His runaway Bride down the street,—

So her into prison he threw,—

This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

L’envoi

Lady, a sad lot, ’tis true,

Staying your wandering feet;

But ’tis the best place for you,—

This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Like the other women present Dinah Craik felt the pathos of the situation, and gave vent to her feelings in this tender burst of song:

Could I come back to you Peter, Peter,

From this old pumpkin that I hate;

I would be so tender, so loving, Peter,—

Peter, Peter, gracious and great.

You were not half worthy of me, Peter,

Not half worthy the like of I;

Now all men beside are not in it, Peter,—

Peter, Peter, I feel like a pie.

Stretch out your hand to me, Peter, Peter,

Let me out of this Pumpkin, do;

Peter, my beautiful Pumpkin Eater,

Peter, Peter, tender and true.

Mr. Hogg took his own graceful view of the matter, thus:

Lady of wandering,

Blithesome, meandering,

Sweet was thy flitting o’er moorland and lea;

Emblem of restlessness,

Blest be thy dwelling place,

Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Peter, though bland and good,

Never thee understood,

Or he had known how thy nature was free;

Goddess of fickleness,

Blest be thy dwelling place,

Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Mr. Kipling grasped at the occasion for a ballad in his best vein. The plot of the story aroused his old time enthusiasm, and he transplanted the pumpkin eater and his wife to the scenes of his earlier powers:

In a great big Mammoth pumpkin

Lookin’ eastward to the sea,

There’s a wife of mine a-settin’

And I know she’s mad at me.

For I hear her calling, “Peter!”

With a wild hysteric shout;

“Come you back, you Punkin Eater,—

Come you back and let me out!”

For she’s in a punkin shell,

I have locked her in her cell;

But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell;

And there she’ll have to dwell,

For she didn’t treat me well,

So I put her in the punkin and I’ve kept her very well.

Algernon Swinburne was also in one of his early moods, and as a result he wove the story into this exquisite fabric of words:

IN THE PUMPKIN

Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see,

What is this confine either side of me?

Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl,

Seen sidelong, like a ’possum in a tree,—

Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out;

From this gold lush encircling me about;

I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall.

The crescent moon shines slim,—but I am stout,—

Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams;

Ah, Pete,—too sweet to me,—my Pete, it seems

Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall;

And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,—

Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

This intense poesy thrilled the heavens, and it was with a sense of relief to their throbbing souls that they listened to Mr. Bret Harte’s contribution:

Which I wish to remark,

That the lady was plain;

And for ways that are dark

And for tricks that are vain,

She had predilections peculiar,

And drove Peter nearly insane.

Far off, anywhere,

She wandered each day;

And though Peter would swear,

The lady would stray;

And whenever he thought he had got her,

She was sure to be rambling away.

Said Peter, “My Wife,

Hereafter you dwell

For the rest of your life

In a big Pumpkin Shell.”

He popped her in one that was handy,

And since then he’s kept her quite well.

Which is why I remark,

Though the lady was plain,

For ways that are dark

And tricks that are vain,

A husband is very peculiar,

And the same I am free to maintain.

Oscar Wilde in a poetic fervour and a lily-like kimono, recited with tremulous intensity this masterpiece of his own:

Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud,

Ah me! ah me!

(Sweet squashes, mother!)

Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud;

(Ah me; ah me!

Hurroo, Hurree!)

Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith;

Ah me! ah me!

(Sweet squashes, mother!)

Wan hope a dolorous Musing saith;

(Ah me; ah me!

Dum diddle dee!)

Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin shell

Ah me! ah me!

(Sweet squashes, mother!)

(Fast and forever! Sooth, ’tis well.

(Ah me; ah me!

Faloodle dee!)

There was little to be said after this, so the meeting was closed with a solo by Lady Arthur Hill, using with a truly touching touch:

In the pumpkin, oh, my darling,

Think not bitterly of me;

Though I went away in silence,

Though I couldn’t set you free.

For my heart was filled with longing,

For another piece of pie;

It was best to leave you there, dear,

Best for you and best for I.

Two of our most gentle and kindly humorists may not be quoted, because it would be a crime to separate their text and pictures.

Peter Newell and J. G. Francis have drawn some of the most delicately witty pictures and have written quatrains or Limericks to accompany them, but picture and text must be shown together, if at all.

For the same reason our cartoonists may not be touched upon.

Nor can we include any writers whose work did not appear before 1900.

The scope of this book is bounded by the twentieth century, and much as we should like to present the Columnists and the more recent versifiers, they must be left for a later chronicler.