Extra! Extra!
Ladies and gentlemen: Don’t fail to be in Robbinsdale next Tuesday at four o’clock A. M. to witness the daring feat of Peter, our hired man. This brave snoose-grinding son of toil will endeavor to dive off the top of the highest building in Robbinsdale into a six-foot tank of solid concrete, playing the ukelele, eating raw liver and keeping perfect time. The spectacular dive by Pete will be for a worthy cause. All proceeds from the entertainment will be donated to the starving plumbers of Chicago. Admission free.
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Took my wife into a store to assist her in buying a new hat. Like all women, she tried on nearly every hat in the store. In desperation the salesman appealed to me with this remark: “How would you like me to try a sailor for your wife?” Having been in the army for many years, I felt like suggesting a soldier, for this insulting salesman. Needless to say, the sale was not made.
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On my recent visit to New York I had the pleasure of the company of Mr. H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor,” which we misnamed in past issues “The Face Upon the Barroom Floor.” This masterpiece undoubtedly stands first among popular present day poems, judging from the many requests we received from Whiz Bang readers for its republication. To Ye Editor Mr. D’Arcy told the history of how “The Face Upon the Floor” was inspired:
“Away back in the early 80’s Union Square in New York was called ‘The Rialto’ agreeable to the fact that it was the theatrical center of America. On the corner of Fourth avenue and Fourteenth street, a very excellent saloon was run by Joe Schmidt and it was kept fairly full from noon to midnight with respectable members of the sock and buskin, and amusement promoters. One Saturday evening in August, 1887, a table in front of the bar was occupied by a bunch of managers. We were combining business with pleasure, booking time and enjoying the very excellent beer and spirits available in those happy days. It was probably about 11 o’clock when a mendicant shambled in and approached our table. With a sad, husky voice, he said, ‘Gentlemen, I want a drink.’ All eyes were turned to the derelict and someone at the table offered one of the untasted glasses of whisky which was quickly swallowed. Joe behind the bar yelled, ‘Get out.’
“The waiter in front quickly seized the beggar and threw him out of the swinging door; to make the situation more dramatic, a rough haired terrier dog named ‘Toby’ and pet of the saloon jumped at the poor devil and fastened on his pants. ‘Toby’ always thought it his duty to chase poor people, and had an innate antipathy to jumpers or pants not duly pressed.
“Well, several of the party got up from the table and went out to see what had happened to the poor wretch. He was lying on the sidewalk with his face halfway in the gutter. We gathered him up, brushed him off a little, wiped his face and someone went into the saloon and brought out another drink of whisky. Several coins were carefully dropped into the inside pocket of his coat. This was done surreptitiously so that he would not know the money was there until the tomorrow. As we left him on a door step next door I asked what his trade was and he managed to tell me he was an artist. I held that this man was not a professional beggar, a derelict true, but probably had once been a talented man. The argument was taken up by several other gentlemen in the room and waxed warm until I got angry and with a curt “good night” bolted out of the saloon. On my way home, I determined to write up the story in such a way as would make my argument good and satisfy Joe Schmidt that I was not wholly chicken-hearted. I also was pretty sure of winning the fair hostess to my way of thinking. As I walked along I composed in my mind the first two lines:
“’Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,
That well-nigh filled Joe’s bar-room on the corner of the Square.”
“The measure was a happy iambic tetrameter and fitted the story, and before going to bed, I jotted down the first two lines which I have always found the hardest to compose, next day I finished the story. When Joe read it, I saw tears in his eyes. It was published in the New York Dispatch. Joe bought a hundred copies of the paper and sent 25 to the Buffalo Bill Co. who were playing in London and among whom both he and I had many friends. Cody and Major Burke circulated the copies among their theatrical friends and before many months three vaudevillians were reciting the poem at the big music halls, then Sam Bernard set America crazy with it and yet after over thirty years, it is still a popular ‘act’ and wins excellent booking.
“I have been often told that my story set the pace for prohibition. I sincerely hope not. If I thought that I had helped that unfortunate law, I would walk down to the dock and kick myself into the river. ‘The Face Upon the Floor’ is not a temperance story, but an admonition to the world, not to despise the unfortunate derelict.”
In this issue we are pleased to publish another poem by Mr. D’Arcy and have his promise of more to follow. And let me add, I found Mr. D’Arcy a regular fellow, well met, an excellent conversationalist and a fine reminder of the good old days.
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Gus, our ex-hired man, escorted a petite young lady to her apartment.
“Just as I was putting my arm around her,” Gus reports, “a man walked in.”
“My gawsch, my husband!” exclaimed the girl.
“Oh, busy honey?” the intruder remarked, as he walked out.
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Our new hired man, Ikey, from the cities, is so absentminded that when he went in the stable to saddle a horse, he was surprised to find, after a half hour’s work, that he had the saddle on himself and he spent another half hour in vain trying to climb on his own back.
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