“Should he do so, and act upon his determination to spend a long day on the sands, anticipating a pleasurable bask in the sunshine, dire catastrophe will befall him. Rain descends in bucketfuls upon him, his patient wife, and wailing progeny. They return to town drenched to the skin, and are all laid up with chills, which means a week’s absence from the office—perhaps dismissal by his employer, if he is a clerk, and a long doctor’s bill at the end of the month; and who is to blame? Had the man obeyed the mandates of the faithful vegetable protuberance on his big toe all would have been well.
“The only individual I am inclined to respect and admire is the man who cultivates and is led by his corn in all the important affairs of life. To be without the ripening corn is to miss the greater part of the meaning and poignancy of existence. The possession of this treasure causes a man to thread his way gingerly and tactfully through the city streets. He never blunders or bungles; he is a sensitive, considerate person, who unconsciously avoids treading upon or coveting the abundant crops of others. His corn’s influence is more beneficial than freemasonry or foreign missions.
“To gain the sympathies and interest of a fellow-being when you are in trouble and want his financial aid, don’t plunge into your story at once, but approach him gently with the kindly query, ‘Have you a corn?’ If he replies in the affirmative, you may safely intrust him with your difficulties. If, on the contrary, he negatives your question, recognize at once that he is a man of dormant sympathies, and don’t waste further time upon him. It will be useless. He is a cornless individual, therefore heartless.”
I wind up my discourse with some such remark as this—
“Ladies and gentlemen, turn away from the pernicious tyrants who seek to rob you of your birthright in advertising corn salves and plasters. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing. They are jealous and embittered by the barrenness of their toe pastures which, do what they will, yield no corn.”
The Sharp(?)-Shooter
After this, in order to secure the forgiveness of my hearers for my opinions and oratory, both pure bunkum, I bring a trick to their notice, which I work with Hyde, and of which I am rather proud, because it is quite original and works awfully well, in spite of the fact that it’s as simple as the alphabet. For those who would like to try it, here it is:—
Hyde, hidden behind me, is armed with a paper bag inflated with air. Beforehand I place a used bullet on the floor at the spot at which I intend aiming my pistol.
I employ some patter to remove the growing alarm of my family, and the anxiety expressed for themselves, the furniture, and lastly—my own person.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say with self-complacency extreme, “I am about to perform a feat with my hands”—(joke—pause—a flutter of laughter). “Thank you,” I say with a polite bow—“the like of which has never been seen—since the making of the world. I will load and fire this revolver, and the bullet will not only make no mark, but there will not even be a flash or smoke. You will hear the sound of the explosion, and I will show you the bullet discharged.