You cannot imagine my surprise and interest then, when I came abruptly upon that explosive, black-typed "Fudge" in the middle of the Star. I have always had a fondness for the word. It is like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy library, and any man who can say "Fudge" in a big, round voice has something in him. He's got views and a personality, even though the views may be crooked and the personality prickly.
With what joy I read that paragraph—and cut it from the paper, and have it yet in my golden treasury. This is it:
FUDGE
A fellow named Wright, who lives out in Ohio, says he can fly. Mr. Wright is wrong. If the Lord had intended human beings to fly He would have grown wings on us. He made birds for the air, and fish for the sea, and men to walk on two legs. It is a common characteristic of flying-machine inventors and Democrats that they are not satisfied with the doings of the Lord, but must be turning the world topsy-turvy. Mr. Wright of Ohio should peruse the historic story of Darius Green and his flying machine. If memory serves us right Darius bumped his head, and afterward lived a sensible life. The Star would commend the example of Mr. Green to Mr. Wright—and the Democrats.
Harriet heard me laughing, and called from the other room:
"David, what are you laughing at?"
"Why, a new judge in Israel"—and I read the paragraph aloud with the keenest delight.
"But I thought Mr. Wright could fly!" said my sister doubtfully.
"Well, he can," said I, "only this writer is a Republican."
She was silent for a moment, standing there in the doorway while I watched with interest the gathering question.