The Bad Boy at Home, and His Experiences in Trying to Become an Editor / 1885

by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

Now, our religus edittur is purty sweet on wimmin enyway, so he tuk it all in good part, and kissed and hugged every one of em, tellin em he'd let em kno by letter, wen he'd made his choice. They kep swarmin in all the mornin, til you'd thot all the wimmin in New York was warntin a man. Bout 11 o'clock we all notissed sumthing shut out the lite of the doreway, purty soon it turn'd round and cum in sideways and sung out, “Oh, were! Oh, were! is the bloomin boy wot warnts a rotund, buxom madin for his wife?” Then we all tumbeled that she was the Bowry Museum fat woman, so I pointed to the Religus Edittur. Then she grabbed him up in her arms, and squeezed him, till you could heer his ribs snappin. Wen he got black in the face she thot she'd made a mistake, in the man, and seized hold of Mr. Gilley, so I remembered it was gettin on towards dinner time. At the dore of the offis I met the quire singer in the little Church Round the Corner, wot the Religus Edittur's ngaged to, and she tole me to tell him he was a horrid rech, and she was goin to sue him for breech of promis, so she was.

On my way hum to dinner, the manergin edittur overtuk me, and laffed and sed that was a purty good joke I'd fixed up on the religus edittur. I told him I didnt meen nothin by it enyway, cos I didnt xpect eny gurl'd think he was good lookin enuf to marry him.

Now our mannergin edittur jest got marreed last week, and hee's bordin at the Metrypollytan hotel. Just fore we got there he giv me a ten-center, and sed, thats for the laff him and his wife'd hav wen he tole her bout the joke.

I guess he got all the laffin he wanted, cos he'd no sooner got inter the hotel dore, before every man, woman, and child run up to him, and tride to giv him a baby, wot they sed was his. Baby's was lyin round permiskusly, all over the desks, floors, and barroom. The rooms, up stairs, was chock full of baby's. Xtra cots was lade out in the halls, and every cot, had half a dozen baby's on to it, and every baby had a card pinned on its does, wot red:—Tom Wilson, Susie Wilson, Paddy Wilson, Biddy Wilson, and every Wilson you could think of. Eight pages of the reges-ter was filled with there names, and every page was hedded with the Editturs own name, John Wilson, Father.

Wen he got to his own room, he found his wife cryin, lik her heart was brok. Soon as she cot site of him she let out a shreek wot brot everybodie in the hotel to there room, and sung out: “John Wilson youre a monsteer, youre a vaggerbone, youre a rech, youre a inferrnus skoundrel. Take me back to my mama, rite away, and if youve got a spark of manhood about you, you'll go and make wot little restertushin you can, to the mothers of these wurse than orfans.”

Quicker'an litenin, Mr. Wilson tumbelled, and laffin a fiendish grin, he sung out in axcents wild: “Get me a Gatlin Gun, and lode it down to the mussle with thirty-leven charges of dannymite, and let me get a shot, at that incorragerbel imp of Haydes, the Buster's Devil.”

Then carmin down a littel, he took this mornins paper outen his pocket and red out loud to the crowd: “Wanted; a fine, helthy infant for adopshun. No questshuns ast. Leeve it at the Metrypolytan hotel for John Wilson, mannergin edittur Daily Buster.”

This put everybodie in good humer agen, and, after settin up the drinks for the crowd, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went out to the country to hire a farm and sum wimmin to take care of the baby's till homes culd be secured for 'em.

I guess him and his wife's sickened on baby's enyway, cos I hurd him tellin the hotel clurk that they'd had all the baby's round them that they'd ever have, by gumbo.

And now, Mr. Diry, I must close for to-nite, cos I've got to smoke the 25-center wot the religus edittur giv me for the laff he'd had outer my joke on Mr. Wilson.