I like Chicago. Chicago is a large city. I have noticed there are always many people in a large city. A city doesn't do well without them. Some of your readers may not have been to Chicago. Shall I tell them about it?
There are many groceries here, where they sell tea, cod-fish, whiskey, flour, molasses, saleratus and such things, and other groceries where they sell cloth, women's clothes, and fancy 'fixin's' generally. Field, Leiter and Co. have one of the latter. It is in cube form—a block long, a block high, and a block thick. It is bigger than a barn, and tall as a light-house. There are more than forty clerks in it.
There are lots of ships here, and horse-cars, but the horses don't ride in them, though, and the water-works. I must tell you about the water-works. They are a big thing. Much water is used in Chicago. Fastidious people sometimes wash in it. Chicago has first-class water now, and plenty of it. She has built a tunnel two miles long, and tapped Lake Michigan that distance from the shore. The water runs down to the home station, and is then lifted up high by steam engines and distributed over the city. The hoisting of it is a good deal like work. I like to see these engines work. Any body would. Clean, polished, shining monsters, they seem to take a conscious pride in their performance, and the tireless movement of their mighty arms seems almost as resistless as the will of God. But they cost scrips, these piles of polished machinery and throbbing life do; and with that regard for economy which has always characterized me, I think I have discovered a plan by which this work can be done at nearly nominal expense. I only wonder that Chicago, with her accredited 'git' and 'gumption,' has not accepted my plan before. My plan is this: At the shore end of the tunnel build a large tank or reservoir, put two first-class whales in it, and let them spout the water up. Simple, isn't it? And feasible too, and cheap. You see the whales would furnish their own clothes and lodging, and all the oil they would need for lighting to work nights by, and the city would really be out nothing but their board. Whales have always been in the water elevating business, so this would be right in their line. They would work and think it was fun—just as a boy sometimes, but not most always, does—and there is no good reason why their sporting instinct should not be turned to practical.
I am confident of the final success of my plan, but the prejudices of people against innovations may retard its operation for some time yet.
Speaking of water makes me think that Chicago, like St. Paul, has a river, only not so much so. Rivers most always run by large cities, they seem to like to, some way. But this is a brigandish sort of river, black, foul, and murky, and in the dark night it steals sullenly through the city like a prowling fiend.
Two paragraphs will serve to illustrate Lute Taylor's ability to meditate upon the common-place and draw therefrom the wholesome lesson. We are choosing his comments upon a "nickname," where he says:
The man who has won a nickname and wears it gracefully, has the elements of popularity about him. The same instinct which leads a mother to apply diminutive phrases of endearment to her little ones is a universal instinct, one which we never outgrow, and which continually manifests itself in our form of addressing or speaking of those we love, trust or admire.
The man who is known in his neighborhood as "Uncle" is never a cold, crabbed or selfish character. He is sure to have a generous heart, and wear a cheerful smile—there is integrity in him which men trust, and warmth around him which little children love to gather, and the term is a title of honor—more to be desired than that of honorable.
"BILL" NYE.
Edgar Wilson Nye, known to his readers as "Bill Nye," was born in Shirley, Maine, August 25, 1850. He removed with his parents to Wisconsin in 1854. As a mere school boy, he loved to say those things which afforded amusement to his associates and his family. In an article in Collier's for April 10, 1915,[3] his mother tells the following anecdote concerning him when a boy working on the Wisconsin farm:
The two boys, Edgar (Bill) and his brother Frank had been working in the field, but were separated on their return to the house at noon time. They met again at the pump, when the following conversation ensued:
"Edgar looked at Frank as if surprised, and inquired: 'Your name Nye?'
'Yes,' replied Frank, with perfect gravity in order to lead his brother on.
'That's funny; my name's Nye, too,' observed Edgar. 'Where were you born?'
'In Maine,' answered Frank.
'I was born in Maine myself,' said Edgar. 'I wouldn't doubt at all if we were some relation. Got any brothers?'
'Yes, I have two brothers.'
'Well, well, this is growing interesting. I've got two brothers myself. I'll bet if the thing were all traced out, there would be some family relationship found. Are your brothers older or younger than you?'
'I have one brother older and one younger,' replied Frank.
'Oh, well, then we can't be any relation after all,' declared Edgar with a look of disappointment; 'my brothers are both older.'"
While a young man he went to the then territory of Wyoming, where he studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1876. He later returned to River Falls, Wisconsin, where he engaged in newspaper work. Some years later he traveled with James Whitcomb Riley and gave entertainments in which mirth was the essential feature. He later removed from Wisconsin and made his home in New York City. He died at Asheville, N. C., Feb. 22, 1896.
His writings appeared under the following titles:
Bill Nye and Boomerang, in 1881; Forty Liars, in 1883; Remarks, in 1886; Baled Hay and Fun, Wit and Humor, with J. W. Riley, in 1889; Comic History of the United States, in 1894; Comic History of England, in 1896.
To illustrate his humor due to the mingling of fact and nonsense, we reproduce here a portion of his chapter upon Franklin as published in his Comic History of the United States.