The Autobiography of a Joke
Ere it had time to reply to this classical question, my eyes fell upon a roll of parchment which it held in its hand, and on which were inscribed the magic words of my joke.
"Do you not know me?" said this Eidolon of my wit, pointing to the scroll. "I am the joke upon which you pride yourself, and, although I say it myself, one of the best jokes that ever was uttered. Don't you know me?"
"I can't say that I should have recognised you," said I, as I felt my heart yearning with paternal kindness towards him; "but—Come to my arms, my son, my progeny!"
"Aha! ha! ha!" said the Joke, looking at me with very unfilial impertinence, and holding his sides with laughter.
"The contempt with which you treat me is exceedingly unbecoming," said I with much warmth, and with the air of an offended parent; "and, what is more, sir, it is unfeeling and unnatural—'tis past a joke, sir!"
"'Tis no joke!" said the Joke, still laughing with all his might, and peering at me from the corners of his eyes, the only parts of those orbits which mirth permitted to remain open; "really, my good friend, the honour to which you lay claim is nowise yours. Lord bless your foolish vanity! I was a patriarch before the days of your great grandfather!"
"Pooh, pooh!" said I, "it cannot be! You know that you are my production;—you cannot be serious in denying it."