HUMOUR OF THE NORTH

SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY

LAWRENCE J. BURPEE

TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
LIMITED

Entered at
Stationers' Hall 1912

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Some day an enterprising editor may find time to glean from the whole field of Canadian literature a representative collection of wit and humour. It would include the productions of such acknowledged humorists as Thomas Chandler Haliburton and George Thomas Lanigan, as well as specimens of characteristic humour from writers who are better remembered by their more serious work. It would also include a great deal of genuine wit and humour, largely anonymous, in such Canadian periodicals as Grip, Punch in Canada, the Grumbler, the Free Lance, and Diogenes; and characteristic passages from the speeches of such brilliant and witty debaters as Thomas D'Arcy McGee, Joseph Howe, and Nicholas Flood Davin. The present little collection obviously makes no such ambitious claim. It embraces, however, what are believed to be representative examples of the work of some of our better-known writers, many of which will no doubt be quite familiar to Canadian readers, but perhaps none the less welcome on that account.

For permission to reproduce these selections the Editor is indebted to the authors or their representatives, and in the case of the late Dr. Drummond he is also indebted to the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. The selection from Joseph Howe's work is taken from his Poems and Essays; Haliburton's sketches are taken from The Old Judge; those of Dr. Drummond from The Habitant, Johnnie Courteau, and The Voyageur; that of Mrs. Cotes from her Social Departure; McCarroll's poem from Madeleine; Lanigan's Fables from the little volume published under that title; and DeMille's selection from The Dodge Club. Lanigan's humorous verse was never brought together in book form.

Ottawa,
August, 1910.

CONTENTS

HUMOUR OF THE NORTH

[ ]

THE BLUE NOSE

Let the Student of Nature in rapture descant,

On the Heaven's cerulean hue;

Let the Lover indulge in poetical rant,

When the eyes of his Mistress are blue.

But fill high your glasses—fill, fill to the brim,

I've a different toast to propose:

While such eyes, and such skies, still are beaming for him,

Here's a health to the jolly Blue Nose.

Let the Frenchman delight in his vine-covered vales,

Let the Greek toast his old classic ground;

Here's the land where the bracing Northwester prevails,

And where jolly Blue Noses abound.

Long—long may it flourish, to all of us dear,

Loved and honoured by hearts that are true;

But, should ever a foe chance his nose to show here

He shall find all our Noses true Blue.

[ ]

TO MARY

Oh! blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you,

Nor suppose that my thoughts from the Preacher were straying,

Tho' I stole a few glances—believe me 'tis true—

They were sweet illustrations of what he was saying.

For, when he observed that Perfection was not

To be found upon Earth—for a moment I bent

A look upon you—and could swear on the spot

That perfection in Beauty was not what he meant.

And when, with emotion, the worthy Divine

On the doctrine of loving our neighbours insisted,

I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine,

I could love every soul of them while I existed.

And Mary, I'm sure 'twas the fault of those eyes—

'Twas the lustre of them to the error gave birth—

That, while he spoke of Angels that dwelt in the Skies,

I was gazing with rapture at one upon Earth.

[ ]

A TOAST

Here's a health to thee, Tom: a bright bumper we drain

To the friends that our bosoms hold dear,

As the bottle goes round, and again and again

We whisper, "We wish he were here."

Here's a health to thee, Tom: may the mists of this earth

Never shadow the light of that soul

Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth

To illumine the depths of the Bowl.

vWith a world full of beauty and fun for a theme,

And a glass of good wine to inspire,

E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam

That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood,

Our pleasures are tasteless and dim,

For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude

Make us feel we're but happy with him.

Like the Triumph of old where the absent one threw

A cloud o'er the glorious scene,

Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you,

And think of the nights that have been.

When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight

Fled away with the rapturous hours,

And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night,

Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.

When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn,

Shedding lustre and life where it fell,

As the sunlight, in which the tall mountain tops burn,

Paints each bud in the lowliest dell.

When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed

With humour and deviltry shone,

And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed,

Had mirth in its every tone.

Then a health to thee, Tom: ev'ry bumper we drain

But renders thy image more dear,

As the bottle goes round, and again and again,

We wish, from our hearts, you were here.

[ ]

SHEEPSKINS AND POLITICS

You know Uncle Tim; he was small, very small—not in stature, for he was a six-footer, but small in mind and small in heart; his soul was no bigger than a flea's. "Zeb, my boy," says he to me one day, "always be neuter in elections. You can't get nothing by them but ill-will. Dear, dear! I wish I had never voted. I never did but oncest, and, dear, dear! I wish I had let that alone. There was an army doctor oncest, Zeb, lived right opposite to me to Digby: dear, dear! he was a good friend to me. He was very fond of wether mutton; and, when he killed a sheep, he used to say to me, 'Friend Tim, I will give you the skin if you will accept it.' Dear, dear! what a lot of them he gave me, first and last! Well, oncest the doctor's son, Lawyer Williams, offered for the town, and so did my brother-in-law, Phin Tucker; and, dear, dear! I was in a proper fix. Well, the doctor axed me to vote for his son, and I just up and told him I would, only my relation was candidating also; but ginn him my hand and promise I would be neuter. Well, I told brother-in-law the same, that I'd vote for him with pleasure, only my old friend, the doctor's son, was offering too; and, therefore, gave him my word also, I'd be neuter. And, oh, dear, dear! neuter I would have remained too, if it hadn't a-been for them two electioneering generals—devils, I might say—Lory Scott and Terry Todd. Dear, dear! somehow or 'nother, they got hold of the story of the sheepskins, and they gave me no peace day or night. 'What,' says they, 'are you going to sell your country for a sheepskin?' The day of the election they seized on me, one by one arm, and the other by the other, and lugged me off to the poll, whether I would or no.

"'Who do you vote for?' said the sheriff.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' shouted Terry, in one ear.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' bellowed Lory, in the other ear.

"I was so frightened, I hardly knew what I did; but they tell me I voted for brother Phin! Dear, dear! the doctor never gave me a sheepskin while he lived after that. Dear, dear!—that was an ugly vote for me!"

[ ]

THE DOCTOR

Old Dr. Green (you knowed him, in course—everybody knowed him) lived on Digby Neck. He was reckoned a skilful man, and was known to be a regular rotated doctor; but he drank like a fish (and it's actilly astonishing how many country doctors have taken to drink), and, of course, he warn't always a very safe man in cases where a cool head and a steady hand was needed (though folks did say he knowed a plaguey sight more, even when he was drunk, than one-half of them do when they are sober). Well, one day old Jim Reid, who was a pot-companion of his, sent him a note to come into town immediately, without the loss of one moment of time, and bring his amputating instruments with him, for there was a most shocking accident had happened to his house. So in come the doctor as hard as he could drive, looking as sorry, all the time, as if he didn't live by misfortunes and accidents, the old hypocrite!

"My dear friend," said he solemnly, to Reid, and a-taking of him by the hand, and giving it a doleful shake—"My dear friend, what is the matter?—who is hurt? And what the devil is to pay now? How thankful we all ought to be that the accident hasn't occurred to one whom we all respect so much as you!"

And then he unpacked his instruments, off with his coat, and up with his sleeves; and, with one hand, pulls a hair out of his head, and, with the other, takes his knife and cuts it in two, to prove the edge was all right. Then he began to whistle while he examined his saw, for nothing puts these chaps in such good humour as cutting and slashing away at legs and arms—operating, as they call it—and, when all was ready, says he—

"Reid," says he, a-tapping him on the shoulder, "where is the patient?"

Well, Reid opened the door of another room, and there was a black boy a-holding of a duck on the table that had broke his leg!

"There is a case for amputation, doctor!" said he; "but, first of all, take a glass of brandy and water to steady your nerves. He knows you," says he; "hear him how he calls out Quack, quack! after you, as if he was afraid to let you perform on him."

Well, the doctor entered into the joke as good-natured as possible, laughed like anything, whipped down the grog, whipped off the leg, and whipped up the knives and saws in no time.

"You must stay to dine, doctor," said Reid (for the joke was only intended to get him into town to drink along with him); and he stayed to dine, and stayed to sup, and, being awful drunk, stayed to bed, too.

Well, every time Reid saw him arter that in town, he asked him to come in and see his patient, which meant to come in and drink; and so he did as long as the cask of rael, particular Jamaikey lasted.

Some time after that the old fellow sent in a bill for operating, making a wooden leg, medical attendance, and advice, per order, for twenty-five pounds; and, what's more, when Reid wouldn't pay it, the doctor sued him for it to court, and gained his cause. Fact, I assure you.

[ ]

MOTHER HUNT'S CHICKENS

Five years ago, come next summer, the old lady made a trip to Halifax, in one of our Digby coasters, to see sister Susannah, that is married in that city to Ted Fowler, the upholsterer, and took a whole lot of little notions with her to market to bear expenses; for she is a saving kind of body, is mother, and likes to make two ends meet at the close of the year. Among the rest, was the world and all of eggs, for she was a grand hand in a poultry-yard. Some she stowed away in boxes, and some in baskets, and some in tubs, so that no one accident could lose them all for her. Well, under the berths in the cabin were large drawers for bedding; and she rotated that out, and packed them full of eggs in wool, as snug as you please, and off they started on their voyage. Well, they had nothing but calms, and light airs, or head winds, and were ever so long in getting to town; and, when they anchored, she got her duds together, and began to collect her eggs all ready for landing. The first drawer she opened, out hopped ever so many chickens on the cabin floor, skipping and hopping about, a-chirping, "Chick, chick, chick!" like anything!

"Well, if that don't beat all!" said mother, and she looked the very picture of doleful dumps. "I hope there is no more of them a-coming into the world that way, without being sent for!" and she opened a second, and out came a second flock, with a "Chick, chick, chick!" and another, and another, till she pulled them all out. The cabin floor was chockful of them; for the heat and confined bilge air had hatched all the eggs that were in the close and hot drawers.

Oh, the captain, and passengers, and sailors, they roared with laughter! Mother was awful mad, for nothing makes one so angry as accidents that set folks off a tee-hee-ing that way. If anybody had been to blame but herself, wouldn't they have caught it, that's all? for scolding is a great relief to a woman; but as there warn't, there was nothing left but to cry: and scolding and crying are two safety-valves that have saved many a heart from busting.

Well, the loss was not great, though she liked to take care of her coppers, too; it was the vexation that worried her. But the worst was to come yet. When she returned home, the boys to Digby got hold of the story; and, wherever she went, they called out after her "Chick, chick, chick!" I skinned about half-a-dozen of the little imps of mischief for it, but it only made them worse; for they hid in porches, and behind doors, and gates, and fences, as seen her a-coming, and roared out, "Chick, chick, chick!" and nearly bothered her to death. So she give up going out any more, and never leaves home now. It's my opinion, her rheumatism is nothing but the effect of want of exercise, and all comes from that cursed "Chick, chick, chick!"

[ ]

THE DEACON'S BARGAIN

Old Deacon Bruce of Aylesford, last Monday week, bought a sleigh of his fellow-deacon, Squire Burns, for five pounds. On his way home with it, who should he meet but Zeek Morse, a-trudging along through the snow a-foot.

"Friend Zeek," says the old Christian, "won't you get in and ride? Here's room for you and welcome."

"Don't care if I do," said Zeek, "seeing that sitting is as cheap as walking, if you don't pay for it." So he hops in, and away they go.

Well, Zeek was mightily taken with the sleigh.

"Deacon," says he, "how shall you and me trade for it? It's just the article I want, for I am a-going down to Bridgetown next week to be married; and it will suit me to a notch to fetch Mrs. Morse, my wife, home in. What will you take for it?"

"Nine pounds," said old Conscience. "It cost me seven pounds ten shillings, to Deacon Burns, who built it; and as it's the right season for using it, and I can't get another made till next winter, I must have nine pounds for it, and it ain't dear at that price neither."

"Done!" says Zeek—for he is an offhand kind of chap, and never stands bantering and chaffering a long time, but says at once what he means, as I do. "Done!" says he—"'tis mine!" and the deacon drives up to his house, gets his pay, and leaves the sleigh there.

Next morning, when Zeek went to examine his purchase, he found there was a bolt left out by mistake, so off he goes to the maker, Deacon Burns, to get it put in, when he ups and tells him all about the bargain.

"Did the old gentleman tell you my price was seven pounds ten?" said he.

"Oh yes," said Zeek, "in course he did—there is no mistake about it. I'll take my oath to it."

"Well, so it was," said Burns. "He told you true. He was to give me seven pounds ten; but as there was nobody by but him and me when we traded, and as it ain't paid for yet, he might perhaps forget it, for he is getting to be an old man now. Will you try to recollect it?"

"Sartainly," said Zeek. "I'll swear to it any day you please, in any court in the world, for them was his very words to me."

What does Deacon Burns do but go right off and sue Deacon Bruce for seven pounds ten, instead of five pounds, the real price; called Zeek as a witness to his admission, and gained his case! Fact, upon my soul!

[ ]

THE CORDUROY ROAD

De corduroy road go bompety bomp,

De corduroy road go jompety jomp,

An' he's takin' beeg chances upset hees load

De horse dat'll trot on de corduroy road.

Of course it's purty rough, but it's handy t'ing enough,

An' dey mak' it wit' de log all jine togeder

W'en dey strek de swampy groun' w'ere de water hang aroun'

Or passin' by some tough ole beaver medder.

But it's not macadamise, so if you're only wise

You will tak' your tam an' never min' de worry,

For de corduroy is bad, an' will mak' you plaintee mad

By de way de buggy jomp, in case you hurry.

An' I'm sure you don't expec' leetle Victorine Leveque

She was knowin' moche at all about dem places,

'Cos she's never dere before, till young Zepherin Madore

He was takin' her away for see de races.

Oh, I wish you see her den! dat's before she marry, w'en

She's de fines' on de lan'; but no use talkin'.

I can bet you w'at you lak, if you meet her you look back

Jus' to watch de fancy way dat girl is walkin'.

Yass, de leetle Victorine was de nices' girl between

De town of Yamachiche an' Maskinongé,

But she's stuck up an' she's proud, an' you'll never count de crowd

Of de boy she geev it w'at dey call de congé.

Ah! de moder spoil her, sure, for even to Joe D'Amour,

W'en he's ready nearly ev'ry t'ing to geev her

If she mak' de mariée, only say, "Please go away,"

An' he's riches' habitant along de reever.

Zepherin he try it too, an' he's workin' somet'ing new,

For he's makin' de old woman many presen'—

Prize package on de train, umbrella for de rain—

But she's grompy all de tam, an' never pleasan'.

Wall, w'en he ax Ma-dame tak' de girl away dat tam

See dem races on Sorel wit' all de trotter

De moder say, "All right, if you bring her home to-night,

Before de cow's milk, I let her go, ma daughter."

So Victorine she go wit' Zepherin her beau

On de yankee buggy mak' it on St. Bruno,

An' w'en dey pass hotel on de middle of Sorel

Dey're puttin' on de beeges' style dat you know.

Wall! dey got some good horse dere, but Zepherin don't care.

He's back it up, hees own paroisse, ba golly,

An' he mak' it t'ree doll-arre w'en Maskinongé Star

On de two mile heat was beating Sorel Molly.

Victorine don't min' at all, till de "free for all" dey call—

Dat's de las' race dey was run before de snow fly—

Den she say, "I t'ink de cow mus' be gettin home soon now

An' you know it's only clock ole woman go by.

"An' if we're comin' late w'en de cow pass on de gate

You'll be sorry if you hear de way she talk dere,

So w'en I see de race on Sorel or any place

Affer dis, you may be sure I got to walk dere."

Den he laugh, dat Zepherin, an' he say, "Your poor mama,

I know de pile she t'ink about her daughter

So we'll tak' de short road back on de corduroy race track;

Don't matter if we got to sweem de water."

No wonder he is smile till you hear heem half a mile,

For dat morning he was tole hees leetle broder

Let de cattle out de gate, so he know it's purty late

By de tam dem cow was findin' out each oder.

So along de corduroy de young girl an' de boy

Dey was kipin' up a joggin' nice an' steady.

It isn't heavy load, an' Guillaume he know de road

For many tam he's been dat way already.

But de girl she fin' it slow, so she ax de boy to go

Somet'ing better dan a mile on fifteen minute,

An' he's touch heem up, Guillaume; so dat horse he lay for home,

An' de nex' t'ing Victorine she know she's in it.

"Oh, pull him in," she yell, "for even on Sorel

I am sure I never see de quicker racer,"

But it's leetle bit too late, for de horse is get hees gait

An' de worse of all, ba gosh! Guillaume's a pacer.

See hees tail upon de air, no wonder she was scare!

But she hang on lak de winter on T'ree Reever.

Cryin' out, "Please hol' me tight, or I'm comin' dead to-night,

An' ma poor old moder dear, I got to leave her."

Wit' her arm aroun' hees wais'—she was doin' it in case

She bus' her head, or keel herse'f, it's not so easy sayin'—

Dey was comin' on de jomp t'roo dat dam old beaver swamp

An' meet de crowd is lookin' for dem cow was go a-strayin'.

Den she' cryin', Victorine, for she's knowin' w'at it mean—

De parish dey was talkin' firse chances dey be gettin'.

\But no sooner dat young man stop de horse, he tak' her han'

An' w'isper, "Never min', ma chère, won't do no good a-frettin'."

Non! she isn't cryin' long, for he tole her it was wrong.

She's sure he save her life too, or she was moche mistaken,

An' de ole Ma-dame Leveque also kiss heem on de neck

An' quickly after dat, Hooraw! de man an' wife dey're makin'.

[ ]

DOMINIQUE

You dunno ma leetle boy Dominique?

Never see heem runnin' roun' about de place?

'Cos I want to get advice how to kip heem lookin' nice,

So he won't be alway dirty on de face.

Now dat leetle boy of mine, Dominique,

If you wash heem an' you sen' heem off to school,

But instead of goin' dere, he was playin' fox an hare—

Can you tell me how to stop de leetle fool?

"I'd tak' dat leetle feller Dominique,

An' I'd put heem on de cellar ev'ry day,

An' for workin' out a cure bread an' water's very sure,

You can bet he mak' de promise not to play!"

Dat's very well to say, but ma leetle Dominique

W'en de jacket we put on heem's only new,

An' he's goin' travel roun' on de medder up an' down,

Wit' de strawberry on hees pocket runnin' t'roo,

An' w'en he climb de fence, see de hole upon hees pant,

No wonder hees poor moder's feelin' mad!

So if you ketch heem den, w'at you want to do, ma frien'?

Tell me quickly an' before he get too bad.

"I'd lick your leetle boy Dominique,

I'd lick heem till he's crying purty hard,

An' for fear he's gettin' spile, I'd geev' heem castor ile,

An' I wouldn't let heem play outside de yard."

If you see ma leetle boy Dominique

Hangin' on to poor ole "Billy" by de tail,

W'en dat horse is feelin' gay, lak I see heem yesterday,

I suppose you t'ink he's safer on de jail?

W'en I'm lightin' up de pipe on de evenin' affer work,

An' de powder dat young rascal's puttin' in,

It was makin' such a pouf, nearly blow me t'roo de roof—

W'at's de way you got of showin' 'twas a sin?

"Wall! I put heem on de jail right away,

You may bet de wan is got de beeges' wall!

A honder foot or so, w'ere dey never let heem go,

Non! I wouldn't kip a boy lak dat at all."

Dat's good advice for sure, very good,

On de cellar, bread an' water—it'll do,

De nice sweet castor ile geev heem ev'ry leetle w'ile,

An' de jail to finish up wit' w'en he's t'roo!

Ah! ma frien', you never see Dominique

W'en he's lyin' dere asleep upon de bed;

If you do, you say to me, "W'at an angel he mus' be,

An' dere can't be not'ing bad upon hees head."

Many t'ank for your advice, an' it may be good for some,

But de reason you was geev it isn't very hard to seek—

Yass! it's easy seein' now, w'en de talk is over, how

You dunno ma leetle boy Dominique.

[ ]

HOW BATEESE CAME HOME

W'en I was young boy on de farm—dat's twenty year ago—

I have wan frien', he's leev near me, call Jean Bateese Trudeau,

An offen, w'en we are alone, we lak for spik about

De tam w'en we was come beeg man, wit' moustache on our mout'.

Bateese is get it on hees head he's too moche educate

For mak' de habitant farmerre—he better go on State—

An' so wan summer evening we're driving home de cow

He's tole me all de whole beez-nesse—jus' lak you hear me now.

"Wat's use mak foolish on de farm? dere's no good chances lef',

An' all de tam you be poor man—you know dat's true you'se'f;

We never get no fun at all—don't never go on spree

Onless we pass on 'noder place, an' mak it some monee.

"I go on Les Etats-Unis, I go dere right away,

An' den, mebbe, on ten-twelve year, I be rich man some day,

An' w'en I mak' de large fortune I come back, I s'pose,

Wit' Yankee famme from off de State, an' monee on my clothes.

"I tole you somet'ing else also—mon cher Napoléon—

I get de grande majorité, for go on parliament,

Den buil' fine house on borde l'eau—near w'ere de church is stand—

More finer dan de Presbytère, w'en I am come riche man!"

I say, "For w'at you spik lak dat? you must be gone crazee.

Dere's plaintee feller on de State, more smarter dan you be;

Besides, she's not so healtee place, an' if you mak l'argent,

You spen' it jus' lak Yankee man, an' not lak habitant.

"For me, Bateese, I tole you dis: I'm very satisfy—

De bes' man don't leev too long tam; some day, ba gosh! he die—

An' s'pose you got good trotter horse, an' nice famme Canadienne

Wit' plaintee on de house for eat—W'at more you want, ma frien'?"