The Wit and Humor of America, Volume I. (of X.) 7 – Anonymous · Verses Across
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume I. (of X.) 7Chapter 2
18
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume I. (of X.) 7
Chapter 2
AnonymousEnglish
At early dawn, ere Phoebus rose,
Old Joan resumed her tale of woes;
When Darby thus--"I'll end the strife,
Be you the man and I the wife:
Take you the scythe and mow, while I
Will all your boasted cares supply."
"Content," quoth Joan, "give me my stint."
This Darby did, and out she went.
Old Darby rose and seized the broom,
And whirled the dirt about the room:
Which having done, he scarce knew how,
He hied to milk the brindled cow.
The brindled cow whisked round her tail
In Darby's eyes, and kicked the pail.
The clown, perplexed with grief and pain,
Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again:
When turning round, in sad amaze,
He saw his cottage in a blaze:
For as he chanced to brush the room,
In careless haste, he fired the broom.
The fire at last subdued, he swore
The broom and he would meet no more.
Pressed by misfortune, and perplexed,
Darby prepared for breakfast next;
But what to get he scarcely knew--
The bread was spent, the butter too.
His hands bedaubed with paste and flour,
Old Darby labored full an hour:
But, luckless wight! thou couldst not make
The bread take form of loaf or cake.
As every door wide open stood,
In pushed the sow in quest of food;
And, stumbling onward, with her snout
O'erset the churn--the cream ran out.
As Darby turned, the sow to beat,
The slippery cream betrayed his feet;
He caught the bread trough in his fall,
And down came Darby, trough, and all.
The children, wakened by the clatter,
Start up, and cry, "Oh! what's the matter?"
Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed,
And hapless Darby bawled aloud,
"Return, my Joan, as heretofore,
I'll play the housewife's part no more:
Since now, by sad experience taught,
Compared to thine my work is naught;
Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take,
Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake,
And never more transgress the line
Our fates have marked, while thou art mine.
Then, Joan, return, as heretofore,
I'll vex thy honest soul no more;
Let's each our proper task attend--
Forgive the past, and strive to mend."
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallelooyer as he tiptoes on the fence, Oh, it's then's the time a feller is a feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of gracious rest, As he leaves the house bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
There's sompin kind o' hearty-like about the atmosphere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here. Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and the buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin', and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the early autumn days Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty rustle of the tassels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kind o' lonesome like, but still A preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The straw-stack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed, The hosses in their stalls below, the clover overhead,-- Oh, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
LAFFING
BY JOSH BILLINGS
Anatomikally konsidered, laffing iz the sensation ov pheeling good all over, and showing it principally in one spot.
Morally konsidered, it iz the next best thing tew the 10 commandments....
Theoretikally konsidered, it kan out-argy all the logik in existence....
Pyroteknikally konsidered, it is the fire-works of the soul....
But i don't intend this essa for laffing in the lump, but for laffing on the half-shell.
Laffing iz just az natral tew cum tew the surface az a rat iz tew cum out ov hiz hole when he wants tew.
Yu kant keep it back by swallowing enny more than yu kan the heekups.
If a man kan't laff there iz sum mistake made in putting him together, and if he won't laff he wants az mutch keeping away from az a bear-trap when it iz sot.
I have seen people who laffed altogether too mutch for their own good or for ennyboddy else's; they laft like a barrell ov nu sider with the tap pulled out, a perfekt stream.
This is a grate waste ov natral juice.
I have seen other people who didn't laff enuff tew giv themselfs vent; they waz like a barrell ov nu sider too, that waz bunged up tite, apt tew start a hoop and leak all away on the sly.
Thare ain't neither ov theze 2 ways right, and they never ought tew be pattented....
Genuine laffing iz the vent ov the soul, the nostrils of the heart, and iz just az necessary for health and happiness az spring water iz for a trout.
Thare iz one kind ov a laff that i always did rekommend; it looks out ov the eye fust with a merry twinkle, then it kreeps down on its hands and kneze and plays around the mouth like a pretty moth around the blaze ov a kandle, then it steals over into the dimples ov the cheeks and rides around into thoze little whirlpools for a while, then it lites up the whole face like the mello bloom on a damask roze, then it swims oph on the air with a peal az klear and az happy az a dinner-bell, then it goes bak agin on golden tiptoze like an angel out for an airing, and laze down on its little bed ov violets in the heart where it cum from.
Thare iz another laff that nobody kan withstand; it iz just az honest and noisy az a distrikt skool let out tew play, it shakes a man up from hiz toze tew hiz temples, it dubbles and twists him like a whiskee phit, it lifts him oph from his cheer, like feathers, and lets him bak agin like melted led, it goes all thru him like a pikpocket, and finally leaves him az weak and az krazy az tho he had bin soaking all day in a Rushing bath and forgot to be took out.
This kind ov a laff belongs tew jolly good phellows who are az healthy az quakers, and who are az eazy tew pleaze az a gall who iz going tew be married to-morrow.
In konclushion i say laff every good chance yu kan git, but don't laff unless yu feal like it, for there ain't nothing in this world more harty than a good honest laff, nor nothing more hollow than a hartless one.
When yu do laff open yure mouth wide enuff for the noize tew git out without squealing, thro yure hed bak az tho yu waz going tew be shaved, hold on tew yure false hair with both hands and then laff till yure soul gets thoroly rested.
But i shall tell yu more about theze things at sum fewter time.
GRIZZLY-GRU
BY IRONQUILL
O Thoughts of the past and present,
O whither, and whence, and where,
Demanded my soul, as I scaled the height
Of the pine-clad peak in the somber night,
In the terebinthine air.
While pondering on the frailty
Of happiness, hope, and mirth,
The ascending sun with derisive scoff
Hurled its golden lances and smote me off
From the bulge of the restless earth.
Through the yellowish dawn of velvet
Where stars were so thickly strewn.
That quietly chuckled as I passed through,
I fell in the gardens of Grizzly-Gru,
On the mad, mysterious moon.
I fell on the turquoise ether,
Low down in the wondrous west,
And thence to the moon in whose yielding blue
Were hidden the gardens of Grizzly-Gru,
In the Monarchy of Unrest.
And there were the fairy gardens,
Where beautiful cherubs grew
In daintiest way and on separate stalks,
In the listed rows by the jasper walks,
Near the palace of Grizzly-Gru.
While strolling around the garden
I noticed the rows were full
Of every conceivable size and type--
Some that were buds, and some nearly ripe,
And some that were ready to pull.
In gauzy and white corolla,
Was one who had eyes of blue,
A little excuse of a baby nose,
Little pink ears, and ten little toes,
And a mouth that kept saying ah-goo.
Ah-gooing as I came near her,
She raised up her arms in glee--
Her little fat arms--and she seemed to say,
"I'm ready to go with you right away;
Don't hunt any more--take me."
I picked her off quick and kissed her,
And, hugging her to my breast,
I heard a loud yelling that pierced me through,
'Twas His Terrible Eminence, Grizzly-Gru,
Of the Monarchy of Unrest.
He had on a blood-red turban,
A picturesque lot of clothes,
With big moustaches both fierce and black,
And a ghastly saber to cut and hack,
And shoes that turned up at the toes.
Out of the gate of the garden
The cherub and I took flight,
And closely behind us the saber flew,
And back of the saber came Grizzly-Gru,
And he chased us all day till night.
I ran down the lunar crescent,
'And out on the silver horn;
I kissed the baby and held her tight,
And jumped down into the starry night,
And--I lit on the earth at morn.
He fitfully threw his saber,
It missed and went round the sun;
He followed no further, he was not rash,
But the baby held on to my coarse moustache,
And seemed to enjoy the fun.
In saving that blue-eyed baby
From the gardens of Grizzly-Gru,
I suffered a terrible shock and fright;
But the doctor believes it will be all right,
And he thinks he can pull me through.
JOHN HENRY IN A STREET CAR
BY HUGH McHUGH
Throw me in the cellar and batten down the hatches.
I'm a wreck in the key of G flat.
I side-stepped in among a bunch of language-heavers yesterday and ever since I've been sitting on the ragged edge with my feet hanging over.
I was on my way down to Wall Street to help J. Pierpont Morgan buy a couple of railroads and all the world seemed as blithe and gay as a love clinch from Laura Jean Libbey's latest.
When I climbed into the cable-car I felt like a man who had mailed money to himself the night before.
I was aces.
And then somebody blew out my gas.
At the next corner two society flash-lights flopped in and sat next to me.
They had a lot of words they wanted to use and they started in.
The car stopped and two more of the 400's leading ladies jumped the hurdles and came down the aisle.
They sat on the other side of me.
In a minute they began to bite the dictionary.
Their efforts aroused the energies of three women who sat opposite me, and they proceeded to beat the English language black and blue.
In a minute the air was so full of talk that the grip germs had to pull out on the platform and chew the conductor.
The next one to me on my left started in:
"Oh, yes; we discharged our cook day before yesterday, but there's another coming this evening, and so--"
Her friend broke away and was up and back to the center with this:
"I was coming down Broadway this morning and I saw Julia Marlowe's leading man. I'm sure it was him, because I saw the show once in Chicago and he has the loveliest eyes I ever looked at!"
I knew that that was my cue to walk out, kick the motorman in the knuckles, upset the car and send in a fire call, but I passed it up.
I just sat there and bit my nails like the heavy villain in one of Corse Payton's ten, twen, thir dramas.
That "loveliest eyes" speech had me groggy.
Whenever I hear a woman turn on that "loveliest eyes" gag about an actor I always feel that a swift slap from a wet dish-rag would look well on her back hair.
Then the bunch across the aisle got the flag.
"Well, you know," says the broad lady who paid for one seat and was compelled by Nature to use three, "you know there's only five in our family, and so I take just five slices of stale bread and have a bowl of water ready in which I've dropped a pinch of salt. Then I take a piece of butter about the size of a walnut, and thoroughly grease the bottom of a frying-pan; then beat five eggs to a froth, and--"
I'm hoping the conductor will come in and give us all a tip to take to the timber because the cops are going to pinch the room, but there's nothing doing.
One of the dames on my right finds her voice and passes it around:--
"Oh, I think it's a perfect fright! I always did detest electric blue, anyway. It is so unbecoming, and then--"
I've just decided that this lady ought to make up as a Swede servant girl and play the part, when her friend hooks in:
"Oh, yes; I think it will look perfectly sweet! It is a foulard in one of those new heliotrope tints, made with a crêpe de chine chemisette, with a second vest peeping out on either side of the front over an embroidered satin vest and cut in scallops on the edge, finished with a full ruche of white chiffon, and the sleeves are just too tight for any use, and the skirt is too long for any good, and I declare the lining is too sweet! and I just hate to wear it out on the street and get it soiled, and I was going to have it made with a tunic, and Mrs. Wigwag--that's my brother-in-law's first cousin--she had her's made to wear with guimpes--and they are so economical! and--"
Think of a guy having to ride four miles and get his forehead fanned all the while with talk about foulard and crêpe de chine and guimpes!
Wouldn't it lead you to a padded cell?
Say! I was down and out--no kidding!
I wanted to get up and fight the door-tender, but I couldn't.
One of the conversationalists was sitting on my overcoat.
I felt that if I got up and called my coat back to Papa she might lose the thread of her story, and the jar would be something frightful.
So I sat still and saved her life.
The one on my right must have been the Lady President of The Hammer Club.
She was talking about some other girl and she didn't do a thing to the absent one.
She said she was svelte.
I suppose that's Dago for a shine.
That's the way with some women. They can't come right out and call another woman a polish. They have to beat around the bush and chase their friends to the swamps by throwing things like "svelte" at them. Tush!
I tried to duck the foreign tattle on my right and by so doing I'm next to this on my left:
"Oh, yes; I think politics is just too lovely! I don't know whether I'd rather be a Democrat or a Republican, but I think--oh! just look at the hat that woman has on! Isn't that a fright? Wonder if she trimmed it herself. Of course she did; you can tell by--"
I'm gasping for breath when the broad lady across the aisle gets the floor:
"No, indeed! I didn't have Eliza vaccinated. Why, she's too small yet, and don't you know my sister's husband's brother's child was vaccinated, and she is younger than our Eliza, but I don't just care, I don't want--"
Then the sweet girlish thing on my left gave me the corkscrew jab.
It was the finish:
"Isn't that lovely? Well, as I was telling you, Charlie came last night and brought Mr. Storeclose with him. Mr. Storeclose is awfully nice. He plays the mandolin just too sweet for anything, and--"
Me!--to the oyster beds! No male impersonators garroting a mandolin--not any in mine!
When I want to take a course in music I'll climb into a public library and read how Baldy Sloane wrote the Tiger Lily with one hand tied behind him and his feet on the piano.
So I fell off the car and crawled home to mother.
THE MUSKEETER
BY JOSH BILLINGS
Muskeeters are a game bug, but they won't bite at a hook. Thare iz millyuns ov them kaught every year, but not with a hook, this makes the market for them unstiddy, the supply allways exceeding the demand. The muskeeto iz born on the sly, and cums to maturity quicker than enny other ov the domestik animiles. A muskeeter at 3 hours old iz just az reddy and anxious to go into bizzness for himself, az ever he iz, and bites the fust time az sharp, and natral, as red pepper duz. The muskeeter haz a good ear for musik, and sings without notes. The song ov the muskeeto iz monotonous to sum folks, but in me it stirs up the memorys ov other days. I hav lade awake, all nite long, menny a time and listened to the sweet anthems ov the muskeeter. I am satisfied that thare want nothing made in vain, but i kant help thinking how mighty kluss the musketoze kum to it. The muskeeter haz inhabited this world since its kreashun, and will probably hang around here until bizzness closes. Whare the muskeeter goes to in the winter iz a standing konumdrum, which all the naturalists hav giv up, but we kno he dont go far, for he iz on hand early each year with hiz probe fresh ground, and polished. Muskeeters must be one ov the luxurys ov life, they certainly aint one ov the necessarys, not if we kno ourselfs.
THE TURNINGS OF A BOOKWORM
BY CAROLYN WELLS
Love levels all plots.
Dead men sell no tales.
A new boom sweeps clean.
Circumstances alter bookcases.
The more haste the less read.
Too many books spoil the trade.
Many hands make light literature.
Epigrams cover a multitude of sins.
Ye can not serve Art and Mammon.
A little sequel is a dangerous thing.
It's a long page that has no turning.
Don't look a gift-book in the binding.
A gilt-edged volume needs no accuser.
In a multitude of characters there is safety.
Incidents will happen even in the best regulated novels.
One touch of Nature makes the whole book sell.
Where there's a will there's a detective story.
A book in the hand is worth two in the library.
An ounce of invention is worth a pound of style.
A good name is rather to be chosen than great characters.
Where there's so much puff, there must be some buyer.
THE FEAST OF THE MONKEYS
BY JOHN PHILIP SOUSA
In days of old,
So I've been told,
The monkeys gave a feast.
They sent out cards,
With kind regards,
To every bird and beast.
The guests came dressed,
In fashion's best,
Unmindful of expense;
Except the whale,
Whose swallowtail,
Was "soaked" for fifty cents.
The guests checked wraps,
Canes, hats and caps;
And when that task was done,
The footman he
With dignitee,
Announced them one by one.
In Monkey Hall,
The host met all,
And hoped they'd feel at ease,
"I scarcely can,"
Said the Black and Tan,
"I'm busy hunting fleas."
"While waiting for
A score or more
Of guests," the hostess said,
"We'll have the Poodle
Sing Yankee Doodle,
A-standing on his head.
And when this through,
Good Parrot, you,
Please show them how you swear."
"Oh, dear; don't cuss,"
Cried the Octopus,
And he walked off on his ear.
The Orang-Outang
A sea-song sang,
About a Chimpanzee
Who went abroad,
In a drinking gourd,
To the coast of Barberee.
Where he heard one night,
When the moon shone bright,
A school of mermaids pick
Chromatic scales
From off their tails,
And did it mighty slick.
"All guests are here,
To eat the cheer,
And dinner's served, my Lord."
The butler bowed;
And then the crowd
Rushed in with one accord.
The fiddler-crab
Came in a cab,
And played a piece in C;
While on his horn,
The Unicorn
Blew, You'll Remember Me.
"To give a touch
Of early Dutch
To this great feast of feasts,
I'll drink ten drops
Of Holland's schnapps,"
Spoke out the King of Beasts.
"That must taste fine,"
Said the Porcupine,
"Did you see him smack his lip?"
"I'd smack mine, too,"
Cried the Kangaroo,
"If I didn't have the pip."
The Lion stood,
And said: "Be good
Enough to look this way;
Court Etiquette
Do not forget,
And mark well what I say:
My royal wish
Is ev'ry dish
Be tasted first by me."
"Here's where I smile,"
Said the Crocodile,
And he climbed an axle-tree.
The soup was brought,
And quick as thought,
The Lion ate it all.
"You can't beat that,"
Exclaimed the Cat,
"For monumental gall."
"The soup," all cried.
"Gone," Leo replied,
"'Twas just a bit too thick."
"When we get through,"
Remarked the Gnu,
"I'll hit him with a brick."
The Tiger stepped,
Or, rather, crept,
Up where the Lion sat.
"O, mighty boss
I'm at a loss
To know where I am at.
I came to-night
With appetite
To drink and also eat;
As a Tiger grand,
I now demand,
I get there with both feet."
The Lion got
All-fired hot
And in a passion flew.
"Get out," he cried,
"And save your hide,
You most offensive You."
"I'm not afraid,"
The Tiger said,
"I know what I'm about."
But the Lion's paw
Reached the Tiger's jaw,
And he was good and out.
The salt-sea smell
Of Mackerel,
Upon the air arose;
Each hungry guest
Great joy expressed,
And "sniff!" went every nose.
With glutton look
The Lion took
The spiced and sav'ry dish.
Without a pause
He worked his jaws,
And gobbled all the fish.
Then ate the roast,
The quail on toast,
The pork, both fat and lean;
The jam and lamb,
The potted ham,
And drank the kerosene.
He raised his voice:
"Come, all rejoice,
You've seen your monarch dine."
"Never again,"
Clucked the Hen,
And all sang Old Lang Syne.
THE BILLVILLE SPIRIT MEETING
BY FRANK L. STANTON
We had a sperrit meetin' (we'll never have no more!) To call up all the sperrits of them that's "gone before." A feller called a "medium" (he wuz of medium size), Took the contract fer the fetchin' o' them sperrits from the skies.
The mayor--the town council--the parson an' his wife, Come to shake han's with them sperrits what had left the other life; The Colonel an' the Major--the coroner, an' all Wuz waitin' an' debatin' in the darkness o' the hall.
The medium roared, "Silence! Amanda Jones appears! Is her husband present?" ("No, sir--he's been restin' twenty years!") "Here's the ghost of Sally Spilkins, from the lan' whar' glories glow: Would her husband like to see her?" (An' a feeble voice said, "No!")
"Here's the wife of Colonel Buster; she wears a heavenly smile: She wants to see the Colonel, an' she's comin' down the aisle!" Then all wuz wild confusion--it warn't a bit o' fun!-- With "Lord, have mercy on me," the Colonel broke an' run!
Then the coroner got skeery an' scampered fer his life! "Stop--stop him!" said the medium; "here comes his second wife!" But thar' warn't a man could stop him in that whole blame settlement.-- He turned a double summersault an' out the winder went!
Then, the whole town council follered an' hollered all the way; The parson said he had a call 'bout ten miles off, to pray! He didn't preach nex' Sunday, an' they tell it roun' a bit, Accordin' to the best reports the parson's runnin' yit!
A CRY FROM THE CONSUMER
BY WILBUR D. NESBIT
Grasshoppers roam the Kansas fields and eat the tender grass-- A trivial affair, indeed, but what then comes to pass? You go to buy a panama, or any other hat; You learn the price has been advanced a lot because of that. A glacier up in Canada has slipped a mile or two-- A little thing like this can boost the selling price of glue. Occurrences so tragic always thrill me to the core; I hope and pray that nothing ever happens any more.
Last week the peaceful Indians went a-searching after scalps, And then there was an avalanche 'way over in the Alps; These diametric happenings seem nothing much, but look-- We had to add a dollar to the wages of the cook. The bean-crop down at Boston has grown measurably less, And so the dealer charges more for goods to make a dress. Each day there is some incident to make a man feel sore, I'm on my knees to ask that nothing happens any more.
It didn't rain in Utah and it did in old Vermont-- Result: it costs you fifty more to take a summer's jaunt; Upon the plains of Tibet some tornadoes took a roll-- Therefore the barons have to charge a higher price for coal. A street-car strike in Omaha has cumulative shocks-- It boosted huckleberries up to twenty cents a box. No matter what is happening it always finds your door-- Give us a rest! Let nothing ever happen any more.
Mosquitoes in New Jersey bite a magnate on the wing-- Result: the poor consumer feels that fierce mosquito's sting: The skeeter's song is silenced, but in something like an hour The grocers understand that it requires a raise in flour. A house burns down in Texas and a stove blows up in Maine, Ten minutes later breakfast foods in prices show a gain. Effects must follow causes--which is what I most deplore; I hope and pray that nothing ever happens any more.
A DISAPPOINTMENT
BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
Her hair was a waving bronze, and her eyes
Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul;
And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal!
THE BRITISH MATRON
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
I have heard a good deal of the tenacity with which English ladies retain their personal beauty to a late period of life; but (not to suggest that an American eye needs use and cultivation, before it can quite appreciate the charm of English beauty at any age) it strikes me that an English lady of fifty is apt to become a creature less refined and delicate, so far as her physique goes, than anything that we Western people class under the name of woman. She has an awful ponderosity of frame, not pulpy, like the looser development of our few fat women, but massive with solid beef and streaky tallow; so that (though struggling manfully against the idea) you inevitably think of her as made up of steaks and sirloins. When she walks, her advance is elephantine. When she sits down it is on a great round space of her Maker's footstool, where she looks as if nothing could ever move her. She imposes awe and respect by the muchness of her personality, to such a degree that you probably credit her with far greater moral and intellectual force than she can fairly claim. Her visage is usually grim and stern, seldom positively forbidding, yet calmly terrible, not merely by its breadth and weight of feature, but because it seems to express so much well-defined self-reliance, such acquaintance with the world, its toils, troubles, and dangers, and such sturdy capacity for trampling down a foe. Without anything positively salient, or actively offensive, or, indeed, unjustly formidable to her neighbors, she has the effect of a seventy-four-gun ship in time of peace; for, while you assure yourself that there is no real danger, you can not help thinking how tremendous would be her onset, if pugnaciously inclined, and how futile the effort to inflict any counter-injury. She certainly looks tenfold--nay, a hundredfold--better able to take care of herself than our slender-framed and haggard womankind; but I have not found reason to suppose that the English dowager of fifty has actually greater courage, fortitude, and strength of character than our women of similar age, or even a tougher physical endurance than they. Morally, she is strong, I suspect, only in society, and in the common routine of social affairs, and would be found powerless and timid in any exceptional strait that might call for energy outside of the conventionalities amid which she has grown up.
You can meet this figure in the street, and live, and even smile at the recollection. But conceive of her in a ball-room, with the bare, brawny arms that she invariably displays there, and all the other corresponding development, such as is beautiful in the maiden blossom, but a spectacle to howl at in such an over-blown cabbage-rose as this.
Yet, somewhere in this enormous bulk there must be hidden the modest, slender, violet-nature of a girl, whom an alien mass of earthliness has unkindly overgrown; for an English maiden in her teens, though very seldom so pretty as our own damsels, possesses, to say the truth, a certain charm of half-blossom, and delicately folded leaves, and tender womanhood, shielded by maidenly reserves, with which, somehow or other, our American girls often fail to adorn themselves during an appreciable moment. It is a pity that the English violet should grow into such an outrageously developed peony as I have attempted to describe. I wonder whether a middle-aged husband ought to be considered as legally married to all the accretions that have overgrown the slenderness of his bride, since he led her to the altar, and which make her so much more than he ever bargained for! Is it not a sounder view of the case, that the matrimonial bond can not be held to include the three-fourths of the wife that had no existence when the ceremony was performed? And as a matter of conscience and good morals, ought not an English married pair to insist upon the celebration of a silver wedding at the end of twenty-five years in order to legalize and mutually appropriate that corporeal growth of which both parties have individually come into possession since they were pronounced one flesh?
THE TRAGEDY OF IT
BY ALDEN CHARLES NOBLE
Alas for him, alas for it,
Alas for you and I!
When this I think I raise my mitt
To dry my weeping eye.
STAGE WHISPERS
BY CAROLYN WELLS
Deadheads tell no tales.
Stars are stubborn things.
All's not bold that titters.
Contracts make cowards of us all.
One good turn deserves an encore.
A little actress is a dangerous thing.
It's a long skirt that has no turning.
Stars rush in where angels fear to tread.
Managers never hear any good of themselves.
A manager is known by the company he keeps.
A plot is not without honor save in comic opera.
Take care of the dance and the songs will take care of themselves.
THE PETTIBONE LINEAGE
BY JAMES T. FIELDS
My name is Esek Pettibone, and I wish to affirm in the outset that it is a good thing to be well-born. In thus connecting the mention of my name with a positive statement, I am not aware that a catastrophe lies coiled up in the juxtaposition. But I can not help writing plainly that I am still in favor of a distinguished family-tree. ESTO PERPETUA! To have had somebody for a great-grandfather that was somebody is exciting. To be able to look back on long lines of ancestry that were rich, but respectable, seems decorous and all right. The present Earl of Warwick, I think, must have an idea that strict justice has been done him in the way of being launched properly into the world. I saw the Duke of Newcastle once, and as the farmer in Conway described Mount Washington, I thought the Duke felt a propensity to "hunch up some." Somehow it is pleasant to look down on the crowd and have a conscious right to do so.
Left an orphan at the tender age of four years, having no brothers or sisters to prop me round with young affections and sympathies, I fell into three pairs of hands, excellent in their way, but peculiar. Patience, Eunice, and Mary Ann Pettibone were my aunts on my father's side. All my mother's relations kept shady when the lonely orphan looked about for protection; but Patience Pettibone, in her stately way, said,--"The boy belongs to a good family, and he shall never want while his three aunts can support him." So I went to live with my plain, but benignant protectors, in the state of New Hampshire.
During my boyhood the best-drilled lesson that fell to my keeping was this: "Respect yourself. We come of more than ordinary parentage. Superior blood was probably concerned in getting up the Pettibones. Hold your head erect, and some day you shall have proof of your high lineage."
I remember once, on being told that I must not share my juvenile sports with the butcher's three little beings, I begged to know why not. Aunt Eunice looked at Patience, and Mary Ann knew what she meant.
"My child," slowly murmured the eldest sister, "our family, no doubt, came of a very old stock; perhaps we belong to the nobility. Our ancestors, it is thought, came over laden with honors, and no doubt were embarrassed with riches, though the latter importation has dwindled in the lapse of years. Respect yourself, and when you grow up you will not regret that your old and careful aunt did not wish you to play with the butcher's offspring."
I felt mortified that I ever had a desire to "knuckle up" with any but kings' sons, or sultans' little boys. I longed to be among my equals in the urchin line, and fly my kite with only high-born youngsters.
Thus I lived in a constant scene of self-enchantment on the part of the sisters, who assumed all the port and feeling that properly belonged to ladies of quality. Patrimonial splendor to come danced before their dim eyes; and handsome settlements, gay equipages, and a general grandeur of some sort loomed up in the future for the American branch of the House of Pettibone.
It was a life of opulent self-delusion, which my aunts were never tired of nursing; and I was too young to doubt the reality of it. All the members of our little household held up their heads, as if each said, in so many words, "There is no original sin in our composition, whatever of that commodity there may be mixed up with the common clay of Snowborough."
Aunt Patience was a star, and dwelt apart. Aunt Eunice looked at her through a determined pair of spectacles, and worshiped while she gazed. The youngest sister lived in a dreamy state of honors to come, and had constant zoölogical visions of lions, griffins, and unicorns, drawn and quartered in every possible style known to the Heralds' College. The Reverend Hebrew Bullet, who used to drop in quite often and drink several compulsory glasses of home-made wine, encouraged his three parishoners in their aristocratic notions, and extolled them for what he called their "stooping-down to every-day life." He differed with the ladies of our house only on one point. He contended that the unicorn of the Bible and the rhinoceros of to-day were one and the same animal. My aunts held a different opinion.
In the sleeping-room of my Aunt Patience reposed a trunk. Often during my childish years I longed to lift the lid and spy among its contents the treasures my young fancy conjured up as lying there in state. I dared not ask to have the cover raised for my gratification, as I had often been told I was "too little" to estimate aright what that armorial box contained. "When you grow up, you shall see the inside of it," Aunt Mary used to say to me; and so I wondered, and wished, but all in vain. I must have the virtue of years before I could view the treasures of past magnificence so long entombed in that wooden sarcophagus. Once I saw the faded sisters bending over the trunk together, and, as I thought, embalming something in camphor. Curiosity impelled me to linger, but, under some pretext, I was nodded out of the room.
Although my kinswomen's means were far from ample, they determined that Swiftmouth College should have the distinction of calling me one of her sons, and accordingly I was in due time sent for preparation to a neighboring academy. Years of study and hard fare in country boarding-houses told upon my self-importance as the descendant of a great Englishman, notwithstanding all my letters from the honored three came with counsel to "respect myself and keep up the dignity of the family." Growing-up man forgets good counsel. The Arcadia of respectability is apt to give place to the levity of football and other low-toned accomplishments. The book of life, at that period, opens readily at fun and frolic, and the insignia of greatness give the school-boy no envious pangs.
I was nineteen when I entered the hoary halls of Swiftmouth. I call them hoary, because they had been built more than fifty years. To me they seemed uncommonly hoary, and I snuffed antiquity in the dusty purlieus. I now began to study, in good earnest, the wisdom of the past. I saw clearly the value of dead men and mouldy precepts, especially if the former had been entombed a thousand years, and if the latter were well done in sounding Greek and Latin. I began to reverence royal lines of deceased monarchs, and longed to connect my own name, now growing into college popularity, with some far-off mighty one who had ruled in pomp and luxury his obsequious people. The trunk in Snowborough troubled my dreams. In that receptacle still slept the proof of our family distinction. "I will go," quoth I, "to the home of my aunts next vacation and there learn how we became mighty, and discover precisely why we don't practice to-day our inherited claims to glory."
I went to Snowborough. Aunt Patience was now anxious to lay before her impatient nephew the proof he burned to behold. But first she must explain. All the old family documents and letters were, no doubt, destroyed in the great fire of '98, as nothing in the shape of parchment or paper implying nobility had ever been discovered in Snowborough, or elsewhere. But there had been preserved, for many years, a suit of imperial clothes that had been worn, by their great-grandfather in England, and, no doubt, in the New World also. These garments had been carefully watched and guarded, for were they not the proof that their owner belonged to a station in life second, if second at all, to the royal court of King George itself? Precious casket, into which I was soon to have the privilege of gazing! Through how many long years these fond, foolish virgins had lighted their unflickering lamps of expectation and hope at this cherished old shrine!
I was now on my way to the family repository of all our greatness. I went up stairs "on the jump." We all knelt down before the well-preserved box; and my proud Aunt Patience, in a somewhat reverent manner, turned the key. My heart,--I am not ashamed to confess it now, although it is forty years since the quartet, in search of family honors, were on their knees that summer afternoon in Snowborough,--my heart beat high. I was about to look on that which might be a duke's or an earl's regalia. And I was descended from the owner in a direct line! I had lately been reading Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus; and I remembered, there before the trunk, the lines:
"O sacred receptacle of my joys,
Sweet cell of virtue and nobility!"
The lid went up, and the sisters began to unroll the precious garments, which seemed all enshrined in aromatic gums and spices. The odor of that interior lives with me to this day; and I grow faint with the memory of that hour. With pious precision the clothes were uncovered, and at last the whole suit was laid before my expectant eyes.
Reader! I am an old man now, and have not long to walk this planet. But whatever dreadful shock may be in reserve for my declining years, I am certain I can bear it; for I went through that scene at Snowborough, and still live!
When the garments were fully displayed, all the aunts looked at me. I had been to college; I had studied Burke's Peerage; I had been once to New York. Perhaps I could immediately name the exact station in noble British life to which that suit of clothes belonged. I could; I saw it all at a glance. I grew flustered and pale. I dared not look my poor deluded female relatives in the face.
"What rank in the peerage do these gold-laced garments and big buttons betoken?" cried all three.
"It is a suit of servant's livery!" gasped I, and fell back with a shudder.
That evening, after the sun had gone down, we buried those hateful garments in a ditch at the bottom of the garden. Rest there perturbed body-coat, yellow trousers, brown gaiters, and all!
"Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!"
WHY MOLES HAVE HANDS
BY ANNE VIRGINIA CULBERTSON
One day the children came running to Aunt Nancy with a mole which one of the dogs had just killed. They had never seen one before and were very curious as to what it might be.
"Well, befo' de king!" said Nancy, "whar y'all bin livin' dat you nuver seed a mole befo'? Whar you come f'um mus' be a mighty cur'ous spot ef dey ain' have no moleses dar; mus' be sump'n wrong wid dat place. I bin mos' all over dish yer Sussex kyounty endurin' er my time, an' I ain' nuver come 'cross no place yit whar dey ain' have moleses.
"Moleses is sut'n'y cur'ous li'l creeturs," she continued. "I bin teckin' tickler notuss un 'em dis long time, an' dey knows mo'n you'd think fer, jes' ter look at 'em. Dough dey lives down un'need de groun', yit dey is fus'class swimmers; I done seed one, wid my own eyes, crossin' de branch, an' dey kin root 'long un'need de yearf mos' ez fas' ez a hoss kin trot on top uv hit. Y'all neenter look dat-a-way, 'kase hit's de trufe; dey's jes' built fer gittin' 'long fas' unner groun'. Der han's is bofe pickaxes an' shovels fer 'em; dey digs an' scoops wid der front ones an' kicks de dirt out de way wid der behime ones. Der strong snouts he'ps 'em, too, ter push der way thu de dirt."
"Their fur is just as soft and shiny as silk," said Janey.
"Yas," said Aunt Nancy, "hit's dat sof an' shiny dat, dough dey live all time in de dirt, not a speck er dirt sticks to 'em. You ses 'sof an' shiny ez silk,' but I tell you hit is silk; silk clo'es, dat 'zackly w'at 'tis."
Ned laughed. "Who ever heard of an animal dressed in silk clothes?" he said.
"Nemmine," she answered, "you talks mighty peart, but I knows w'at I knows, an' dish yer I bin tellin' you is de sho'-'nuff trufe."
"Just see its paws," Janey went on, "why, they look exactly like hands."
"Look lak han's! look lak han's! umph! dey is han's, all thumbered an' fingered jes lak yo'n; an', w'at's mo', dey wuz onct human ban's; human, dey wuz so!"
"How could they ever have been human hands and then been put on a mole's body?" asked Ned. "I believe most things you say, Aunt Nancy, but I can't swallow that."
"Dar's a li'l boy roun' dese diggin's whar talkin' mighty sassy an' rambunkshus, seem ter me. I am' ax you ter swoller nuttin' 't all, but 'pears ter me y'all bin swollerin' dem 'ar ol' tales right an' lef, faster'n' I kin call 'em ter min', an' I am' seed none er you choke on 'em yit, ner cry, 'nuff said. I'se 'tickler saw'y 'bout dis, 'kase I done had hit in min' ter tell you a tale 'bout huccome moleses have han'ses, whar I larn f'um a ooman dat come f'um Fauquier kyounty, but now dat Mars' Ned 'pear ter be so jubous 'bout hit, I ain' gwine was'e my time on folks whar ain' gwine b'lieve me, nohows. Nemmine, de chillen over on de Thompson place gwine baig me fer dat tale w'en I goes dar ag'in, an', w'at's mo', dey gwine git hit; fer dey b'lieves ev'y wu'd dat draps f'um my mouf, lak 'twuz de law an' de gospil."
Of course, the children protested that they were as ready to hang upon her words as the Thompson children could possibly be, and presented their prior claim to the tale in such moving fashion that Aunt Nancy was finally prevailed upon to come down from her high horse and tell the story.
"I done tol' you," she said, "dat dem 'ar han's is human, an' I mean jes' w'at I ses, 'kase de moleses useter be folks, sho'-'nuff folks, dough dey is all swunk up ter dis size an' der han's is all dat's lef ter tell de tale. Yas, suh, in de ol' days, so fur back dat you kain't kyount hit, de moleses wuz folks, an' mighty proud an' biggitty folks at dat. Dey wan't gwine be ketched wearin' any er dish yer kaliker, er linsey-woolsey, er homespun er sech ez dat, ner even broadclawf, ner bombazine, naw suh! Dey jes' tricked derse'fs out in de fines' an' shinies' er silk, nuttin' mo' ner less, an' den dey went a-traipsin' up an' down an' hether an' yon, fer tu'rr folks ter look at an' mek 'miration over. Mo'n dat, dey 'uz so fine an' fiddlin' dey oon set foot ter de groun' lessen dar wuz a kyarpet spread down fer 'em ter walk on. Dey tells me hit sut'n'y wuz a sight in de worl' ter see dem 'ar folks walkin' up an' down on de kyarpets, trailin' an' rus'lin' der silk clo'es, an' curchyin' an' bobbin' ter one nu'rr w'en dey met up, but nuver speakin' ter de common folks whar walkin' on de groun', ner even so much ez lookin' at 'em. W'ats mo', dey wuz so uppish dey thought de yearf wuz too low down fer 'em even ter run der eyes over, so dey went 'long wid der haids r'ared an' der eyes all time lookin' up, stidder down. You kin be sho' dem gwines-on ain' mek 'em pop'lous wid tu'rr folks, 'kase people jes' natchelly kain't stan' hit ter have you th'owin' up to 'em dat you is better'n w'at dey is, w'en all de time dey knows you're nuttin' but folks, same 'z dem.
"Dey kep' gwine on so-fashion, an' gittin' mo' an' mo' pompered an' uppish, 'twel las' dey 'tracted de 'tention er de Lawd, an' He say ter Hisse'f, He do, 'Who is dese yer folks, anyhows, whar gittin' so airish, walkin' up an' down an' back an' fo'th on my yearf an' spurnin' hit so's't dey spread kyarpets 'twix' hit an' der footses, treatin' my yearf, w'at I done mek, lak 'twuz de dirt un'need der footses, an' 'spisin' der feller creeturs an' excusin' 'em er bein' common, an' keepin' der eyes turnt up all de time, ez ef dey wuz too good ter look at de things I done mek an' putt on my yearf? I mus' see 'bout dis; I mus' punish dese 'sumptious people an' show 'em dat one'r my creeturs is jez' ez low down ez tu'rr, in my sight.'
"So de Lawd He pass jedgment on de moleses. Fus' He tuck an' made 'em lose der human shape an' den He swunk 'em up ontwel dey 'z no bigger'n dey is now, dat 'uz ter show 'em how no-kyount dey wuz in His sight. Den bekase dey thought derse'fs too good ter walk 'pun de bare groun' He sont 'em ter live un'need hit, whar dey hatter dig an' scratch der way 'long. Las' uv all He tuck an' tuck 'way der eyes an' made 'em blin', dat's 'kase dey done 'spise ter look at der feller creeturs. But He feel kind er saw'y fer 'em w'en He git dat fur, an' He ain' wanter punish 'em too haivy, so He lef 'em dese silk clo'es whar I done tol' you 'bout, an' dese han's whar you kin see fer yo'se'fs is human, an' I reckon bofe dem things putt 'em in min' er w'at dey useter be an' rack 'em 'umble. Uver sence den de moleses bin gwine 'long un'need de groun', 'cordin ter de jedgmen' er de Lawd, an' diggin' an' scratchin' der way thu de worl', in trial an' tribilashun, wid dem po' li'l human han'ses. An' dat orter l'arn you w'at comes er folks 'spisin' der feller creeturs, an' I want y'all ter 'member dat nex' time I year you call dem Thompson chillen 'trash.'"
"I'd like to know what use moles are," said Ned, who was of rather an investigating turn of mind; "they just go round rooting through the ground spoiling people's gardens, and I don't see what they're good for; you can't eat them or use them any way."
"Sho', chil'!" said Aunt Nancy, "you dunno w'at you talkin' 'bout; de Lawd have some use fer ev'y creetur He done mek. Dey tells me dat de moleses eats up lots er bugs an' wu'ms an' sech ez dat, dat mought hurt de craps ef dey wuz let ter live. Sidesen dat, jes' gimme one'r de claws er dat mole, an' lemme hang hit roun' de neck uv a baby whar cuttin' his toofs, an' I boun' you, ev'y toof in his jaws gwine come bustin' thu his goms widout nair' a ache er a pain ter let him know dey's dar. Don't talk ter me 'bout de moleses bein' wufless! I done walk de flo' too much wid cryin' babies not ter know de use er moleses."
"You don't really believe that, do you?" asked Ned.
"B'lieve hit!" she answered indignantly; "I don' b'lieve hit, I knows hit. I done tol' you all de things a hyar's foot kin do; w'ats de reason a mole's foot ain' good fer sump'n, too? Ef folks on'y knowed mo' about sech kyores ez dat dar neenter be so much sickness an' mis'ry in de worl'. I done kyored myse'f er de rheumatiz in my right arm jes' by tyin' a eel-skin roun' hit, an' ev'yb'dy on dis plantation knows dat ef you'll wrop a chil's hya'r wid eel-skin strings hit's boun' ter mek hit grow. Ef you want de chil' hisse'f ter grow an' ter walk soon you mus' bresh his feet wid de broom. I oon tell you dis ef I hadn't tried 'em myse'f. You mus'n' talk so biggitty 'bout w'at you dunno nuttin' 't all about. You come f'um up Norf yonner, an' mebbe dese things don' wu'k de same dar ez w'at dey does down yer whar we bin 'pendin' on 'em so long."
A PSALM OF LIFE
BY PHOEBE CARY
Tell me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that's single,
And things are not what they seem.
Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib,
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding-day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle;
Be a woman, be a wife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act--act in the living Present.
Heart within, and Man ahead!
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us;--
Such examples as will tell;--
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen's port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor, and to win!
AN ODYSSEY OF K'S
BY WILBUR D. NESBIT
I've traveled up and down this land
And crossed it in a hundred ways,
But somehow can not understand
These towns with names chock-full of K's.
For instance, once it fell to me
To pack my grip and quickly go--
I thought at first to Kankakee
But then remembered Kokomo.
"Oh, Kankakee or Kokomo,"
I sighed, "just which I do not know."
Then to the ticket man I went--
He was a snappy man, and bald,
Behind an iron railing pent--
And I confessed that I was stalled.
"A much K'd town is booked for me,"
I said. "I'm due to-morrow, so
I wonder if it's Kankakee
Or if it can be Kokomo."
"There's quite a difference," growled he,
"'Twixt Kokomo and Kankakee."
He spun a yard of tickets out--
The folded kind that makes a strip
And leaves the passenger in doubt
When the conductor takes a clip.
He flipped the tickets out, I say,
And asked: "Now, which one shall it be?
I'll sell you tickets either way--
To Kokomo or Kankakee."
And still I really did not know--
I thought it might be Kokomo.
At any rate, I took a chance;
He struck his stamp-machine a blow
And I, a toy of circumstance,
Was ticketed for Kokomo.
Upon the train I wondered still
If all was right as it should be.
Some mystic warning seemed to fill
My mind with thoughts of Kankakee,
The car-wheels clicked it out: "Now, he
Had better be for Kankakee!"
Until at last it grew so loud,
At some big town I clambered out
And elbowed madly through the crowd,
Determined on the other route.
The ticket-agent saw my haste;
"Where do you wish to go?" cried he.
I yelled: "I have no time to waste--
Please fix me up for Kankakee!"
Again the wheels, now fast, now slow,
Clicked: "Ought to go to Kokomo!"
Well, anyhow, I did not heed
The message that they sent to me.
I went, and landed wrong indeed--
Went all the way to Kankakee.
Then, in a rush, I doubled back--
Went wrong again, I'd have you know.
There was no call for me, alack!
Within the town of Kokomo.
And then I learned, confound the luck,
I should have gone to Keokuk!
THE DEACON'S TROUT
BY HENRY WARD BEECHER
He was a curious trout. I believe he knew Sunday just as well as Deacon Marble did. At any rate, the deacon thought the trout meant to aggravate him. The deacon, you know, is a little waggish. He often tells about that trout. Sez he, "One Sunday morning, just as I got along by the willows, I heard an awful splash, and not ten feet from shore I saw the trout, as long as my arm, just curving over like a bow, and going down with something for breakfast. Gracious! says I, and I almost jumped out of the wagon. But my wife Polly, says she, 'What on airth are you thinkin' of, Deacon? It's Sabbath day, and you're goin' to meetin'! It's a pretty business for a deacon!' That sort o' cooled me off. But I do say that, for about a minute, I wished I wasn't a deacon. But 't wouldn't made any difference, for I came down next day to mill on purpose, and I came down once or twice more, and nothin' was to be seen, tho' I tried him with the most temptin' things. Wal, next Sunday I came along ag'in, and, to save my life I couldn't keep off worldly and wanderin' thoughts. I tried to be sayin' my catechism, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the pond as we came up to the willows. I'd got along in the catechism, as smooth as the road, to the Fourth Commandment, and was sayin' it out loud for Polly, and jist as I was sayin: 'What is required in the Fourth Commandment?' I heard a splash, and there was the trout, and, afore I could think, I said: 'Gracious, Polly, I must have that trout.' She almost riz right up, 'I knew you wa'n't sayin' your catechism hearty. Is this the way you answer the question about keepin' the Lord's day? I'm ashamed, Deacon Marble,' says she. 'You'd better change your road, and go to meetin' on the road over the hill. If I was a deacon, I wouldn't let a fish's tail whisk the whole catechism out of my head'; and I had to go to meetin' on the hill road all the rest of the summer."
ENOUGH
BY TOM MASSON
I shot a rocket in the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where
Until next day, with rage profound,
The man it fell on came around.
In less time than it takes to tell,
He showed me where that rocket fell;
And now I do not greatly care
To shoot more rockets in the air.
THE FIGHTING RACE
BY JOSEPH I.C. CLARKE
"Read out the names!" and Burke sat back,
And Kelly drooped his head,
While Shea--they call him Scholar Jack--
Went down the list of the dead.
Officers, seamen, gunners, marines,
The crews of the gig and yawl,
The bearded man and the lad in his teens,
Carpenters, coal-passers--all.
Then knocking the ashes from out his pipe,
Said Burke, in an off-hand way,
"We're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe!
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
"Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry for Spain!"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
"Wherever there's Kellys there's trouble," said Burke.
"Wherever fighting's the game,
Or a spice of danger in grown man's work,"
Said Kelly, "you'll find my name."
"And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad,
"When it's touch and go for life?"
Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, be dad,
Since I charged to drum and fife
Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen
Stopped a Rebel ball on its way.
There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green--
Kelly and Burke and Shea--
And the dead didn't brag." "Well, here's to the flag!"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
"I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the place,"
Said Burke, "that we'd die by right,
In the cradle of our soldier race,
After one good stand-up fight.
My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill,
And fighting was not his trade;
But his rusty pike's in the cabin still,
With Hessian blood on the blade."
"Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were great
When the word was 'Clear the way!'
We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight--
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
"Well, here's to the pike and the sword and the like!"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy,
Said "We were at Ramillies.
We left our bones at Fontenoy,
And up in the Pyrenees,
Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain,
Cremona, Lille, and Ghent,
We're all over Austria, France, and Spain,
Wherever they pitched a tent.
We've died for England from Waterloo
To Egypt and Dargai;
And still there's enough for a corps or crew,
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
"Well, here is to good honest fighting blood!"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
"Oh, the fighting races don't die out,
If they seldom die in bed,
For love is first in their hearts, no doubt,"
Said Burke. Then Kelly said:
"When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands,
The angel with the sword,
And the battle-dead from a hundred lands
Are ranged in one big horde,
Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits,
Will stretch tree deep that day,
From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates--
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
"Well, here's thank God for the race and the sod!"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
THE ORGAN
BY HENRY WARD BEECHER
At one of his week night lectures, Beecher was speaking about the building and equipping of new churches. After a few satirical touches about church architects and their work, he went on to ridicule the usual style of pulpit--the "sacred mahogany tub"--"plastered up against some pillar like a barn-swallow's nest." Then he passed on to the erection of the organ, and to the opening recital.
"The organ long expected has arrived, been unpacked, set up, and gloried over. The great players of the region round about, or of distant celebrity, have had the grand organ exhibition; and this magnificent instrument has been put through all its paces in a manner which has surprised every one, and, if it had had a conscious existence, must have surprised the organ itself most of all. It has piped, fluted, trumpeted, brayed, thundered. It has played so loud that everybody was deafened, and so soft that nobody could hear. The pedals played for thunder, the flutes languished and coquetted, and the swell died away in delicious suffocation, like one singing a sweet song under the bed-clothes. Now it leads down a stupendous waltz with full brass, sounding very much as if, in summer, a thunderstorm should play, 'Come, Haste to the Wedding,' or 'Moneymusk.' Then come marches, galops, and hornpipes. An organ playing hornpipes ought to have elephants as dancers.
"At length a fugue is rendered to show the whole scope and power of the instrument. The theme, like a cautious rat, peeps out to see if the coast is clear; and, after a few hesitations, comes forth and begins to frisk a little, and run up and down to see what it can find. It finds just what it did not want, a purring tenor lying in ambush and waiting for a spring; and as the theme comes incautiously near, the savage cat of a tenor springs at it, misses its hold, and then takes after it with terrible earnestness. But the tenor has miscalculated the agility of the theme. All that it could do, with the most desperate effort, was to keep the theme from running back into its hole again; and so they ran up and down, around and around, dodging, eluding, whipping in and out of every corner and nook, till the whole organ was aroused, and the bass began to take part, but unluckily slipped and rolled down-stairs, and lay at the bottom raving and growling in the most awful manner, and nothing could appease it. Sometimes the theme was caught by one part, and dangled for a moment, then with a snatch, another part took it and ran off exultant, until, unawares, the same trick was played on it; and, finally, all the parts, being greatly exercised in mind, began to chase each other promiscuously in and out, up and down, now separating and now rushing in full tilt together, until everything in the organ loses patience and all the 'stops' are drawn, and, in spite of all that the brave organist could do--who bobbed up and down, feet, hands, head and all--the tune broke up into a real row, and every part was clubbing every other one, until at length, patience being no longer a virtue, the organist, with two or three terrible crashes, put an end to the riot, and brought the great organ back to silence."
MY GRANDMOTHER'S TURKEY-TAIL FAN
BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK
It owned not the color that vanity dons
Or slender wits choose for display;
Its beautiful tint was a delicate bronze,
A brown softly blended with gray.
From her waist to her chin, spreading out without break,
'Twas built on a generous plan:
The pride of the forest was slaughtered to make
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.
For common occasions it never was meant:
In a chest between two silken cloths
'Twas kept safely hidden with careful intent
In camphor to keep out the moths.
'Twas famed far and wide through the whole countryside,
From Beersheba e'en unto Dan;
And often at meeting with envy 'twas eyed,
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.
Camp-meetings, indeed, were its chiefest delight.
Like a crook unto sheep gone astray
It beckoned backsliders to re-seek the right,
And exhorted the sinners to pray.
It always beat time when the choir went wrong,
In psalmody leading the van.
Old Hundred, I know, was its favorite song--
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.
A fig for the fans that are made nowadays,
Suited only to frivolous mirth!
A different thing was the fan that I praise,
Yet it scorned not the good things of earth.
At bees and at quiltings 'twas aye to be seen;
The best of the gossip began
When in at the doorway had entered serene
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.
Tradition relates of it wonderful tales.
Its handle of leather was buff.
Though shorn of its glory, e'en now it exhales
An odor of hymn-books and snuff.
Its primeval grace, if you like, you can trace:
'Twas limned for the future to scan,
Just under a smiling gold-spectacled face,
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.
HOW TO ENJOY THE ECSTASY THAT ACCOMPANIES SUCCESSFUL SPEAKING
Before An Audience
OR
The Use of the Will in Public Speaking
By NATHAN SHEPPARD
Talks to the Students of the University of St. Andrew and the University of Aberdeen
This is not a book on elocution, but it deals in a practical common-sense way with the requirements and constituents of effective public speaking.
CAPITAL, FAMILIAR, AND RACY
"I shall recommend it to our three schools of elocution. It is capital, familiar, racy, and profoundly philosophical."--Joseph T. Duryea, D.D.
REPLETE WITH PRACTICAL SENSE
"It is replete with practical sense and sound suggestions, and I should like to have it talked into the students by the author."--Prof. J.H. Gilmore, Rochester University.
"KNOCKS TO FLINDERS" OLD THEORIES
"The author knocks to flinders the theories of elocutionist, and opposes all their rules with one simple counsel--'Wake up your will.'"--The New York Evangelist.
TO REACH, MOVE, AND INFLUENCE MEN
"He does not teach elocution, but the art of public speaking.... Gives suggestions that will enable one to reach and move and influence men."--The Pittsburg Chronicle.
12mo, Cloth, 152 Pages. Price, 75 cents
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK and LONDON
FORCEFUL SPEAKING BY NEW METHODS
THE ESSENTIALS OF ELOCUTION
Revised, Enlarged, New Matter
By ALFRED AYRES
Author of "The Orthoepist," "The Verbalist," etc., etc.
A unique and valuable guide on the art of speaking the language so as to make the thought it expresses clear and impressive. It is a departure from the old and conventional methods which have tended so often to make mere automatons on the platform or stage instead of animated souls.
HIGHLY PRAISED BY AUTHORITIES
"It is worth more than all the ponderous philosophies on the subject."--The Lutheran Observer.
"It is a case where brevity is the soul of value."--The Rochester Herald.
"His suggestions are simple and sensible."--_The
Congregationalist._
"An unpretentious but really meritorious volume."--Dramatic Review.
"Mr. Ayres has made this subject a study for many years, and what he has written is worth reading"--The Dramatic News.
"It is brightly written and original."--Richard Henry Stoddard.
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK and LONDON
HOW TO SPEAK IN PUBLIC
A Most Suggestive and Practical Self-Instructor
By GRENVILLE KLEISER
Author of "Power and Personality in Speaking," etc.
This new book is a complete elocutionary manual comprizing numerous exercises for developing the speaking voice, deep breathing, pronunciation, vocal expression, and gesture; also selections for practise from masterpieces of ancient and modern eloquence. It is intended for students, teachers, business men, lawyers, clergymen, politicians, clubs, debating societies, and, in fact, every one interested in the art of public speaking.
OUTLINE OF CONTENTS
Mechanics of Elocution Previous Preparation
Mental Aspects Physical Preparation
Public Speaking Mental Preparation
Selections for Practise Moral Preparation
Preparation of Speech
"Many useful suggestions in it."--Hon. Joseph H. Choate, New York.
"It is admirable and practical instruction in the technic of speaking, and I congratulate you upon your thorough work."--Hon. Albert J. Beveridge.
"The work has been very carefully and well compiled from a large number of our best works on the subject of elocution. It contains many admirable suggestions for those who are interested in becoming better speakers. As a general text for use in teaching public speaking, it may be used with great success."
John W. Wetzel, Instructor in Public Speaking, Yale University, New Haven, Conn.
12mo, Cloth. $1.25, Net; Post-paid, $1.40
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK and LONDON
HOW TO DEVELOP
Power and Personality
IN SPEAKING
By GRENVILLE KLEISER
Author of "How to Speak in Public." Introduction by Lewis O. Brastow, D.D., Professor Emeritus, Yale Divinity School
This new book gives practical suggestions and exercises for Developing Power and Personality in Speaking. It has many selections for practise.
POWER.--Power of Voice--Power of Gesture--Power of Vocabulary--Power of Imagination--Power of English Style--Power of Illustration--Power of Memory--Power of Extempore Speech--Power of Conversation--Power of Silence--Power of a Whisper--Power of the Eye.
PERSONALITY.--More Personality for the Lawyer--The Salesman--The Preacher--The Politician--The Physician--The Congressman--The Alert Citizen.
"I give it my hearty commendation. It should take its place upon the library shelves of every public speaker; be read carefully, consulted frequently, and held as worthy of faithful obedience. For lack of the useful hints that here abound, many men murder the truth by their method of presenting it."--S. PARKES CADMAN, D.D., Brooklyn, N.Y.
"It is a book of value. The selections are fine. It is an excellent book for college students."--WM. P. FRYE, President pro tem. of the United States Senate.
12mo, Cloth, 422 pages. Price, $1.25, net; by mail, $1.40
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK AND LONDON
How to Develop
Self-Confidence
in Speech and Manner
By GRENVILLE KLEISER
Author of "How to Speak in Public"; "How to Develop Power and Personality in Speaking," etc.
The purpose of this book is to inspire in men lofty ideals. It is particularly for those who daily defraud themselves because of doubt, fearthought, and foolish timidity.
Thousands of persons are held in physical and mental bondage, owing to lack of self-confidence. Distrusting themselves, they live a life of limited effort, and at last pass on without having realized more than a small part of their rich possessions. It is believed that this book will be of substantial service to those who wish to rise above mediocrity, and who feel within them something of their divine inheritance. It is commended with confidence to every ambitious man.
Preliminary Steps--Building the Will--The Cure of Self-Consciousness--The Power of Right Thinking--Sources of Inspiration--Concentration--Physical Basis--Finding Yourself--General Habits--The Man and the Manner--The Discouraged Man--Daily Steps in Self-Culture--Imagination and Initiative--Positive and Negative Thought--The Speaking Voice--Confidence in Business--Confidence in Society--Confidence in Public Speaking--Toward the Heights--Memory Passages that Build Confidence.
12mo, Cloth. $1.25, net; by mail, $1.35
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK AND LONDON
How to
ARGUE AND WIN
IN CONVERSATION, IN SALESMANSHIP, IN COMMITTEE-MEETINGS, IN JURY CASES, IN THE PULPIT, ON THE ROSTRUM, IN DEBATING SOCIETIES.
By GRENVILLE KLEISER
Author of "How to Speak in Public," etc.
In this book will be found definite suggestions for training the mind in accurate thinking and in the power of clear and effective statement. It is the outcome of many years of experience in teaching men "to think on their feet." The aim throughout is practical, and the ultimate end is a knowledge of successful argumentation.
Introductory--Truth and Facts--Clearness and Conciseness--The Use of Words--The Syllogism--Faults--Personality--The Lawyer--The Business Man--The Preacher--The Salesman--The Public Speaker--Brief-Drawing--The Discipline of Debate--Tact--Cause and Effect--Reading Habits--Questions for Solution--Specimens of Argumentation--Golden Rules in Argumentation.
Note for Law Lecture Abraham Lincoln
Of Truth Francis Bacon
Of Practise and Habits John Locke
Improving the Memory Isaac Watts
"Mr. Kleiser offers no panacea (as the title might seem to imply). Logic will not make a dunce a philosopher, neither will it insure success where success is not deserved. But what he does offer the honest debater in this practical book, is to put him in possession of those laws of argumentation which lie at the bottom of sound reasoning, based on fact."--Times-Dispatch, Richmond, Va.
12mo, Cloth. $1.25, net; by mail, $1.35
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers,
NEW YORK AND LONDON
How to Read and Declaim
A COURSE OF INSTRUCTION IN READING AND DECLAMATION HAVING AS ITS PRIME OBJECT THE CULTIVATION OF TASTE AND REFINEMENT
By GRENVILLE KLEISER
Formerly Instructor in Public Speaking at Yale Divinity School; Author of "How to Speak in Public," etc.
This eminently practical book is divided into five parts:
PART ONE--Preparatory Course: Twenty Lessons on Naturalness, Distinctness, Vivacity, Confidence, Simplicity, Deliberateness, and kindred topics.
PART TWO--Advance Course: Twenty Lessons on Thought Values, Thought Directions, Persuasion, Power, Climax, etc., etc.
PART THREE--Articulation and Pronunciation.
PART FOUR--Gesture and Facial Expression.
PART FIVE--The most up-to-date and popular prose and poetic selections anywhere to be found.
It is a book to beget intelligent reading, so as to develop in the student mental alertness, poise, and self-confidence.
12mo, Cloth. $1.25, net; by mail, $1.40
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK and LONDON
"The Laugh Trust--Their Book"
HUMOROUS HITS AND HOW TO HOLD AN AUDIENCE
By GRENVILLE KLEISER
Author of "How to Speak in Public," etc.
A new collection of successful recitations, sketches, stories, poems, monologues. The favorite numbers of favorite authors and entertainers. The book also contains practical advice on the delivery of the selections. The latest and best book for family reading, for teachers, elocutionists, orators, after-dinner speakers, and actors.
Mr. Kleiser gives also some practical suggestions as to the most successful methods of delivering humorous or other selections, so that they may make the strongest impression upon an audience. The book will not only be found to be just what teachers, elocutionists, actors, orators, and after-dinner speakers have been waiting for, but it will also furnish entertaining material to read aloud to the family.
FAVORITE SELECTIONS BY FAVORITE AUTHORS INCLUDING
James Whitcomb Riley
Henry Drummond
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Edward Everett Hale
Tom Masson
Fred. Emerson Brooks
S.E. Kiser
S.W. Foss
Eugene Field
Robert J. Burdette
Bill Nye
W.J. Lampton
W.D. Nesbit
Thos. Bailey Aldrich
Nixon Waterman
Ben King
Walt Whitman
Mark Twain
Finley Peter Dunne
Richard Mansfield
Charles Follen Adams
Charles Batell Loomis
Joe Kerr
Wallace Irwin
AND MANY OTHERS
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
NEW YORK and LONDON
SPEECHES OF
William Jennings Bryan
Revised and Arranged by Himself
In Five Uniform Volumes, Thin 12mo, Ornamented Boards--Dainty Style
Following Are the Titles:
THE PEOPLE'S LAW--A discussion of State Constitutions and what they
should contain.
THE PRICE OF A SOUL
THE VALUE OF AN IDEAL
THE PRINCE OF PEACE
MAN
Reprinted in this form from Volume II of Mr. Bryan's Speeches. Each of these four addresses has been delivered before many large audiences.
These five volumes make a most attractive series.
Price of Each, 30 cents, net. Postage 5 cents
Two Other Notable Speeches
THE SIGNS OF THE TIMES; to which is added FAITH. The most important address by Mr. Bryan since his two volumes of "Selected Speeches" were compiled, with one of the best of those added.
One 16mo Volume, in Flexible Leather, with Gilt-Top. 75 cents, net. Postage 5 cents
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers
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THE ORIGIN AND GROWTH OF THE LANGUAGE AND ITS LITERATURE
Essentials of English Speech and Literature
By FRANK H. VIZETELLY, Litt.D., LL.D.
Managing Editor of the Funk & Wagnalls New Standard Dictionary; Author of "A Desk-Book of Errors in English," etc.
A record, in concise and interesting style, of the Origin, Growth, Development, and Mutations of the English language. It treats of Literature and its Elements; of the Dictionary as a Text-Book, and its Functions; of Grammar, Phonetics, Pronunciation, and Reading; of the Bible as a model of pure English; of Writing for Publication and of Individuality in Writing; also of the Corruption of English Speech.
An Appendix of the principal Authors and their works, and a Selection of a Hundred Best Books is included.
Raymond Weeks, Ph.D., Prof. Romance Languages, Columbia University, says it is: "One of the most valuable books on this subject which have come into my hands for a long time."
Brander Matthews, Litt.D., LL.D., says it is: "A good book--a book likely to do good, because it is generally sound and always stimulating."
