The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) 5 – Anonymous · Verses Across
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) 5Chapter 5 (part 1)
18
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) 5
Chapter 5 (part 1)
AnonymousEnglish
When I told Perkins he merely remarked that he thought every publishing house ought to have some one in it who knew something about books, apart from the advertising end, although that was, of course, the most important. He said we might go ahead and publish "Lady Audley's Secret" under the title of "The Crimson Cord," as such things had been done before, but the best thing to do would be to charge Rosa Belle Vincent's thousand dollars to Profit and Loss and hustle for another novel--something reliable and not shop-worn.
Perkins had been studying the literature market a little and he advised me to get something from Indiana this time, so I telegraphed an advertisement to the Indianapolis papers and two days later we had ninety-eight historical novels by Indiana authors from which to choose. Several were of the right length, and we chose one and sent it to Mr. Gilkowsky with a request that he read it to his sweetheart. She had never read it before.
We sent a detective to Dillville, Indiana, where the author lived, and the report we received was most satisfactory.
The author was a sober, industrious young man, just out of the high school, and bore a first-class reputation for honesty. He had never been in Virginia, where the scene of his story was laid, and they had no library in Dillville, and our detective assured us that the young man was in every way fitted to write a historical novel.
"The Crimson Cord" made an immense success. You can guess how it boomed when I say that although it was published at a dollar and a half, it was sold by every department store for fifty-four cents, away below cost, just like sugar, or Vandeventer's Baby Food, or Q & Z Corsets, or any other staple. We sold our first edition of five million copies inside of three months, and got out another edition of two million, and a specially illustrated holiday edition and an edition de luxe, and "The Crimson Cord" is still selling in paper-covered cheap edition.
With the royalties received from the aftermath and the profit on the book itself, we made--well, Perkins has a country place at Lakewood, and I have my cottage at Newport.
THE RHYME OF THE CHIVALROUS SHARK
BY WALLACE IRWIN
Most chivalrous fish of the ocean,
To ladies forbearing and mild,
Though his record be dark, is the man-eating shark
Who will eat neither woman nor child.
He dines upon seamen and skippers,
And tourists his hunger assuage,
And a fresh cabin boy will inspire him with joy
If he's past the maturity age.
A doctor, a lawyer, a preacher,
He'll gobble one any fine day,
But the ladies, God bless 'em, he'll only address 'em
Politely and go on his way.
I can readily cite you an instance
Where a lovely young lady of Breem,
Who was tender and sweet and delicious to eat,
Fell into the bay with a scream.
She struggled and flounced in the water
And signaled in vain for her bark,
And she'd surely been drowned if she hadn't been found
By a chivalrous man-eating shark.
He bowed in a manner most polished,
Thus soothing her impulses wild;
"Don't be frightened," he said, "I've been properly bred
And will eat neither woman nor child."
Then he proffered his fin and she took it--
Such a gallantry none can dispute--
While the passengers cheered as the vessel they neared
And a broadside was fired in salute.
And they soon stood alongside the vessel,
When a life-saving dingey was lowered
With the pick of the crew, and her relatives, too,
And the mate and the skipper aboard.
So they took her aboard in a jiffy,
And the shark stood attention the while,
Then he raised on his flipper and ate up the skipper
And went on his way with a smile.
And this shows that the prince of the ocean,
To ladies forbearing and mild,
Though his record be dark, is the man-eating shark
Who will eat neither woman nor child.
THE PLAINT OF JONAH
BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE
Why should I live, when every day
The wicked prospers in his way,
And daily adds unto his hoard,
While cutworms smite the good man's gourd?
When I would rest beneath its shade
Comes the shrill-voiced book-selling maid,
And smites me with her tireless breath--
Then am I angry unto death.
When I would slumber in my booth,
Who comes with accents loud and smooth,
And talks from dawn to midnight late?
The honest labor candidate.
Who pounds mine ear with noisy talk,
Whose brazen gall no ire can balk
And wearies me of life's short span?
The accident insurance man.
And when, all other torments flown,
I think to call one hour mine own,
Who takes my leisure by the throat?
The villain taking up a vote.
A DOS'T O' BLUES
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
I' got no patience with blues at all!
And I ust to kindo talk
Aginst 'em, and claim, 'tel along last Fall,
They was none in the fambly stock;
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
That visited us last year,
He kindo convinct me differunt
While he was a-stayin' here.
Frum ever'-which way that blues is from,
They'd tackle him ever' ways;
They'd come to him in the night, and come
On Sundays, and rainy days;
They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time,
And in harvest, and airly Fall,
But a dose't of blues in the wintertime,
He 'lowed, was the worst of all!
Said all diseases that ever he had--
The mumps, er the rheumatiz--
Er ever'-other-day-aigger's bad
Purt' nigh as anything is!--
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
Er a felon on his thumb,--
But you keep the blues away from him,
And all o' the rest could come!
And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below!
Ner a spear o' grass in sight!
And the whole wood-pile's clean under snow!
And the days is dark as night!
You can't go out--ner you can't stay in--
Lay down--stand up--ner set!"
And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues
Would double him jest clean shet!
I writ his parents a postal-kyard,
He could stay 'tel Spring-time come;
And Aprile first, as I rickollect,
Was the day we shipped him home!
Most o' his relatives, sence then,
Has either give up, er quit,
Er jest died off; but I understand
He's the same old color yit!
MORRIS AND THE HONORABLE TIM
BY MYRA KELLY
On the first day of school, after the Christmas holidays, teacher found herself surrounded by a howling mob of little savages in which she had much difficulty in recognizing her cherished First-Reader Class. Isidore Belchatosky's face was so wreathed in smiles and foreign matter as to be beyond identification; Nathan Spiderwitz had placed all his trust in a solitary suspender and two unstable buttons; Eva Kidansky had entirely freed herself from restraining hooks and eyes; Isidore Applebaum had discarded shoe-laces; and Abie Ashnewsky had bartered his only necktie for a yard of "shoe-string" licorice.
Miss Bailey was greatly disheartened by this reversion to the original type. She delivered daily lectures on nail-brushes, hair-ribbons, shoe polish, pins, buttons, elastic, and other means to grace. Her talks on soap and water became almost personal in tone, and her insistence on a close union between such garments as were meant to be united, led to a lively traffic in twisted and disreputable safety-pins. And yet the First-Reader Class, in all other branches of learning so receptive and responsive, made but halting and uncertain progress toward that state of virtue which is next to godliness.
Early in January came the report that "Gum Shoe Tim" was on the war-path and might be expected at any time. Miss Bailey heard the tidings in calm ignorance until Miss Blake, who ruled over the adjoining kingdom, interpreted the warning. A license to teach in the public schools of New York is good for only one year. Its renewal depends upon the reports of the Principal in charge of the school and of the Associate Superintendent in whose district the school chances to be. After three such renewals the license becomes permanent, but Miss Bailey was, as a teacher, barely four months old. The Associate Superintendent for her vicinity was the Honorable Timothy O'Shea, known and dreaded as "Gum Shoe Tim," owing to his engaging way of creeping softly up back-stairs and appearing, all unheralded and unwelcome, upon the threshold of his intended victim.
This, Miss Blake explained, was in defiance of all the rules of etiquette governing such visits of inspection. The proper procedure had been that of Mr. O'Shea's predecessor, who had always given timely notice of his coming and a hint as to the subjects in which he intended to examine the children. Some days later he would amble from room to room, accompanied by the amiable Principal, and followed by the gratitude of smiling and unruffled teachers.
This kind old gentleman was now retired and had been succeeded by Mr. O'Shea, who, in addition to his unexpectedness, was adorned by an abominable temper, an overbearing manner, and a sense of cruel humor. He had almost finished his examinations at the nearest school where, during a brisk campaign of eight days, he had caused five dismissals, nine cases of nervous exhaustion, and an epidemic of hysteria.
Day by day nerves grew more tense, tempers more unsure, sleep and appetite more fugitive. Experienced teachers went stolidly on with the ordinary routine, while beginners devoted time and energy to the more spectacular portions of the curriculum. But no one knew the Honorable Timothy's pet subjects, and so no one could specialize to any great extent.
Miss Bailey was one of the beginners, and Room 18 was made to shine as the sun. Morris Mogilewsky, Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl, wrought busily until his charges glowed redly against the water plants in their shining bowl. Creepers crept, plants grew, and ferns waved under the care of Nathan Spiderwitz, Monitor of the Window Boxes. There was such a martial swing and strut in Patrick Brennan's leadership of the line that it inflamed even the timid heart of Isidore Wishnewsky with a war-like glow and his feet with a spasmodic but well-meant tramp. Sadie Gonorowsky and Eva, her cousin, sat closely side by side, no longer "mad on theirselves," but "mit kind feelings." The work of the preceding term was laid in neat and docketed piles upon the low book-case. The children were enjoined to keep clean and entire. And Teacher, a nervous and unsmiling Teacher, waited dully.
A week passed thus, and then the good-hearted and experienced Miss Blake hurried ponderously across the hall to put Teacher on her guard.
"I've just had a note from one of the grammar teachers," she panted. "'Gum Shoe Tim' is up in Miss Green's room! He'll take this floor next. Now, see here, child, don't look so frightened. The Principal is with Tim. Of course you're nervous, but try not to show it, and you'll be all right. His lay is discipline and reading. Well, good luck to you!"
Miss Bailey took heart of grace. The children read surprisingly well, were absolutely good, and the enemy under convoy of the friendly Principal would be much less terrifying than the enemy at large and alone. It was, therefore, with a manner almost serene that she turned to greet the kindly concerned Principal and the dreaded "Gum Shoe Tim." The latter she found less ominous of aspect than she had been led to fear, and the Principal's charming little speech of introduction made her flush with quick pleasure. And the anxious eyes of Sadie Gonorowsky, noting the flush, grew calm as Sadie whispered to Eva, her close cousin:
"Say, Teacher has a glad. She's red on the face. It could to be her papa."
"No. It's comp'ny," answered Eva sagely. "It ain't her papa. It's comp'ny the whiles Teacher takes him by the hand."
The children were not in the least disconcerted by the presence of the large man. They always enjoyed visitors, and they liked the heavy gold chain which festooned the wide waistcoat of this guest; and, as they watched him, the Associate Superintendent began to superintend.
He looked at the children all in their clean and smiling rows; he looked at the flowers and the gold-fish; at the pictures and the plaster casts; he looked at the work of the last term and he looked at Teacher. As he looked he swayed gently on his rubber heels and decided that he was going to enjoy the coming quarter of an hour. Teacher pleased him from the first. She was neither old nor ill-favored, and she was most evidently nervous. The combination appealed both to his love of power and his peculiar sense of humor. Settling deliberately in the chair of state, he began:
"Can the children sing, Miss Bailey?"
They could sing very prettily and they did.
"Very nice, indeed," said the voice of visiting authority. "Very nice. Their music is exceptionally good. And are they drilled? Children, will you march for me?"
Again they could and did. Patrick marshaled his line in time and triumph up and down the aisles to the evident interest and approval of the "comp'ny," and then Teacher led the class through some very energetic Swedish movements. While arms and bodies were bending and straightening at Teacher's command and example, the door opened and a breathless boy rushed in. He bore an unfolded note and, as Teacher had no hand to spare, the boy placed the paper on the desk under the softening eyes of the Honorable Timothy, who glanced down idly and then pounced upon the note and read its every word.
"For you, Miss Bailey," he said in the voice before which even the school janitor had been known to quail. "Your friend was thoughtful, though a little late." And poor palpitating Miss Bailey read:
"Watch out! 'Gum Shoe Tim' is in the building. The Principal caught him on the back-stairs, and they're going round together. He's as cross as a bear. Greene in dead faint in the dressing-room. Says he's going to fire her. Watch out for him, and send the news on. His lay is reading and discipline."
Miss Bailey grew cold with sick and unreasoning fear. As she gazed wide-eyed at the living confirmation of the statement that "Gum Shoe Tim" was "as cross as a bear," the gentle-hearted Principal took the paper from her nerveless grasp.
"It's all right," he assured her. "Mr. O'Shea understands that you had no part in this. It's all right. You are not responsible."
But Teacher had no ears for his soothing. She could only watch with fascinated eyes as the Honorable Timothy reclaimed the note and wrote across it's damning face: "Miss Greene may come to. She is not fired.--T. O'S."
"Here, boy," he called; "take this to your teacher." The puzzled messenger turned to obey, and the Associate Superintendent saw that though his dignity had suffered his power had increased. To the list of those whom he might, if so disposed, devour, he had now added the name of the Principal, who was quick to understand that an unpleasant investigation lay before him. If Miss Bailey could not be held responsible for this system of inter-classroom communication, it was clear that the Principal could.
Every trace of interest had left Mr. O'Shea's voice as he asked:
"Can they read?"
"Oh, yes, they read," responded Teacher, but her spirit was crushed and the children reflected her depression. Still, they were marvelously good and that blundering note had said, "Discipline is his lay." Well, here he had it.
There was one spectator of this drama, who, understanding no word nor incident therein, yet dismissed no shade of the many emotions which had stirred the light face of his lady. Toward the front of the room sat Morris Mogilewsky, with every nerve tuned to Teacher's, and with an appreciation of the situation in which the other children had no share. On the afternoon of one of those dreary days of waiting for the evil which had now come, Teacher had endeavored to explain the nature and possible result of this ordeal to her favorite. It was clear to him now that she was troubled, and he held the large and unaccustomed presence of the "comp'ny mit whiskers" responsible. Countless generations of ancestors had followed and fostered the instinct which now led Morris to propitiate an angry power. Luckily, he was prepared with an offering of a suitable nature. He had meant to enjoy it for yet a few days, and then to give it to Teacher. She was such a sensible person about presents. One might give her one's most cherished possession with a brave and cordial heart, for on each Friday afternoon she returned the gifts she had received during the week. And this with no abatement of gratitude.
Morris rose stealthily, crept forward, and placed a bright blue bromo-seltzer bottle in the fat hand which hung over the back of the chair of state. The hand closed instinctively as, with dawning curiosity, the Honorable Timothy studied the small figure at his side. It began in a wealth of loosely curling hair which shaded a delicate face, very pointed as to chin and monopolized by a pair of dark eyes, sad and deep and beautiful. A faded blue "jumper" was buttoned tightly across the narrow chest; frayed trousers were precariously attached to the "jumper," and impossible shoes and stockings supplemented the trousers. Glancing from boy to bottle, the "comp'ny mit whiskers" asked:
"What's this for?"
"For you."
"What's in it?"
"A present."
Mr. O'Shea removed the cork and proceeded to draw out incredible quantities of absorbent cotton. When there was no more to come, a faint tinkle sounded within the blue depths, and Mr. O'Shea, reversing the bottle, found himself possessed of a trampled and disfigured sleeve link of most palpable brass.
"It's from gold," Morris assured him. "You puts it in your--'scuse me--shirt. Wish you health to wear it."
"Thank you," said the Honorable Tim, and there was a tiny break in the gloom which had enveloped him. And then, with a quick memory of the note and of his anger:
"Miss Bailey, who is this young man?"
And Teacher, of whose hobbies Morris was one, answered warmly: "That is Morris Mogilewsky, the best of boys. He takes care of the gold-fish, and does all sorts of things for me. Don't you, dear?"
"Teacher, yiss ma'an," Morris answered. "I'm lovin' much mit you. I gives presents on the comp'ny over you."
"Ain't he rather big to speak such broken English?" asked Mr. O'Shea. "I hope you remember that it is part of your duty to stamp out the dialect."
"Yes, I know," Miss Bailey answered. "But Morris has been in America for so short a time. Nine months, is it not?"
"Teacher, yiss ma'an. I comes out of Russia," responded Morris, on the verge of tears and with his face buried in Teacher's dress.
Now Mr. O'Shea had his prejudices--strong and deep. He had been given jurisdiction over that particular district because it was his native heath, and the Board of Education considered that he would be more in sympathy with the inhabitants than a stranger. The truth was absolutely the reverse. Because he had spent his early years in a large old house on East Broadway, because he now saw his birthplace changed to a squalid tenement, and the happy hunting grounds of his youth grown ragged and foreign--swarming with strange faces and noisy with strange tongues--Mr. O'Shea bore a sullen grudge against the usurping race.
He resented the caressing air with which Teacher held the little hand placed so confidently within her own and he welcomed the opportunity of gratifying his still ruffled temper and his racial antagonism at the same time. He would take a rise out of this young woman about her little Jew. She would be comforted later on. Mr. O'Shea rather fancied himself in the rôle of comforter, when the sufferer was neither old nor ill-favored. And so he set about creating the distress which he would later change to gratitude and joy. Assuredly the Honorable Timothy had a well-developed sense of humor.
"His English is certainly dreadful," remarked the voice of authority, and it was not an English voice, nor is O'Shea distinctively an English name. "Dreadful. And, by the way, I hope you are not spoiling these youngsters. You must remember that you are fitting them for the battle of life. Don't coddle your soldiers. Can you reconcile your present attitude with discipline?"
"With Morris--yes," Teacher answered. "He is gentle and tractable beyond words."
"Well, I hope you're right," grunted Mr. O'Shea, "but don't coddle them."
And so the incident closed. The sleeve link was tucked, before Morris's yearning eyes, into the reluctant pocket of the wide white waistcoat, and Morris returned to his place. He found his reader and the proper page, and the lesson went on with brisk serenity; real on the children's part, but bravely assumed on Teacher's. Child after child stood up, read, sat down again, and it came to be the duty of Bertha Binderwitz to read the entire page of which the others had each read a line. She began jubilantly, but soon stumbled, hesitated, and wailed:
"Stands a fierce word. I don't know what it is," and Teacher turned to write the puzzling word upon the blackboard.
Morris's heart stopped with a sickening suddenness and then rushed madly on again. He had a new and dreadful duty to perform. All his mother's counsel, all his father's precepts told him that it was his duty. Yet fear held him in his little seat behind his little desk, while his conscience insisted on this unalterable decree of the social code: "So somebody's clothes is wrong it's polite you says ''scuse' and tells it out."
And here was Teacher whom he dearly loved, whose ideals of personal adornment extended to full sets of buttons on jumpers and to laces in both shoes, here was his immaculate lady fair in urgent need of assistance and advice, and all because she had on that day inaugurated a delightfully vigorous exercise for which, architecturally, she was not designed.
There was yet room for hope that some one else would see the breach and brave the danger. But no. The visitor sat stolidly in the chair of state, the Principal sat serenely beside him, the children sat each in his own little place, behind his own little desk, keeping his own little eyes on his own little book. No. Morris's soul cried with Hamlet's:
"The time is out of joint;--O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!"
Up into the quiet air went his timid hand. Teacher, knowing him in his more garrulous moods, ignored the threatened interruption of Bertha's spirited résumé, but the windmill action of the little arm attracted the Honorable Tim's attention.
"The best of boys wants you," he suggested, and Teacher perforce asked:
"Well, Morris, what is it?"
Not until he was on his feet did the Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl appreciate the enormity of the mission he had undertaken. The other children began to understand, and watched his struggle for words and breath with sympathy or derision, as their natures prompted. But there are no words in which one may politely mention ineffective safety-pins to one's glass of fashion. Morris's knees trembled queerly, his breathing grew difficult, and Teacher seemed a very great way off as she asked again:
"Well, what is it, dear?"
Morris panted a little, smiled weakly, and then sat down. Teacher was evidently puzzled, the "comp'ny" alert, the Principal uneasy.
"Now, Morris," Teacher remonstrated, "you must tell me what you want."
But Morris had deserted his etiquette and his veracity, and murmured only:
"Nothings."
"Just wanted to be noticed," said the Honorable Tim. "It is easy to spoil them." And he watched the best of boys rather closely, for a habit of interrupting reading lessons, wantonly and without reason, was a trait in the young of which he disapproved.
When this disapprobation manifested itself in Mr. O'Shea's countenance, the loyal heart of Morris interpreted it as a new menace to his sovereign. No later than yesterday she had warned them of the vital importance of coherence. "Every one knows," she had said, "that only common little boys and girls come apart. No one ever likes them," and the big stranger was even now misjudging her.
Again his short arm agitated the quiet air. Again his trembling legs upheld a trembling boy. Again authority urged. Again Teacher asked:
"Well, Morris, what is it, dear?"
All this was as before, but not as before was poor harassed Miss Bailey's swoop down the aisle, her sudden taking Morris's troubled little face between her soft hands, the quick near meeting with her kind eyes, the note of pleading in her repetition:
"What do you want, Morris?"
He was beginning to answer when it occurred to him that the truth might make her cry. There was an unsteadiness about her upper lip which seemed to indicate the possibility. Suddenly he found that he no longer yearned for words in which to tell her of her disjointment, but for something else--anything else--to say.
His miserable eyes escaped from hers and wandered to the wall in desperate search for conversation. There was no help in the pictures, no inspiration in the plaster casts, but on the blackboard he read, "Tuesday, January twenty-first, 1902." Only the date, but he must make it serve. With teacher close beside him, with the hostile eye of the Honorable Tim upon him, hedged round about by the frightened or admiring regard of the First-Reader Class, Morris blinked rapidly, swallowed resolutely, and remarked:
"Teacher, this year's Nineteen-hundred-and-two," and knew that all was over.
The caressing clasp of Teacher's hands grew into a grip of anger. The countenance of Mr. O'Shea took on the beautiful expression of the prophet who has found honor and verification in his own country.
"The best of boys has his off days and this is one of them," he remarked.
"Morris," said Teacher, "did you stop a reading lesson to tell me that? Do you think I don't know what the year is? I'm ashamed of you."
Never had she spoken thus. If the telling had been difficult to Morris when she was "glad on him," it was impossible now that she was a prey to such evident "mad feelings." And yet he must make some explanation. So he murmured: "Teacher, I tells you 'scuse. I know you knows what year stands, on'y it's polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid."
"And so you bothered your Teacher with that nonsense," said Tim. "You're a nice boy!"
Morris's eyes were hardly more appealing than Teacher's as the two culprits, for so they felt themselves, turned to their judge.
"Morris is a strange boy," Miss Bailey explained. "He can't be managed by ordinary methods--"
"And extraordinary methods don't seem to work to-day," Mr. O'Shea interjected.
"And I think," Teacher continued, "that it might be better not to press the point."
"Oh, if you have no control over him--" Mr. O'Shea was beginning pleasantly, when the Principal suggested:
"You'd better let us hear what he has to say, Miss Bailey; make him understand that you are master here." And Teacher, with a heart-sick laugh at the irony of this advice in the presence of the Associate Superintendent, turned to obey.
But Morris would utter no words but these, dozens of times repeated: "I have a fraid." Miss Bailey coaxed, bribed, threatened and cajoled; shook him surreptitiously, petted him openly. The result was always the same: "It's polite I tells you something out, on'y I had a fraid."
"But, Morris, dear, of what?" cried Teacher. "Are you afraid of me? Stop crying now and answer. Are you afraid of Miss Bailey?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Are you afraid of the Principal?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Are you afraid,"--with a slight pause, during which a native hue of honesty was foully done to death--"of the kind gentleman we are all so glad to see?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Well, then what is the matter with you? Are you sick? Don't you think you would like to go home to your mother?"
"No-o-o-oh m-a-a-an; I ain't sick. I tells you 'scuse."
The repeated imitation of a sorrowful goat was too much for the Honorable Tim.
"Bring that boy to me," he commanded. "I'll show you how to manage refractory and rebellious children."
With much difficulty and many assurances that the gentleman was not going to hurt him, Miss Bailey succeeded in untwining Morris's legs from the supports of the desk and in half carrying, half leading him up to the chair of state. An ominous silence had settled over the room. Eva Gonorowsky was weeping softly, and the redoubtable Isidore Applebaum was stiffened in a frozen calm.
"Morris," began the Associate Superintendent in his most awful tones, "will you tell me why you raised your hand? Come here, sir."
Teacher urged him gently, and like dog to heel, he went. He halted within a pace or two of Mr. O'Shea, and lifted a beseeching face toward him.
"I couldn't to tell nothing out," said he. "I tells you 'scuse. I'm got a fraid."
The Honorable Tim lunged quickly and caught the terrified boy preparatory to shaking him, but Morris escaped and fled to his haven of safety--his Teacher's arms. When Miss Bailey felt the quick clasp of the thin little hands, the heavy beating of the over-tired heart, and the deep convulsive sobs, she turned on the Honorable Timothy O'Shea and spoke:
"I must ask you to leave this room at once," she announced. The Principal started and then sat back. Teacher's eyes were dangerous, and the Honorable Tim might profit by a lesson. "You've frightened the child until he can't breathe. I can do nothing with him while you remain. The examination is ended. You may go."
Now Mr. O'Shea saw he had gone a little too far in his effort to create the proper dramatic setting for his clemency. He had not expected the young woman to "rise" quite so far and high. His deprecating half-apology, half-eulogy, gave Morris the opportunity he craved.
"Teacher," he panted; "I wants to whisper mit you in the ear."
With a dexterous movement he knelt upon her lap and tore out his solitary safety-pin. He then clasped her tightly and made his explanation. He began in the softest of whispers, which increased in volume as it did in interest, so that he reached the climax at the full power of his boy soprano voice.
"Teacher, Missis Bailey, I know you know what year stands. On'y it's polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid the while the 'comp'ny mit the whiskers' sets und rubbers. But, Teacher, it's like this: your jumper's sticking out und you could to take mine safety-pin."
He had understood so little of all that had passed that he was beyond being surprised by the result of this communication. Miss Bailey had gathered him into her arms and had cried in a queer helpless way. And as she cried she had said over and over again: "Morris, how could you? Oh, how could you, dear? How could you?"
The Principal and "the comp'ny mit whiskers" looked solemnly at one another for a struggling moment, and had then broken into laughter, long and loud, until the visiting authority was limp and moist. The children waited in polite uncertainty, but when Miss Bailey, after some indecision, had contributed a wan smile, which later grew into a shaky laugh, the First-Reader Class went wild.
Then the Honorable Timothy arose to say good-by. He reiterated his praise of the singing and reading, the blackboard work and the moral tone. An awkward pause ensued, during which the Principal engaged the young Gonorowskys in impromptu conversation. The Honorable Tim crossed over to Miss Bailey's side and steadied himself for a great effort.
"Teacher," he began meekly, "I tells you 'scuse. This sort of thing makes a man feel like a bull in a china shop. Do you think the little fellow will shake hands with me? I was really only joking."
"But surely he will," said Miss Bailey, as she glanced down at the tangle of dark curls resting against her breast. "Morris, dear, aren't you going to say good-by to the gentleman?"
Morris relaxed one hand from its grasp on his lady and bestowed it on Mr. O'Shea.
"Good-by," said he gently. "I gives you presents, from gold presents, the while you're friends mit Teacher. I'm loving much mit her, too."
At this moment the Principal turned, and Mr. O'Shea, in a desperate attempt to retrieve his dignity, began: "As to class management and discipline--"
But the Principal was not to be deceived.
"Don't you think, Mr. O'Shea," said he, "that you and I had better leave the management of the little ones to the women? You have noticed, perhaps, that this is Nature's method."
[Footnote 3: From Little Citizens; reprinted by permission of McClure, Phillips & Company.
Copyright 1903 by the S.S. McClure Company.
THE GENIAL IDIOT SUGGESTS A COMIC OPERA
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
"There's a harvest for you," said the Idiot, as he perused a recently published criticism of a comic opera. "There have been thirty-nine new comic operas produced this year and four of 'em were worth seeing. It is very evident that the Gilbert and Sullivan industry hasn't gone to the wall whatever slumps other enterprises have suffered from."
"That is a goodly number," said the Poet. "Thirty-nine, eh? I knew there was a raft of them, but I had no idea there were as many as that."
"Why don't you go in and do one, Mr. Poet?" suggested the Idiot. "They tell me it's as easy as rolling off a log. All you've got to do is to forget all your ideas and remember all the old jokes you ever heard. Slap 'em together around a lot of dances, write two dozen lyrics about some Googoo Belle, hire a composer, and there you are. Hanged if I haven't thought of writing one myself."
"I fancy it isn't as easy as it looks," observed the Poet. "It requires just as much thought to be thoughtless as it does to be thoughtful."
"Nonsense," said the Idiot. "I'd undertake the job cheerfully if some manager would make it worth my while, and what's more, if I ever got into the swing of the business I'll bet I could turn out a libretto a day for three days of the week for the next two months."
"If I had your confidence I'd try it," laughed the Poet, "but alas, in making me Nature did not design a confidence man."
"Nonsense again," said the Idiot. "Any man who can get the editors to print Sonnets to Diana's Eyebrow, and little lyrics of Madison Square, Longacre Square, Battery Place and Boston Common, the way you do, has a right to consider himself an adept at bunco. I tell you what I'll do with you. I'll swap off my confidence for your lyrical facility and see what I can do. Why can't we collaborate and get up a libretto for next season? They tell me there's large money in it."
"There certainly is if you catch on," said the Poet. "Vastly more than in any other kind of writing that I know. I don't know but that I would like to collaborate with you on something of the sort. What is your idea?"
"Mind's a blank on the subject," sighed the Idiot. "That's the reason I think I can turn the trick. As I said before, you don't need ideas. Better off without 'em. Just sit down and write."
"But you must have some kind of a story," persisted the Poet.
"Not to begin with," said the Idiot. "Just write your choruses and songs, slap in your jokes, fasten 'em together, and the thing is done. First act, get your hero and heroine into trouble. Second act, get 'em out."
"And for the third?" queried the Poet.
"Don't have a third," said the Idiot. "A third is always superfluous--but if you must have it, make up some kind of a vaudeville show and stick it in between the first and second."
"Tush!" said the Bibliomaniac. "That would make a gay comic opera."
"Of course it would, Mr. Bib," the Idiot agreed. "And that's what we want. If there's anything in this world that I hate more than another it is a sombre comic opera. I've been to a lot of 'em, and I give you my word of honor that next to a funeral a comic opera that lacks gaiety is one of the most depressing functions known to modern science. Some of 'em are enough to make an undertaker weep with jealous rage. I went to one of 'em last week called 'The Skylark' with an old chum of mine, who is a surgeon. You can imagine what sort of a thing it was when I tell you that after the first act he suggested we leave the theater and come back here and have some fun cutting my leg off. He vowed that if he ever went to another opera by the same people he'd take ether beforehand."
"I shouldn't think that would be necessary," sneered the Bibliomaniac. "If it was as bad as all that why didn't it put you to sleep?"
"It did," said the Idiot. "But the music kept waking us up again. There was no escape from it except that of actual physical flight."
"Well--about this collaboration of ours," suggested the Poet. "What do you think we should do first?"
"Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did you suppose? A finale? Something like this:
"If you want to know who we are,
Just ask the Evening Star,
As he smiles on high
In the deep blue sky,
With his tralala-la-la-la.
We are maidens sweet
With tripping feet,
And the Googoo eyes
Of the Skippity-hi's,
And the smile of the fair Gazoo;
And you'll find our names
'Mongst the wondrous dames
Of the Whos Who-hoo-hoo-hoo.
"Get that sung with spirit by sixty-five ladies with blonde wigs and gold slippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a troop of Russian Cavalry, and you've got your venture launched."
"Where can you find people like that?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"New York's full of 'em," replied the Idiot.
"I don't mean the people to act that sort of thing--but where would you lay your scene?" explained the Bibliomaniac.
"Oh, any old place in the Pacific Ocean," said the Idiot. "Make your own geography--everybody else does. There's a million islands out there of one kind or another, and as defenseless as a two weeks' old infant. If you want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make one up for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of that sort. After you've got your chorus going, introduce your villain, who should be a man with a deep bass voice and a piratical past. He's the chap who rules the roost and is going to marry the heroine to-morrow. That will make a bully song:
"I'm a pirate bold
With a heart so cold
That it turns the biggest joys to solemn sorrow;
And the hero-ine,
With her eyes so fine,
I am going to-marry--to-morrow.
CHORUS:
"He is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow
The maid with a heart full of sorrow;
For her we are sorry
For she weds to-morry--
She is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow.
"Gee!" added the Idiot enthusiastically. "Can't you almost hear that already?"
"I am sorry to say," said Mr. Brief, "that I can. You ought to call your heroine Drivelina."
"Splendid," cried the Idiot. "Drivelina goes. Well, then on comes Drivelina and this beast of a Pirate grabs her by the hand and makes love to her as if he thought wooing was a game of snap the whip. She sings a soprano solo of protest and the Pirate summons his hirelings to cast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell when, boom! an American warship appears on the horizon. The crew under the leadership of a man with a squeaky tenor voice named Lieutenant Somebody or other comes ashore, puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag while his crew sings the following:
"We are Jackies, Jackies, Jackies,
And we smoke the best tobaccys
You can find from Zanzibar to Honeyloo.
And we fight for Uncle Sammy,
Yes indeed we do, for damme
You can bet your life that that's the thing to do--doodle-do!
You can bet your life that that's the thing to
doodle--doodle--doodle--doodle-do.
"Eh! What?" demanded the Idiot.
"Well--what yourself?" asked the Lawyer. "This is your job. What next?"
"Well--the Pirate gets lively, tries to assassinate the Lieutenant, who kills half the natives with his sword and is about to slay the Pirate when he discovers that he is his long lost father," said the Idiot. "The heroine then sings a pathetic love song about her Baboon Baby, in a green light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys banging cocoa-nut shells together. This drowsy lullaby puts the Lieutenant and his forces to sleep and the curtain falls on their capture by the Pirate and his followers, with the chorus singing:
"Hooray for the Pirate bold,
With his pockets full of gold,
He's going to marry to-morrow.
To-morrow he'll marry,
Yes, by the Lord Harry,
He's go-ing--to-marry--to-mor-row!
And that's a thing to doodle-doodle-doo.
"There," said the Idiot, after a pause. "How is that for a first act?"
"It's about as lucid as most of them," said the Poet, "but after all you have got a story there, and you said you didn't need one."
"I said you didn't need one to start with," corrected the Idiot. "And I've proved it. I didn't have that story in mind when I started. That's where the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn't even have to think of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped right out of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina had been written on his heart for centuries. Then the title--Isle of Piccolo--that's a dandy and I give you my word of honor I'd never even thought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash from the blue; and as for the coon song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there's a chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner and Reginald De Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the lilt of it:
"My Bab-boon--ba-habee,
My Bab-boon--ba-habee--
I love you dee-her-lee
Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee.
My Baboon--ba-ha-bee,
My Baboon--ba-ha-bee,
My baboon--Ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee.
"And all those pink satin monkeys bumping their cocoanut shells together in the green moonlight--"
"Well, after the first act, what?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"The usual intermission," said the Idiot. "You don't have to write that. The audience generally knows what to do."
"But your second act?" asked the Poet.
"Oh, come off," said the Idiot rising. "We were to do this thing in collaboration. So far I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leave the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to do a little collabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to do--collect the royalties?"
"I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thing to do in a comic opera."
"Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my full share of it."
"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced in the right place might stand a chance of a run."
"Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some penetration. How long a run?"
"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.
"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot with a smile.
"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac severely.
"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr. Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the Superintendent."
WAMSLEY'S AUTOMATIC PASTOR
BY FRANK CRANE
"Yes, sir," said the short, chunky man, as he leaned back against the gorgeous upholstery of his seat in the smoking compartment of the sleeping-car; "yes, sir, I knew you was a preacher the minute I laid eyes on you. You don't wear your collar buttoned behind, nor a black thingumbob over your shirt front, nor Presbyterian whiskers, nor a little gold cross on a black string watch chain; them's the usual marks, I know, and you hain't got any of 'em. But I knew you just the same. You can't fool J.P. Wamsley. You see, there's a peculiar air about a man that's accustomed to handle any particular line of goods. You can tell 'em all, if you'll just notice,--any of 'em,--white-goods counter, lawyer, doctor, travelin' man, politician, railroad,--every one of 'em's got his sign out, and it don't take a Sherlock Holmes to read it, neither. It's the same way with them gospel goods. You'll excuse me, but when I saw you come in here and light a cigar, with an air of I-will-now-give-you-a-correct-imitation-of-a-human-being, I says to myself, 'There's one of my gospel friends.' Murder will out, as the feller says.
"Experience, did you say? I must have had considerable experience? Well, I guess yes! Didn't you never hear of my invention, Wamsley's Automatic Pastor, Self-feedin' Preacher and Lightning Caller? Say, that was the hottest scheme ever. I'll tell you about it.
"You see, it's this way. I'm not a church member myself--believe in it, you know, and all that sort of thing,--I'm for religion strong, and when it comes to payin' I'm right there with the goods. My wife is a member, and a good one; in fact, she's so blame good that we average up pretty well.
"Well, one day they elected me to the board of trustees at the church; because I was the heaviest payer, I suppose. I kicked some, not bein' anxious to pose as a pious individual, owin' to certain brethren in the town who had a little confidential information on J.P. and might be inclined to get funny. But they insisted, allowin' that me bein' the most prominent and successful merchant in the town, and similar rot, I ought to line up and help out the cause, and so on; so finally I give in.
"I went to two or three of their meetin's--and say, honest, they were the fiercest things ever."
The minister smiled knowingly.
"You're on, I see. Ain't those official meetin's of a church the limit? Gee! Once I went--a cold winter night--waded through snow knee-deep to a giraffe--and sat there two hours, while they discussed whether they'd fix the pastor's back fence or not--price six dollars! I didn't say anything, bein' sort o' new, you know, but I made up my mind that next time I'd turn loose on 'em, if it was the last thing I did.
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Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) 6
