The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. (of X.) 19 – Anonymous · Verses Across
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. (of X.) 19Part 3 · Chapter 8 (part 1)
18
Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. (of X.) 19
Part 3 · Chapter 8 (part 1)
AnonymousEnglish
My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room ablaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK-AGENT
ANONYMOUS
A book-agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book,--the "Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then, taking it under his arm, he started for the train which takes him to his office in the city.
Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said, "Well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope?"
"Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."
"Ah, and who was she?"
"It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman,--a book-agent."
"A what?"
"A book-agent; and to get rid of his importuning I bought his book,--the 'Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is," she exclaimed, advancing toward her husband.
"I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly.
"Why, husband?" asked his wife.
"Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the same book,--two copies of the 'Early Christian Martyrs,' and--"
"But, husband, we can--"
"No, we can't, either!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "The man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I--"
"Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for the train.
"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my boots, and--"
Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr. Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse.
"Here, Stevens!" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!"
"All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road.
Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted, "All aboard!"
"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train. "Book-agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."
"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."
"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How much is it?"
"Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent, as he reached for the money and passed the book out of the car-window.
Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.
"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,--"just got it, and that's all."
"Got what?" yelled Watson.
"Why, I got the book,--'Early Christian Martyrs,'--and paid--"
"By--the--great--guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hands to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.
THE COQUETTE
A Portrait
BY JOHN G. SAXE
"You're clever at drawing, I own,"
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,
As we sat by the window alone,
"But say, can you paint a Coquette?"
"She's painted already," quoth I;
"Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette,
"Now none of your joking,--but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette."
"Well, cousin," at once I began
In the ear of the eager Lisette,
"I'll paint you as well as I can
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
"She wears a most beautiful face,"
("Of course!" said the pretty Lisette),
"And isn't deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette.
"And then she is daintily made"
(A smile from the dainty Lisette),
"By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette.
"She's the winningest ways with the beaux,"
("Go on!"--said the winning Lisette),
"But there isn't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!
"She knows how to weep and to sigh,"
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
"But her weeping is all in my eye,--
Not that of the cunning Coquette!
"In short, she's a creature of art,"
("Oh hush!" said the frowning Lisette),
"With merely the ghost of a heart,--
Enough for a thorough Coquette.
"And yet I could easily prove"
("Now don't!" said the angry Lisette),
"The lady is always in love,--
In love with herself,--the Coquette!
"There,--do not be angry!--you know,
My dear little cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago
To paint you--a thorough Coquette!"
A SPRING FEELING
BY BLISS CARMAN
I think it must be spring. I feel
All broken up and thawed.
I'm sick of everybody's "wheel";
I'm sick of being jawed.
I am too winter-killed to live,
Cold-sour through and through.
O Heavenly Barber, come and give
My soul a dry shampoo!
I'm sick of all these nincompoops,
Who weep through yards of verse,
And all these sonneteering dupes
Who whine and froth and curse.
I'm sick of seeing my own name
Tagged to some paltry line,
While this old corpus without shame
Sits down to meat and wine.
I'm sick of all these Yellow Books,
And all these Bodley Heads;
I'm sick of all these freaks and spooks
And frights in double leads.
When good Napoleon's publisher
Was dangled from a limb,
He should have had an editor
On either side of him.
I'm sick of all this taking on
Under a foreign name;
For when you call it decadent,
It's rotten just the same.
I'm sick of all this puling trash
And namby-pamby rot,--
A Pegasus you have to thrash
To make him even trot!
An Age-end Art! I would not give,
For all their plotless plays,
One round Flagstaffian adjective
Or one Miltonic phrase.
I'm sick of all this poppycock
In bilious green and blue;
I'm tired to death of taking stock
Of everything that's "New."
New Art, New Movements, and New Schools,
All maimed and blind and halt!
And all the fads of the New Fools
Who can not earn their salt.
I'm sick of the New Woman, too.
Good Lord, she's worst of all.
Her rights, her sphere, her point of view,
And all that folderol!
She makes me wish I were the snake
Inside of Eden's wall,
To give the tree another shake,
And see another fall.
I'm very much of Byron's mind;
I like sufficiency;
But just the common garden kind
Is good enough for me.
I want to find a warm beech wood,
And lie down, and keep still;
And swear a little; and feel good;
Then loaf on up the hill,
And let the Spring house-clean my brain,
Where all this stuff is crammed;
And let my heart grow sweet again;
And let the Age be damned.
WASTED OPPORTUNITIES
BY ROY FARRELL GREENE
The lips I might have tasted, rosy ripe as any cherry, How they pair off by the dozens when my memory goes back Across the current of the years aboard of Fancy's ferry, Which shuns the shores of What-We-Have and touches What-We-Lack. The girl I took t' singin'-school one night, who vowed she'd never Before walked with a feller 'thout her mother bein' by, I reckon that her temptin' mouth will haunt my dreams forever, The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try!
I recollect another girl, as chipper as a robin, Who rode beside me in a sleigh one night through snow an' sleet, An' both my hands I kept in use a guidin' good ol' Dobbin-- One didn't need them any mor'n a chicken needs four feet. Too scared was I to hold her in, or warm her cheeks with kisses,-- I know, now, she expected it, for once I heard her sigh-- To-day I'd like t' kick myself for these neglected blisses, The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.
I never kissed Rebecca, she was sober as a Quaker, I never kissed Alvira, though I took her home one night, That city cousin of the Smiths, a Miss Myrtilla Baker, Though scores of opportunities slipped by me, left an' right. It makes me hate myself to-day when I on Fancy's ferry Have crossed the current of the years to olden days gone by, T' think of all the lips I've missed, ripe-red as topmost cherry, The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.
THE WEDDIN'
BY JENNIE BETTS HARTSWICK
Well, it's over, it's all over--bein' the last to leave I know that--and I declare, I'm that full of all the things we had to eat that John and me won't want any supper for a good hour yet, so I just ran in to tell you about it while it's on top of my mind.
It's an everlastin' shame you had to miss it! One thing, though, you'll get a trayful of the good things sent in to you, I shouldn't wonder. I know there's loads left, for I happened to slip out to the kitchen for a drink of water--I was that dry after all those salty nuts, and I didn't want to trouble 'em--and I saw just heaps of things standin' round.
Most likely you'll get a good, large plate of cake, not just a pinchin' little mite of a piece in a box. The boxes is real pretty, though, and they did look real palatial all stacked up on a table by the front door with a strange colored man, in white gloves like a pall-bearer, to hand 'em to you.
How did I get two of 'em? Why, it just happened that way. You see, when I was leavin' I missed my sun-shade and I laid my box down on the hatrack-stand while I went upstairs to look for it. I went through all the rooms, and just when I'd about given it up, why, there it was, right in my hand all the time! Wasn't it foolish? And when I came downstairs I found I'd clean forgot where I'd laid that box of cake. I hunted everywhere, and then I just had to tell the man how 'twas, so he handed me another one, and I was just walkin' out the front door when, would you believe it! if there wasn't the other one, just as innocent, on the hatrack-stand where I had laid it. So now I have three of 'em, countin' John's.
I just can't seem to realize that Eleanor Jamison is married at last, can you? She took her time if ever anybody did. They do say she was real taken with that young college professor with the full beard and spectacles that visited there last summer, and then to think that, after all, she went and married a man with a smooth face. He wears glasses, though; that's one point in common.
Eleanor's gone off a good deal lately, don't you think so? You hadn't noticed it? But then you never was any great hand at noticin', I've noticed you weren't. Why, the other day when I was there offerin' to help 'em get ready for the weddin' I noticed that she looked real worn, and there was two or three little fine lines in her eye-corners--not real wrinkles, of course--but we all know that lines is a forerunner. Her hair's beginnin' to turn, too; I noticed that comin' out of church last Sunday. I dare say her knowing this made her less particular than she'd once have been; and after all, marryin' any husband is a good deal like buyin' a new black silk dress pattern--an awful risk.
You may look at it on both sides and hold it up to the light, and pull it to see if it'll fray and try if it'll spot, but you can't be sure what it'll do till after you've worn it a spell.
There's one advantage to the dress pattern, though--you can make 'em take it back if you mistrust it won't wear--if you haven't cut into it, that is--but when you've got a husband, why, you've got him, to have and to hold, for better and worse and good and all.
Yes, I'm comin' to the weddin'--I declare, when I think how careless Eleanor is about little things I can't help mistrusting what kind of a housekeeper she'll turn out. Why, when John's and my invitation came it was only printed to the church--there wasn't any reception card among it.
Now I've supplied Eleanor's folks with butter and eggs and spring chickens for thirty years, and I'd just have gone anyway, for I knew it was a mistake, but John held out that 'twasn't--that they didn't mean to have us to the house part; so to settle it I went right over and told 'em. I told Eleanor she mustn't feel put out about it--we was all mortal--and if it hadn't been for satisfyin' John I'd never have let her know how careless she'd been--of course I'd made allowance, a weddin' is upsettin' to the intellect--and so 'twas all right.
I had a real good view of the ceremony; but 'twasn't their fault that I had; it just happened that way.
When John and me got there I asked the young man at the door--he was a yusher and a stranger to me--to give us a front seat, but he said that all the front places was reserved for the relations of the bride and groom, and then I noticed that they'd tied off the middle aisle about seven pews back with white satin ribbons and a big bunch of pink roses. It seemed real impolite to invite folks to a weddin' and then take the best seats themselves.
Well, just then I happened to feel my shoelacin' gettin' loose and I stepped to one side to fix it; and when I got up from stoopin' and my gloves on and buttoned--I had to take 'em off to tie my shoe--and straightened John's cravat for him, why, there was the families on both sides just goin' in.
Of course we had to follow right along behind 'em, and when we came up to the ribbons--would you believe it?--the big bow just untied itself--or seemed to--I heard afterward it was done by somebody pullin' a invisible wire--and we all walked through and took seats. I made John go into the pew ahead of me so's I could get out without disturbin' anybody if I should have a headache or feel faint.
When John found we was settin' with the family--he was right close up against Eleanor's mother--he was for gettin' up and movin' back. But I just whispered to him, "John Appleby, do sit still! I hear the bridal party comin'!"
Of course I didn't just hear 'em, but I was sure they'd be along in a minute, and I knew it wouldn't do to move our seats anyway, as if we weren't satisfied with 'em.
The church was decorated beautiful. Eleanor's folks must have cleaned out their green-house to put into it, besides tons of greens from the city.
Pretty near the whole of Wrenville was there, and I must say the church was a credit to the Wrenville dressmakers.
I could pick out all their different fits without any trouble.
There was Arabella Satterlee's--she shapes her backs like the top of a coffin, or sometimes they remind me more of a kite; and Sallie Ann Hodd's--she makes 'em square; and old Mrs. Tucker's--you can always tell hers by the way the armholes draw; she makes the minister's wife's. But they'd every one of 'em done their level best and I was proud of 'em.
Well, when the organ--it had been playin' low and soft all the time--changed off into the weddin' march and the bridesmaids, eight of 'em, marched up the aisle behind the eight yushers, I tell you, Miss Halliday, it was a sight!
They was all in pink gauzy stuff--I happened to feel one of 'em as she went by but I couldn't tell what 'twas made of; it seemed dreadful flimsy--and big flat hats all made of roses on their heads, and carryin' bunches pf long-stemmed roses so big that they had to hold 'em in their arms like young babes.
Eleanor came behind 'em all, walkin' with her father. He always was a small-built man, and with her long trail and her veil spreadin' out so, why, I declare, you couldn't hardly see him.
I whispered to John that they looked more as if Eleanor was goin' to give her pa away than him her.
Eleanor's dress was elegant, only awful plain. It was made in New York at Greenleaf's. I know, because when I was upstairs lookin' for my sunshade--I told you about that, didn't I?--I happened to get into Eleanor's room by mistake, and there was the box it came in right on the bed before my eyes.
Well, when they was all past, I kept lookin' round me for the groom and wonderin' how I had come to miss him, when all at once John nudged me, and there he was right in front of me and the minister beginnin' to marry 'em, and where he had sprung from I can't tell you this livin' minute!
Came in from the vestry, did he? Well, now, I never would have thought of that!
Well, when they was most married the most ridiculous thing happened.
You see, Eleanor's father in steppin' back after givin' her away had put his foot right down on her trail and never noticed, and when it came time for the prayer Eleanor pulled and pulled--they was to kneel down on two big white satin cushions in front of 'em--but her pa never budged--just stood there with his eyes shut and his head bowed as devout as anything--and before Eleanor could stop him, her husband--he was most her husband, anyway--had kneeled right down on to the cushion, with his eyes shut, too, I suppose, and the minister had to pray over 'em that way. I could see Eleanor's shoulders shakin' under her veil, and of course it was ridiculous if it hadn't been so solemn.
And then they all marched down the aisle, with the bride and groom leadin' the procession. Eleanor's veil was put back, and I noticed that she was half-laughin' yet, and her cheeks were real pink, and her eyes sort of bright and moist--she looked real handsome. Good gracious, Miss Halliday, don't ever tell me that's six o'clock! And I haven't told a thing about the presents, and who was there, and Eleanor's clothes, and what they had to eat--why, they didn't even use their own china-ware! They had a colored caterer from New York, and he brought everything--all the dishes and table-cloths and spoons and forks, besides the refreshments. I know, because just after he came I happened to carry over my eleven best forks--John broke the dozenth tryin' to pry the cork out of a bottle of raspberry vinegar the year we was married--I never take a fork to pry with--and offered to loan 'em for the weddin', but they didn't need 'em, so I just stayed a minute or two in the butler's pantry and then went home--but I saw the caterer unpackin'.
There! I knew I'd stay too long! There's John comin' in the gate after me. I must go this blessed minute.
THE THOMPSON STREET POKER CLUB
SOME CURIOUS POINTS IN THE NOBLE GAME UNFOLDED
BY HENRY GUY CARLETON
When Mr. Tooter Williams entered the gilded halls of the Thompson Street Poker Club Saturday evening it was evident that fortune had smeared him with prosperity. He wore a straw hat with a blue ribbon, an expression of serene content, and a glass amethyst on his third finger whose effulgence irradiated the whole room and made the envious eyes of Mr. Cyanide Whiffles stand out like a crab's. Besides these extraordinary furbishments, Mr. Williams had his mustache waxed to fine points and his back hair was precious with the luster and richness which accompany the use of the attar of Third Avenue roses combined with the bear's grease dispensed by basement barbers on that fashionable thoroughfare.
In sharp contrast to this scintillating entrance was the coming of the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who had been disheveled by the heat, discolored by a dusty evangelical trip to Coney Island, and oppressed by an attack of malaria which made his eyes bloodshot and enriched his respiration with occasional hiccoughs and that steady aroma which is said to dwell in Weehawken breweries.
The game began at eight o'clock, and by nine and a series of two-pair hands and bull luck Mr. Gus Johnson was seven dollars and a nickel ahead of the game, and the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who was banking, was nine stacks of chips and a dollar bill on the wrong side of the ledger. Mr. Cyanide Whiffles was cheerful as a cricket over four winnings amounting to sixty-nine cents; Professor Brick was calm, and Mr. Tooter Williams was gorgeous and hopeful, and laying low for the first jackpot, which now came. It was Mr. Whiffles's deal, and feeling that the eyes of the world were upon him, he passed around the cards with a precision and rapidity which were more to his credit than the I.O.U. from Mr. Williams which was left over from the previous meeting.
Professor Brick had nine high and declared his inability to make an opening.
Mr. Williams noticed a dangerous light come into the Reverend Mr. Smith's eye and hesitated a moment, but having two black jacks and a pair of trays, opened with the limit.
"I liffs yo' jess tree dollahs, Toot," said the Reverend Mr. Smith, getting out the wallet and shaking out a wad.
Mr. Gus Johnson, who had a four flush and very little prudence, came in. Mr. Whiffles sighed and fled.
Mr. Williams polished the amethyst, thoroughly examining a scratch on one of its facets, adjusted his collar, skinned his cards, stealthily glanced again at the expression of the Reverend Mr. Smith's eye, and said he would "Jess--jess call."
Mr. Whiffles supplied the wants of the gentleman from the pack with the mechanical air of a man who had lost all hope in a hereafter. Mr. Williams wanted one card, the Reverend Mr. Smith said he'd take about three, and Mr. Gus Johnson expressed a desire for a club, if it was not too much trouble.
Mr. Williams caught another tray, and, being secretly pleased, led out by betting a chip. The Reverend Mr. Smith uproariously slammed down a stack of blue chips and raised him seven dollars.
Mr. Gus Johnson had captured the nine of hearts and so retired.
Mr. Williams had four chips and a dollar left.
"I sees dat seven," he said impressively, "an' I humps it ten mo'."
"Whar's de c'lateral?" queried the Reverend Mr. Smith calmly, but with aggressiveness in his eye.
Mr. Williams sniffed contemptuously, drew off the ring, and deposited it in the pot with such an air as to impress Mr. Whiffles with the idea that the jewel must have been worth at least four million dollars. Then Mr. Williams leaned back in his chair and smiled.
"Whad yer goin' ter do?" asked the Reverend Mr. Smith, deliberately ignoring Mr. Williams's action.
Mr. Williams pointed to the ring and smiled.
"Liff yo' ten dollahs."
"On whad?"
"Dat ring."
"Dat ring?"
"Yezzah." Mr. Williams was still cool.
"Huh!" The Reverend Mr. Smith picked the ring up, examined it scientifically with one eye closed, dropped it several times as if to test its soundness, and then walked across and rasped it several times heavily on the window pane.
"Whad yo' doin' dat for?" excitedly asked Mr. Williams.
A double rasp with the ring was the Reverend Mr. Smith's only reply.
"Gimme dat jule back!" demanded Mr. Williams.
The Reverend Mr. Smith was now vigorously rubbing the setting of the stone on the floor.
"Leggo dat sparkler," said Mr. Williams again.
The Reverend Mr. Smith carefully polished off the scratches by rubbing the ring a while on the sole of his foot. Then he resumed his seat and put the precious thing back into the pot. Then he looked calmly at Mr. Williams, and leaned back in his chair as if waiting for something.
"Is yo' satisfied?" said Mr. Williams, in the tone used by men who have sustained a deep injury.
"Dis is pokah," said the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith.
"I rised yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, pointing to the ring.
"Did yer ever saw three balls hangin' over my do'?" asked the Reverend Mr. Smith. "Doesn't yo' know my name hain't Oppenheimer?"
"Whad yo' mean?" asked Mr. Williams excitedly.
"Pokah am pokah, and dar's no 'casion fer triflin' wif blue glass 'n junk in dis yar club," said the Reverend Mr. Smith.
"I liffs yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, ignoring the insult.
"Pud up de c'lateral," said the Reverend Mr. Smith. "Fo' chips is fohty, 'n a dollah's a dollah fohty, 'n dat's a dollah fohty-fo' cents."
"Whar's de fo' cents?" smiled Mr. Williams, desperately.
The Reverend Mr. Smith pointed to the ring. Mr. Williams rose indignantly, shucked off his coat, hat, vest, suspenders and scarfpin, heaped them on the table, and then sat down and glared at the Reverend Mr. Smith.
Mr. Smith rolled up the coat, put on the hat, threw his own out of the window, gave the ring to Mr. Whiffles, jammed the suspenders into his pocket, and took in the vest, chips and money.
"Dis yar's buglry!" yelled Mr. Williams.
The Reverend Mr. Smith spread out four eights and rose impressively.
"Toot," he said, "doan trifle wif Prov'dence. Because a man wars ten-cent grease 'n' gits his july on de Bowery, hit's no sign dat he kin buck agin cash in a jacker 'n' git a boodle from fo' eights. Yo's now in yo' shirt sleeves 'n' low sperrets, bud de speeyunce am wallyble. I'se willin' ter stan' a beer an' sassenger, 'n' shake 'n' call it squar'. De club'll now 'journ."
THE BUMBLEBEAVER
BY KENYON COX
A cheerful and industrious beast,
He's always humming as he goes
To make mud-houses with his tail
Or gather honey with his nose.
Although he flits from flower to flower
He's not at all a gay deceiver.
We might take lessons by the hour
From busy, buzzy Bumblebeaver.
AFTER THE FUNERAL
BY JAMES M. BAILEY
It was just after the funeral. The bereaved and subdued widow, enveloped in millinery gloom, was seated in the sitting-room with a few sympathizing friends. There was that constrained look so peculiar to the occasion observable on every countenance. The widow sighed.
"How do you feel, my dear?" said her sister.
"Oh! I don't know," said the poor woman, with difficulty restraining her tears. "But I hope everything passed off well."
"Indeed it did," said all the ladies.
"It was as large and respectable a funeral as I have seen this winter," said the sister, looking around upon the others.
"Yes, it was," said the lady from next door. "I was saying to Mrs. Slocum, only ten minutes ago, that the attendance couldn't have been better--the bad going considered."
"Did you see the Taylors?" asked the widow faintly, looking at her sister. "They go so rarely to funerals that I was surprised to see them here."
"Oh, yes! the Taylors were all here," said the sympathizing sister. "As you say, they go but a little: they are so exclusive!"
"I thought I saw the Curtises also," suggested the bereaved woman droopingly.
"Oh, yes!" chimed in several. "They came in their own carriage, too," said the sister, animatedly. "And then there were the Randalls and the Van Rensselaers. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had her cousin from the city with her; and Mrs. Randall wore a very black heavy silk, which I am sure was quite new. Did you see Colonel Haywood and his daughters, love?"
"I thought I saw them; but I wasn't sure. They were here, then, were they?"
"Yes, indeed!" said they all again; and the lady who lived across the way observed:
"The Colonel was very sociable, and inquired most kindly about you, and the sickness of your husband."
The widow smiled faintly. She was gratified by the interest shown by the Colonel.
The friends now rose to go, each bidding her good-by, and expressing the hope that she would be calm. Her sister bowed them out. When she returned, she said:
"You can see, my love, what the neighbors think of it. I wouldn't have had anything unfortunate to happen for a good deal. But nothing did. The arrangements couldn't have been better."
"I think some of the people in the neighborhood must have been surprised to see so many of the uptown people here," suggested the afflicted woman, trying to look hopeful.
"You may be quite sure of that," asserted the sister. "I could see that plain enough by their looks."
"Well, I am glad there is no occasion for talk," said the widow, smoothing the skirt of her dress.
And after that the boys took the chairs home, and the house was put in order.
CASEY AT THE BAT
BY ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to six with just an inning left to play; And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest With that hope that springs eternal within the human breast; For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that They'd put up even money, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake, But the former was a pudding, and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, And the much-despisèd Blaikie tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging third!
Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,
It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell,
It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat;
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face; And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there; Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped: "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore; "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one in the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it; and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, "Fraud!" But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched with hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.
THE MARTYRDOM OF MR. STEVENS
BY HERBERT QUICK
Pietro: Th' offense, it seemeth me,
Is one that by mercy's extremest stretch
Might be o'erpassed.
Cosimo: Never, Pietro, never!
The Brotherhood's honor untouchable
Is touch'd thereby. We build our labyrinth
Of sacred words and potent spells, and all
The deep-involved horrors of our craft--
Its entrance hedg'd about with dreadful oaths,
And every step in thridding it made dank
By dripping terror and out-seeping awe,
Shall it be said that e'en Ludovico
May break our faith and live? Never, say I!
--Vision of Cosimo.
The Bellevale lodge of the Ancient Order of Christian Martyrs held its meetings in the upper story of a tall building. Mr. Alvord called for Amidon at eight, and took him up, all his boldness in the world of business replaced by wariness in the atmosphere of mystery. As he and his companion went into an anteroom and were given broad collars from which were suspended metal badges called "jewels," he felt a good deal like a spy. They walked into the lodge-room where twenty-five or thirty men with similar "jewels" sat smoking and chatting. All seemed to know him, but (much to his relief) before he could be included in the conversation, the gavel fell; certain ones with more elaborate "jewels" and more ornate collars than the rest took higher-backed and more highly upholstered chairs at the four sides of the room, another stood at the door; and still another, in complete uniform, with sword and belt, began hustling the members to seats.
"The Deacon Militant," said the wielder of the gavel, "will report if all present are known and tested members of our Dread and Mystic Conclave."
"All, Most Sovereign Pontiff," responded the Deacon Militant, who proved to be the man in the uniform, "save certain strangers who appear within the confines of our sacred basilica."
"Let them be tested," commanded the Sovereign Pontiff, "and, if brethren, welcomed; if spies, executed!"
Amidon started, and looked about for aid or avenue of escape. Seeing none, he warily watched the Deacon Militant. That officer, walking in the military fashion which, as patristic literature teaches, was adopted by the early Christians, and turning square corners, as was the habit of St. Paul and the Apostles, received whispered passwords from the two or three strangers, and, with a military salute, announced that all present had been put to the test and welcomed. Then, for the first time remembering that he was not among the strangers, so far as known to the lodge, Amidon breathed freely, and rather regretted the absence of executions.
"Bring forth the Mystic Symbols of the Order!" was the next command. The Mystic Symbols were placed on a stand in the middle of the room, and turned out to be a gilt fish about the size of a four-pound bass, a jar of human bones, and a rolled-up scroll said to contain the Gospels. The fish, as explained by the Deacon Militant, typified a great many things connected with early Christianity, and served always as a reminder of the password of the order. The relics in the jar were the bones of martyrs. The scroll was the Book of the Law. Amidon was becoming impressed: the solemn and ornate ritual and the dreadful symbols sent shivers down his inexperienced and unfraternal spine. Breaking in with uninitiated eyes, as he had done, now seemed more and more a crime.
There was an "Opening Ode," which was so badly sung as to mitigate the awe; and an "order of business" solemnly gone through. Under the head "Good of the Order" the visiting brethren spoke as if it were a class-meeting and they giving "testimony," one of them very volubly reminding the assembly of the great principles of the order, and the mighty work it had already accomplished in ameliorating the condition of a lost and wandering world. Amidon felt that he must have been very blind in failing to note this work until it was thus forced on his notice; but he made a mental apology.
"By the way, Brassfield," said Mr. Slater during a recess preceding the initiation of candidates, "you want to give Stevens the best you've got in the Catacombs scene. Will you make it just straight ritual, or throw in some of those specialities of yours?"
"I wish you could have been here when I was put through," went on Mr. Slater. "I don't see how any one but a professional actor, or a person with your dramatic gifts, can do that part at all--it's so sort of ripping and--and intense, you know. I look forward to your rendition of it with a good deal of pleasurable anticipation."
"You don't expect me to do it, do you?" asked Amidon.
"Why, who else?" was the counter-question. "We can't be expected to play on the bench the best man in Pennsylvania in that part, can we?"
"Come, Brassfield," said the Sovereign Pontiff, "get on your regalia for the Catacombs. We are about to begin."
"Oh, say, now!" said Amidon, trying to be off-hand about it, "you must get somebody else."
"What's that! Some one else? Very likely we shall! Very likely!" thus the Sovereign Pontiff with fine scorn. "Come, the regalia, and no nonsense!"
"I--I may be called out at any moment," urged Amidon, amidst an outcry that seemed to indicate a breach with the Martyrs then and there. "There are reasons why--"
Edgington took him aside. "Is there any truth in this story," said he, "that you have had some trouble with Stevens, and discharged him?"
"Oh, that Stevens!" gasped Amidon, as if the whole discussion had hinged on picking out the right one among an army of Stevenses. "Yes, it's true, and I can't help confer this--"
Edgington whispered to the Sovereign Pontiff; and the announcement was made that in the Catacombs scene Brother Brassfield would be excused and Brother Bulliwinkle substituted.
"I know I never, in any plane of consciousness, saw any of this, or knew any of these things," thought Florian. "It is incredible!"
Conviction, however, was forced on him by the fact that he was now made to don a black domino and mask, and to march, carrying a tin-headed spear, with a file of similar figures to examine the candidate, who turned out to be the discharged Stevens, sitting in an anteroom, foolish and apprehensive, and looking withal much as he had done in the counting-room. He was now asked by the leader of the file, in a sepulchral tone, several formal questions, among others whether he believed in a Supreme Being. Stevens gulped, and said "Yes." He was then asked if he was prepared to endure any ordeal to which he might be subjected, and warned unless he possessed nerves of steel, he had better turn back--for which measure there was yet time. Stevens, in a faint voice, indicated that he was ready for the worst, and desired to go on. Then all (except Amidon) in awesome accents intoned, "Be brave and obedient, and all may yet be well!" and they passed back into the lodge-room. Amidon was now thoroughly impressed, and wondered whether Stevens would be able to endure the terrible trials hinted at.
Clad in a white robe, "typifying innocence," and marching to minor music played upon a piano, Stevens was escorted several times around the darkened room, stopping from time to time at the station of some officer, to receive highly improving lectures. Every time he was asked if he were willing to do anything, or believed anything, he said "Yes." Finally, with the Scroll of the Law in one hand, and with the other resting on the Bones of Martyrs, surrounded by the brethren, whose drawn swords and leveled spears threatened death, he repeated an obligation which bound him not to do a great many things, and to keep the secrets of the order. To Amidon it seemed really awful--albeit somewhat florid in style; and when Alvord nudged him at one passage in the obligation, he resented it as an irreverence. Then he noted that it was a pledge to maintain the sanctity of the family circle of brother Martyrs, and Alvord's reference of the night before to the obligation as affecting his association with the "strawberry blonde" took on new and fearful meaning.
Stevens seemed to be vibrating between fright and a tendency to laugh, as the voice of some well-known fellow citizen rumbled out from behind a deadly weapon. He was marched out, to the same minor music, and the first act was ended.
The really esoteric part of it, Amidon felt, was to come, as he could see no reason for making a secret of these very solemn and edifying matters. Stevens felt very much the same way about it, and was full of expectancy when informed that the next degree would test his obedience. He highly resolved to obey to the letter.
The next act disclosed Stevens hoodwinked, and the room light. He was informed that he was in the Catacombs, familiar to the early Christians, and must make his way alone and in darkness, following the Clue of Faith which was placed in his hands. This Clue was a white cord similar to the sort used by masons (in the building-trades). He groped his way along by it to the station of the next officer, who warned him of the deadly consequences of disobedience. Thence he made his way onward, holding to the Clue of Faith--until he touched a trigger of some sort, which let down upon him an avalanche of tinware and such light and noisy articles, which frightened him so that he started to run, and was dexteriously tripped by the Deacon Militant and a spearman, and caught in a net held by two others. A titter ran about the room.
"Obey," thundered the Vice-Pontiff, "and all will be well!"
Stevens resumed the Clue. At the station of the next officer to whom it brought him, the nature of faith was explained to him, and he was given the password, "Ichthus," whispered so that all in that part of the room could hear the interdicted syllables. But he was adjured never, never to utter it, unless to the Guardian of the Portal on entering the lodge, to the Deacon Militant on the opening thereof, or to a member, when he, Stevens, should become Sovereign Pontiff. Then he was faced toward the Vice-Pontiff, and told to answer loudly and distinctly the questions asked him.
"What is the lesson inculcated in this Degree?" asked the Vice-Pontiff from the other end of the room.
"Obedience!" shouted Stevens in reply.
"What is the password of this Degree?"
"Ichthus!" responded Stevens.
A roll of stage-thunder sounded deafeningly over his head. The piano was swept by a storm of bass passion; and deep cries of "Treason! Treason!" echoed from every side. Poor Stevens tottered, and fell into a chair placed by the Deacon Militant. He saw the enormity of the deed of shame he had committed. He had told the password!
"You have all heard this treason," said the Sovereign Pontiff, in the deepest of chest-tones--"a treason unknown in all the centuries of the past! What is the will of the conclave?"
"I would imprecate on the traitor's head," said a voice from one of the high-backed chairs, "the ancient doom of the Law!"
"Doom, doom!" said all in unison, holding the "oo" in a most blood-curdling way. "Pronounce doom!"
"One fate, and one alone," pronounced the Sovereign Pontiff, "can be yours. Brethren, let him forthwith be encased in the Chest of the Clanking Chains, and hurled from the Tarpeian Rock, to be dashed in fragments at its stony base!"
Amidon's horror was modified by the evidences of repressed glee with which this sentence was received. Yet he felt a good deal of concern as they brought out a great chest, threw the struggling Stevens into it, slammed down the ponderous lid and locked it. Stevens kicked at the lid, but said nothing. The members leaped with joy. A great chain was brought and wrapped clankingly about the chest.
"Let me out," now yelled the Christian Martyr. "Let me out, damn you!"
"Doom, do-o-o-oom!" roared the voices; and said the Sovereign Pontiff in impressive tones, "Proceed with the execution!"
Now the chest was slung up to a hook in the ceiling, and gradually drawn back by a pulley until it was far above the heads of the men, the chains meanwhile clanking continually against the receptacle, from which came forth a stream of smothered profanity.
"Hurl him down to the traitor's death!" shouted the Sovereign Pontiff. The chest was loosed, and swung like a pendulum lengthwise of the room, down almost to the floor and up nearly to the ceiling. The profanity now turned into a yell of terror. The Martyrs slapped one another's backs and grew blue in the face with laughter. At a signal, a light box was placed where the chest would crush it (which it did with a sound like a small railway collision); the chest was stopped and the lid raised.
"Let the body receive Christian burial," said the Sovereign Pontiff. "Our vengeance ceases with death."
This truly Christian sentiment was received with universal approval. Death seemed to all a good place at which to stop.
"Brethren," said the Deacon Militant, as he struggled with the resurgent Stevens, "there seems some life here! Methinks the heart beats, and--"
The remainder of the passage from the ritual was lost to Amidon by reason of the fact that Stevens had placed one foot against the Deacon's stomach and hurled that august officer violently to the floor.
"Let every test of life be applied," said the Sovereign Pontiff. "Perchance some higher will than ours decrees his preservation. Take the body hence for a time; if possible, restore him to life, and we will consider his fate."
The recess which followed was clearly necessary to afford an opportunity for the calming of the risibilities of the Martyrs. The stage, too, had to be reset. Amidon's ethnological studies had not equaled his reading in belles-lettres, and he was unable to see the deep significance of these rites from an historical standpoint, and that here was a survival of those orgies to which our painted and skin-clad ancestors devoted themselves in spasms of religious frenzy, gazed at by the cave-bear and the mammoth. The uninstructed Amidon regarded them as inconceivable horse-play. While thus he mused, Stevens, who was still hoodwinked and being greatly belectured on the virtue of Faith and the duty of Obedience, reëntered on his ordeal.
He was now informed by the officer at the other end of the room that every man must ascend into the Mountains of Temptation and be tested, before he could be pronounced fit for companionship with Martyrs. Therefore, a weary climb heavenward was before him, and a great trial of his fidelity. On his patience, daring and fortitude depended all his future in the Order. He was marched to a ladder and bidden to ascend.
"I," said the Deacon Militant, "upon this companion stair will accompany you."
But there was no other ladder and the Deacon Militant had to stand upon a chair.
Up the ladder labored Stevens, but, though he climbed manfully, he remained less than a foot above the floor. The ladder went down like a treadmill, as Stevens climbed--it was an endless ladder rolled down on Stevens' side and up on the other. The Deacon Militant, from his perch on the chair, encouraged Stevens to climb faster so as not to be outstripped. With labored breath and straining muscles he climbed, the Martyrs rolling on the floor in merriment all the more violent because silent. Amidon himself laughed to see this strenuous climb, so strikingly like human endeavor, which puts the climber out of breath, and raises him not a whit--except in temperature. At the end of perhaps five minutes, when Stevens might well have believed himself a hundred feet above the roof, he had achieved a dizzy height of perhaps six feet, on the summit of a stage-property mountain, where he stood beside the Deacon Militant, his view of the surrounding plain cut off by papier-mâché clouds, and facing a foul fiend, to whom the Deacon Militant confided that here was a candidate to be tested and qualified. Whereupon the foul fiend remarked "Ha, ha!" and bade them bind him to the Plutonian Thunderbolt and hurl him down to the nether world. The thunderbolt was a sort of toboggan on rollers, for which there was a slide running down presumably to the nether world, above mentioned.
The hoodwink was removed, and Stevens looked about him, treading warily, like one on the top of a tower; the great height of the mountain made him giddy. Obediently he lay face downward on the thunderbolt, and yielded up his wrists and ankles to fastenings provided for them.
"They're not going to lower him with those cords, are they?"
It was a stage-whisper from the darkness which spake thus.
"Oh, I guess it's safe enough!" said another, in the same sort of agitated whisper.
"Safe!" was the reply. "I tell you, it's sure to break! Some one stop 'em--"
To the heart of the martyred Stevens these words struck panic. But as he opened his mouth to protest, the catastrophe occurred. There was a snap, and the toboggan shot downward. Bound as he was, the victim could see below him a brick wall right across the path of his descent. He was helpless to move; it was useless to cry out. For all that, as he felt in imagination the crushing shock of his head driven like a battering-ram against this wall, he uttered a roar such as from Achilles might have roused armed nations to battle. And even as he did so, his head touched the wall, there was a crash, and Stevens lay safe on a mattress after his ten-foot slide, surrounded by fragments of red-and-white paper which had lately been a wall. He was pale and agitated, and generally done for; but tremendously relieved when he had assured himself of the integrity of his cranium. This he did by repeatedly feeling of his head, and looking at his fingers for sanguinary results. As Amidon looked at him, he repented of what he had done to this thoroughly maltreated fellow man. After the Catacombs scene, which was supposed to be impressive, and some more of the "secret" work, everybody crowded about Stevens, now invested with the collar and "jewel" of Martyrhood, and laughed, and congratulated him as on some great achievement, while he looked half-pleased and half-bored. Amidon, with the rest, greeted him, and told him that after his vacation was over, he hoped to see him back at the office.
"That was a fine exemplification of the principles of the Order," said Alvord as they went home.
"What was?" said Amidon.
"Hiring old Stevens back," answered Alvord. "You've got to live your principles, or they don't amount to much."
"Suppose some fellow should get into a lodge," asked Amidon, "who had never been initiated?"
"Well," said Alvord, "there isn't much chance of that. I shouldn't dare to say. You can't tell what the fellows would do when such sacred things were profaned, you know. You couldn't tell what they might do!"
THE WILD BOARDER
BY KENYON COX
His figure's not noted for grace;
You may not much care for his face;
But a twenty-yard dash,
When he hears the word "hash,"
He can take at a wonderful pace.
DE GRADUAL COMMENCE
BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY
Oui, Oui, M'sieu, I'm mos' happee,
My ches' wid proud expan',
I feel de bes' I evere feel,
An' over all dis lan'
Dere's none set op so moch as me;
You'll know w'en I am say
My leddle daughter Madeline
Is gradual to-day.
She is de ver' mos' smartes' gairl
Dat I am evere know,
I'm fin' dis out, de teacher, he
Is tol' me dat is so;
She is so smart dat she say t'ings
I am no understan',
She is know more dan any one
Dat leeve on ol' Ste. Anne.
De Gradual Commence is hol'
Down at de gr'ad beeg hall,
W'ere plaintee peopl' can gat seat
For dem to see it all.
De School Board wid dere president,
Dey sit opon front row,
Dey look so stiff an' dignify,
For w'at I am not know.
De classe dat mak' de "gradual"
Dey're on de stage, you see,
In semi-cirque dat face de peop',
Some scare as dey can be;
Den wan of dem dey all mak' spe'k,
Affer de nodder's t'roo,
Dis tak' dem 'bout t'ree hour an' half
De hull t'ing for to do.
Ma Madeline she is all feex op,
Mos' beautiful to see,
In nice w'ite drass, my wife he buy
Overe to Kankakee.
An' when she rise to mak' de spe'k
How smart she look on face,
Dey all expec' somet'ing dey hear,
Dere's hush fall on de place.
She tell us how to mak' de leeve,
How raise beeg familee;
She tell it all so smood an' plain
Dat you can't help but see;
An' how she learn her all of dat
Ees more dan I can say,
But she is know it, for she talk
In smartes' kind of way.
W'en all is t'roo de president
De sheepskin he geeve 'way;
Dey're all nice print opon dem,
An' dis is w'at dey say:
"To dem dat is concern' wid dese
Presents you onderstan'
De h'owner dese; is gradual
At High School on Ste. Anne."
An' now dat she is gradual
She ees know all about
De world an' how to mak' it run
From inside to de out;
For dis is one de primere t'ings
W'at she is learn, you see,
Dat long beeg word I can pronounce,
It's call philosophee.
An' you can' blame me if I am
Ver' proud an' puff op so,
To hav' a daughter like dis wan
Dat's everyt'ing she know.
No wonder dat I gat beeg head,
My hat's too small, dey say--
Ma leddle daughter Madeline
Is gradual to-day.
ABOU BEN BUTLER
BY JOHN PAUL
Abou, Ben Butler (may his tribe be less!)
Awoke one night from a deep bottledness,
And saw, by the rich radiance of the moon,
Which shone and shimmered like a silver spoon,
A stranger writing on a golden slate
(Exceeding store had Ben of spoons and plate),
And to the stranger in his tent he said:
"Your little game?" The stranger turned his head,
And, with a look made all of innocence,
Replied: "I write the name of Presidents."
"And is mine one?" "Not if this court doth know
Itself," replied the stranger. Ben said, "Oh!"
And "Ah!" but spoke again: "Just name your price
To write me up as one that may be Vice."
The stranger up and vanished. The next night
He came again, and showed a wondrous sight
Of names that haply yet might fill the chair--
But, lo! the name of Butler was not there!
LATTER-DAY WARNINGS
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
When legislators keep the law,
When banks dispense with bolts and locks,--
When berries--whortle, rasp, and straw--
Grow bigger downwards through the box,--
When he that selleth house or land
Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,--
When haberdashers choose the stand
Whose window hath the broadest light,--
When preachers tell us all they think,
And party leaders all they mean,--
When what we pay for, that we drink,
From real grape and coffee-bean,--
When lawyers take what they would give,
And doctors give what they would take,--
When city fathers eat to live,
Save when they fast for conscience' sake,--
When one that hath a horse on sale
Shall bring his merit to the proof,
Without a lie for every nail
That holds the iron on the hoof,--
When in the usual place for rips
Our gloves are stitched with special care,
And guarded well the whalebone tips
Where first umbrellas need repair,--
When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot
The power of suction to resist,
And claret-bottles harbor not
Such dimples as would hold your fist,--
When publishers no longer steal,
And pay for what they stole before,--
When the first locomotive's wheel
Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's bore;--
Till then let Cumming blaze away,
And Miller's saints blow up the globe;
But when you see that blessed day,
Then order your ascension robe!
IT PAYS TO BE HAPPY
BY TOM MASSON
She is so gay, so very gay,
And not by fits and starts,
But ever, through each livelong day
She's sunshine to all hearts.
A tonic is her merry laugh!
So wondrous is her power
That listening grief would stop and chaff
With her from hour to hour.
Disease before that cheery smile
Grows dim, begins to fade.
A Christian scientist, meanwhile,
Is this delightful maid.
And who would not throw off dull care
And be like unto her,
When happiness brings, as her share,
One hundred dollars per ----?
JAMES AND REGINALD
BY EUGENE FIELD
Once upon a Time there was a Bad boy whose Name was Reginald and there was a Good boy whose Name was James. Reginald would go Fishing when his Mamma told him Not to, and he Cut off the Cat's Tail with the Bread Knife one Day, and then told Mamma the Baby had Driven it in with the Rolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when his Mamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go into a Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said. That is why they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came Christmas. Mamma said, You have been so Bad, my son Reginald, you will not Get any Presents from Santa Claus this Year; but you, my son James, will get Oodles of Presents, because you have Been Good. Will you Believe it, Children, that Bad boy Reginald said he didn't Care a Darn and he Kicked three Feet of Veneering off the Piano just for Meanness. Poor James was so sorry for Reginald that he cried for Half an Hour after he Went to Bed that Night. Reginald lay wide Awake until he saw James was Asleep and then he Said if these people think they can Fool me, they are Mistaken. Just then Santa Claus came down the Chimney. He had Lots of Pretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes and Pretended to be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said, Reginald is Bad and I will not Put any nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James, I will Fill your Stocking Plum full of Toys, because You are Good. So Santa Claus went to Work and Put, Oh! heaps and Heaps of Goodies in James' stocking, but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald's stocking. And then he Laughed to himself and Said I guess Reginald will be Sorry to-morrow because he Was so Bad. As he said this he Crawled up the chimney and rode off in his Sleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots Reginald was no Spring Chicken. He just Got right Straight out of Bed and changed all those Toys and Truck from James' stocking into his own. Santa Claus will Have to Sit up all Night, said He, when he Expects to get away with my Baggage. The next morning James got out of Bed and when He had Said his Prayers he Limped over to his Stocking, licking his chops and Carrying his Head as High as a Bull going through a Brush Fence. But when he found there was Nothing in his stocking and that Reginald's Stocking was as Full as Papa Is when he comes home Late from the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and began to Wonder why on Earth he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent a Happy Christmas and James was very Miserable. After all, Children, it Pays to be Bad, so Long as you Combine Intellect with Crime.
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Literature · Humor
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. (of X.) 20
