Part II

Part II

She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn’t even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She gave up mending her father’s breeks, And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she follow’d him o’er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is consider’d a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

Equally marvelous in its assured touch and utter lack of mere burlesque exaggeration is his parody of Browning.

THE COCK AND THE BULL

You see this pebble-stone? It’s a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day. I like to dock the smaller parts o’ speech, As we curtail the already cur-tail’d cur-- (You catch the paronomasia, play ’po’ words?) Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange-- “Chop” was my snickering dandiprat’s own term-- One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm. O-n-e one, and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence--you are with me, sir?-- What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see--bar a spit o’ rain!) In February, eighteen, sixty-nine, Alexandria Victoria, Fidei-- Hm--hm--how runs the jargon? being on the throne. Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum--what you will-- Of the impending eighty thousand lines. “Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there’s a superstructure. Wait a bit. Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling--and for matter o’ that, the pence-- I had o’ course upo’ me--wi’ me say-- (Mecum’s the Latin, make a note o’ that) When I popp’d pen i’ stand, scratch’d ear, wiped snout, (Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff’d--tch!--at snuff-box; tumbled up, teheed, Haw-haw’d (not hee-haw’d, that’s another guess thing), Then fumbled at and stumbled out of, door. I shoved the timber ope wi’ my omoplat; And in vestibulo, i’ the lobby to wit (Iacobi Facciolati’s rendering, sir), Donn’d galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i’ my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o’ rain, I flopp’d forth, ’sbuddikins! on my own ten toes (I do assure you there be ten of them), And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o’ the sudden i’ front o’ the boy. But case I hadn’t ’em on me, could I ha’ bought This sort-o’-kind-o’-what-you-might-call toy, This pebble thing, o’ the boy-thing? Q. E. D. That’s proven without aid from mumping Pope, Sleek proporate or bloated Cardinal. (Isn’t it, old Fatchaps? You’re in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling--having i’ fact a lot-- And pence and halfpence, ever so many o’ them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (lapis, lapidis,-di,-dem,-de-- What nouns ’crease short i’ the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?) O’ the boy, a bare-legg’d beggarly son of a gun, For one and fourpence. Here we are again. Now Law steps in, bigwigg’d, voluminous-jaw’d; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.

At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) vice versa all the coin, Per juris operationem, vests I’ the boy and his assigns till ding o’ doom; (In sæcula sæculo-o-o-rum; I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them. Confer some idiot on Conveyancing.

Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem (I fancy, sir, my Latin’s rather pat), Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should (Subaudi cætera--clap we to the close-- For what’s the good of Law in a case o’ the kind), Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o’ the tale.

Now for a touch o’ the vendor’s quality. He says a gen’lman bought a pebble of him (This pebble i’ sooth, sir, which I hold i’ my hand), And paid for’t, like a gen’lman, on the nail. “Did I o’ercharge him a ha’penny? Devil a bit. Fiddlepin’s end! Get out, you blazing ass! Gabble o’ the goose. Don’t bugaboo-baby me! Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what’s the odds?” There’s the transaction view’d i’ the vendor’s light.

Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy blowsy brats o’ babes, The scum o’ the kennel, cream o’ the filth-heap--Faugh! Aie, aie, aie, aie! οτοτοτοτοτοι (’Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now), And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Jill, Blear’d Goody this and queasy Gaffer that. Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.

He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square, And carry it off per saltum, jauntily, Propria quae maribus, gentleman’s property now (Agreeably to the law explain’d above), In proprium usum, for his private ends, The boy he chuck’d a brown i’ the air, and bit I’ the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by (And hit her, dead as nail i’ post o’ door), Then abiit--what’s the Ciceronian phrase?-- Excessit, evasit, erupit--off slogs boy; Off like bird, avi similis--you observed The dative? Pretty i’ the Mantuan!)--Anglice Off in three flea skips. Hactenus, so far, So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male,-- Where was I with my trope ’bout one in a quag? I did once hitch the syntax into verse: Verbum personale, a verb personal, Concordat--ay, “agrees,” old Fatchaps--cum Nominativo, with its nominative, Genere, i’ point o’ gender, numero, O’ number, et persona, and person. Ut, Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et, and, Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I’m going mad. You see the trick on ’t though, and can yourself Continue the discourse ad libitum. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at; And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands, Extend from here to Mesopotamy.

While the style of Jean Ingelow is thus genially made fun of.

LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Through God’s own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitterbats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing (Boats in that climate are so polite), And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Through the rare red heather we danced together, (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:--

By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Through becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In “fortunate parallels!” Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock’s eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky-- They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem; They need no parasols, no galoshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst his heather) That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)-- Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie ’gan sing--(O, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)-- Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry”:

Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William’s carol (O love my Willie!) When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe To-morrow I quite forget what--say a daffodilly:

A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,” I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden-- A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, And all least furlable things got “furled”; Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.”

* * * * *

O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together this genial weather, And carted, or carried on wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out--ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be!

ODE TO TOBACCO

Thou who, when fears attack, Bid’st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman’s back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they’ve cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost-- Useless, except to roast-- Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones--(who, I’m glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)-- Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We’re not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here’s to thee, Bacon!

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson is better known as Lewis Carroll, though during his lifetime, the author of Alice was extremely careful to preserve a decided distinction between the College Don and the writer of nonsense.

Lewis Carroll was the first to produce coherent humor in the form of sheer nonsense, and his work, often imitated, has never been equaled.

Beside the Alice books he wrote several volumes only a degree less wise and witty in the nonsense vein.

But few selections can be given.

JABBERWOCKY

(From Through the Looking-Glass)

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought-- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

WAYS AND MEANS

I’ll tell thee everything I can; There’s little to relate. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. “Who are you, aged man?” I said, “And how is it you live?” His answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve.

He said, “I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men,” he said, “Who sail on stormy seas; And that’s the way I get my bread-- A trifle, if you please.”

But I was thinking of a plan To dye one’s whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, “Come, tell me how you live!” And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale; He said, “I go my ways And when I find a mountain-rill I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland’s Macassar Oil-- Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil.”

But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue; “Come, tell me how you live,” I cried, “And what it is you do!”

He said, “I hunt for haddock’s eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny And that will purchase nine.

“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of Hansom cabs. And that’s the way” (he gave a wink) “By which I get my wealth-- And very gladly will I drink Your Honor’s noble health.”

I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai Bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health.

And now if e’er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know-- Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly, and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo-- That summer evening, long ago, A-sitting on a gate.

SOME HALLUCINATIONS

He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. “At length I realize,” he said, “The bitterness of Life!”

He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister’s Husband’s Niece. “Unless you leave this house,” he said, “I’ll send for the Police!”

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. “The one thing I regret,” he said, “Is that it cannot speak!”

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk Descending from the ’bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus: “If this should stay to dine,” he said, “There won’t be much for us!”

Edward Lear, contemporary of Lewis Carroll, is the only peer of the great writer of nonsense.

Lear’s nonsense is in different vein, but his verses are equally facile and felicitous and his prose quite as delightfully extravagant.

If Carroll’s imagination was more exquisitely fanciful, Lear’s had a broader scope, and both writers are masters of that peculiar combination of paradox and reasoning that makes for delightful surprise.

Lear was the first to make popular the style of stanza since called a Limerick, though the derivation of this name has never been satisfactorily determined.

There was an old man of Thermopylæ, Who never did anything properly; But they said: “If you choose To boil eggs in your shoes, You cannot remain in Thermopylæ.”

There was an Old Man who said, “Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush!” When they said, “Is it small?” He replied, “Not at all; It is four times as big as the bush!”

There was an Old Man who supposed That the street door was partially closed; But some very large Rats Ate his coats and his hats, While that futile Old Gentleman dozed.

There was an Old Man of Leghorn, The smallest that ever was born; But quickly snapt up he Was once by a Puppy, Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn.

There was an Old Man of Kamschatka Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur; His gait and his waddle Were held as a model To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka.

THE TWO OLD BACHELORS

Two old Bachelors were living in one house One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse, “This happens just in time, for we’ve nothing in the house, Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey, And what to do for dinner,--since we haven’t any money? And what can we expect if we haven’t any dinner But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?”

Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin, “We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin’! If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well, But how to get that Stuffin’ it is difficult to tell!”

And then these two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round.

But some one said, “A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth; And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,-- An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up and seize him by the toes,--all studious as he sits,-- And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits! Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps), And your Stuffin’ will be ready, and very good--perhaps.”

And then these two old Bachelors, without loss of time, The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book. “You earnest Sage!” aloud they cried, “your book you’ve read enough in! We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin’!”

But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book At those two Bachelors’ bald heads a certain aim he took; And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,-- At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town; And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin’) The Mouse had fled--and previously had eaten up the Muffin.

They left their home in silence by the once convivial door; And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, whose marvelous mastery of the lyric is well known, is not so noted as a humorist.

Yet his parodies are among the finest in the language. His day was the Golden Age of Parody, and the writers who achieved it were true poets and true wits.

This parody of Tennyson is alike a perfect mimicry of sound and sense.

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is; Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.

Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight; Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.

Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels; God, once caught in the fact, shews you a fair pair of heels.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which; The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.

One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks; Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.

Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew. You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.

Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock; Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.

God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.

Swinburne’s parody of his own work is beautifully done in

NEPHELIDIA

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor’s appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death; Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude’s breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,-- “Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.” Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men’s rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things: Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

Henry Austin Dobson, better known without his first name, was a skillful writer of beautiful vers de société.

He also wrote much in the French Forms and seemed to find them in no way trammeling.

ON A FAN

THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR

(Ballade)

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,-- This was the Pompadour’s fan!

See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Œil de Bœuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falaba, queue, Cardinal, duke,--to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,-- This was the Pompadour’s fan!

Ah, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez-vous Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began;-- Here was the sign and the cue,-- This was the Pompadour’s fan!

Envoy

Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? --But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour’s fan!

THE ROUNDEAU

You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write A Rondeau. What! forthwith?--tonight? Reflect? Some skill I have, ’tis true; But thirteen lines!--and rhymed on two!-- “Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight! Still there are five lines--ranged aright. These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright My easy Muse. They did, till you-- You bid me try!

That makes them eight.--The port’s in sight; ’Tis all because your eyes are bright! Now just a pair to end in “oo,”-- When maids command, what can’t we do? Behold! The Rondeau--tasteful, light-- You bid me try!

Andrew Lang was perhaps the most versatile writer among English bookmen of his day. Verse or prose, religious research or translations, to each and all he gives his individual touch,--light, airy, humorous.

Fairies, Dreams and Ghosts are all his happy hunting ground, and he was one of the first to experiment with the old French Forms, in which he gave his own delightful fancy free play, while adhering strictly to the inflexible rules.

BALLAD OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST

I am an ancient Jest! Paleolithic man In his arboreal nest The sparks of fun would fan; My outline did he plan, And laughed like one possessed, ’Twas thus my course began, I am a Merry Jest.

I am an early Jest! Man delved and built and span; Then wandered South and West The peoples Aryan, I journeyed in their van; The Semites, too, confessed,-- From Beersheba to Dan,-- I am a Merry Jest.

I am an ancient Jest, Through all the human clan, Red, black, white, free, oppressed, Hilarious I ran! I’m found in Lucian, In Poggio, and the rest, I’m dear to Moll and Nan! I am a Merry Jest!

Prince, you may storm and ban-- Joe Millers are a pest, Suppress me if you can! I am a Merry Jest!

BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME

Oh, where are the endless Romances Our grandmothers used to adore? The knights with their helms and their lances, Their shields and the favours they wore? And the monks with their magical lore? They have passed to Oblivion and Nox, They have fled to the shadowy shore,-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And where the poetical fancies Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? The lyric’s melodious expanses, The epics in cantos a score, They have been and are not: no more Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, Nor the ladies their languors deplore,-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And the music! The songs and the dances? The tunes that time may not restore? And the tomes where Divinity prances? And the pamphlets where heretics roar? They have ceased to be even a bore,-- The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,-- They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core, They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

Envoy

Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, On the chest without cover or locks, Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

William Schwenck Gilbert began as a youth his humorous contributions to magazines, which included the immortal Bab Ballads.

Ten years later he joined forces with the composer, Arthur Sullivan, and the result of this collaboration was the well known series of operas of which Trial By Jury was the first.

Gilbert is second to none in humorous paradoxical thought and sprightly and clever versification. His themes, subtle and fantastic, are worked out with a serious absurdity as truly witty as it is charming.

THE MIGHTY MUST

Come mighty Must! Inevitable Shall! In thee I trust. Time weaves my coronal! Go mocking Is! Go disappointing Was! That I am this Ye are the cursed cause! Yet humble second shall be first, I ween; And dead and buried be the curst Has Been!

Of weak Might Be! Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should! How powerless ye For evil or for good! In every sense Your moods I cheerless call, Whate’er your tense Ye are imperfect, all! Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown In ye! Away! The Mighty Must alone Shall be!

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE

By a Miserable Wretch.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of Space Roll on! What though I’m in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache’s ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never you mind! Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air, Roll on! It’s true I have no shirts to wear; It’s true my butcher’s bill is due; It’s true my prospects all look blue-- But don’t let that unsettle you: Never you mind! Roll on! (It rolls on).

GENTLE ALICE BROWN

It was a robber’s daughter, and her name was Alice Brown, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn’t of her parents that I’m going for to sing.

As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, “I could be happy with a gentleman like you!”

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen; She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, A sorter in the Custom House it was his daily road (The Custom House was fifteen minutes’ walk from her abode).

But Alice was a pious girl and knew it was not wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes, So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed-- The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

“Oh holy father,” Alice said, “’twould grieve you, would it not? To discover that I was a most disreputable lot! Of all unhappy sinners I’m the most unhappy one!” The padre said “Whatever have you been and gone and done?”

“I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I’ve assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I’ve planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!”

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear-- And said “You mustn’t judge yourself too heavily, my dear-- It’s wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.

“Girls will be girls--you’re very young and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn’t be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let’s see--five crimes at half a crown--exactly twelve-and six.”

“Oh father,” little Alice cried, “your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh, there is another crime I haven’t mentioned yet!

“A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,-- I’ve noticed at my window, as I’ve sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I’ve winked at him, and he has winked at me!”

“For shame,” said Father Paul, “my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

“This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many, many years they’ve kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

“The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood Have nothing to confess, they’re so ridiculously good; And if you marry anyone respectable at all, Why, you’ll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?”

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said, “I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

“I’ve studied human nature, and I know a thing or two; Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do, A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small.”

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

Francis C. Burnand, writer of many comedies and burlesques, was a long time editor of Punch and wrote much of his best work for that paper.

One of his most delightful songs, so successfully sung by the Vokes family is:

TRUE TO POLL

I’ll sing you a song, not very long, But the story somewhat new Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did, To his Poll was always true. He sailed away in a galliant ship From the port of old Bris_tol_, And the last words he uttered, As his hankercher he fluttered, Were, “My heart is true to Poll.”

His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll. It’s no matter what you do If your heart be only true: And his heart was true to Poll.

’Twas a wreck. Willi_am_, on shore he swam, And looked about for an inn; When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady, Came up with a kind of grin: “Oh, marry me, and a king you’ll be, And in a palace loll; Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.” So he gave his hand, did Billy, But his heart was true to Poll.

Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led As the King of the Kikeryboos; His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella, And he wore a pair of over-shoes! He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives, Whose beauties I cannot here extol; One day they all revolted, So he back to Bristol bolted, For his heart was true to Poll.

His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll. It’s no matter what you do, If your heart be only true: And his heart was true to Poll.

William Ernest Henley, though better known for his serious work, waxed humorous, especially when making excursions into the artificial verse forms.

VILLANELLE

Now ain’t they utterly too-too (She ses, my Missus mine, ses she) Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool ’em--nice and skew Upon our old meogginee, Now ain’t they utterly too-too?

They’re better than a pot’n’ a screw, They’re equal to a Sunday spree, Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put ’em up the flue, And booze the profits, Joe? Not me. Now ain’t they utterly too-too?

I do the ’Igh Art fake, I do. Joe, I’m consummate; and I see Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which, Joe, is why I ses to you-- Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free-- Now ain’t they utterly too-too, Them flymy little bits of Blue?

Robert Louis Stevenson’s humor consists in an extravagance and whimsicality of thought and expression and is usually subservient to a greater intent.

His delightful Child’s Verses show quiet roguery and humorous conceits.

The lovely cow, all red and white, I love with all my heart; She gives me milk with all her might To eat on apple tart.

The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.

This original style of Juvenile verse, often imitated, has rarely been successful in the hands of lesser artists.

James Matthew Barrie, one of the finest English humorists, may not be quoted successfully because his work is only found in sustained stories or plays, and few brief extracts will bear separation from their contexts.

A short passage from A Window in Thrums will hint at the delightfulness of Barrie’s humor.

A HUMOURIST ON HIS CALLING

Tammas put his foot on the pail.

“I tak no credit,” he said modestly, on the evening, I remember, of Willie Pyatt’s funeral, “in bein’ able to speak wi’ a sort o’ faceelity on topics ’at I’ve made my ain.”

“Aye,” said T’nowhead, “but it’s no faceelity o’ speakin’ ’at taks me. There’s Davit Lunan ’at can speak like as if he had learned if aff a paper, an’ yet I canna thole ’im.”

“Davit,” said Hendry, “doesna speak in a wy ’at a body can follow ’im. He doesna gae even on. Jess says he’s juist like a man aye at the cross-roads, an’ no sure o’ his way. But the stock has words, an’ no ilka body has that.”

“If I was bidden to put Tammas’s gift in a word,” said T’nowhead, “I would say ’at he had a wy. That’s what I would say.”

“Weel, I suppose I have,” Tammas admitted, “but, wy or no wy, I couldna put a point on my words if it wasna for my sense o’ humour. Lads, humour’s what gies the nip to speakin’.”

“It’s what maks ye a sarcesticist, Tammas,” said Hendry; “but what I wonder at is yer sayin’ the humorous things sae aisy-like. Some says ye mak them up aforehand, but I ken that’s no true.”

“No, only is’t no true,” said Tammas, “but it couldna be true. Them ’at says sic things, an’ weel I ken you’re meanin’ Davit Lunan, hasna nae idea o’ what humour is. It’s a thing ’at spouts oot o’ its ain accord. Some o’ the maist humorous things I’ve ever said cam oot, as a body may say, by themselves.”

“I suppose that’s the case,” said T’nowhead; “an’ yet it maun be you ’at brings them up?”

“There’s no nae doubt about its bein’ the case,” said Tammas; “for I’ve watched mysel’ often. There was a vera guid instance occurred sune after I married Easie. The earl’s son met me one day, aboot that time, i’ the Tenements, an’ he didna ken ’at Chirsty was deid, an’ I’d married again. ‘Well, Haggart,’ he says, in his frank wy, ‘and how is your wife?’ ‘She’s vera weel, sir,’ I maks answer, ‘but she’s no the ane you mean.’”

“Na, he meant Chirsty,” said Hendry.

“Is that a’ the story?” asked T’nowhead

Tammas had been looking at us queerly.

“There’s no nane o’ ye lauchin’,” he said, “but I can assure ye the earl’s son gaed east the toon lauchin’ like onything.”

“But what was’t he lauched at?”

“Ou,” said Tammas, “a humourist doesna tell whaur the humour comes in.”

“No, but when you said that, did ye mean it to be humourous?”

“Am no sayin’ I did, but as I’ve been tellin’ ye humour spouts oot by itsel’.”

“Aye, but do ye ken noo what the earl’s son gaed awa lauchin’ at?”

Tammas hesitated.

“I dinna exactly see’t,” he confessed, “but that’s no an oncommon thing. A humourist would often no ken ’at he was are if it wasna by the wy he maks other fowk lauch. A body canna be expeckit baith to mak the joke an’ to see’t. Na, that would be doin’ twa fowks’ wark.”

“Weel, that’s reasonable enough, but I’ve often seen ye lauchin’,” said Hendry, “lang afore other fowk lauched.”

“Nae doubt,” Tammas explained, “an’ that’s because humour has twa sides, juist like a penny piece. When I say a humorous thing mysel’ I’m dependent on other fowk to tak note o’ the humour o’t, bein’ mysel’ taen up wi’ the makkin’ o’t. Aye, but there’s things I see an’ hear at’ maks me laucht, an’ that’s the other side o’ humour.”

“I never heard it put sae plain afore,” said T’nowhead, “an’, sal, am no nane sure but what am a humourist too.”

“Na, na, no you, T’nowhead,” said Tammas hotly.

* * * * *

Sir Owen Seaman, present editor of Punch, is also one of the finest parodists of all time. His humorous verse of all varieties is in the first rank.

A NOCTURNE AT DANIELI’S

(Suggested by Browning’s A Toccata of Galuppi’s.)

Caro mio, Pulcinello, kindly hear my wail of woe Lifted from a noble structure--late Palazzo Dandolo.

This is Venice, you will gather, which is full of precious “stones,” Tintorettos, picture-postcards, and remains of Doges’ bones.

Not of these am I complaining; they are mostly seen by day, And they only try your patience in an inoffensive way.

But at night, when over Lido rises Dian (that’s the moon), And the vicious vaporetti cease to vex the still lagoon;

When the final trovatore, singing something old and cheap, Hurls his tremolo crescendo full against my beauty sleep;

When I hear the Riva’s loungers in debate beneath my bower Summing up (about 1.30) certain questions of the hour;

Then across my nervous system falls the shrill mosquito’s boom, And it’s “O, to be in England,” where the may is on the bloom.

I admit the power of Music to inflate the savage breast-- There are songs devoid of language which are quite among the best;

But the present orchestration, with its poignant oboe part, Is, in my obscure opinion, barely fit to rank as Art.

Will it solace me to-morrow, being hit in either eye, To be told that this is nothing to the season in July?

Shall I go for help to Ruskin? Would it ease my pimply brow If I found the doges suffered much as I am suffering now?

If identical probosces pinked the lovers who were bored By the sentimental tinkling of Galuppi’s clavichord?

That’s from Browning (Robert Browning)--I have left his works at home, And the poem I allude to isn’t in the Tauchnitz tome;

But, if memory serves me rightly, he was very much concerned At the thought that in the sequel Venice reaped what Venice earned.

Was he thinking of mosquitoes? Did he mean their poisoned crop? Was it through ammonia tincture that “the kissing had to stop”?

As for later loves--for Venice never quite mislaid her spell-- Madame Sand and dear De Musset occupied my own hotel!

On the very floor below me, I have heard the patron say, They were put in No. 13 (No. 36, to-day).

But they parted--“elle et lui” did--and it now occurs to me That mosquitoes came between them in this “kingdom by the sea.”

Poor dead lovers, and such brains, too! What am I that I should swear When the creatures munch my forehead, taking more than I can spare?

Should I live to meet the morning, should the climate readjust Any reparable fragments left upon my outer crust,

Why, at least I still am extant, and a dog that sees the sun Has the pull of Danieli’s den of “lions,” dead and done.

Courage! I will keep my vigil on the balcony till day Like a knight in full pyjamas who would rather run away.

Courage! let me ope the casement, let the shutters be withdrawn; Let scirocco, breathing on me, check a tendency to yawn; There’s the sea! and--Ecco l’alba! Ha! (in other words) the Dawn!

TO JULIA UNDER LOCK AND KEY

(A form of betrothal gift in America is an anklet secured by a padlock, of which the other party keeps the key.)

When like a bud my Julia blows In lattice-work of silken hose, Pleasant I deem it is to note How, ’neath the nimble petticoat, Above her fairy shoe is set The circumvolving zonulet. And soothly for the lover’s ear A perfect bliss it is to hear About her limb so lithe and lank My Julia’s ankle-bangle clank. Not rudely tight, for ’twere a sin To corrugate her dainty skin; Nor yet so large that it might fare Over her foot at unaware; But fashioned nicely with a view To let her airy stocking through: So as, when Julia goes to bed, Of all her gear disburdenèd, This ring at least she shall not doff Because she cannot take it off. And since thereof I hold the key, She may not taste of liberty, Not though she suffer from the gout, Unless I choose to let her out.

AT THE SIGN OF THE COCK

(FRENCH STYLE, 1898)

(Being an Ode in further “Contribution to the Song of French History,” dedicated, without malice or permission, to Mr. George Meredith)

I

Rooster her sign, Rooster her pugnant note, she struts Evocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel; Nid-nod the authentic stump Of the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine; With conspuent doodle-doo Hails breach o’ the hectic dawn of yon New Year, Last issue up to date Of quiverful Fate Evolved spontaneous; hails with tonant trump The spiriting prime o’ the clashed carillon-peal; Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts; Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd Bird.

II

Mark where her Equatorial Pioneer Delirant on the tramp goes littoralwise. His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregs The penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-head-piece gift Of who avenged the Old Sea-Rover’s smirch. Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable drift On dubiously connivent legs, The facile prey of predatory flies; Panting for further; sworn to lurch Empirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue, Rhyming--see Cantique I.--with doodle-doo.

III

Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact; Vulnant she felt What pin-stab should have stained Another’s pelt Puncture her own Colonial lung-balloon, Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed, The perjured Scythian she lacked At need’s pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffed Below her breath she cursed; she cursed the hour When on her spring for him the young Tyrannical broke Amid the unhallowed wedlock’s vodka-shower, She passionate, he dispassionate; tricked Her wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower; Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moon She woke, A nuptial-knotted derelict; Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declined By the plumped leech saturate urging Peace In guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men, Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she; Not till Alsace her consanguineous find What red deteutonising artillery Shall shatter her beer-reek alien police The just-now pluripollent; not till then.

IV

More pungent yet the esoteric pain Squeezing her pliable vitals nourishes feud Insanely grumous, grumously insane. For lo! Past common balmly on the Bordereau, Churns she the skim o’ the gutter’s crust With Anti-Judaic various carmagnole, Whooped praise of the Anti-just; Her boulevard brood Gyratory in convolvements militant-mad; Theatrical of faith in the Belliform, Her Og, Her Monstrous. Fled what force she had To buckle the jaw-gape, wide agog For the Preconcerted One, The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole; Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm. Bides she his coming; adumbrates the new Expurgatorial Divine, Her final effulgent Avatar, Postured outside a trampling mastodon Black as her Baker’s charger; towering; visibly gorged With blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff, Spine straightened, on he rides; Embossed the Patriot’s brow with hieroglyph Of martial dossiers, nothing forged About him save his armour. So she bides Voicing his advent indeterminably far, Rooster her sign, Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo.

V

Behold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport, How she acclaims, A crapulous chanticleer, Breach of the hectic dawn of yon New Year. Not yet her fill of rumours sucked; Inebriate of honour; blushfully wroth; Tireless to play her old primeval games; Her plumage preened the yet unplucked Like sails of a galleon, rudder hard amort With crepitant mast Fronting the hazard to dare of a dual blast The intern and the extern, blizzards both.

Anthony C. Deane is also among the best of the modern parodists.

HERE IS THE TALE

(AFTER RUDYARD KIPLING)

_Here is the tale--and you must make the most of it: Here is the rhyme--ah, listen and attend: Backwards--forwards--read it all and boast of it If you are anything the wiser at the end!_

Now Jack looked up--it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill, And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill, And twice he pulled his sister’s hair, and thrice he smote her side; “Ha’ done, ha’ done with your impudent fun--ha’ done with your games!” she cried; “You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size--finger and face are black, You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay--now up and wash you, Jack! Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame-- Well you know the weight of her blow--the supperless open shame! Wash, if you will, on yonder hill--wash, if you will, at the spring,-- Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!”

“You must wash--you must scrub--you must scrape!” growled Jack, “you must traffic with cans and pails, Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails! The morning path you must tread to your bath--you must wash ere the night descends, And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmakers’ dividends! But if ’tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill, By the sacred right of our appetite--haste--haste to the top of the hill!”

They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far, They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are, They have taken the bucket and filled it up--yea, filled it up to the brim; But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him: “What, blown already!” Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!) “You boast indeed of your wonderful speed--but what is the boasting worth? Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare, Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill--and prove your boasting fair!” “Race? What is a race” (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word) “Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard, For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:-- The first one down wins half-a-crown--and I will race you there!” “Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride) The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied; Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe: Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!”

And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released, But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased; He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash-- Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash. Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair, Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear, The swirling rain of a comet’s train he saw, as he swiftly fell-- And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell: “You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid-- You have fallen down with a broken crown--the half-crown debt is paid!”

They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are, And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar; While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth, She had felt the sting of a walloping--she hath paid the price of her mirth!

_Here is the tale--and now you have the whole of it, Here is the story, well and wisely-planned, Beauty--Duty--these make up the soul of it-- But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?_

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, writing often over the pseudonym of Q, is most versatile and talented. He, too, loved to dally with the muse of Imitation.

DE TEA FABULA

Plain Language from Truthful James

Do I sleep? Do I dream? Am I hoaxed by a scout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

Which expressions like these May be fairly applied By a party who sees A Society skied Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride.

’Twas November the third, And I says to Bill Nye, “Which it’s true what I’ve heard: If you’re, so to speak, fly, There’s a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as High.”

Which I mentioned its name, And he ups and remarks: “If dress-coats is the game And pow-wow in the Parks, Then I’m nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar Snarks.”

Now the pride of Bill Nye Cannot well be express’d; For he wore a white tie And a cut-away vest: Says I, “Solomon’s lilies ain’t in it, and they was reputed well dress’d.”

But not far did we wend, When we saw Pippa pass On the arm of a friend --Dr. Furnivall ’t was, And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return, second-class.

“Well,” I thought, “this is odd.” But we came pretty quick To a sort of a quad That was all of red brick, And I says to the porter,--“R. Browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.”

But says he, dripping tears In his check handkerchief, “That symposium’s career’s Been regrettably brief, For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder leaf!”

Then we tucked up the sleeves Of our shirts (that were biled), Which the reader perceives That our feelings were riled, And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child.

Which emotions like these Must be freely indulged By a party who sees A Society bulged On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.

But I ask,--Do I dream? Has it gone up the spout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our τὸ τι ἦυ εἶναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

James Kenneth Stephen, like so many of the English minor poets, expresses his humorous vein best in parody.

Stephen’s light verse belongs mostly to his undergraduate days.

A SONNET

Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony. And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: At other times--good Lord! I’d rather be Quite unacquainted with the A B C Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

A THOUGHT

If all the harm that women have done Were put in a bundle and rolled into one, Earth would not hold it, The sky could not enfold it, It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun; Such masses of evil Would puzzle the devil, And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.

But if all the harm that’s been done by men Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again, And melted and fused into vapour, and then Were squared and raised to the power of ten, There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near, To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.

THE MILLENNIUM

TO R. K.

_As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr’-inform’-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman’s latest piece of graphic._ ROBERT BROWNING.

Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an Ass, And a boy’s eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from Kipling And the Haggards Ride no more?

SCHOOL

If there is a vile, pernicious, Wicked and degraded rule, Tending to debase the vicious, And corrupt the harmless fool; If there is a hateful habit Making man a senseless tool, With the feelings of a rabbit And the wisdom of a mule; It’s the rule which inculcates, It’s the habit which dictates The wrong and sinful practice of going into school.

If there’s anything improving To an erring sinner’s state, Which is useful in removing All the ills of human fate; If there’s any glorious custom Which our faults can dissipate, And can casually thrust ’em Out of sight and make us great; It’s the plan by which we shirk Half our matu-ti-nal work, The glorious institution of always being late.

Barry Pain, journalist and author, following the trend of the hour, produced this amusing set of parodies.

THE POETS AT TEA

1--(Macaulay, who made it)

Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, Nor Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals, Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires, More rich the herbs of China’s field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield; For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires!

2--(Tennyson, who took it hot)

I think that I am drawing to an end: For on a sudden came a gasp for breath. And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, And a great darkness falling on my soul. O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.

3--(Swinburne, who let it get cold)

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning Is foul in the ending thereof, As the heat of the summer’s beginning Is past in the winter of love: O purity, painful and pleading! O coldness, ineffably gray! Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding, And take it away!

4--(Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it)

The cosy fire is bright and gay, The merry kettle boils away And hums a cheerful song. I sing the saucer and the cup; Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up, And do not make it strong.

5--(Browning, who treated it allegorically)

Tut! Bah! We take as another case-- Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule (A sick man’s fancy, no doubt, but I place Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)--so perhaps you’ll Excuse the digression--this cup which I hold Light-poised--Bah, it’s spilt in the bed!--well, let’s on go-- Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

6--(Wordsworth, who gave it away)

“Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream? Now tell the truth to me.”

She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk, And she replied, “Sir, please put in A little drop of milk.”

“Why, what put milk into your head? ’Tis cream my cows supply”; And five times to the child I said, “Why, pig-head, tell me, why?”

“You call me pig-head,” she replied; “My proper name is Ruth. I called that milk”--she blushed with pride-- “You bade me speak the truth.”

7--(Poe, who got excited over it)

Here’s a mellow cup of tea, golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit, or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n--th.

8--(Rossetti, who took six cups of it)

The lilies lie in my lady’s bower (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady’s head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now--you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)

9--(Burns, who liked it adulterated)

Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined, Whusky or tay--to state my mind, Fore ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou, And gin the next, I’m dull as you, Mix a’ thegither.

10--(Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute)

One cup for myself-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together, O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it. What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got. I don’t want to be personal. All right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale-cadaver. Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned. Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.

F. Anstey (pen name of J. B. Guthrie) wrote many novels and short skits as well as verses. Like many of his contemporaries he is especially happy in a parody vein.

SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET

Disenchantment

My Love has sicklied unto Loath, And foul seems all that fair I fancied-- The lily’s sheen’s a leprous growth, The very buttercups are rancid.

Abasement

With matted head a-dabble in the dust, And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust I lie all loathly in my rags and rust-- Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.

Stanza Written in Depression Near Dulwich

The lark soars up in the air; The toad sits tight in his hole; And I would I were certain which of the pair Were the truer type of my soul!

To My Lady

Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe, Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green, Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe, Then--kiss me, Lady Grisoline!

The Monster

Uprears the monster now his slobberous head, Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing; Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread, Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing.

A Trumpet Blast

Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, Blink your blearèd eyes. Behold the Sun-- Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence, Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!

Hilaire Belloc, in addition to wiser matters, wrote most amusing nonsense animal verses.

THE PYTHON

A python I should not advise,-- It needs a doctor for its eyes, And has the measles yearly.

However, if you feel inclined To get one (to improve your mind, And not from fashion merely), Allow no music near its cage; And when it flies into a rage Chastise it most severely.

I had an Aunt in Yucatan Who bought a Python from a man And kept it for a pet. She died because she never knew These simple little rules and few;-- The snake is living yet.

THE BISON

The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain) The Door-mat you see on his head Is not, as some learned professors maintain, The opulent growth of a genius’ brain; But is sewn on with needle and thread.

THE MICROBE

The Microbe is so very small You cannot make him out at all, But many sanguine people hope To see him through a microscope. His jointed tongue that lies beneath A hundred curious rows of teeth; His seven tufted tails with lots Of lovely pink and purple spots On each of which a pattern stands, Composed of forty separate bands; His eyebrows of a tender green; All these have never yet been seen-- But Scientists, who ought to know, Assure us that they must be so.... Oh! let us never, never doubt What nobody is sure about!

THE FROG

Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As “Slimy-Skin,” or “Polly-wog,” Or likewise, “Uncle James,” Or “Gape-a-grin,” or “Toad-gone-wrong,” Or “Billy-Bandy-knees”; The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay, A treatment kind and fair, At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

Gilbert K. Chesterton, England’s great humorist of today, is cleverly gay in his French Forms.

A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours--on the wall-- Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!” The strangest whim has seized me.... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay-- My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall-- I see a little cloud all pink and grey-- Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call-- I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way-- I never read the works of Juvenal-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational-- And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Envoi

Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even today your royal head may fall-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

A BALLADE OF AN ANTI-PURITAN

They spoke of Progress spiring round, Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward-- It is not true to say I frowned, Or ran about the room and roared; I might have simply sat and snored-- I rose politely in the club And said, “I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub?”

The new world’s wisest did surround Me; and it pains me to record I did not think their views profound, Or their conclusions well assured; The simple life I can’t afford, Besides, I do not like the grub-- I want a mash and sausage, “scored”-- Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found, Anger and clamorous accord, And virtues growing from the ground, And fellowship of beer and board, And song, that is a sturdy cord, And hope, that is a hardy shrub, And goodness, that is God’s last word-- Will someone take me to a pub?

Envoi

Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword To see the sort of knights you dub-- Is that the last of them--O Lord! Will someone take me to a pub?

FRENCH HUMOR

Voltaire, the assumed name of François Marie Arouet, was one of the most famous of French writers. Plays, fiction, criticism and letters are among his celebrated works.

We can quote but a short bit from his novel of Candide:

* * * * *

The tutor Pangloss was the oracle of the house, and little Candide listened to his lessons with all the ready faith natural to his age and disposition.

Pangloss used to teach the science of metaphysico-theologo-cosmologo-noodleology. He demonstrated most admirably that there is no effect without a cause, and that, in this best of all possible worlds, the castle of my lord baron was the most magnificent of castles, and my lady the best of all possible baronesses.

“It has been proved,” said he, “that things cannot be otherwise than they are; for, everything being made for a certain end, the end for which everything is made is necessarily the best end. Observe how noses were made to carry spectacles, and spectacles we have accordingly. Our legs are clearly intended for shoes and stockings, so we have them. Stone has been formed to be hewn and dressed for building castles, so my lord has a very fine one, for it is meet that the greatest baron in the province should have the best accommodation. Pigs were made to be eaten, and we eat pork all the year round. Consequently those who have asserted that all is well have said what is silly; they should have said of everything that is, that it is the best that could possibly be.”

Candide listened attentively, and innocently believed all that he heard; for he thought Mlle. Cunégonde extremely beautiful, though he never had the boldness to tell her so. He felt convinced that, next to the happiness of being born Baron of Thundertentronckh, the second degree of happiness was to be Mlle. Cunégonde, the third to see her every day, and the fourth to hear Professor Pangloss, the greatest philosopher in the province, and therefore in all the world.

One day Mlle. Cunégonde, while taking a walk near the castle, in the little wood which was called the park, saw through the bushes Dr. Pangloss giving a lesson in experimental physics to her mother’s chambermaid, a little brunette, very pretty and very willing to learn. As Mlle. Cunégonde had a great taste for science, she watched with breathless interest the repeated experiments that were carried on under her eyes; she clearly perceived that the doctor had sufficient reason for all he did; she saw the connection between causes and effects, and returned home much agitated, though very thoughtful, and filled with a yearning after scientific pursuits, for sharing in which she wished that young Candide might find sufficient reason in her, and that she might find the same in him.

She met Candide as she was on her way back to the castle, and blushed; the youth blushed likewise. She bade him good morning in a voice that struggled for utterance; and Candide answered her without well knowing what he was saying. Next day, as the company were leaving the table after dinner, Cunégonde and Candide found themselves behind a screen. Cunégonde let fall her handkerchief; Candide picked it up; she innocently took hold of his hand, and the young man, as innocently, kissed hers with an ardor, a tenderness, and a grace quite peculiar; their lips met and their eyes sparkled. His lordship, the Baron of Thundertentronckh, happened to pass by the screen, and, seeing that particular instance of cause and effect, drove Candide out of the castle with vigorous kicks. Cunégonde swooned away, but, as soon as she recovered, my lady the baroness boxed her ears, and all was confusion and consternation in that most magnificent and most charming of all possible castles.

Marc Antoine Desaugiers was a Parisian song writer and author of vaudeville.

His wit was cynical and his versification of a facile sort.

THE ETERNAL YAWNER

Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth What can one do? Where for amusement seek, or mirth? Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth What can one do To cease from yawning here below?

Of mortal man, what is the rôle? To bustle, eat, and labor ply; To plot, grow old, and then to die? Not very lively this, or droll. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

No wonder in my mind begets The sun, which poets call sublime; Not this the first or second time He rises, runs his race, and sets. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

To one dull course the seasons cling: For full five thousand years we view The summer following after spring, And winter autumn’s close pursue. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

My watch (a friend of little use), Whose hands their tedious circuit ply, Tells me how slow the hours fly, Not how I may my hours amuse. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

I half the world have traveled o’er, To see if men diversion found; But everywhere, on every ground, I saw what I had seen before. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

In weariness which I abhorred, Wishing to know how sped the great, I dined with men of high estate, And murmured as I left their board, Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Wishing to see if, when in love, Life some unworn amusement has, Love I attempted, but alas! Love in all climes the same doth prove. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Thus being, at this early age, Of all things sick, both night and day, In hopes to be more blithe and gay I did in settled life engage. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

The street where now my life I led, By neighborhood my steps brought on To th’ Institute and Odéon, Which every day I visited. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

By writing this (hope quickly gone), To cheer my spirits I essayed; But yawned the while this song was made, And now I sing it, still I yawn: Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Pierre Jean de Béranger was one of France’s greatest lyric poets. His versatility compassed songs of every sort from political to bacchanalian, from amatory to philosophical.

THE EDUCATION OF YOUNG LADIES

What! this Monsieur de Fénélon The girls pretend to school! Of Mass and needlework he prates; Mama, he’s but a fool. Balls, concerts, and the piece just out, Can teach us better far, no doubt: Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Let others mind their work; I’ll play, Mama, the sweet duet, That for my master’s voice and mine Is from Armida set. If Rénaud felt love’s burning flame, I feel some shootings of the same: Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Let others keep accounts; I’ll dance, Mama, an hour or two; And from my master learn a step Voluptuous and new. At this long skirt my feet rebel; To loop it up a bit were well. Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Let others o’er my sister watch; Mama, I’d rather trace-- I’ve wondrous talent--at the Louvre The Apollo’s matchless grace: Throughout his figure what a charm! ’Tis naked, true--but that’s no harm Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Mama, I must be married soon, Even fashion says no less; Besides, there is an urgent cause, I must, Mama, confess. The world my situation sees-- But there they laugh at scrapes like these. Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

THE DEAD ALIVE

When a bore gets hold of me, Dull and overbearing, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as herring. When the thrusts of pleasure glib In my sides are sticking, Poking fun at every rib, I’m alive and kicking.

When a snob his £ s. d. Jingles in his breeches, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as ditches. When a birthday’s champagne-corks Round my ears are clicking, Marking time with well-oil’d works, I’m alive and kicking.

Kings and their supremacy Occupy the table, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as Abel. Talk about the age of wine (Bought by cash or ticking), So you bring a sample fine, I’m alive and kicking.

When a trip to Muscovy Tempts a conquest glutton, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as mutton. Match me with a tippling foe, See who first wants picking From the dead man’s field below, I’m alive and kicking.

When great scribes to poetry March, by notions big led, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as pig-lead. When you start a careless song, Not at grammar sticking, Good to push the wine along. I’m alive and kicking.

When a bigot, half-hours three, Spouts in canting gloom’s tones, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as tombstones. When in cloisters underground, Built of stone or bricking, Orders of the screw you found, I’m alive and kicking.

Bourbons back in France we see (Sure we don’t much need ’em), Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as freedom. Bess returns, and still our throats Find us here a-slicking, Sitting free without our coats-- I’m alive and kicking.

Forced to leave this company, Bottle-wine and horn-ale, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as door-nail. Pledging, though, a quick return, Soon my anchor sticking On the shore for which I yearn-- I’m alive and kicking.

A great name that ushers in the Nineteenth century is that of Honoré de Balzac, chief of the realistic school of French novelists. His humor is keen and is never lacking in his somewhat diversified writings.

From his well known Contes Drolatiques we give two stories.

A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING

Louis XI had given the Abbey of Turpenay to a gentleman who, enjoying the revenue, had called himself M. de Turpenay. It happened that the king being at Plessis-les-Tours, the real abbot, who was a monk, came and presented himself before the king, and presented a petition, remonstrating with him that, canonically and monastically, he was entitled to the abbey, and the usurping gentleman wronged him of his right, and therefore he called upon his Majesty to have justice done to him. Nodding his peruke, the king promised to render him contented. This monk, importunate as are all hooded animals, came often at the end of the king’s meals, who, bored with the holy water of the convent, called friend Tristan and said to him, “Old fellow, there is here a Turpenay who annoys me; rid the world of him for me.”

Tristan, taking a frock for a monk, or a monk for a frock, came to this gentleman, whom all the court called M. de Turpenay, and, having accosted him, managed to lead him on one side, then, taking him by the button-hole, gave him to understand that the king desired he should die. He tried to resist, supplicating and supplicating to escape, but in no way could he obtain a hearing. He was delicately strangled between the head and shoulders, so that he expired; and, three hours afterwards, Tristan told the king that he was despatched. It happened five days later, which is the space in which souls come back again, that the monk came into the room where the king was, and when he saw him he was much astonished. Tristan was present; the king called him, and whispered into his ear:

“You have not done what I told you to.”

“Saving your Majesty, I have done it. Turpenay is dead.”

“Eh? I meant this monk.”

“I understood the gentleman!”

“What, it is done, then?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Very well, then”--turning toward the monk--“come here, monk.” The monk approached. The king said to him, “Kneel down.” The poor monk began to shiver in his shoes. But the king said to him, “Thank God that He has not willed that you should be executed as I had ordered. He who took your estates has been instead. God has done you justice. Go and pray to God for me, and don’t stir out of your convent.”

This proves the good-heartedness of Louis XI. He might very well have hanged the monk, the cause of the error. As for the aforesaid gentleman, it was given out that he had died in the king’s service.

INNOCENCE

When Queen Catherine was princess royal, to make herself welcome to the king, her father-in-law, who at that time was very ill indeed, she presented him from time to time with Italian pictures, knowing that he liked them much, being a friend of Sire Raphael d’Urbino and of the Sires Primaticcio and Leonardo da Vinci, to whom he sent large sums of money. She obtained from her family a precious picture, painted by a Venetian named Titian (painter to the Emperor Charles, and in very high favor), in which there were portraits of Adam and Eve at the moment when God left them to wander about the terrestrial paradise. They were painted full height, in the costume of the period, in which it is difficult to make a mistake, because they were attired in their ignorance, and caparisoned with the divine grace which enveloped them--a difficult thing to execute on account of the color, but one in which the said Sire Titian excelled. The picture was put into the room of the poor king, who was then ill with the disease of which he eventually died. It had a great success at the Court of France, where every one wished to see it; but no one was able to until after the king’s death, since at his desire it was allowed to remain in his room as long as he lived.

One day Catherine took with her to the king’s room her son Francis and little Margy, who began to talk at random, as children will. Now here, now there, these children had heard this picture of Adam and Eve spoken about, and had tormented their mother to take them to see it. Since the two little ones sometimes amused the old king, the princess royal complied with their request.

“You wished to see Adam and Eve, who were our first parents; there they are,” said she.

Then she left them in great astonishment before Titian’s picture, and seated herself by the bedside of the king, who delighted to watch the children.

“Which of the two is Adam?” said Francis, nudging his sister Margaret’s elbow.

“You silly,” replied she, “they would have to be dressed for one to know that!”

* * * * *

Louis Charles Alfred de Musset was a celebrated French poet and man of letters. Though he died in early middle age, he left many volumes of wise and witty writings.

THE SUPPER-PARTY OF THE THREE CAVALIERS

“Be silent, all of you!” cried Mimi. “I want to talk a little now. Since the magnificent M. Marcel does not care for fables, I am going to relate a true story, et quorum pars magna fui.”

“Do you speak Latin?” asked Eugène.

“As you perceive,” Mlle. Pinson answered. “I have inherited that sentence from my uncle, who served under the great Napoleon, and who always repeated it before he gave us an account of a battle. If you don’t know the meaning of the words, I’ll teach you free of charge. They mean, ‘I give you my word of honor.’ Well, then, you are to know that one night last week I went with two of my friends, Blanchette and Rougette, to the Odéon theater----”

“Watch me cut the cake,” interrupted Marcel.

“Cut ahead, but listen,” Mlle. Pinson continued. “As I was saying, I went with Blanchette and Rougette to the Odéon to see a tragedy. Rougette, as you know, has just lost her grandmother, and has inherited four hundred francs. We had taken a box, opposite to which, in the pit, sat three students. These young men liked our looks, and, on the pretext that we were alone and unprotected, invited us to supper.”

“Immediately?” asked Marcel. “That was gallant indeed. And you refused, I suppose?”

“By no means,” said Mimi. “We accepted the invitation, and in the intermission, without waiting for the end of the play, we all went off to Viot’s restaurant.”

“With your cavaliers?”

“With our cavaliers. The leader, of course, began by telling us that he had nothing, but such little obstacles did not disconcert us. We ordered everything we wanted. Rougette took pen and paper, and ordered a veritable marriage-feast: shrimps, an omelet with sugar, fritters, mussels, eggs with whipped cream--in fact, all the delicacies imaginable. To tell the truth, our young gentlemen pulled wry faces----”

“I have no doubt of it!” said Marcel.

“We didn’t care. When everything was brought in we began to act the part of great ladies. We approved of nothing, but found everything disgusting. Hardly was any dish brought in but we sent it out again. ‘Waiter, take this away; it’s intolerable; where did you get the horrible stuff?’ Our unknown gentlemen wanted to eat, but found it impossible. In a word, we supped as Sancho dined, and in our vigor nearly broke several dishes.”

“Nice conduct! And who was to pay for it all?”

“That is precisely the question that our three unknown gentlemen asked one another. To judge by what we overheard of their whispered conversation, one of them owned six francs, the second a good deal less, and the third had only his watch, which he generously pulled out of his pocket. So the three unfortunates went up to the cashier, intending to gain a delay of some sort. What answer do you suppose they received?”

“I imagine that you would be kept there, and your gentlemen sent to jail.”

“You are wrong,” said Mlle. Pinson. “Before going in Rougette had taken her precautions, and had paid for everything in advance. You can imagine the scene when Viot answered, ‘Gentlemen, everything is paid.’ Our three unknown gentlemen looked at us as never three dogs looked at three bishops, with pitiful stupefaction mixed with pure tenderness. But we, without seeming to notice anything unusual, went down-stairs and ordered a cab. ‘Dear Marquise,’ said Rougette to me, ‘we ought to take these gentlemen home.’ ‘Certainly, dear Countess,’ answered I. Our poor young gallants did not know what to say, they looked so sheepish. They wanted to get rid of our politeness, and asked not to be taken home, even refusing to give their address. No wonder, either, because they felt sure that they were having to do with great ladies, and they lived in Fish-Cat Street!”

The two students, the friends of Marcel, who, up to this time, had done nothing but smoke their pipes and drink in silence, appeared little pleased with this story. Their faces grew red, and they seemed to know as much about this unfortunate supper as Mimi herself, at whom they glanced restlessly. Marcel, laughing, said:

“Tell us who they were, Mlle. Mimi. Since it happened last week it does not matter.”

“Never!” cried the girl. “Play a trick on a man--yes. But ruin his career--never!”

“You are right,” said Eugène, “and are acting even more wisely than you yourself are aware of. There is not a single young fellow at college who has not some such mistake or folly behind him, and yet it is from among these very people that France draws her most distinguished men.”

“Yes,” said Marcel, “that’s true. There are peers of France who now dine at Flicoteau’s, but who once could not pay their bills. But,” he added, and winked, “haven’t you seen your unknown gentlemen again?”

“What do you take us for?” answered Mlle. Pinson in a severe and almost offended tone. “You know Blanchette and Rougette, and do you suppose that I----?”

“Very well,” said Marcel, “don’t be angry. But isn’t this a nice state of affairs? Here are three giddy girls, who may not be able to pay their next day’s dinner, and who throw away their money for the sake of mystifying three poor unoffending devils!”

“But why did they invite us to supper?” asked Mlle. Pinson.--“Mimi Pinson.”

* * * * *

Charles Paul de Kock was a novelist and dramatist. A short quotation from A Much Worried Gentleman shows the ubiquitous mother-in-law jest.

THÉOPHILE’S MOTHER-IN-LAW

“Son-in-law, you will offer me your arm; your wife will take her cousin’s.”

“Yes, mother-in-law.”

“Furthermore, when we get to the caterer’s for dinner, you must not whisper to your wife. People might suspect something unrefined.”

“Yes, mother-in-law.”

“Neither must you kiss her.”

“Why, you object to me kissing my wife?”

“Before people, yes. It’s very bad form. Haven’t you time enough for it at home?”

“True.”

“At table you will not sit next to your wife, but next to me.”

“That’s agreed.”

“During the meal you will take care that no comic songs on your marriage are sung. Those who write them usually permit themselves indelicate jokes, so that the ladies are put out. That is the worst taste possible.”

“I’ll see that none are sung.”

“You will dance only once with your wife during the evening. Understand me--only once.”

“But, why, why?”

“Because it is proper to let the bride accept the invitations of relatives, friends, and strangers.”

“But I didn’t marry in order that my wife should dance with everybody except myself!”

“Do you wish to insinuate, son-in-law, that you can instruct me concerning the usages of polite society? You are beginning well.”

“I assure you, mother-in-law, that I had no intention----”

“That will do. I accept your excuses. We now come to a more delicate matter, to--but, of course, you must understand me.”

“I confess that I do not at all.”

“Listen, son-in-law. Some newly married young men, on their wedding-night, when the ball is at its gayest, take the liberty of carrying off their wives, and disappearing with them about twelve o’clock.”

“And you object to that?”

“Fie, sir, fie! If you were to be guilty of such a thing, I would make your wife sue for a divorce the day after your marriage.”

“Be easy, then; I will not disappear. But when may I go away with my wife?”

“I shall take my daughter with me, and arrange an opportune time when the decencies of the situation may be observed.”

“And who will take me?”

“You will go alone, but you will not go, understand me well, until there isn’t a cat left at the ball.”

“I shall be getting to bed very late, then. Some of the people will want square dances and country dances, and----”

“You will get to bed soon enough, son-in-law.”

“But why all this, mother-in-law?”

“That will do, M. Tamponnet! It is not becoming that this conversation be prolonged.”

* * * * *

Alexandre Dumas, the Elder, was a noted novelist and dramatist. His output was enormous, and the wit, though always discernible, was subordinate to matters of heroism, adventure and the like.

CHAPTER TOUCHING THE OLFACTORY ORGAN

Has it ever occurred to you, dear reader, how admirable an organ the nose is?

The nose; yes, the nose.

And how useful an article this very nose is to every creature which, as Ovid says, lifts its face to heaven?

Well, strange as it may seem, monstrous ingratitude that it is, no poet has yet thought of addressing an ode to the nose!

So it has been left to me, who am not a poet, or who, at least, claim to rank only after our greatest poets, to conceive such an idea.

Truly, the nose is unfortunate.

So many things have been invented for the eyes:

Songs and compliments and kaleidoscopes, pictures and scenery and spectacles.

And for the ears:

Ear-rings, of course, and Robert the Devil, William Tell, and Fra Diavolo, Stradivarius violins and Érard pianos and Sax trumpets.

And for the mouth:

Lent, plain cooking, The Gastronomists’ Calendar, The Gormand’s Dictionary. Soups of every kind have they made for it, from Russian broth to French cabbage-soup; dishes for it are connected with the reputations of the greatest men, from Soubise cutlets to Richelieu puddings; its lips have been compared to coral, its teeth to pearls, its breath to perfume. Before it have been set plumed peacocks and undrawn snipes; and, for the future, it has been promised whole roast larks.

But what has been invented for the nose?

Attar of roses and snuff.

You have not done well, oh, my masters the philanthropists; oh, my brothers the poets!

And yet how faithfully this limb----

“It is not a limb!” cry the scientists.

I beg your pardon, gentlemen, and retract. This appendage--Ah yes, I was saying with what touching fidelity this appendage has done service for you.

The eyes sleep, the mouth closes, the ears are deaf.

The nose is always on duty.

It watches over your repose and contributes to your health. Feet, hands, all other parts of the body are stupid. The hands are often caught in foolish acts; the feet stumble, and in their clumsiness allow the body to fall. And when they do, they get off free, and the poor nose is punished for their misdeeds.

How often do you not hear it said: “Mr. So-and-So has broken his nose.”

There have been a great many broken noses since the creation of the world.

Can any one give a single instance of a nose broken through any fault of its own?

No; but, nevertheless, the poor nose is always being scolded.

Well, it endures it all with angelic patience. True, it sometimes has the impertinence to snore. But where and when did you ever hear it complain?...

But let us forget for a moment the utility of the nose, and regard it only from the esthetic point of view.

A cedar of Lebanon, it tramples underfoot the hyssop of the mustache; a central column, it provides a support for the double arch of the eyebrows. On its capital perches the eagle of thought. It is enwreathed with smiles. With what boldness did the nose of Ajax confront the storm when he said, “I will escape in spite of the gods.” With what courage did the nose of the great Condé--whose greatness really derived from his nose--with what courage did the nose of the great Condé enter before all others, before the great Condé himself, the entrenchments of the Spanish at Lens and Rocroy, where their conqueror boldly flourished the staff of command? With what assurance was Dugazon’s nose thrust before the public, that nose which knew how to wriggle in forty-two different ways, and each way funnier than the last?

No, I do not believe that the nose should be permitted to remain in the obscurity into which man’s ingratitude has hitherto forced it.

I suggest as one reason why the nose has submitted to this injustice the fact that Occidental noses are so small.

But the deuce is to pay if the noses of the West are the only noses.

There are the Oriental noses, which are very handsome noses.

Do you question the superiority of these noses to your own, gentlemen of Paris, of Vienna, of St. Petersburg?

In that case, my Viennese friends, go by the Danube; you Parisians, take the steamer; Petersburgers, the sledge; and say these simple words:

“To Georgia.”

But I forewarn you of deep humiliation. Should you bring to Georgia one of the largest noses in Europe, at the gate of Tiflis they would gaze at you in astonishment and exclaim:

“What a pity that this gentleman has lost his nose on the way.” ...

Ah, sweet Heaven! those beautiful Georgian noses! Robust noses, magnificent noses!

They are all shapes:

Round, fat, long, large.

There is every color:

White, pink, crimson, violet.

Some are set with rubies, others with pearls. I saw one set with turquoises.

In Georgia, Vakhtang IV abolished the fathom, the meter, and the yard, keeping only the nose.

Goods are measured off by the nose.

They say, “I bought seventeen noses of flannel for a dressing-gown, seven noses of cloth for a pair of breeches, a nose and a half of satin for a cravat.”

Let us add, finally, that the Georgian ladies find this more convenient than European measures.

* * * * *

Théophile Gautier, poet, artist and novelist was identified with the romantic movement in French literature.

A charming art of description was his, as may be seen in the story of the Lap Dog.

FANFRELUCHE

To write in praise of this marvelous lap-dog, one should pluck a quill from the wing of Love himself; the hands of the Graces alone would be light enough to trace his picture; nor would the touch of Latour be too soft.

His name was Fanfreluche, a pretty name for a dog, and one that he bore with honor.

Fanfreluche was no larger than his mistress’s hand, and it is well known that the marquise has the smallest hand in the world; and yet he seemed larger to the eye, assuming almost the proportions of a small sheep, for he had silky hair a foot in length, and so fine and soft and lustrous that the tresses of Minette were a mere mop by contrast. When he presented his paw, and one pressed it a little, one was astonished to feel nothing at all. Fanfreluche was rather a ball of silk, from which two beautiful brown eyes and a little red nose glittered, than an actual dog. Such a dog could only have belonged to the mother of Love, who lost him in Cytherea, where the marquise, on one of her occasional visits, found him. Look for a moment at this fascinatingly exquisite face. Would not Roxalana herself have been jealous of that delicately tipped-up nose, divided in the middle by a little furrow just like Anne of Austria’s?

What vivacity in that quick eye! And that double row of white teeth, no larger than grains of rice, which, at the least emotion, sparkled in all their brilliance--what duchess would not envy them? And this charming Fanfreluche, apart from his physical attractions, possessed a thousand social graces: he danced the minuet with exquisite grace, knew how to give his paw and tell the hour, capered before the queen and great ladies of France, and distinguished his right paw from his left. And Fanfreluche was learned, and knew more than the members of the Academy. If he was not a member of that body it was because he did not desire it, thinking, no doubt, to shine rather by his absence. The abbé declared that he was as strong as a Turk in the dead languages, and that, if he did not talk, it was from pure malice and to vex his mistress.

Then, too, Fanfreluche had not the vivacity of common dogs. He was very dainty, and very hard to please. He absolutely refused to eat anything but little pies of calves’ brains made especially for him; he would drink nothing but cream from a little Japanese saucer. Only when his mistress dined in town would he consent to nibble at the wing of a chicken, and to take sweets for dessert; but he did not grant this favor to every one, and one had to have an excellent cook to gain it. Fanfreluche had only one little fault. But who is perfect in this world? He loved cherries in brandy and Spanish snuff, of which he took a little pinch from time to time. But the latter is a weakness he shared with the Prince of Condé.

When he heard the cover of the general’s golden snuff-box click, it was a treat to see him sit up on his little hind legs and brush the carpet with his silken tail; and, if the marquise was engrossed in the pleasures of whist, and did not watch him closely, he would jump on the abbé’s lap, who fed him with brandied cherries. And Fanfreluche, whose head was not strong, would become as tipsy as a Swiss guard and two choristers, would perform the queerest little tricks on the carpet, and become extraordinarily ferocious on the subject of the calves of the chevalier, who, to preserve what little was left of them, would draw up his legs on his chair. Then Fanfreluche was no longer a little dog, but a little lion, and the marquise alone could manage him. His picture would not be complete without mentioning the droll little naughtinesses that he was guilty of before being stowed away into his muff, and put to bed in his niche of rosewood, padded with white satin and edged with blue silk cord.

Henri Murger, a noted litterateur, wrote on themes both gloomy and merry. More than most, he ran the gamut from grave to gay, from lively to severe.

Among his best known works are his Bohemian Life Sketches. From the subjoined bit, it may be seen that boresome parties obtain in all times and nations.

AN EVENING RECEPTION

Toward the end of the month of December the messengers of Bidault’s agency received for distribution about a hundred copies of a circular of which we certify the following to be a true and genuine copy:

* * * * *

Messieurs Rodolphe and Marcel request the honor of your company at a reception, on Christmas Eve, Saturday next. There is going to be some fun.

P. S. We only live once!

Program

I

7 P.M. The rooms will open: lively and animated conversation.

8 P.M. The ingenious authors of The Mountain in Labor, a comedy rejected by the Odéon, will take a turn round the rooms.

8.30 P.M. M. Alexandre Schaunard, the distinguished artist, will execute his Imitative Symphony for the piano, called The Influence of Blue in Art.

9 P.M. First reading of a memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.

9.30 P.M. M. Gustave Colline, hyperphysical philosopher, and M. Schaunard will commence a debate on comparative philosophy and metapolitics. In order to prevent any possible collision, the two disputants will be tied together.

10 P.M. M. Tristan, a literary man, will relate the story of his first love. M. Alexandre Schaunard will play a pianoforte accompaniment.

10.30 P.M. Second reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.

11 P.M. The Story of a Cassowary Hunt, by a foreign prince.

II

At midnight M. Marcel, historical painter, will make a white chalk drawing, with his eyes bandaged. Subject: The interview between Napoleon and Voltaire in the Champs Élysées. At the same time M. Rodolphe will improvise a parallel between the author of Zaïre and the author of The Battle of Austerlitz.

12.30 A.M. M. Gustave Colline, in modest undress, will give a revival of the athletic sports of the Fourth Olympiad.

1 A.M. Third reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy, followed by a collection in aid of authors of tragedies likely to be thrown out of employment.

2 A.M. Sports and quadrilles, which will be kept up till morning.

6 A.M. Rise of the sun upon the scene. Final chorus.

The ventilators will be open during the whole of the reception.

* * * * *

N. B. Any person attempting to read or recite poetry will be immediately ejected from the rooms and taken into custody; you are also requested not to take away candle-ends.

* * * * *

Victor Marie Hugo, celebrated poet, novelist and dramatist, was a recognized leader of the Romantic school of Nineteenth century France.

Quotation from his works is hard to do in brief, but an amusing story is given from Tales of a Grandfather.

THE GOOD FLEA AND THE WICKED KING

Once upon a time there was a wicked king, who made his people very unhappy. Everybody detested him, and those whom he had put in prison and beheaded would have liked to whip him. But how? He was the strongest, he was the master, he did not have to give account to any one, and when he was told his subjects were not content, he replied:

“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” Which was an ugly answer.

As he continued to act like a king, and as every day he became a little more wicked than the day before, this set a certain little flea to thinking over the matter. It was a little bit of a flea, who was of no consequence at all, but full of good sentiments. This is not the nature of fleas in general; but this one had been very well brought up; it bit people with moderation, and only when it was very hungry.

“What if I were to bring the king to reason?” it said to itself. “It is not without danger. But no matter--I will try.”

That night the wicked king, after having done all sorts of naughty things during the day, was calmly going to sleep when he felt what seemed to be the prick of a pin.

“Bite!”

He growled, and turned over on the other side.

“Bite! Bite! Bite!”

“Who is it that bites me so?” cried the king in a terrible voice.

“It is I,” replied a very little voice.

“You? Who are you?”

“A little flea who wishes to correct you.”

“A flea? Just you wait! Just you wait, and you shall see!”

And the king sprang from his bed, twisted his coverings, and shook the sheets, all of which was quite useless, for the good flea had hidden itself in the royal beard.

“Ah,” said the king, “it has gone now, and I shall be able to get a sound sleep.”

But scarcely had he laid his head on the pillow, when--

“Bite!”

“How? What? Again?”

“Bite! Bite!”

“You dare to return, you abominable little flea? Think for a moment what you are doing! You are no bigger than a grain of sand, and you dare to bite one of the greatest kings on earth!”

“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” answered the flea in the very words of the king.

“Ah, if I only had you!”

“Yes, but you haven’t got me!”

The wicked king did not sleep all that night, and he arose the next morning in a killing ill humor. He resolved to destroy his enemy. By his orders, they cleaned the palace from top to bottom, and particularly his bedroom; his bed was made by ten old women very skilful in the art of catching fleas. But they caught nothing, for the good flea had hidden itself under the collar of the king’s coat.

That night, this frightful tyrant, who was dying for want of sleep, lay back on both his ears, though this is said to be very difficult. But he wished to sleep double, and he knew no better way. I wish you may find a better. Scarcely had he put out his light, when he felt the flea on his neck.

“Bite! Bite!”

“Ah, zounds! What is this?”

“It is I--the flea of yesterday.”

“But what do you want, you rascal--you tiny pest?”

“I wish you to obey me, and to make your people happy.”

“Ho, there, my soldiers, my captain of the guard, my ministers, my generals! Everybody! The whole lot of you!”

The whole lot of them came in. The king was in a rage, which made everybody tremble. He found fault with all the servants of the palace. Everybody was in consternation. During this time the flea, quite calm, kept itself hid in the king’s nightcap.

The guards were doubled; laws and decrees were made; ordinances were published against all fleas; there were processions and public prayers to ask of Heaven the extermination of the flea, and sound sleep for the king. It was all of no avail. The wretched king could not lie down, even on the grass, without being attacked by his obstinate enemy, the good flea, who did not let him sleep a single minute.

“Bite! Bite!”

It would take too long to tell the many hard knocks the king gave himself in trying to crush the flea; he was covered with bruises and contusions. As he could not sleep, he wandered about like an uneasy spirit. He grew thinner. He would certainly have died if, at last, he had not made up his mind to obey the good flea.

“I surrender,” he said at last, when it began to bite him again. “I ask for quarter. I will do what you wish.”

“So much the better. On that condition only shall you sleep,” replied the flea.

“Thank you. What must I do?”

“Make your people happy!”

“I have never learned how. I do not know how----”

“Nothing more easy: you have only to go away.”

“Taking my treasures with me?”

“Without taking anything.”

“But I shall die if I have no money,” said the king.

“Well, what of it? I don’t care!” replied the flea.

But the flea was not hard-hearted, and it let the king fill his pockets with money before he went away. And the people were able to be very happy by setting up a republic.

* * * * *

Alphonse Daudet, humorist and story writer, created the character of Tartarin, a gasconading humbug, and a satire on the typical character attributed to Southern France.

A bit from Tartarin in the Alps will show the type of humor.

WILLIAM TELL

The party of travelers now came to the Lake of Lucerne, with its dark waters overshadowed by high and menacing mountains. To their right they saw that Ruetli meadow where Melchthal, Fuerst, and Stauffacher had sworn the oath to deliver their country.

Tartarin, deeply moved, took off his cap, and even threw it into the air three times to render homage to the shades of the departed heroes. Some of the tourists mistook this for a salutation, and bowed in return. At last they reached Tell’s Chapel. This chapel is situated at the edge of the lake, on the very rock upon which, during the storm, William Tell jumped from Gessler’s boat. And it was a delicious emotion to Tartarin, while he followed the travelers along the lake, to tread this historic ground, to recall and revive the various scenes of this great drama, which he knew as well as his own biography.

For William Tell had always been his ideal man. When at Bézuquet’s pharmacy the game of Preferences was being played, and each one wrote on his slip of paper the name of the poet, the tree, the odor, the hero, and the woman that he preferred to all others of their kind, one slip invariably bore this inscription:

“Favorite tree?--The baobab.

“Favorite odor?--Gunpowder.

“Favorite author?--Fenimore Cooper.

“Who would you like to have been?--William Tell.”

And then everybody would exclaim, “That’s Tartarin!”

Imagine, then, how happy he was, and how his heart beat when he stood before the chapel commemorative of the gratitude of a whole nation. It seemed to him as if William Tell must come in person to open the door, still dripping from the waters of the lake, and holding in his hand his bolts and crossbow.

“Don’t come in here. I’m working. This is not the day on which tourists are allowed,” sounded a strong voice from the interior, reechoing against the walls.

“M. Astier-Réhu, of the French Academy!”

“Herr Professor Doctor Schwanthaler!”

“Tartarin of Tarascon!”

The painter, who was standing on a scaffolding within, stretched out half of his body clad in his working-blouse, and holding his palette in his hand.

“My pupil will come down and open the door for you, gentlemen,” he said in a respectful tone.

“I was sure of it; of course,” said Tartarin to himself, “I have only to mention my name.”

For all that, he had the good taste to fall into line and modestly enter the chapel behind the others.

The painter, a splendid fellow, with a magnificent golden head of an artist of the Renaissance, received his visitors on the wooden staircase which led to the temporary scaffolding from which the mural paintings were being done. All the frescos, representing scenes from Tell’s life, were complete, except the one in which the scene of the apple at Altorf was to be shown. Upon that the painter was now working....

“I find it all very characteristically done,” said the great Astier-Réhu.

And Schwanthaler, folding his arms, recited two of Schiller’s verses, half of which was lost in his beard. Then the ladies delivered their opinions, and for some minutes one would have thought oneself in a confectioner’s shop. “Beautiful!” they cried. “Lovely! Exquisite! Delicious!”

Suddenly came a voice, tearing the silence like a trumpet’s blare:

“Badly shouldered, that blunderbuss, I tell you! He never held it in that way!”

Imagine the stupefaction of the painter when this tourist, stick in hand and bundle on his back, undertook to demonstrate to him as clearly as that two and two are four, that the position of Tell in the picture was incorrect.

“And I understand these matters, I would have you know!”

“And who are you?”

“Who am I?” said our Tarasconian hero, deeply astonished. And so it was not at his name that the door had opened. Drawing himself up, he answered, “Ask the panthers of Zaccar, or the lions of Atlas, and perhaps they will answer you.”

Every one drew away from Tartarin in fright and consternation.

“But then,” asked the painter, “in what respect is Tell’s position incorrect?”

“Look at me!”

Falling back with a double step that made the planks creak, Tartarin, using his cane to represent the “blunderbuss,” threw himself into position.

“Superb! He is right! Don’t move!” cried the painter. Then to his pupil:

“Quick, bring me paper and charcoal!”

GERMAN HUMOR

Christian F. Gellert, a German poet of the early Eighteenth century, was also a lecturer and professor of philosophy.

His literary fame rests upon his sacred songs and his fables. One of the latter we quote.

THE PATIENT CURED

A man long plagued with aches in joint and limb Did all his neighbors recommended him, But, despite that, could nowise gain Deliverance from his pain. An ancient dame, to whom he told his case, Cut an oracular grimace, And thus announced a magic remedy: “You must,” said she, Mysteriously hissing in his ear, And calling him “My dear,” “Sit on a good man’s grave at early light, And with the dew fresh-fallen over night Thrice bathe your hands, your knee-joints thrice: ’Twill cure you in a trice. Remember her who gave you this advice.”

The patient did just as the grandam said. (What will not mortals do to be Relieved of misery?) He went right early to the burying-ground, And on a tombstone--’twas the first he found-- These words, delighted, read: “Stranger, what man he was who sleeps below, This monument and epitaph may show. The wonder of his time was he, The pattern of most genuine piety; And that thou all in a few words may’st learn, Him church and school and town and country mourn.”

Here the poor cripple takes his seat, And bathes his hands, his joints, his feet; But all his labor’s worse than vain: It rather aggravates his pain.

With troubled mind he grasps his staff, Turns from the good man’s grave, and creeps On to the next, where lowly sleeps One honored by no epitaph. Scarce had he touched the nameless stone, When lo! each racking pain had flown; His useless staff forgotten on the ground, He leaves this holy grave, erect and sound.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “is there no line to tell Who was this holy man that makes me well?” Just then the sexton did appear, Of him he asked, “Pray, who lies buried here?” The sexton waited long, and seemed quite shy Of making any sort of a reply. “Well,” he began at last with mournful sigh, “The Lord forgive him, ’twas a man Placed by all honest circles under ban; Whom scarcely they allowed a decent grave; Whose soul naught but a miracle might save; A heretic, and, what is worse, Wrote plays and verse! In short, to speak my full conviction, And without fear of contradiction, He was an innovator and a scound--” “No!” cried the man. “No, I’ll be bound! Not so, though all the world the lie repeat! But that chap there, who sleeps hard by us, Whom you and all the world call pious, He was, for sure, a scoundrel and a cheat!”

* * * * *

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was a celebrated German dramatist and critic. His collected works fill many volumes.

We quote a few of his Fables and Epigrams.

THE RAVEN

The raven remarked that the eagle sat thirty days upon her eggs. “That, undoubtedly,” said she, “is the reason why the young of the eagle are so all-seeing and strong. Good! I will do the same.”

And, since then, the raven actually sits thirty days upon her eggs; but, as yet, she has hatched nothing but miserable ravens.--Fables.

THE DECORATED BOW

A man had an excellent bow of ebony, with which he shot very far and very sure, and which he valued at a great price. But once, after considering it attentively, he said:

“A little too rude still! Your only ornament is your polish. It is a pity! However, that can be remedied,” thought he. “I will go and let a first-rate artist carve something on the bow.”

He went, and the artist carved an entire hunting-scene upon the bow. And what more fitting for a bow than a hunting-scene?

The man was delighted. “You deserve this embellishment, my beloved bow.” So saying, he wished to try it.

He drew the string. The bow broke!--Fables.

EPIGRAMS

From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes, What a villainous odor invades all our noses! It can’t be his body alone--in the hole They have certainly buried the usurer’s soul.

* * * * *

While Fell was reposing himself on the hay, A reptile conceal’d bit his leg as he lay; But all venom himself, of the wound he made light, And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.

* * * * *

So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech, One scarcely can tell if you’re laughing or crying; Were you fix’d on one’s funeral sermon to preach, The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.

* * * * *

Quoth gallant Fritz, “I ran away To fight again another day.” The meaning of his speech is plain, He only fled to fly again.

* * * * *

“How strange, a deaf wife to prefer!” “True, but she’s also dumb, good sir.”

* * * * *

Rudolph Erich Raspe was a German author who was also an Archæologist of note.

His best known work is the celebrated History of Baron Münchausen.

A HORSE TIED TO A STEEPLE

I set off from Rome on a journey to Russia, in the midst of winter, from a just notion that frost and snow must of course improve the roads, which every traveler had described as uncommonly bad through the northern parts of Germany, Poland, Courland, and Livonia. I went on horseback, as the most convenient manner of traveling. I was but lightly clothed, and of this I felt the inconvenience the more I advanced northeast. What must not a poor old man have suffered in that severe weather and climate, whom I saw on a bleak common in Poland, lying on the road, helpless, shivering, and hardly having wherewithal to cover his nakedness? I pitied the poor soul. Though I felt the severity of the atmosphere myself, I threw my mantle over him, and immediately I heard a voice from the heavens, blessing me for that piece of charity, saying:

“You will be rewarded, my son, for this in time.”

I went on. Night and darkness overtook me. No village was to be seen. The country was covered with snow, and I was unacquainted with the road.

Tired out, I alighted, and fastened my horse to something like the pointed stump of a tree which appeared above the snow. For the sake of safety I placed my pistols under my arm, and laid down on the snow, where I slept so soundly that I did not open my eyes till full daylight. It is not easy to conceive my astonishment at finding myself in the midst of a village, lying in a churchyard. Nor was my horse to be seen; but I heard him soon after neigh somewhere above me. On looking upward, I beheld him hanging by his bridle to the weathercock of the steeple. Matters were now quite plain to me. The village had been covered with snow overnight; a sudden change in the weather had taken place; I had sunk down to the churchyard while asleep at the same rate as the snow had melted away; and what in the dark I had taken to be a stump of a little tree appearing above the snow, to which I had tied my horse, proved to have been the cross or weathercock of the steeple!

Without long consideration, I took one of my pistols, shot the bridle in two, brought down the horse, and proceeded on my journey.--Adventures of Baron Münchausen.

A RATHER LARGE WHALE

I embarked at Portsmouth, in a first-rate English man-of-war of one hundred guns and fourteen hundred men, for North America. Nothing worth relating happened till we arrived within three hundred leagues of the river St. Lawrence, when the ship struck with amazing force against (as we supposed) a rock. However, upon heaving the lead, we could find no bottom, even with three hundred fathoms. What made this circumstance the more wonderful, and indeed beyond all comprehension, was, that the violence of the shock was such that we lost our rudder, broke our bowsprit in the middle, and split all our masts from top to bottom, two of which went by the board. A poor fellow, who was aloft furling the main-sheet, was flung at least three leagues from the ship; but he fortunately saved his life by laying hold of the tail of a large sea-gull, which brought him back and lodged him on the very spot whence he was thrown. Another proof of the violence of the shock was the force with which the people between decks were driven against the floors above them. My head particularly was pressed into my stomach, where it continued some months before it returned to its natural situation.

While we were all in a state of astonishment at the general and unaccountable confusion in which we were involved, the whole was suddenly explained by the appearance of a large whale, which had been basking, asleep, within sixteen feet of the surface of the water. This animal was so much displeased with the disturbance which our ship had given him--for in our passage we had with our rudder scratched his nose--that he beat in all the gallery and part of the quarter-deck with his tail, and almost at the same instant took the main-sheet anchor, which was suspended, as it usually is, from the head, between his teeth, and ran away with the ship at least sixty leagues, at the rate of twelve leagues an hour, when, fortunately, the cable broke, and we lost both the whale and the anchor. However, upon our return to Europe, some months after, we found the same whale within a few leagues of the same spot, floating dead upon the water. It measured above half a mile in length. As we could take only a small quantity of such a monstrous animal on board, we got our boats out, and with much difficulty cut off his head, where, to our great joy, we found the anchor, and above forty fathoms of the cable, concealed on the left side of his mouth, just under his tongue. Perhaps this was the cause of his death, as that side of his tongue was much swelled with severe inflammation.

This was the only extraordinary circumstance that happened on this voyage. One part of our distress, however, I had like to have forgot. While the whale was running away with the ship she sprang a leak, and the water poured in so fast that all our pumps could not keep us from sinking. It was, however, my good fortune to discover it first. I found a large hole about a foot in diameter, and you will naturally suppose this circumstance gives me infinite pleasure, when I inform you that this noble vessel was preserved, with all its crew, by a most happy thought of mine. In short I sat down over it, and could have covered it had it been even larger. Nor will you be surprised at this when I inform you that I am descended from Dutch parents.

My situation, while I sat there, was rather cool, but the carpenter’s art soon relieved me.

--Adventures of Baron Münchausen.

* * * * *

Matthias Claudius was another maker of Poetical Fables and Folk Songs.

THE HEN AND THE EGG

A famous hen’s my story’s theme, Who ne’er was known to tire Of laying eggs, but then she’d scream So loud o’er every egg, ’twould seem The house must be on fire. A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk, A wiser bird, and older, Could bear’t no more, so off did stalk Right to the hen, and told her: “Madam, that scream, I apprehend, Does not affect the matter; It surely helps the eggs no whit; So, lay your egg--and done with it! I pray you, madam, as a friend, Cease that superfluous clatter. You know not how’t goes through my head!” “Humph! Very likely!” madam said, Then, proudly putting forth a leg: “Uneducated barnyard fowl, You know no more than any owl The noble privilege and praise Of authorship in modern days! I’ll tell you why I do it: First, you perceive, I lay my egg, And then--review it.”

Friedrich von Schiller was among the most famous of Germany’s writers. Poet, dramatist and historian he left numerous works of varied value.

His humor, like that of all his countrymen, is heavy and rather labored.

PEGASUS IN THE YOKE

Into a public fair--a cattle-fair, in short, Where other things are bought and sold--ah, sad to tell! A hungry poet one day brought The Muse’s Pegasus to sell.

Shrill neighed the hippogriff and clear, And pranced, and reared, displaying his proud frame, Till all exclaimed in wonder, who stood near, “The noble, royal beast! But what a shame His slender form by such a hateful pair Of wings is spoiled! He’d set off a fine post-team well.” “The race,” say others, “would be rare; But who’s go posting through the air?” And lose his money no one will. A farmer mustered courage, though, at length, “The wings, indeed,” he says, “will be no profit; But them one might tie down, or crop them off; it Then were a good horse for drawing--it has strength. I’ll give you twenty pounds, sir, win or lose.” The seller, too delighted to refuse, Cried out, “Agreed!” and eagerly the offer seized. Hans with his bargain trudged off home, well pleased.

The noble beast was harnessed in, But felt th’ unwonted burden to be light, And off he set with appetite for flight, And soon his wild careering would begin, And hurled the cart in proudest rage Over a precipice’s edge. “Well done!” thought Hans. “We wisdom from experience borrow; I’ll trust the mad beast with no loads again. I’ve passengers to take to-morrow; He shall be put in leader of the train. By using him, two horses I shall spare; He’ll learn in time the collar, too, to bear.”

They went on well awhile. The horse was fleet, And quickened up the rest; and arrow-swift the carriage flies. But now, what next? With look turned to the skies, And unaccustomed with firm hoof the ground to beat, He leaves the sure track of the wheels, True to the stronger nature which he feels, And runs through marsh and moor, o’er planted field and plain; And the same fury seizes all the train. No call will help, no bridle hold them in, Till, to the mortal fright of all within, The coach, well shaken and well smashed, brings up In sad plight on a steep hill’s top.

“This is not quite the thing! No, no!” Says Hans, considering, with a frown. “In this way I shall never make it go. Let’s see if ’twill not tame the wild-fire down, To work him hard, and keep him low.” The trial’s made. The beast, so fair and trim, Before three days are gone looks gaunt and grim, And to a shadow shrunk. “I have it! I have found it now!” Cries Hans. “Come on, now. Yoke me him Beside my strongest ox before the plow.”

So said, so done. In droll procession now, See ox and wingèd horse before the plow. Unwilling steps the griffin, strains what little might Of longing’s left in him, to take his fond old flight. In vain: deliberately steps his neighbor, And Phœbus’ high-souled steed must bend to his slow labor, Till now, by long resistance spent his force, His trembling limbs he can no longer trust, And, bowed with shame, the noble, godlike horse Falls to the ground, and rolls him in the dust.

“You cursèd beast!” Hans breaks out furious now, And scolds and blusters, while he lays the blows on; “You are too poor, then, even for the plow! You rascal, so my ignorance to impose on!”

And while in this way angrily he goes on, And swings the lash, behold! upon the way A pleasant youth steps up so smart and gay. A harp shakes ringing in his hand, And through his glossy, parted hair Winds glittering a golden band. “Where now, friend, with that wondrous pair?” From far off to the boor he spoke. “The bird and ox together in that style? I pray you, man, why, what a yoke! But come, to try a little while, Will you entrust your horse to me? Look well: a wonder you shall see.”

The hippogriff’s unyoked, and with a smile The youth springs lightsomely upon his back. Scarce feels the beast the master’s certain hand, But gnashes at his wings’ confining band, And mounts, with lightning-look, the airy track. No more the being that he was, but royally, A spirit now, a god, up mounteth he; Unfurls at once, as for their far storm-flight, His splendid wings, and shoots to heaven with fierce, wild neigh; And ere the eye can follow him, away He melts into the clear blue height.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest name in German literature, is hardly to be classed among the humorists.

But a short extract from his Reynard the Fox is quoted.

“But I am rather bad in my inside. By what I’ve eaten I am quite upset, And nowise fitted for a journey yet.” “What was it?” asked Sir Bruin, quite prepared, For Reynard had not thrown him off his guard. “Ah,” quoth the Fox, “what boots it to explain? E’en your kind pity could not ease my pain. Since flesh I have abjured, for my soul’s weal, I’m often sadly put to’t for a meal. I bear my wretched life as best I can; A hermit fares not like an alderman. But yesterday, as other viands failed, I ate some honey--see how I am swelled! Of that there’s always to be had enough. Would I had never touched the cursed stuff! I ate it out of sheer necessity; Physic is not so nauseous near to me.” “Honey!” exclaimed the Bear; “did you say honey! Would I could any get for love or money! How can you speak so ill of what’s so good? Honey has ever been my fav’rite food; It is so wholesome, and so sweet and luscious, I can’t conceive how you can call it nauseous. Do get me some o’t, and you may depend You’ll make me evermore your steadfast friend.” “You’re surely joking, uncle!” Reynard cried. “No, on my sacred word!” the Bear replied; “I’d not, though jokes as blackberries were rife, Joke upon such a subject for my life.” “Well, you surprise me!” said the knavish beast. “There’s no accounting, certainly, for taste; And one man’s meat is oft another’s poison. I’ll wager that you never set your eyes on Such store of honey as you soon shall spy At Gaffer Joiner’s, who lives here hard by.” In fancy o’er the treat did Bruin gloat, While his mouth fairly watered at the thought. “Oh, take me, take me there, dear coz,” quoth he, “And I will ne’er forget your courtesy! Oh, let me have a taste, if not my fill; Do, cousin.” Reynard grinned, and said, “I will. Honey you shall not long time be without. ’Tis true just now I’m rather sore of foot; But what of that? The love I bear to you Shall make the road seem short, and easy too Not one of all my kith or kin is there Whom I so honor as th’ illustrious Bear. Come, then, and in return I know you’ll say A good word for me on the council day. You shall have honey to your heart’s content, And wax, too, if your fancy’s that way bent.” Whacks of a different sort the sly rogue meant. Off starts the wily Fox, in merry trim, And Bruin blindly follows after him. “If you have luck,” thought Reynard, with a titter, “I guess you’ll find our honey rather bitter.” When they at length reached Goodman Joiner’s yard, The joy that Bruin felt he might have spared. But hope, it seems, by some eternal rule, Beguiles the wisest as the merest fool. ’Twas ev’ning now, and Reynard knew, he said, The goodman would be safe and sound in bed. A good and skilful carpenter was he; Within his yard there lay an old oak-tree, Whose gnarled and knotted trunk he had to split. A stout wedge had he driven into it; The cleft gaped open a good three foot wide; Toward this spot the crafty Reynard hied. “Uncle,” quoth he, “your steps this way direct; You’ll find more honey here than you suspect. In at this fissure boldly thrust your pate; But I beseech you to be moderate. Remember, sweetest things the soonest cloy, And temperance enhances every joy.” “What!” said the Bear, a shock’d look as he put on Of self-restraint; “d’ye take me for a glutton? With thanks I use the gifts of Providence, But to abuse them count a grave offense.” And so Sir Bruin let himself be fooled-- As strength will be whene’er by craft ’tis ruled. Into the cleft he thrust his greedy maw Up to the ears, and either foremost paw. Reynard drew near, and tugging might and main Pulled forth the wedge, and the trunk closed again. By head and foot was Bruin firmly caught, Nor threats nor flatt’ry could avail him aught. He howled, he raved, he struggled, and he tore, Till the whole place re-echoed with his roar, And Goodman Joiner, wakened by the rout, Jumped up, much wond’ring what ’twas all about. He seized his ax, that he might be prepared, And danger, if it came, might find him on his guard. Still howled the Bear, and struggled to get free From the accursed grip of that cleft tree. He strove and strained, but strained and strove in vain; His mightiest efforts but increased his pain; He thought he never should get loose again. And Reynard thought the same, for his own part, And wished it, too, devoutly from his heart And as the joiner coming he espied, Armed with his ax, the jesting ruffian cried: “Uncle, what cheer? Is th’ honey to your taste? Don’t eat too quick; there’s no such need of haste. The joiner’s coming, and I make no question, He brings you your dessert, to help digestion.” Then, deeming ’twas not longer safe to stay, To Malepartus back he took his way.

Carl Arnold Kortum, a German poet, wrote a long rigmarole of burlesque, called The Jobsiad. This was exceedingly popular and became a German classic. It is dull for the most part, but shows flashes of real drollery.

Contains the copy of a letter, which, among many others, the student Hieronimus did write to his parents:

Dear and Honored Parents, I lately Have suffered for want of money greatly; Have the goodness, then, to send without fail, A trifle or two by return of mail.

I want about twenty or thirty ducats; For I have not at present a cent in my pockets; Things are so tight with us this way, Send me the money at once, I pray.

And everything is growing higher, Lodging and washing, and lights and fire, And incidental expenses every day-- Send me the ducats without delay.

You can hardly perceive the enormous expenses The college imposes on all pretenses, For text-books and lectures so much to pay-- I wish the ducats were on their way!

I devote to my studies unremitting attention-- One thing I must not forget to mention: The thirty ducats, pray send them straight For my purse is in a beggarly state.

Boots and shoes, and stockings and breeches, Tailoring, washing, and extra stitches, Pen, ink and paper, are all so dear, I wish the thirty ducats were here!

The money--(I trust you will speedily send it!) I promise faithfully to spend it; Yes, dear parents, you never need fear, I live very strictly and frugally here.

When other students revel and riot, I steal away into perfect quiet, And shut myself up with my books and light In my study-chamber, till late at night.

Beyond the needful supply of my table, I spare, dear parents, all I am able; Take tea but rarely, and nothing more, For spending money afflicts me sore.

Other students, who’d fain be called mellow, Set me down for a niggardly fellow, And say: there goes the dig, just look! How like a parson he eyes his book!

With jibes and jokes they daily beset me, But none of these things do I suffer to fret me; I smile at all they can do or say-- Don’t forget the ducats, I pray!

Ten hours each day I spend at the college, Drinking at the fount of knowledge, And when the lectures come to an end, The rest in private study I spend.

The Professors express great gratification Only they hope I will use moderation, And not wear out in my studiis Philosophicis et theologicis.

It would savor, dear parents, of self-laudation, To enter on an enumeration Of all my studies--in brief, there is none More exemplary than your dear son.

My head seems ready to burst asunder, Sometimes, with its learned load, and I wonder Where so much knowledge is packed away: (Apropos! don’t forget the ducats, I pray!)

Yes, dearest parents, my devotion to study Consumes the best strength of mind and body, And generally even the night is spent In meditation deep and intent.

In the pulpit soon I shall take my station And try my hand at the preacher’s vocation Likewise I dispute in the college-hall On learned subjects with one and all.

But don’t forget to send me the ducats, For I long so much to replenish my pockets; The money one day shall be returned In the shape of a son right wise and learn’d.

Then my Privatissimum (I’ve been thinking on it For a long time--and in fact begun it) Will cost me twenty Rix-dollars more, Please send with the ducats I mentioned before.

I also, dear parents, inform you sadly, I have torn my coat of late very badly, So please enclose with the rest in your note Twelve dollars to purchase a new coat.

New boots are also necessary, Likewise my night-gown is ragged, very; My hat and pantaloons, too, alas! And the rest of my clothes are going to grass.

Now, as all these things are needed greatly, Please enclose me four Louis d’ors separately, Which, joined to the rest, perhaps will be Enough for the present emergency.

My recent sickness you may not have heard of; In fact, for some time, my life was despaired of, But I haste to assure you, on my word, That now my health is nearly restored.

The Medicus, for services rendered, A bill of eighteen guilders has tendered, And then the apothecary’s will be, In round numbers, about twenty-three.

Now that physician and apothecary May get their dues, it is necessary These forty-one guilders be added to the rest, But, as to my health, don’t be distressed.

The nurse would also have some compensation, Who attended me in my critical situation, I, therefore, think it would be best To enclose seven guilders for her with the rest.

For citrons, jellies and things of that nature, To sustain and strengthen the feeble creature, The confectioner, too, has a small account, Eight guilders is about the amount.

These various items of which I’ve made mention, Demand immediate attention; For order, to me, is very dear, And I carefully from debts keep clear.

I also rely on your kind attention, To forward the ducats of which I made mention So soon as it can possibly be-- One more small item occurs to me:--

Two weeks ago I unluckily stumbled, And down the length of the stairway tumbled, As in at the college door I went, Whereby my right arm almost double was bent.

The Chirurgus who attended on the occasion, For his balsams, plasters and preparation Of spirits, and other things needless to name, Charges twelve dollars; please forward the same.

But, that your minds may be acquiescent, I am, thank God, now convalescent; Both shoulder and shin are in a very good way, And I go to lecture every day.

My stomach is still in a feeble condition, A circumstance owing, so thinks the physician, To sitting so much, when I read and write, And studying so long and so late at night.

He, therefore, earnestly advises Burgundy wine, with nutmeg and spices, And every morning, instead of tea, For the stomach’s sake, to drink sangaree.

Please send, agreeably to these advices, Two pistoles for the wine and spices, And be sure, dear parents, I only take Such things as these for the stomach’s sake.

Finally, a few small debts, amounting To thirty or forty guilders (loose counting), Be pleased, in your letter, without fail, Dear parents, to enclose this bagatelle.

And could you, for sundries, send me twenty Or a dozen Louis d’or (that would be plenty), ’Twould be a kindness seasonably done, And very acceptable to your son.

This letter, dear parents, comes hoping to find you In usual health--I beg to remind you How much I am for money perplexed, Please, therefore, to remit in your next.

Herewith I close my letter, repeating To you and all my friendly greeting, And subscribe myself, without further fuss, Your obedient son, HIERONIMUS.

I add in a postscript what I neglected To say, beloved and highly respected Parents, I beg most filially, That you’ll forward the money as soon as may be.

For I had, dear father (I say it weeping), Fourteen French Crowns laid by in safe keeping (As I thought) for a day of need--but the whole An anonymous person yesterday stole:

I know you’ll make good, unasked, each shilling, Your innocent son has lost by this villain; For a man so considerate must be aware That I such a loss can nowise bear.

Meanwhile, I’ll take care that, to-day or to-morrow, Mr. Anonymous shall, to his sorrow And your satisfaction, receive the reward Of his graceless trick with the hempen cord.

Adelbert von Chamisso, German author and poet, came of an old French family. His principal work is in prose, The Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl, the man who sold his shadow.

An amusing poem is in nonsense vein.

THE PIGTAIL

There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much, and sorrowed more, Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case, And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, “The mystery I’ve found; I’ll turn me round.” He turned him round, But still it hung behind him.

Then round, and round, and out, and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain--it mattered not a pin-- The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about, And up, and down, and in, and out He turned. But still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and whirl, and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back The pigtail hangs behind him!

Wilhelm Müller, a lyric poet of promise, died young. Many of his songs were set to music by Schubert. His humorous verse was rollicking and popular.

THE DRUNKARD’S FANCY

Straight from the tavern door I am come here; Old road, how odd to me Thou dost appear! Right and left changing sides, Rising and sunk; Oh, I can plainly see, Road, thou art drunk!

Oh, what a twisted face Thou hast, oh, moon! One eye shut, t’other eye Wide as a spoon. Who could have dreamed of this? Shame on thee, shame! Thou hast been fuddling, Jolly old dame!

Look at the lamps again: See how they reel! Nodding and flickering Round as they wheel. Not one among them all Steady can go; Look at the drunken lamps All in a row.

All in an uproar seem Great things and small; I am the only one Sober at all. But there’s no safety here For sober men; So I’ll turn back to The tavern again.

The brothers, Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, wrote much in collaboration beside their well-known Märchen or Fairy Tales.

Their humor is of the heavier sort, but their versatile erudition found opportunities for witty conceits.

EXCERPT FROM CLEVER GRETHEL

One day her master said to her, “Grethel, I have invited some friends to dinner to-day; cook me some of your best chickens.”

“That I will, master,” she replied.

So she went out, and killed two of the best fowls and prepared them for roasting.

In the afternoon she placed them on the spit before the fire, and they were all ready, and beautifully hot and brown by the proper time, but the visitors had not arrived. So she went to her master, and said, “The fowls will be quite spoiled if I keep them at the fire any longer. It will be a pity and a shame if they are not eaten soon!”

Then said her master, “I will go and fetch the visitors myself,” and away he went.

As soon as his back was turned Grethel put the spit with the birds on one side, and thought, “I have been standing by the fire so long that it has made me quite thirsty. Who knows when they will come? While I am waiting I may as well run into the cellar and have a little drop.” So she seized a jug, and said, “All right, Grethel, you shall have a good draft. Wine is so tempting!” she continued, “and it does not do to spoil your draft.” And she drank without stopping till the jug was empty.

After this she went into the kitchen, and placed the fowls again before the fire, basted them with butter, and rattled the spit round so furiously that they browned and frizzled with the heat. “They would never miss a little piece if they searched for it ever so carefully,” she said to herself. Then she dipped her finger in the dripping-pan to taste, and cried, “Oh, how nice these fowls are! It is a sin and a shame that there is no one here to eat them!”

She ran to the window to see if her master and the guests were coming; but she could see no one. So she went and stood again by the fowls, and thought, “The wing of that fowl is a little burned. I had better eat it out of the way.” She cut it off as she thought this, and ate it up, and it tasted so nice that when she had finished it she thought, “I must have the other. Master will never notice that anything is missing.”

After the two wings were eaten, Grethel again went to look for her master, but there were no signs of his appearance.

“Who knows?” she said to herself; “perhaps the visitors are not coming at all, and they have kept my master to dinner, so he won’t be back. Hi, Grethel! there are lots of good things left for you; and that piece of fowl has made me thirsty. I must have another drink before I come back and eat up all these good things.”

So she went into the cellar, took a large draft of wine, and returning to the kitchen, sat down and ate the remainder of the fowl with great relish.

There was now only one fowl left, and as her master did not return, Grethel began to look at the other with longing eyes. At last she said, “Where one is, there the other must be; for the fowls belong to each other, and what is right for one is also fair and right for the other. I believe, too, I want some more to drink. It won’t hurt me.”

The last draft gave her courage. She came back to the kitchen and let the second fowl go after the first.

As she was enjoying the last morsel, home came her master.

“Make haste, Grethel!” he cried. “The guests will be here in a few minutes.”

“Yes, master,” she replied. “It will soon be all ready.”

Meanwhile the master saw that the cloth was laid and everything in order. So he took up the carving-knife with which he intended to carve the fowl, and went out to sharpen it on the stones in the passage.

While he was doing so, the guests arrived and knocked gently and courteously at the house door. Grethel ran out to see who it was, and when she caught sight of the visitors she placed her finger on her lips, and whispered, “Hush! Hush! Go back again as quickly as you came! If my master should catch you it would be unfortunate. He did invite you to dinner this evening, but with no other intention than to cut off both the ears of each of you. Listen; you can hear him sharpening his knife.”

The guests heard the sound, and hastened as fast as they could down the steps, and were soon out of sight.

Grethel was not idle. She ran screaming to her master, and cried, “You have invited fine visitors, certainly!”

“Hi! Why, Grethel, what do you mean?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “they came here just now, and have taken my two beautiful fowls from the dish that I was going to bring up for dinner, and have run away with them.”

“What strange conduct!” said her master, who was so sorry to lose his nice dinner that he rushed out to follow the thieves. “If they had only left me one, or at least enough for my own dinner!” he cried, running after them. But the more he cried to them to stop the faster they ran; and when they saw him with the knife in his hand, and heard him say, “Only one! only one!”--he meant, if they had left him “only one fowl,” but they thought he spoke of “only one ear,” which he intended to cut off--they ran as if fire were burning around them, and were not satisfied till they found themselves safe at home with both ears untouched.

* * * * *

Friedrich Rückert was a prolific writer and left many volumes of his collected poems.

A scathing bit of satire is here quoted.

ARTIST AND PUBLIC

The dumb man asked the blind man: “Canst do a favor, pray? Could I the harper find, man? Hast seen him pass to-day? I take, myself, small pleasure In harp-tones--almost none-- Yet much I’d like a measure Played for my deaf young son.”

The blind man quick made answer: “I saw him pass my gate; I’ll send my lame young man, sir, To overtake him straight.” At one look from his master, Away the cripple ran, And faster, ever faster, He chased the harper-man.

The harper came, elated, And straight to work he went; His arms were amputated; His toes to work he bent. All hearts his playing captured; The deaf man was all ear; The blind man gazed, enraptured; The dumb man shouted, “Hear!”

The lame boy fell to dancing, And leaped with all his might; The scene was so entrancing, They stayed till late at night. And when the concert ended, The public, justly proud, The artist’s powers commended, Who, deeply grateful, bowed.

Heinrich Heine, the celebrated lyric poet, rarely showed any humor in his poetry. But some of his prose works are broadly ludicrous, and his observations witty and cynical.

THE TOWN OF GÖTTINGEN

The town of Göttingen, famous by reason of its university and its sausages, belongs to the kingdom of Hanover, and contains 999 fire-stations, divers churches, a lying-in hospital, an observatory, an academic prison, a library, and an underground tavern--where the beer is excellent. The brook that flows past the town is called the Leine, and serves for bathing in summer; the water is very cold, and at some places the brook is so wide that one cannot jump across it without some exertion. The town is very handsome, and pleases me best when my back is turned to it. It must be very old, for I remember that when I matriculated (and was soon afterward rusticated), five years ago, it had the same gray, ancient appearance, and was as thoroughly provided, as it is now, with poodle dogs, dissertations, laundresses, anthologies, roast pigeon, Guelph decorations, pipe-bowls, court councilors, privy councilors and silly counts....

In general, the inhabitants of Göttingen may be divided into students, professors, Philistines, and cattle. The cattle class is numerically the strongest. To place on record here the names of all professors and students would take me too far afield, nor can I even, at this moment, remember the name of every student; while among the professors there are many who have as yet made none. The number of Philistines in Göttingen must be like that of the sands--or rather the mud--of the sea. Truly, when they appear in the morning with their dirty faces and their white bills at the gates of the academic court, one wonders how God could have had the heart to create such a pack of scoundrels!

More thorough information concerning Göttingen is easily obtainable by reference to the “Topography” of the town, by K. F. H. Marx. Although I am under the deepest obligations to the author, who was my physician and did me many kindnesses, I cannot praise his work without reserve. I must blame him for not having opposed in terms sufficiently strong the heresy that the ladies of Göttingen have feet of spacious dimensions. I have been engaged for a long time upon a work which is to destroy this erroneous idea once and forever. For this purpose I have studied comparative anatomy, have made excerpts from the rarest books in the library, and have for hours and hours observed the feet of the passing ladies in Weender Street. In my learned treatise I intend to deal with the subject as follows:

1. Of Feet in General. 2. Of the Feet of the Ancients. 3. Of the Feet of Elephants. 4. Of the Feet of the Fair Inhabitants of Göttingen. 5. Summing up of Opinions delivered upon Feet in Göttingen Taverns. 6. Connection and Comparison of Feet with Calves, Knees, etc. 7. Facsimile Charts (if sheets of paper sufficiently large are obtainable) of Specimen Feet of Göttingen Ladies.

* * * * *

I am the most peaceable of mortals. My wishes are: A modest dwelling, a thatched roof, but a good bed, good fare, milk and butter (the latter very fresh), flowers at the window, and a few fine trees before my gate. And if the Lord would fill the cup of my happiness, He would let me live to see the day when six or seven of my enemies are hung on the trees. With softened heart I would then forgive them all the evil they have done me. Yes, one must forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hung.

* * * * *

A. If I were of the race of Christ, I should boast of it, and not be ashamed.

B. So would I, if Christ were the only member of the race. But so many miserable scamps belong to it that one hesitates to acknowledge the relationship.

* * * * *

Gervinus, the literary historian, set himself the following problem: To repeat in a long and witless book what Heinrich Heine said in a short and witty one. He solved the problem.

* * * * *

De mortuis nil nisi bene. One should speak only evil of the living.

Heinrich Hoffman, a Frankfort doctor, wrote the popular tales for children about Struwelpeter, which are nursery classics in many languages. These stories have an added interest from the clever illustrations by their author.

Wilhelm Busch, also a comic artist, born near Hanover, is the creator of the Max and Maurice stories and pictures.

He was a well-known contributor to the Fliegende Blätter, the popular comic paper of Germany.

A distinct type of German humor is found in their Student Songs. These, oftener than not, are in praise of merrymaking and good cheer.

POPE AND SULTAN

The Pope he leads a happy life; He fears not married care nor strife; He drinks the best of Rhenish wine-- I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

CHORUS

He drinks the best of Rhenish wine-- I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

But then, all happy’s not his life; He has not maid nor blooming wife, Nor child has he to raise his hope-- I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me; His is a life of jollity; His wives are many as his will-- I would the Sultan’s throne then fill.

But even he’s a wretched man; He must obey his Alcoran; And dares not drink one drop of wine-- I would not change his lot for mine.

So, then, I’ll hold my lowly stand, And live in German fatherland; I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

Whene’er my maiden kisses me, I’ll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I’ll fancy then I am the Pope.

CREDO

For the sole edification Of this decent congregation, Goodly people, by your grant I will sing a holy chant, I will sing a holy chant. If the ditty sound but oddly, ’Twas a father, wise and godly, Sang it so long ago. Then sing as Martin Luther sang: “Who loves not woman, wine, and song, Remains a fool his whole life long!”

He, by custom patriarchal, Loved to see the beaker sparkle; And he thought the wine improved, Tasted by the lips he loved, By the kindly lips he loved. Friends, I wish this custom pious Duly were observed by us, To combine love, song, wine, And sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: “Who loves not woman, wine and song, Remains a fool his whole life long!”

Who refuses this our Credo, And who will not sing as we do, Were he holy as John Knox, I’d pronounce him heterodox, I’d pronounce him heterodox, And from out this congregation, With a solemn commination, Banish quick the heretic, Who’ll not sing as Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: “Who loves not woman, wine and song, Remains a fool his whole life long!”

ITALIAN HUMOR

The humorists of Italy in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries are few and far between. Carlo Goldoni and Count Carlo Gozzi were both dramatists, the latter also a novelist, whose works show humor, but are not available for quotation.

Count Giacomo Leopardi, though himself a gloomy sort of person, left some satirical writings tinged with wit.

THE ACADEMY OF SYLLOGRAPHS

The Academy of Syllographs, hold that it would be in the highest degree expedient that men should retire as far as possible from the conduct of the business of the world, and should gradually give place to mechanical agency for the direction of human affairs. Accordingly, resolved to contribute as far as lies in its power to this consummation, it has determined to offer three prizes, to be awarded to the persons who shall invent the best examples of the three machines now to be described.

The scope and object of the first of these automata shall be to represent the person and discharge the functions of a friend who shall not calumniate or jeer at his absent associate; who shall not fail to take his part when he hears him censured or ridiculed; who shall not prefer a reputation for wit, and the applause of men, to his duty to friendship; who shall never, from love of gossip or mere ostentation of superior knowledge, divulge a secret committed to his keeping; who shall not abuse the intimacy or confidence of his fellow in order to supplant or surpass him; who shall harbor no envy against his friend; who shall guard his interests and help to repair his losses, and shall be prompt to answer his call, and minister to his needs more substantially than by empty professions.

In the construction of this piece of mechanism it will be well to study, among other things, the treatise on friendship by Cicero, as well as that of Madame de Lambert. The Academy is of opinion that the manufacture of such a machine ought not to prove impracticable or even particularly difficult, for, besides the automata of Regiomontanus and Vaucanson, there was at one time exhibited in London a mechanical figure which drew portraits, and wrote to dictation; while there have been more than one example of such machines capable of playing at chess. Now, in the opinion of many philosophers human life is but a game; nay, some hold that it is more shallow and more frivolous than many other games, and that the principles of chess, for example, are more in accordance with reason, and that its various moves are more governed by wisdom, than are the actions of mankind; while we have it on the authority of Pindar that human action is no more substantial than the shadow of a dream; and this being so, the intelligence of an automaton ought to prove quite equal to the discharge of the functions which have just been described.

As to the power of speech, it seems unreasonable to doubt that men should have the power of communicating it to machines constructed by themselves, seeing that this may be said to have been established by sundry precedents, such, for example, as in the case of the statue of Memnon, and of the human head manufactured by Albertus Magnus, which actually became so loquacious that Saint Thomas Aquinas, losing all patience with it, smashed it to pieces. Then, too, there was the instance of the parrot Ver-Vert, though it was a living creature; but if it could be taught to converse reasonably how much more may it be supposed that a machine devised by the mind of man, and constructed by his hands, should do as much; while it would have this advantage that it might be made less garrulous than this parrot, or the head of Albertus, and therefore it need not irritate its acquaintances and provoke them to smash it.

The inventor of the best example of such a machine shall be decorated with a gold medallion of four hundred sequins in weight, bearing on its face the images of Pylades and Orestes, and on the reverse the name of the successful competitor, surrounded by the legend, FIRST REALIZER OF THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY.

The second machine called for by the Academy is to be an artificial steam man, so constructed and regulated as to perform virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of opinion that in the absence of all other adequate motive power to that end, the properties of steam might prove effective to inspire an automaton, and direct it to the attainment of virtue and true glory. The inventor who shall undertake the construction of such a machine should study the poets and the writers of romance, who will best guide him as to the qualities and functions most essential to such a piece of mechanism. The prize shall be a gold medal weighing four hundred and fifty sequins, bearing on its obverse a figure symbolical of the golden age, and on its reverse the name of the inventor.

The third automaton should be so constituted as to perform the duties of woman such as she was conceived by the Count Baldassar Castiglione, and described by him in his treatise entitled The Courtier, as well as by other writers in other works on the subject, which will be readily found, and which, as well as that of the count, will have to be carefully consulted and followed. The construction of a machine of this nature, too, ought not to appear impossible to the inventors of our time, when they reflect on the fact that in the most ancient times, and times destitute of science, Pygmalion was able to fabricate for himself, with his own hands, a wife of such rare gifts that she has never since been equaled down to the present day. The successful inventor of this machine shall be rewarded with a gold medal weighing five hundred sequins, bearing on one face the figure of the Arabian Phenix of Metastasio, couched on a tree of a European species, while its other side will bear the name of the inventor, with the title, INVENTOR OF FAITHFUL WOMEN AND OF CONJUGAL HAPPINESS.

Finally, the Academy has resolved that the funds necessary to defray the expenses incidental to this competition shall be supplemented by all that was found in the purse of Diogenes, its first secretary, together with one of the three golden asses which were the property of three of its former members--namely, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Machiavelli, but which came into the possession of the Academy by the last wills and testaments of the aforementioned, as duly recorded in its minutes.

* * * * *

Antonio Ghislanzoni, an Italian journalist was possessed of a sort of humor that would be a credit to any nation. It is not far removed from the style of the early American jocularists.

Ghislanzoni was an opera singer, but, losing his voice, he quitted the stage, and founded a comic paper, L’Uomo di Pietra.

His paper on Musical Instruments is so entertaining we quote it all.

ON MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS

The Clarinet

This instrument consists of a severe cold in the head, contained in a tube of yellow wood.

The clarinet was not invented by the Conservatory, but by Fate.

A chiropodist may be produced by study and hard work; but the clarinet-player is born, not made.

The citizen predestined to the clarinet has an intelligence which is almost obtuse up to the age of eighteen--a period of incubation, when he begins to feel in his nose the first thrills of his fatal vocation.

After that his intellect--limited even then--ceases its development altogether; but his nasal organ, in revenge, assumes colossal dimensions.

At twenty he buys his first clarinet for fourteen francs; and three months later his landlord gives him notice. At twenty-five he is admitted into the band of the National Guard.

He dies of a broken heart on finding that not one of his three sons shows the slightest inclination for the instrument through which he has blown all his wits.

The Trombone

The man who plays on this instrument is always one who seeks oblivion in its society--oblivion of domestic troubles, or consolation for love betrayed.

The man who has held a metal tube in his mouth for six months finds himself proof against every illusion.

At the age of fifty he finds that, of all human passions and feelings, nothing is left him but an insatiable thirst.

Later on, if he wants to obtain the position of porter in a gentleman’s house, or aspires to the hand of a woman with a delicate ear, he tries to lay aside his instrument, but the taste for loud notes and strong liquors only leaves him with life.

The Harmoniflute

This instrument, on account of the nature of its monotonous sounds and its tremendous plaintiveness, acts on the nerves of those who hear it, and predisposes to melancholy those who play it.

The harmoniflautist is usually tender and lymphatic of constitution, with blue eyes, and eats only white meats and farinaceous food.

If a man, he is called Oscar; those of the other sex are named Adelaide.

At home, he or she is in the habit of bringing out the instrument at dessert, and dinner being over, and the spirits of the family therefore more or less cheerfully disposed, will entertain the company with the “Miserere” in Il Trovatore, or some similar melody.

The harmoniflautist weeps easily. After practising on the instrument for fifteen years or so, he or she dissolves altogether, and is converted into a brook.

The Organ

This complicated and majestic instrument is of a clerical character, and destined, by its great volume of sound, to drown the flat singing of clergy and congregation in church.

The organist is usually a person sent into the world for the purpose of making a great noise without undue expenditure of strength, one who wants to blow harder than others without wearing out his own bellows.

At forty he becomes the intimate friend of the parish priest, and the most influential person connected with the church. By dint of repeating the same refrains every day at matins and vespers, he acquires a knowledge of Latin, and gets all the anthems, hymns, and masses by heart. At fifty he marries a devout spinster recommended by the priest.

He makes a kind and good-tempered husband, his only defect in that capacity being his habit of dreaming out loud on the eve of every church festival. On Easter Eve, for instance, he nearly always awakens his wife by intoning, with the full force of his lungs, Resurrexit. The good woman, thus abruptly aroused, never fails to answer him with the orthodox Alleluia.

At the age of sixty he becomes deaf, and then begins to think his own playing perfection. At seventy he usually dies of a broken heart, because the new priest, who knows not Joseph, instead of asking him to dine at the principal table with the clergy and other church authorities, has relegated him to an inferior place, and the society of the sacristan and the grave-digger.

The Flute

The unhappy man who succumbs to the fascinations of this instrument is never one who has attained the full development of his intellectual faculties. He always has a pointed nose, marries a short-sighted woman, and dies run over by an omnibus.

The flute is the most deadly of all instruments. It requires a peculiar conformation and special culture of the thumb-nail, with a view to those holes which have to be only half closed.

The man who plays the flute frequently adds to his other infirmities a mania for keeping tame weasels, turtle-doves, or guinea-pigs.

The Violoncello

To play the ’cello, you require to have long, thin fingers; but it is still more indispensable to have very long hair falling over a greasy coat-collar.

In case of fire, the ’cellist who sees his wife and his ’cello in danger will save the latter first.

His greatest satisfaction, as a general thing, is that of “making the strings weep.” Sometimes, indeed, he succeeds in making his wife and family do the same thing in consequence of a diet of excessive frugality. Sometimes, too, he contrives to make people laugh or yawn, but this, according to him, is the result of atmospheric influences.

He can express, through his loftily attuned strings, all possible griefs and sorrows, except those of his audience and his creditors.

The Drum

An immense apparatus of wood and sheepskin, full of air and of sinister presages. In melodrama the roll of the drum serves to announce the arrival of a fatal personage, an agent of Destiny, in most cases an ill-used husband. Sometimes this funereal rumbling serves to describe silence--sometimes to indicate the depths of the operatic heroine’s despair.

The drummer is a serious man, possessed with the sense of his high dramatic mission. He is able, however, to conceal his conscious pride, and sleep on his instrument when the rest of the orchestra is making all the noise it can. In such cases he commissions the nearest of his colleagues to awaken him at the proper moment.

On awaking, he seizes the two drumsticks and begins to beat; but, should his neighbor forget to rouse him, he prolongs his slumbers till the fall of the curtain. Then he shakes himself, perceives that the opera is over, and rubs his eyes. If it happens that the conductor reprimands him for his remissness at the attack, he shrugs his shoulders and replies, “Never mind, the tenor died, all the same. A roll of the drum, more or less, what difference would it have made?”

* * * * *

Edmondo de Amicis, soldier and writer of books of travel, often gives amusing descriptions of scenes or incidents.

TOOTH FOR TOOTH

An English merchant of Mogador was returning to the city on the evening of a market-day, at the moment when the gate by which he was entering was barred by a crowd of country people driving camels and asses. Although the Englishman called out as loud as he could, “Make way!” an old woman was struck by his horse and knocked down, falling with her face upon a stone. Ill fortune would have it that in the fall she broke her last two front teeth. She was stunned for an instant, and then rose convulsed with rage, and broke out into insults and ferocious maledictions, following the Englishman to his door. She then went before the governor, and demanded that in virtue of the law of talion he should order the English merchant’s two front teeth to be broken. The governor tried to pacify her, and advised her to pardon the injury; but she would listen to nothing, and he sent her away with a promise that she should have justice, hoping that when her anger should be exhausted she would herself desist from her pursuit. But, three days having passed, the old woman came back more furious than ever, demanded justice, and insisted that a formal sentence should be pronounced against the Christian.

“Remember,” said she to the governor, “thou didst promise me!”

“What!” responded the governor; “dost thou take me for a Christian, that I should be the slave of my word?”

Every day for a month the old woman, athirst for vengeance, presented herself at the door of the citadel, and yelled and cursed and made such a noise, that the governor, to be rid of her, was obliged to yield. He sent for the merchant, explained the case, the right which the law gave the woman, the duty imposed upon himself, and begged him to put an end to the matter by allowing two of his teeth to be removed--any two, although in strict justice they should be two incisors. The Englishman refused absolutely to part with incisors, or eye-teeth, or molars; and the governor was obliged to send the old woman packing, ordering the guard not to let her put her foot in the palace again.

“Very well,” said she, “since there are none but degenerate Mussulmans here, since justice is refused to a Mussulman woman against an infidel dog, I will go to the sultan, and we shall see whether the prince of the faithful will deny the law of the Prophet.”

True to her determination, she started on her journey alone, with an amulet in her bosom, a stick in her hand, and a bag round her neck, and made on foot the hundred miles which separate Mogador from the sacred city of the empire. Arrived at Fez, she sought and obtained audience of the sultan, laid her case before him, and demanded the right accorded by the Koran, the application of the law of retaliation. The sultan exhorted her to forgive. She insisted. All the serious difficulties which opposed themselves to the satisfaction of her petition were laid before her. She remained inexorable. A sum of money was offered her, with which she could live in comfort for the rest of her days. She refused it.

“What do I want with your money?” said she; “I am old, and accustomed to live in poverty. What I want is the two teeth of the Christian. I want them; I demand them in the name of the Koran. The sultan, prince of the faithful, head of our religion, father of his subjects, cannot refuse justice to a true believer.”

Her obstinacy put the sultan in a most embarrassing position. The law was formal, and her right incontestable; and the ferment of the populace, stirred up by the woman’s fanatical declamations, rendered refusal perilous. The sultan, who was Abd-er-Rahman, wrote to the English consul, asking as a favor that he would induce his countryman to allow two of his teeth to be broken. The merchant answered the consul that he would never consent. Then the sultan wrote again, saying that if he would consent he would grant him, in compensation, any commercial privilege that he chose to ask. This time, touched in his purse, the merchant yielded. The old woman left Fez, blessing the name of the pious Abd-er-Rahman, and went back to Mogador, where, in the presence of many people, the two teeth of the Nazarene were broken. When she saw them fall to the ground she gave a yell of triumph, and picked them up with a fierce joy. The merchant, thanks to the privileges accorded him, made in the two following years so handsome a fortune that he went back to England toothless, but happy.

SPANISH HUMOR

The only illustrious name of a writer of humor in Spain in the eighteenth century is that of the justly celebrated Thomas Yriarte.

He is best known to English readers through his Literary Fables, which have been frequently translated.

THE ASS AND THE FLUTE

You must know that this ditty, This little romance, Be it dull, be it witty, Arose from mere chance.

Near a certain inclosure, Not far from my manse, An ass, with composure, Was passing by chance.

As he went along prying, With sober advance, A shepherd’s lute lying, He found there by chance.

Our amateur started, And eyed it askance, Drew nearer, and snorted Upon it by chance.

The breath of the brute, sir, Drew music for once; It entered the flute, sir, And blew it by chance.

“Ah!” cried he, in wonder, How comes this to pass? Who will now dare to slander The skill of an ass?

And asses in plenty I see at a glance, Who, one time in twenty, Succeed by mere chance.

THE EGGS

Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that’s of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveler, After a while, carried some poultry there. Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish. But all the natives ate them boiled--they say-- Because the stranger taught no other way. At last the experiment by one was tried-- Sagacious man!--of having his eggs fried. And, O! what boundless honors for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains! Another, now, to have them baked devised-- Most happy thought!--and still another, spiced. Who ever thought eggs were so delicate! Next, some one gave his friends an omelette: “Ah!” all exclaimed, “what an ingenious feat!” But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, “I have it now--ye’re all a pack of louts!-- With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed.” And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger wandered out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked à la Huguenot. Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse; But how shall I be able to rehearse All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents? Soft, hard, and dropped, and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat; In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle. All had their day--the last was still the best. But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: “Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill-- But blessings on the man who brought the hens!”

Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.

THE COUNTRY SQUIRE

A country squire, of greater wealth than wit (For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile), Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d it In splendid style.

“One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, though The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse, You lack a library, dear sir, for show, If not for use.”

“’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee, “The lumber-room in yonder northern wing (I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be The very thing.

“I’ll have it fitted up without delay With shelves and presses of the newest mode And rarest wood, befitting every way A squire’s abode.

“And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatch My coachman--a most knowing fellow--down, To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch Of books in town.”

But ere the library was half supplied With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf, The booby Squire repented him, and cried, Unto himself:--

“This room is much more roomy than I thought; Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice To fill it, and would cost, however bought, A plaguy price.

“Now, as I only want them for their looks, It might, on second thoughts, be just as good, And cost me next to nothing, if the books Were made of wood.

“It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven deal A coat of paint--a colourable dress, To look like calf or vellum and conceal Its nakedness.

“And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name, Whatever is most excellent and rare Shall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same) Assembled there.”

The work was done; the simulated hoards Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood, In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards, Where all were wood.

From bulky folios down to slender twelves, The choicest tomes in many an even row, Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves, A goodly show.

With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’d The best collection ever form’d in Spain, What wonder if the owner grew at last Supremely vain?

What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf, And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began, Despite his ignorance, to think himself A learned man?

Let every amateur, who merely looks To backs and bindings, take the hint and sell His costly library; for painted books Would serve as well.

There were other Spaniards, doubtless, who possessed humor or wit, but the only available translations of their plays or stories are too long for quotation.

RUSSIAN HUMOR

A glance at Russia in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries shows the great popularity of the Fable as a means of expressing the wit and wisdom of the philosophers.

The two greatest Fabulists were Ivan Chemnitzer or Khemnitzer and Ivan Kryloff.

Alexander Griboyedoff was a writer of comedies.

IVAN CHEMNITZER

THE PHILOSOPHER

A certain rich man, who had heard it was an advantage to have been at school abroad, sent his son to study in foreign parts. The son, who was an utter fool, came back more stupid than ever, having been taught all sorts of elaborate explanations of the simplest things by a lot of academical windbags. He expressed himself only in scientific terms, so that no one understood him, and everyone became very tired of him.

One day, while walking along a road, and gazing at the sky in speculating upon some problem of the universe to which the answer had never been found (because there was none), the young man stepped over the edge of a deep ditch. His father, who chanced to be near by, ran to get a rope. The son, however, sitting at the bottom of the ditch, began to meditate on the cause of his fall. He concluded that an earthquake had superinduced a momentary displacement of his corporeal axis, thus destroying his equilibrium, and, in obedience to the law of gravity as established by Newton, precipitating him downward until he encountered an immovable obstacle--namely, the bottom of the ditch.

When his father arrived with the rope, the following dialogue took place between them:

“I have brought a rope to pull you out with. There, now, hold on tight to that end, and don’t let go while I pull.”

“A rope? Please inform me what a rope is before you pull.”

“A rope is a thing to get people out of ditches with, when they have fallen in and can’t get out by themselves.”

“But how is it that no mechanical device has been constructed for that purpose?”

“That would take time; but you will not have to wait until then. Now, then----”

“Time? Please explain first what you mean by time.”

“Time is something that I am not going to waste on a fool like you. So you may stay where you are until I come back.”

Upon which the man went off, and left his foolish son to himself.

Now, would it not be a good thing if all eloquent windbags were gathered together and thrown into the ditch, to keep him company? Yes, surely. Only it would take a much larger ditch than that to hold them. --The Fables.

THE LION’S COUNCIL OF STATE

A Lion held a court for state affairs. Why? That is not your business, sir--’twas theirs. He called the elephants for councilors. Still The council-board was incomplete, And the king deemed it fit With asses all the vacancies to fill. Heaven help the state, for lo! the bench of asses The bench of elephants by far surpasses. “He was a fool, th’ aforesaid king,” you’ll say; “Better have kept those places vacant, surely, Than to have filled ’em up so very poorly.”

Oh, no, that’s not the royal way; Things have been done for ages thus, and we Have a deep reverence for antiquity. Naught worse, sir, than to be, or to appear, Wiser and better than our fathers were! The list must be complete, e’en though you make it Complete with asses--for the lion saw Such had through all the ages been the law. He was no radical to break it;

“Besides,” said he, “my elephants’ good sense Will soon my asses’ ignorance diminish, For wisdom has a mighty influence.” They made a pretty finish! The asses’ folly soon obtained the sway: The elephants became as dull as they!

IVAN KRYLOV

THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB

Whene’er companions don’t agree, They work without accord; And naught but trouble doth result, Although they all work hard.

One day a swan, a pike, a crab, Resolved a load to haul; All three were harnessed to the cart, And pulled together all. But though they pulled with all their might, The cart-load on the bank stuck tight. The swan pulled upward to the skies; The crab did backward crawl; The pike made for the water straight-- It proved no use at all!

Now, which of them was most to blame, ’Tis not for me to say; But this I know: the load is there Unto this very day.

THE MUSICIANS

The tricksy monkey, the goat, the ass, and bandy-legged Mishka, the bear, determined to play a quartet. They provided themselves with the necessary instruments--two fiddles, an alto, and a bass. Then they all settled down under a large tree, with the object of dazzling the world by their artistic performance. They fiddled away lustily for some time, but only succeeded in making a noise, and no music.

“Stop, my friends!” said the monkey, “this will not do; our music does not sound as it ought. It is plain that we are in the wrong positions. You, Mishka, take your bass and face the alto; I will go opposite the second fiddle. Then we shall play altogether differently, so that the very hills and forests will dance.”

So they changed places, and began over again. But they produced only discords, as before.

“Wait a moment!” exclaimed the ass; “I know what the matter is. We must get in a row, and then we shall play in tune.”

This advice was acted upon. The four animals placed themselves in a straight line, and struck up once more.

The quartet was as unmusical as ever. Then they stopped again, and began squabbling and wrangling about the proper positions to be taken. It happened that a nightingale came flying by that way, attracted by their din. They begged the nightingale to solve their difficulty for them.

“Pray be so kind,” they said, “as to stay a moment, so that we may get our quartet in order. We have music and we have instruments; only tell us how to place ourselves.”

To which the nightingale replied:

“To be a musician, one must have a better ear and more intelligence than any of you. Place yourselves any way you like; it will make no difference. You will never become musicians.”

* * * * *

Fedor Dostoevsky was a celebrated Russian novelist and journalist.

We quote a small extract, which, it may be, depends in part for its fun on its excellent English rendition of the German patter.

FROM KARLCHEN, THE CROCODILE

At this moment an appalling, I may even say supernatural, shriek suddenly shook the room. Not knowing what to think, I stood for a moment rooted to the spot; then, hearing Elyona Ivanovna shrieking, too, I turned hastily round; and what did I see! I saw--oh, heavens!--I saw the unhappy Ivan Matvyeich in the fearful jaws of the crocodile, seized across the middle, lifted horizontally in the air, and kicking despairingly. Then--a moment--and he was gone!

I cannot even attempt to describe the agitation of Elyona Ivanovna. After her first cry she stood for some time as petrified, and stared at the scene before her, as if indifferently, though her eyes were starting out of her head; then she suddenly burst into a piercing shriek. I caught her by the hands. At this moment the keeper, who until now had also stood petrified with horror, clasped his hands, and raising his eyes to heaven cried aloud:

“Oh, my crocodile! Oh, mein allerliebstes Karlchen! Mutter! Mutter! Mutter!”

At this cry the back door opened, and “Mutter,” a red-cheeked, untidy, elderly woman in a cap, rushed with a yell toward her son.

Then began an awful tumult. Elyona Ivanovna, beside herself, reiterated one single phrase, “Cut it! Cut it!” and rushed from the keeper to the “Mutter,” and back to the keeper, imploring them (evidently in a fit of frenzy) to “cut” something or some one for some reason. Neither the keeper nor “Mutter” took any notice of either of us; they were hanging over the tank, and shrieking like stuck pigs.

“He is gone dead; he vill sogleich burst, because he von ganz official of der government eat up haf!” cried the keeper.

“Unser Karlchen, unser allerliebstes Karlchen wird sterben!” wailed the mother.

“Ve are orphans, vitout bread!” moaned the keeper.

“Cut it! Cut it! Cut it open!” screamed Elyona Ivanovna, hanging on to the German’s coat.

“He did teaze ze crocodile! Vy your man teaze ze crocodile?” yelled the German, wriggling away. “You vill pay me if Karlchen wird bersten! Das war mein Sohn, das war mein einziger Sohn!”

“Cut it!” shrieked Elyona Ivanovna.

“How! You vill dat my crocodile shall be die? No, your man shall be die first, and denn my crocodile. Mein Vater show von crocodile, mein Grossvater show von crocodile, mein Sohn shall show von crocodile, and I shall show von crocodile. All ve shall show crocodile. I am ganz Europa famous, and you are not ganz Europa famous, and you do be me von fine pay shall!”

“Ja, ja!” agreed the woman savagely; “ve you not let out; fine ven Karlchen vill bersten.”

“For that matter,” I put in calmly, in the hope of getting Elyona Ivanovna home without further ado, “there’s no use in cutting it open, for in all probability our dear Ivan Matvyeich is now soaring in the empyrean.”

“My dear,” remarked at this moment the voice of Ivan Matvyeich, with startling suddenness, “my advice, my dear, is to act through the bureau of police, for the German will not comprehend the truth without the assistance of the police.”

These words, uttered with firmness and gravity, and expressing astonishing presence of mind, at first so much amazed us that we could not believe our ears. Of course, however, we instantly ran to the crocodile’s tank and listened to the speech of the unfortunate captive with a mixture of reverence and distrust. His voice sounded muffled, thin, and even squeaky, as though coming from a long distance.

“Ivan Matvyeich, my dearest, are you alive?” lisped Elyona Ivanovna.

“Alive and well,” answered Ivan Matvyeich; “and, thanks to the Almighty, swallowed whole without injury. I am only disturbed by doubt as to how the superior authorities will regard this episode; for, after having taken a ticket to go abroad, to go into a crocodile instead is hardly sensible.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t worry about sense now; first of all we must somehow or other dig you out,” interrupted Elyona Ivanovna.

“Tig!” cried the German. “I not vill let you to tig ze crocodile! Now shall bery mush Publikum be come, and I shall fifety copeck take, and Karlchen shall leave off to burst.”

“Gott sei Dank!” added the mother.

“They are right,” calmly remarked Ivan Matvyeich; “the economic principle before everything.”

* * * * *

Nikolai Nekrasov wrote light verse of a whimsical trend.

A MORAL MAN

A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody--never. I lent my friend a sum he could not pay; I jogged his memory in a friendly way, Then took the law of him th’ affair to end; The law to prison sent my worthy friend. He died there--not a farthing for poor me! I am not angry, though I’ve cause to be; His debt that very moment I forgave, And shed sad tears of sorrow o’er his grave. A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody--never.

I sent a serf of mine to learn the dressing Of meat. He learned it--a good cook’s a blessing-- But strangely did neglect his occupation, And gained a taste not suited to his station: He liked to read, to reason, to discuss. I, tired of scolding, without further fuss Had the rogue flogged--all for the love of him. He went and drowned himself--what a strange whim! A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody--never.

My silly daughter fell in love, one day, And with a tutor wished to run away. I threatened curses, and pronounced my ban; She yielded, and espoused a rich old man. Their house was splendid, brimming o’er with wealth, But suddenly the poor child lost her health, And in a year consumption wrought her doom; She left us mourning o’er her early tomb. A strictly moral man have I been ever, And never injured anybody--never.

* * * * *

Ivan Turgenieff, the celebrated novelist, wrote also delightfully witty Poems in Prose.

BENEFICENCE AND GRATITUDE

One day the Supreme Being took it into His head to give a great banquet in His azure palace.

All the virtues were invited. Men He did not ask--only ladies.

There was a large number of them, great and small. The lesser virtues were more agreeable and genial than the great ones; but they all appeared to be in good-humor, and chatted amiably together, as was only becoming for near relations and friends.

But the Supreme Being noticed two charming ladies who seemed to be totally unacquainted.

The Host gave one of the ladies His arm, and led her up to the other.

“Beneficence!” He said, indicating the first.

“Gratitude!” He added, indicating the second.

Both the virtues were amazed beyond expression. Ever since the world had stood--and it had been standing a long time--this was the first time they had met.

PRAYER

Whatever a man prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces itself to this: “Great God, grant that twice two be not four.”

Anton Chekov, writer of humorous stories, is also happy in epigrammatic wit.

PROVERBIAL WISDOM

The worst brandy is better than water.

The path to the law court is wide; the path away from it is narrow.

Even when drowning, a man wants company.

Cherish your wife as you would your salvation, and beat her as you would your coat.

A bad peace is superior to a good quarrel.

Spare the peasant your lash, but not his rubles.

Poverty is not a sin, but it’s a great deal worse.

In a storm, pray to the Lord and keep on rowing as hard as you can.

A sparrow is small; still, it’s a bird.

If your wife were a guitar, you could hang her up after playing.

* * * * *

Casting about for other foreign countries that might offer bits of humor written in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, we come across this from a Polish author named Kajetan Wengierski.

THE DREAM-WIFE

Strangely ’wildered must I seem; I was married--in a dream. Oh, the ecstasy of bliss! Brother, what a joy is this! Think about it, and confess ’Tis a storm of happiness, And the memory is to me Sunbeams. But fifteen was she: Cheeks of roses red and white; Mouth like Davia’s; eyes of light, Fiery, round, of raven hue, Swimming, but coquettish too; Ivory teeth; lips fresh as dew; Bosom beauteous; hand of down; Fairy foot. She stood alone In her graces. She was mine, And I drank her charms divine.

* * * * *

Yet, in early years our schemes Are, alas! but shadowy dreams. For a season they deceive, Then our souls in darkness leave. Oft the bowl the water bears, But ’tis useless soon with years; First it cracks, and then it leaks, And at last--at last it breaks. All things with beginning tend To their melancholy end: So her beauty fled.

* * * * *

Then did anger, care, and malice Mingle up their bitter chalice. Riches like the whirlwind flew, Honors, gifts, and friendships too; And my lovely wife, so mild, Fortune’s frail and flattered child, Spent our wealth, as if the day Ne’er would dim or pass away; And--oh, monstrous thought!--the fair Scratched my eyes and tore my hair. Naught but misery was our guest. Then I sought the parish priest: “Father, grant me a divorce. Nay, you’ll grant it me, of course; Reasons many can be given-- Reasons both of earth and heaven.”

“I know all you wish to say. Have you wherewithal to pay? Money is a thing, of course-- Money may obtain divorce.” “Reverend father, hear me, please ye-- ’Tis not an affair so easy.” “Silence, child! Where money’s needed, Eloquence is superseded.” Then I talked of morals, but The good father’s ears were shut. With a fierce and frowning look Off he drove me--And I woke.

And lacking adequate translation for any more of the humorous literature of far away lands, we conclude this portion of our Outline with some Epigrams of the people of Hayti.

You can’t catch a flea with one finger.

* * * * *

The snake that wants to live does not keep to the highroad.

* * * * *

You should never blame the owner of a goat for claiming it.

* * * * *

The ears do not weigh more than the head.

* * * * *

Wait till you are across the river before you call the alligator names.

* * * * *

If the tortoise that comes up from the bottom of the water tells you an alligator is blind, you may believe him.

* * * * *

A frog in want of a shirt will ask for a pair of drawers.

* * * * *

The ox never says “Thank you” to the pasture.

* * * * *

Joke with a monkey as much as you please, but don’t play with its tail.

What business have eggs dancing with stones?

* * * * *

If you insist on punishing an enemy, do not make him fetch water in a basket.

* * * * *

The wild hog knows what tree he is rubbing against.

* * * * *

Hang your knapsack where you can reach it.

* * * * *

The pumpkin vine does not yield calabashes.

* * * * *

Every jack-knife found on the highway will be lost on the highway.

* * * * *

All wood is wood, but deal is not cedar.

* * * * *

It is the frog’s own tongue that betrays him.

* * * * *

The spoon goes to the tray’s house, but the tray never goes to the spoon’s house.

* * * * *

If you want your eggs hatched, sit on them yourself.

AMERICAN HUMOR

There may have been previous mute, inglorious Miltons, but doubtless the first American to be recognized as a true humorist was Benjamin Franklin.

In fact, one of the foremost essayists of the present day opines that the reason Franklin was not called upon to write the Declaration of Independence was because he was too fond of his joke.

“They were acute,” our essayist remarks, “those leaders of the Continental Congress, and they knew that every man has the defect of his qualities, and that a humorist is likely to be lacking in reverence, and that the writer of the Declaration of Independence had a theme which demanded most reverential treatment.”

It is generally conceded that the Americans are a humorous nation, is even said that we have a way of living humorously, and are conscious of the fact.

Aside from the annual work known as Poor Richard’s Almanack, Franklin wrote much prose and verse of a witty character.

A letter of his gave rise to the well known saying, “He paid too much for his whistle.”

Part of the letter is here given.

“When I was a child of seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

“This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don’t give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.

“As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

“When I saw one too ambitious to court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, This man gives too much for his whistle.

“When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that neglect, He pays, indeed, said I, too much for his whistle.

“If I knew a miser, who gave up any kind of a comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, Poor man, said I, you pay too much for your whistle.

“When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, Mistaken man, said I, you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure! you give too much for your whistle.

“If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, Alas! say I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.

“When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, What a pity, say I, that she should pay so much for a whistle!

“In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

“Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider, that with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put up to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.

“Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours, very sincerely and with unalterable affection.”

B. FRANKLIN.

PAPER

Some wit of old--such wits of old there were-- Whose hints show’d meaning, whose allusions care, By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, Call’d clear blank paper every infant mind; Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. I (can you pardon my presumption?) I-- No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce, The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. Men are as various; and if right I scan, Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray note the fop--half powder and half lace-- Nice as a band-box were his dwelling-place: He’s the gilt paper, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the ’scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth, Are copy-paper, of inferior worth; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed, Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch, whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is coarse brown paper! such as pedlars choose To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser’s contrast, who destroys Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys. Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout, He’s true sinking-paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician’s anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; He foams with censure; with applause he raves-- A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves; He’ll want no type his weakness to proclaim, While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, Who can’t a jest, or hint, or look endure: What is he? What? Touch-paper to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall, Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? Them and their works in the same class you’ll find; They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet, She’s fair white-paper, an unsullied sheet; On which the happy man, whom fate ordains, May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I’ll bring; ’Tis the great man who scorns a little thing, Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own, Form’d on the feelings of his heart alone: True genuine royal-paper is his breast: Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

Francis Hopkinson, a writer of miscellaneous essays, wrote “The Battle of the Keys,” which was founded upon a real historic incident.

THE BATTLE OF THE KEYS

Gallants attend and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty, Strange things I’ll tell which late befell In Philadelphia city.

’Twas early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising.

As in amaze he stood and gazed, The truth can’t be denied, sir, He spied a score of kegs or more Come floating down the tide, sir.

A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First damned his eyes, in great surprise, Then said, “Some mischief’s brewing.

“These kegs, I’m told, the rebles hold, Packed up like pickled herring; And they’re come down to attack the town, In this new way of ferrying.”

The soldier flew, the sailor too, And scared almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And ran till out of breath, sir.

Now up and down throughout the town, Most frantic scenes were acted; And some ran here, and others there, Like men almost distracted.

Some “fire” cried, which some denied, But said the earth had quaked; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran through the streets half-naked.

Sir William he, snug as a flea, Lay all this time a-snoring, Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm, In bed with Mrs. Loring.

Now in a fright he starts upright, Awaked by such a clatter; He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, “For God’s sake, what’s the matter?”

At his bedside he then espied, Sir Erskine at command, sir, Upon one foot he had one boot, And th’ other in his hand, sir.

“Arise, arise!” Sir Erskine cries, “The rebels--more’s the pity, Without a boat are all afloat, And ranged before the city.

“The motley crew, in vessels new, With Satan for their guide, sir, Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, Come driving down the tide, sir.

“Therefore prepare for bloody war, The kegs must all be routed, Or surely we despised shall be, And British courage doubted.”

The royal band now ready stand, All ranged in dead array, sir, With stomach stout to see it out, And make a bloody day, sir.

The cannons roar from shore to shore, The small arms make a rattle; Since wars began I’m sure no man E’er saw so strange a battle.

The rebel dales, the rebel vales, With rebel trees surrounded, The distant woods, the hills and floods, With rebel echoes sounded.

The fish below swam to and fro, Attacked from every quarter; Why sure, thought they, the devil’s to pay ’Mongst folks above the water.

The kegs, ’tis said, though strongly made Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, Could not oppose their powerful foes, And conquering British troops, sir.

From morn to night these men of might Displayed amazing courage; And when the sun was fairly down, Retired to sup their porridge.

A hundred men with each a pen, Or more, upon my word, sir, It is most true would be too few, Their valor to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day, Against these wicked kegs, sir, That, years to come, if they get home, They’ll make their boasts and brags, sir. --Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings.

Elizabeth Graeme Ferguson, one of the earliest women writers of our country, like many of her contemporaries, kept the style and effect of English poetry. Her lines on the Country Parson, show a fine vein of satire.

THE COUNTRY PARSON

How happy is the country parson’s lot! Forgetting bishops, as by them forgot; Tranquil of spirit, with an easy mind, To all his vestry’s votes he sits resigned: Of manners gentle, and of temper even, He jogs his flocks, with easy pace, to heaven. In Greek and Latin, pious books he keeps; And, while his clerk sings psalms, he--soundly sleeps. His garden fronts the sun’s sweet orient beams, And fat church-wardens prompt his golden dreams. The earliest fruit, in his fair orchard, blooms; And cleanly pipes pour out tobacco’s fumes. From rustic bridegroom oft he takes the ring; And hears the milkmaid plaintive ballads sing. Back-gammon cheats whole winter nights away, And Pilgrim’s Progress helps a rainy day.

President John Quincy Adams so far relaxed from his political dignity as to write light verse.

TO SALLY

The man in righteousness arrayed, A pure and blameless liver, Needs not the keen Toledo blade, Nor venom-freighted quiver. What though he winds his toilsome way O’er regions wild and weary-- Through Zara’s burning desert stray, Or Asia’s jungles dreary:

What though he plough the billowy deep By lunar light, or solar, Meet the resistless Simoon’s sweep, Or iceberg circumpolar! In bog or quagmire deep and dank His foot shall never settle; He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc, Or Popocatapetl.

On Chimborazo’s breathless height He treads o’er burning lava; Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight, The deathful plant of Java. Through every peril he shall pass, By Virtue’s shield protected; And still by Truth’s unerring glass His path shall be directed.

Else wherefore was it, Thursday last, While strolling down the valley, Defenceless, musing as I passed A canzonet to Sally, A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout, Forth from the thicket bounded-- I clapped my hands and raised a shout-- He heard--and fled--confounded.

Tangier nor Tunis never bred An animal more crabbed; Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed A monster half so rabid; Nor Ararat so fierce a beast Has seen since days of Noah; Nor stronger, eager for a feast, The fell constrictor boa.

Oh! place me where the solar beam Has scorched all verdure vernal; Or on the polar verge extreme, Blocked up with ice eternal-- Still shall my voice’s tender lays Of love remain unbroken; And still my charming Sally praise, Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.

About this time, Clement C. Moore wrote the Christmas story which has since become a national classic.

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; “Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!” As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

Washington Irving, though his work is besprinkled with humor cannot be quoted at length.

A bit of his gay verse is given.

A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY

There’s a certain young lady, Who’s just in her heyday, And full of all mischief, I ween; So teasing! so pleasing! Capricious! delicious! And you know very well whom I mean.

With an eye dark as night, Yet than noonday more bright, Was ever a black eye so keen? It can thrill with a glance, With a beam can entrance, And you know very well whom I mean.

With a stately step--such as You’d expect in a duchess-- And a brow might distinguish a queen, With a mighty proud air, That says “touch me who dare,” And you know very well whom I mean.

With a toss of the head That strikes one quite dead, But a smile to revive one again; That toss so appalling! That smile so enthralling! And you know very well whom I mean.

Confound her! devil take her!-- A cruel heart-breaker-- But hold! see that smile so serene. God love her! God bless her! May nothing distress her! You know very well whom I mean.

Heaven help the adorer Who happens to bore her, The lover who wakens her spleen; But too blest for a sinner Is he who shall win her, And you know very well whom I mean.

William Cullen Bryant, like most of the New England poets, was not often humorous in his work. Perhaps the nearest he came to it was in his Lines to a Mosquito.

TO A MOSQUITO

Fair insect! that with threadlike legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about, In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need?

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, Full angrily men harken to thy plaint; Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse, For saying thou art gaunt and starved and faint. Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Has not the honor of so proud a birth-- Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, The offspring of the gods, though born on earth; For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along; The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway-- Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite! What! do I hear thy slender voice complain? Thou wailest when I talk of beauty’s light, As if it brought the memory of pain. Thou art a wayward being--well--come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.

What say’st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick? And China Bloom at best is sorry food? And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood. Go! ’Twas a just reward that met thy crime-- But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at--not to touch; To worship--not approach--that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired-- Murmur’d thy admiration and retired.

Thou’rt welcome to the town--but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enrich’d by gen’rous wine and costly meat; On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet. Go to the men for whom, in ocean’s halls, The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows, To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

Fitz-Greene Halleck wrote much in collaboration with Joseph Rodman Drake, and it is often difficult to separate their work.

ODE TO FORTUNE

Fair lady with the bandaged eye! I’ll pardon all thy scurvy tricks, So thou wilt cut me, and deny Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: I’m quite contented as I am, Have cash to keep my duns at bay, Can choose between beefsteaks and ham, And drink Madeira every day.

My station is the middle rank, My fortune--just a competence-- Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank, And twenty in the six per cents; No amorous chains my heart enthrall, I neither borrow, lend, nor sell; Fearless I roam the City Hall, And bite my thumb at Sheriff Bell.

The horse that twice a week I ride At Mother Dawson’s eats his fill; My books at Goodrich’s abide, My country-seat is Weehawk hill; My morning lounge is Eastburn’s shop, At Poppleton’s I take my lunch, Niblo prepares my mutton-chop, And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch.

When merry, I the hours amuse By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls, And when I’m troubled with the blues Damn Clinton and abuse cards: Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize, At least preserve me from thy frown! The man who don’t attempt to rise ’Twere cruelty to tumble down.

Albert Gorton Greene also wrote in the manner of his English forebears, indeed, his Old Grimes is quite in line with Tom Hood or Goldsmith.

OLD CHIMES

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man We never shall see more: He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray-- He wore it in a queue.

Whene’er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn’d; The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turn’d.

Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind. In friendship he was true: His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm’d, the sin which earth pollutes He pass’d securely o’er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune’s frown: He wore a double-breasted vest-- The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert: He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse-- Was sociable and gay: He wore large buckles on his shoes And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor made a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune’s chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb’d by anxious cares, His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

Ralph Waldo Emerson is seldom humorous or even in lighter vein. His Fable about the squirrel shows a graceful wit.

FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter “Little Prig”; Bun replied, “You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere, And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I’m not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I’ll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.”

Nathaniel Parker Willis was a popular writer of society satire in both prose and verse.

LOVE IN A COTTAGE

They may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine-- Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half-divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier-- With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near; Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mama too blind to discover The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies-- Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease-- And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees. His wing is the fan of a lady. His foot’s an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipp’d with a jewel And shot from a silver string.

Seba Smith, among the first to break away from English traditions, wrote over the pen name of Major Jack Downing. He was a pioneer in the matter of dialect writing and the first to poke fun at New England speech and manners.

Follows a part of his skit called

MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND

After I had walked about three or four hours, I come along towards the upper end of the town, where I found there were stores and shops of all sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I,--

“What place is this?”

“Why, this,” says he, “is Huckler’s Row.”

“What!” says I, “are these the stores where the traders in Huckler’s Row keep?”

And says he, “Yes.”

“Well, then,” says I to myself, “I have a pesky good mind to go in and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye-teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do what there ain’t a man in our place can do; and I should just like to know what sort of stuff these ’ere Portland chaps are made of.” So in I goes into the best-looking store among ’em. And I see some biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I,--

“Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them ’ere biscuits?”

“A cent apiece,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “I shan’t give you that, but, if you’ve a mind to, I’ll give you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as though I would like to take a bite.”

“Well,” says he, “I wouldn’t sell ’em to anybody else so, but, seeing it’s you, I don’t care if you take ’em.”

I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he handed down the biscuits, and I took ’em, and walked round the store awhile, to see what else he had to sell. At last says I,--

“Mister, have you got any good cider?”

Says he, “Yes, as good as ever ye see.”

“Well,” says I, “what do you ax a glass for it?”

“Two cents,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Ain’t you a mind to take these ’ere biscuits again and give me a glass of cider?” and says he:

“I don’t care if I do.”

So he took and laid ’em on the shelf again and poured out a glass of cider. I took the glass of cider and drinkt it down and, to tell you the truth about it, it was capital good cider Then says I:

“I guess it’s about time for me to be a-going,” and so I stept along toward the door; but he ups and says, says he:

“Stop, mister, I believe you haven’t paid me for the cider.’

“Not paid you for the cider!” says I; “what do you mean by that? Didn’t the biscuits that I give you just come to the cider?”

“Oh, ah, right!” says he.

So I started to go again, but before I had reached the door he says, says he:

“But stop, mister, you didn’t pay me for the biscuit.”

“What!” says I, “do you mean to impose upon me? Do you think I am going to pay you for the biscuits, and let you keep them, too? Ain’t they there now on your shelf? What more do you want? I guess, sir, you don’t whittle me in that way.”

So I turned about and marched off and left the feller staring and scratching his head as tho’ he was struck with a dunderment.

Howsomeever, I didn’t want to cheat him, only jest to show ’em it wa’n’t so easy a matter to pull my eye-teeth out; so I called in next day and paid him two cents.

* * * * *

And now humor began to creep into the newspapers, and it came about that American humorists, almost without exception, have been newspaper men.

Following Seba Smith’s plan each author created a character, usually of homely type, and through him as a mouthpiece gave to the world his own wit and wisdom.

Mrs. Frances Miriam Whitcher wrote the Widow Bedott papers, and Frederick Swartout Cozzens the Sparrowgrass Papers, but best known today is the Mrs. Partington, the American Mrs. Malaprop, created by Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber.

AFTER A WEDDING

“I like to tend weddings,” said Mrs. Partington, as she came back from a neighboring church where one had been celebrated, and hung up her shawl, and replaced the black bonnet in her long-preserved band-box. “I like to see young people come together with the promise to love, cherish, and nourish each other. But it is a solemn thing, is matrimony--a very solemn thing--where the pasture comes into the chancery, with his surplus on, and goes through with the cerement of making ’em man and wife. It ought to be husband and wife; for it ain’t every husband that turns out a man. I declare I shall never forget how I felt when I had the nuptial ring put on to my finger, when Paul said, ‘With my goods I thee endow.’ He used to keep a dry-goods store then, and I thought he was going to give me all there was in it. I was young and simple, and didn’t know till arterwards that it only meant one calico gound in a year. It is a lovely sight to see the young people plighting their trough, and coming up to consume their vows.”

She bustled about and got tea ready, but abstractedly she put on the broken teapot, that had lain away unused since Paul was alive, and the teacups, mended with putty, and dark with age, as if the idea had conjured the ghost of past enjoyment to dwell for the moment in the home of present widowhood.

A young lady, who expected to be married on Thanksgiving night, wept copiously at her remarks, but kept on hemming the veil that was to adorn her brideship, and Ike sat pulling bristles out of the hearth-brush in expressive silence.

Yet not all the wits of the day were newspaper men, for Oliver Wendell Holmes left his essays and novels now and then to give his native humor full play.

The “Deacon’s Masterpiece,” often called “The One Hoss Shay” is a classic, and many short poems are among our best witty verses, while Holmes’ genial humor pervades his Breakfast Table books.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

I wrote some lines once on a time, In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!

“These to the printer,” I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), “There’ll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin.

He read the next: the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third: a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth: he broke into a roar; The fifth: his waistband split; The sixth: he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.

ÆSTIVATION

In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine.

To me also, no verdurous visions come Save you exiguous pool’s confervascum,-- No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous chump,-- Depart,--be off,--excede,--evade,--erump!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is charged with the perpetration of certain nonsense verses. His authorship of these has been stoutly denied as well as positively asseverated.

The two poems in question are appended, and if Longfellow did write them they are in no wise to his discredit.

THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

There was a little girl, And she had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good She was very, very good, And when she was bad she was horrid.

One day she went upstairs, When her parents, unawares, In the kitchen were occupied with meals And she stood upon her head In her little trundle-bed, And then began hooraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise, And she thought it was the boys A-playing at a combat in the attic; But when she climbed the stair, And found Jemima there, She took and she did spank her most emphatic.

MR. FINNEY’S TURNIP

Mr. Finney had a turnip And it grew and it grew; And it grew behind the barn, And that turnip did no harm.

There it grew and it grew Till it could grow no taller; Then his daughter Lizzie picked it And put it in the cellar.

There it lay and it lay Till it began to rot; And his daughter Susie took it And put it in the pot.

And they boiled it and boiled it As long as they were able, And then his daughters took it And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife They sat down to sup; And they ate and they ate And they ate that turnip up.

James Thomas Fields, an acknowledged humorist, wrote mostly homely narrative wit.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though “lying low,” How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by tasting, just the spot; And so below he’d “dowse the glim,”-- After, of course, his “something hot.”

Snug in his berth at eight o’clock This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,--for skippers’ naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He’d up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.

One night ’twas Jotham Marden’s watch, A curious wag,--the peddler’s son,-- And so he mused (the wanton wretch), “To-night I’ll have a grain of fun.

“We’re all a set of stupid fools To think the skipper knows by tasting What ground he’s on: Nantucket schools Don’t teach such stuff, with all their basting!”

And so he took the well-greased lead And rubbed it o’er a box of earth That stood on deck,--a parsnip-bed,-- And then he sought the skipper’s berth.

“Where are we now, sir? Please to taste.” The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, “_Nantucket’s sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett’s garden!_”

John Godfrey Saxe has been called the American Tom Hood. His verses are among our very best humorous poems.

MY FAMILIAR

Again I hear that creaking step!-- He’s rapping at the door!-- Too well I know the boding sound That ushers in a bore. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But heaven defend me from the friend Who comes,--but never goes!

He drops into my easy-chair And asks about the news; He peers into my manuscript, And gives his candid views; He tells me where he likes the line, And where he’s forced to grieve; He takes the strangest liberties,-- But never takes his leave!

He reads my daily paper through Before I’ve seen a word; He scans the lyric (that I wrote) And thinks it quite absurd; He calmly smokes my last cigar, And coolly asks for more; He opens everything he sees-- Except the entry door!

He talks about his fragile health, And tells me of his pains; He suffers from a score of ills Of which he ne’er complains; And how he struggled once with death To keep the fiend at bay; On themes like those away he goes-- But never goes away!

He tells me of the carping words Some shallow critic wrote; And every precious paragraph Familiarly can quote; He thinks the writer did me wrong; He’d like to run him through! He says a thousand pleasant things-- But never says “Adieu!”

Whene’er he comes--that dreadful man-- Disguise it as I may, I know that, like an autumn rain, He’ll last throughout the day. In vain I speak of urgent tasks; In vain I scowl and pout; A frown is no extinguisher-- It does not put him out!

I mean to take the knocker off, Put crape upon the door, Or hint to John that I am gone To stay a month or more. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who never, never goes!

Henry Wheeler Shaw, creator of the character of Josh Billings, was a philosopher and essayist as well as a funny man.

Doubtless his work has lived largely because of its amusing misspelling, but there is much wisdom to be found in his wit.

The following essays are given only in part.

TIGHT BOOTS

I would jist like to kno who the man waz who fust invented tite boots.

He must hav bin a narrow and kontrakted kuss.

If he still lives, i hope he haz repented ov hiz sin, or iz enjoying grate agony ov sum kind.

I hay bin in a grate menny tite spots in mi life, but generally could manage to make them average; but thare iz no sich thing az making a pair of tite boots average.

Enny man who kan wear a pair ov tite boots, and be humble, and penitent, and not indulge profane literature, will make a good husband.

Oh! for the pen ov departed Wm. Shakspear, to write an anethema aginst tite boots, that would make anshunt Rome wake up, and howl agin az she did once before on a previous ockashun.

Oh! for the strength ov Herkules, to tare into shu strings all the tite boots ov creashun, and skatter them tew the 8 winds ov heaven.

Oh! for the buty ov Venus, tew make a bigg foot look hansum without a tite boot on it.

Oh! for the payshunce ov Job, the Apostle, to nuss a tite boot and bles it, and even pra for one a size smaller and more pinchfull.

Oh! for a pair of boots bigg enuff for the foot ov a mountain.

I have been led into the above assortment ov Oh’s! from having in my posseshun, at this moment, a pair ov number nine boots, with a pair ov number eleven feet in them.

Mi feet are az uneasy az a dog’s noze the fust time he wears a muzzle.

I think mi feet will eventually choke the boots to deth.

I liv in hopes they will.

I suppozed i had lived long enuff not to be phooled agin in this way, but i hav found out that an ounce ov vanity weighs more than a pound ov reazon, espeshily when a man mistakes a bigg foot for a small one.

Avoid tite boots, mi friend, az you would the grip of the devil; for menny a man haz cought for life a fust rate habit for swareing bi encouraging hiz feet to hurt hiz boots.

I hav promised mi two feet, at least a dozen ov times during mi checkured life, that they never should be strangled agin, but i find them to-day az phull ov pain az the stummuk ake from a suddin attak ov tite boots.

But this iz solemly the last pair ov tite boots i will ever wear; i will hereafter wear boots az bigg az mi feet, if i have to go barefoot to do it.

I am too old and too respektable to be a phool enny more.

Eazy boots iz one of the luxurys ov life, but i forgit what the other luxury iz, but i don’t kno az i care, provided i kan git rid ov this pair ov tite boots.

Enny man kan hav them for seven dollars, just half what they kost, and if they don’t make his feet ake wuss than an angle worm in hot ashes, he needn’t pay for them.

Methuseles iz the only man, that i kan kall to mind now who could hav afforded to hav wore tite boots, and enjoyed them, he had a grate deal ov waste time tew be miserable in but life now days, iz too short, and too full ov aktual bizzness to phool away enny ov it on tite boots.

Tite boots are an insult to enny man’s understanding.

He who wears tite boots will hav too acknowledge the corn.

Tite boots hav no bowells or mersy, their insides are wrath and promiskious cussing.

Beware ov tite boots.--

A HEN

A hen is a darn phool, they was born so bi natur.

When natur undertakes tew make a phool, she hits the mark the fust time.

Most all the animile kritters hav instinkt, which is wuth more to them than reason would be, for instinkt don’t make enny blunders.

If the animiles had reason, they would akt just as ridikilus as we men folks do.

But a hen don’t seem tew hav even instinkt, and was made expressly for a phool.

I hav seen a hen fly out ov a good warm shelter, on the 15th ov January, when the snow was 3 foot high, and lite on the top ov a stun wall, and coolly set thare, and freeze tew deth.

Noboddy but a darn phool would do this, unless it was tew save a bet.

I hav saw a human being do similar things, but they did it tew win a bet.

To save a bet, is self-preservashun, and self-preservashun, is the fust law ov natur, so sez Blakstone, and he is the best judge ov law now living.

If i couldn’t be Josh Billings, i would like, next in suit tew be Blakstone, and compoze sum law.

Not so far removed from the Josh Billings type of humor is the work of James Russell Lowell. His well known Biglow Papers exploit in perfection the back country New England politics as well as native character.

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an’ looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An’ into nobody’s tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My ain’t it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can’t never choose him, o’ course,--thet’s flat; Guess we shall hev to come round (don’t you?) An’ go in fer thunder an’ guns, an’ all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He’s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still was a part of his plan,-- He’s ben true to one party,--an’ thet is himself;-- So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don’t vally principle more’n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an’ gunpowder, plunder an’ blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gettin’ on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o’ wut’s right an’ wut ain’t, We kind o’ thought Christ went agin’ war an’ pillage, An’ thet eppyletts worn’t the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o’ thing’s an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took, An’ Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country, An’ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an’ to us the per contry! An’ John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o’ the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they’re nothin’ on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An’ thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign’ance, an’ t’other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it ain’t no sech thing; an’, of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th’ Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An’ marched round in front of a drum an’ a fife, To git some on ’em office, an’ some on ’em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn’t know everythin’ down in Judee.

Wall, it’s a marcy we’ve gut folks to tell us The rights an’ the wrongs o’ these matters, I vow,-- God sends country lawyers, an’ other wise fellers, To start the world’s team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world’ll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

Phoebe Cary, though a hymn writer of repute, did some extremely clever parodies. This work of hers is little known.

I REMEMBER

I remember, I remember, The house where I was wed, And the little room from which that night My smiling bride was led. She didn’t come a wink too soon, Nor make too long a stay; But now I often wish her folks Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember, Her dresses, red and white, Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,-- They cost an awful sight! The “corner lot” on which I built, And where my brother met At first my wife, one washing-day,-- That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to court, And thought that all of married life Was just such pleasant sport:-- My spirit flew in feathers then, No care was on my brow; I scarce could wait to shut the gate,-- I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember, My dear one’s smile and sigh; I used to think her tender heart Was close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now it soothes me not To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when she wasn’t got!

“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES”

There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens; In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget, But oft, when my landlady presses me hard, I think, are the cabbages growing there yet, Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?

No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on; And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard; As thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.

JACOB

He dwelt among “Apartments let,” About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try.

A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife--and O! The difference to me!

REUBEN

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not), Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben’s fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free.

Edward Everett Hale, George William Curtis, Richard Grant White and Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) wrote about this time, but their prose articles are too long to quote in full and not adapted to condensation.

Again the newspaper writers forge to the front and in George Horatio Derby we find “the Father of” the new school of American humor. His sketches, over the name of John Phoenix, began to appear about the middle of the Nineteenth century and were later collected under the titles of Phoenixiana and Squibob Papers.

A fragment of one is given.

* * * * *

The dentist went to work, and in three days he invented an instrument which he was confident would pull anything. It was a combination of the lever, pulley, wheel and axle, inclined plane, wedge, and screw. The castings were made, and the machine put up in the office, over an iron chair rendered perfectly stationary by iron rods going down into the foundations of the granite building. In a week old Byles returned; he was clamped into the iron chair, the forceps connected with the machine attached firmly to the tooth, and Tushmaker, stationing himself in the rear, took hold of a lever four feet in length. He turned it slightly. Old Byles gave a groan and lifted his right leg. Another turn, another groan, and up went the leg again.

“What do you raise your leg for?” asked the Doctor.

“I can’t help it,” said the patient.

“Well,” rejoined Tushmaker, “that tooth is bound to come out now.”

He turned the lever clear round with a sudden jerk, and snapped old Byles’ head clean and clear from his shoulders, leaving a space of four inches between the severed parts!

They had a post-mortem examination--the roots of the tooth were found extending down the right side, through the right leg, and turning up in two prongs under the sole of the right foot!

“No wonder,” said Tushmaker, “he raised his right leg.”

The jury thought so, too, but they found the roots much decayed; and five surgeons swearing that mortification would have ensued in a few months, Tushmaker was clear on a verdict of “justifiable homicide.”

He was a little shy of that instrument for some time afterward; but one day an old lady, feeble and flaccid, came in to have a tooth drawn, and thinking it would come out very easy Tushmaker concluded, just by way of variety, to try the machine. He did so, and at the first turn drew the old lady’s skeleton completely and entirely from her body, leaving her a mass of quivering jelly in her chair! Tushmaker took her home in a pillow-case.

The woman lived-seven years after that, and they called her the “India-Rubber Woman.” She had suffered terribly with the rheumatism, but after this occurrence never had a pain in her bones. The dentist kept them in a glass case. After this, the machine was sold to the contract or of the Boston Custom-House, and it was found that a child of three years of age could, by a single turn of the screw, raise a stone weighing twenty-three tons. Smaller ones were made on the same principle and sold to the keepers of hotels and restaurants. They were used for boning turkeys. There is no moral to this story whatever, and it is possible that the circumstances may have become slightly exaggerated. Of course, there can be no doubt of the truth of the main incidents.

Charles Godfrey Leland, a humorist of Philadelphia, wrote almost entirely in a broken German dialect. His Hans Breitmann ballads are still among the famous examples of American humor.

BALLAD

Der noble Ritter Hugo Von Schwillensaufenstein Rode out mit shpeer and helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

Und oop dere rose a meer maid, Vod hadn’t got nodings on, Und she say, “Oh, Ritter Hugo, Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?”

Und he says, “I rides in de creenwood Mit helmet und mit shpeer, Till I cooms into em Gasthaus, Und dere I trinks some beer.”

Und den outshpoke de maiden Vot hadn’t got nodings on: “I ton’t dink mooch of beoplesh Dat goes mit demselfs alone.

“You’d petter coom down in de wasser, Vere dere’s heaps of dings to see, Und have a shplendid tinner Und drafel along mit me.

“Dere you sees de fisch a-schwimmin, Und you catches dem efery one”-- So sang dis wasser maiden Vot hadn’t got nodings on.

“Dere ish drunks all full mit money In ships dat vent down of old; Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder! To shimmerin crowns of gold.

“Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches! Shoost see dese diamant rings! Coom down und full your bockets, Und I’ll giss you like averydings.

“Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager? Coom down into der Rhine! Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!”

Dat fetched him--he shtood all shpellpound; She pooled his coat-tails down, She drawed him oonder der wasser, De maiden mit nodings on.

William Allen Butler is remembered chiefly by his long humorous poem of Miss Flora M’Flimsey, or, as it is entitled, Nothing To Wear.

* * * * *

Charles Graham Halpine wrote in an Irish brogue the adventures of Private Miles O’Reilly.

* * * * *

John T. Trowbridge and Charles Dudley Warner are among the famous Nineteenth Century writers but their works are not adapted to quotation.

* * * * *

Which brings us to Mark Twain.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens is too well known both by his works and by his life to need any word of comment. His whole career, as printer, pilot, lecturer and writer is an open and conned book to all.

Difficult indeed it is to quote from his volumes of fun, but we append a short extract from The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.

... Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.

Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller--a stranger in the camp, he was--come acrost him with his box, and says:

“What might it be that you’ve got in the box?”

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, “It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t--it’s only just a frog.”

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, “H’m--so ’tis. Well what’s he good for?”

“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “he’s good enough for one thing, I should judge--he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.”

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs and maybe you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got my opinion and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.”

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, “Well, I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog I’d bet you.”

And then Smiley says, “That’s all right--that’s all right--if you’ll hold my box a minute I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to himself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot--filled him pretty near up to his chin--and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:

“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his forepaws just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give the word.” Then he says, “One--two--three--git.” and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders--so--like a Frenchman, but it warn’t no use--he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted, too, but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, “I do wonder what in the nation that frog throw’d off for--I wonder if there ain’t something the matter with him--e ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, “Why blame my cats if he don’t weight five pound!” and turned him upside down and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man--he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him.

* * * * *

James Bayard Taylor and Thomas Bailey Aldrich, friends and congenial spirits, both despised American Dialect poetry.

Their own work shows a facile wit and graceful fancy, but, with Edmund Clarence Stedman, they must be classed as writers of light verse rather than as humorists.

Taylor was good at parody, and in his Echo Club, thus burlesques the style of Aldrich.

PALABRAS GRANDIOSAS

After T---- B---- A----

I lay i’ the bosom of the sun, Under the roses dappled and dun. I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer, In his palace beside the Bendemeer, With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind, And the harem that stretched for a league behind. The tulips bent i’ the summer breeze, Under the broad chrysanthemum trees, And the minstrel, playing his culverin, Made for mine ears a merry din.

If I were the Sultan, and he were I, Here i’ the grass he should loafing lie, And I should bestride my zebra steed, And the ride of the hunt of the centipede; While the pet of the harem, Dandeline, Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine, And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff, Should wipe my mouth when I sighed “Enough!” And the gay court-poet, Fearfulbore, Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o’er, And chant me songs of silvery tone, Not from Hafiz, but--mine own!

Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here, I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer, Nor you the odalisque Dandeline, Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!

David Ross Locke, who wrote over the name of Petroleum V. Nasby, was a humorist of the newspapers. He achieved no success until he began to misspell his words, when he at once leaped into popularity.

But the Prince of Misspellers, excepting always Josh Billings, was Artemus Ward, the pseudonym of Charles Farrar Browne.

The trick of misspelling and the use of excessive exaggeration were his stock in trade, added to a certain plaintiveness and abounding good humor.

Browne was the only one of this group of American humorists, whose work was read in England, and he lectured over there with pronounced success.

ON “FORTS”

Every man has got a Fort. It’s sum men’s fort to do one thing, and some other men’s fort to do another, while there is numeris shiftliss critters goin’ round loose whose fort is not to do nothin’.

Shakspeer rote good plase, but he wouldn’t hav succeeded as a Washington coorespondent of a New York daily paper. He lacked the rekesit fancy and imagginashun.

That’s so!

Old George Washington’s Fort was not to hev eny public man of the present day resemble him to eny alarmin extent. Whare bowts can George’s ekal be found? I ask, & boldly answer no whares, or any whare else.

Old man Townsin’s Fort was to maik Sassyperiller. “Goy to the world! anuther life saived!” (Cotashun from Townsin’s advertisement.)

Cyrus Field’s Fort is to lay a sub-machine telegraf under the boundin billers of the Oshun, and then have it Bust.

Spaldin’s Fort is to maik Prepared Gloo, which mends every thing. Wonder ef it will mend a sinner’s wickid waze. (Impromptoo goak.)

Zoary’s Fort is to be a femaile circus feller.

My Fort is the grate moral show bizniss & ritin choice famerly literatoor for the noospapers. That’s what’s the matter with me.

&., &., &. So I mite go on to a indefinit extent.

Twict I’ve endevered to do things which thay wasn’t my Fort. The fust time was when I undertuk to lick a owdashus cuss who cut a hole in my tent & krawld threw. Sez I, “My jentle Sir, go out or I shall fall on to you putty hevy.” Sez he, “Wade in, Old wax figgers,” whereupon I went for him, but he cawt me powerful on the bed & knockt me threw the tent into a cow pastur. He pursood the attach & flung me into a mud puddle. As I arose & rung out my drencht garmints I koncluded fitin wasn’t my Fort. Ile now rize the kurtin upon Seen 2nd: It is rarely seldum that I seek consolation in the Flowin Bole. But in a certain town in Injianny in the Faul of 18--, my orgin grinder got sick with the fever & died. I never felt so ashamed in my life, & I thowt I’d hist in a few swallers of suthin strengthnin. Konsequents was I histid in so much I dident zackly know whare bowts I was. I turned my livin wild beasts of Pray loose into the streets and spilt all my wax wurks. I then bet I cood play hoss. So I hitched myself to a Kanawl bote, there bein two other hosses hicht on also, one behind and anuther ahead of me. The driver hollerd for us to git up, and we did. But the hosses bein onused to sich a arrangemunt begun to kick & squeal and rair up. Konsequents was I fownd myself in the Kanawl with the other hosses, kickin & yellin like a tribe of Cusscaroorus savvijis. I was rescood, & as I was bein carrid to the tavern on a hemlock Bored I sed in a feeble voise, “Boys, playin hoss isn’t my Fort.”

Morul.--Never don’t do nothin which isn’t your Fort, for ef you do you’ll find yourself splashin round in the Kanawl, figgeratively speakin.

* * * * *

Frank R. Stockton was a nobleman among the humorists.

His quiet and often subtle humor, his delightful style and his unique originality made all his stories a joy and some masterpieces. No quotations can be given, for any Stockton story must be read in its entirety. The Lady and the Tiger is doubtless the most celebrated one, but many others are even more clever and unusual.

* * * * *

Francis Bret Harte, famed for his short stories, also wrote humorous verse. The Heathen Chinee is a byword in all households, and Truthful James is nearly as well known.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow man, And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones an animal that was extremely rare, And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault; It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order--when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL

“Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of volcanic tufa!

“Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth’s epidermis!

“Eo--Mio--Plio--Whatsoe’er the ’cene’ was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder-- Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches-- Tell us thy strange story!

“Or has the professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that’s somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures?

“Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch?

“Tell us of that scene--the dim and watery woodland Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect; Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall clubmosses, Lycopodiacea,

When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls.

“Tell us of thy food--those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell and brachipods au naturel-- Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle.

“Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth’s creation, Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence-- Speak! thou oldest primate!”

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together.

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration:

“Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county, But I’d take it kindly if you’d send the pieces Home to old Missouri!”

Pioneering in the West marked a distinct epoch in American humor. Bret Harte owed his meteoric success largely to the fact of his utilizing the background of the Golden West. And so did Joaquin Miller, John Hay and Edward Rowland Sill.

The Pike County Ballads of John Hay were national favorites.

LITTLE BREECHES

I don’t go much on religion, I never ain’t had no show; But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir, On the handful o’ things I know. I don’t pan out on the prophets And free-will and that sort of thing-- But I b’lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along-- No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight-- And I’d larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart’s store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started-- I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for ’em far and near. At last we struck horses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe Nor hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critter’s aid-- I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

* * * * *

By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And THAR sot Little Breeches, and chirped, As peart as ever you see: “I want a chaw of terbacker, And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm; They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Then loafing around The Throne.

Joaquin Miller, whose true name was Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, was called the Poet of the Sierras.

He seldom wrote in humorous vein, but some of his verse must fall into that category.

THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON TOWN

AN IDYL OF OREGON

Two webfoot brothers loved a fair Young lady, rich and good to see; And oh, her black abundant hair! And oh, her wondrous witchery! Her father kept a cattle farm, These brothers kept her safe from harm:

From harm of cattle on the hill; From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing The livelong morning, loud and shrill, And lashing sides like anything; From roaring bulls that tossed the sand And pawed the lilies from the land.

There came a third young man. He came From far and famous Boston town. He was not handsome, was not “game,” But he could “cook a goose” as brown As any man that set foot on The sunlit shores of Oregon.

This Boston man he taught the school, Taught gentleness and love alway, Said love and kindness, as a rule, Would ultimately “make it pay.” He was so gentle, kind, that he Could make a noun and verb agree.

So when one day the brothers grew All jealous and did strip to fight, He gently stood between the two, And meekly told them ’twas not right. “I have a higher, better plan,” Outspake this gentle Boston man.

“My plan is this: Forget this fray About that lily hand of hers; Go take your guns and hunt all day High up yon lofty hill of firs, And while you hunt, my loving doves, Why, I will learn which one she loves.”

The brothers sat the windy hill, Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold, Their rifles crossed their laps, but still They sat and sighed and shook with cold. Their hearts lay bleeding far below; Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.

Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat; A spotted circle in the grass. The valley lay beneath their feet; They heard the wide-winged eagles pass. The eagles cleft the clouds above; Yet what could they but sigh and love?

“If I could die,” the elder sighed, “My dear young brother here might wed.” “Oh, would to Heaven I had died!” The younger sighed, with bended head. Then each looked each full in the face And each sprang up and stood in place.

“If I could die,”--the elder spake,-- “Die by your hand, the world would say ’Twas accident;--and for her sake, Dear brother, be it so, I pray.” “Not that!” the younger nobly said; Then tossed his gun and turned his head.

And fifty paces back he paced! And as he paced he drew the ball; Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced His brother to the death and fall! Two shots rang wild upon the air! But lo! the two stood harmless there!

An eagle poised high in the air; Far, far below the bellowing Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere Vast silence sat all questioning. The spotted hounds ran circling round Their red, wet noses to the ground.

And now each brother came to know That each had drawn the deadly ball; And for that fair girl far below Had sought in vain to silent fall. And then the two did gladly “shake,” And thus the elder bravely spake:

“Now let us run right hastily And tell the kind schoolmaster all! Yea! yea! and if she choose not me, But all on you her favors fall, This valiant scene, till all life ends, Dear brother, binds us best of friends.”

The hounds sped down, a spotted line, The bulls in tall, abundant grass, Shook back their horns from bloom and vine, And trumpeted to see them pass-- They loved so good, they loved so true, These brothers scarce knew what to do.

They sought the kind schoolmaster out As swift as sweeps the light of morn; They could but love, they could not doubt This man so gentle, “in a horn,” They cried, “Now whose the lily hand-- That lady’s of this webfoot land?”

They bowed before that big-nosed man, That long-nosed man from Boston town; They talked as only lovers can, They talked, but he could only frown; And still they talked, and still they plead; It was as pleading with the dead.

At last this Boston man did speak-- “Her father has a thousand ceows, An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek; He also had this ample heouse.” The brothers’ eyes stuck out thereat, So far you might have hung your hat.

“I liked the looks of this big heouse-- My lovely boys, won’t you come in? Her father has a thousand ceows, He also had a heap of tin. The guirl? Of yes, the guirl, you see-- The guirl, just neow she married me.”

Robert Henry Newell, a popular journalist and humorist, wrote over the name of Orpheus C. Kerr. His best known work is the Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, but as a parodist he gives us these burlesque National Hymns.

I

BY H--Y W. L-NGF---- W

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribb’d land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens-- Ursa--the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him Flutter’d and flam’d the original Star Spangled Banner.

II

BY J-HN GR--NL--F WH--T--R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, And all thy sons unite in one grand wish-- To keep the virtues of Preservèd Fish.

Preservèd Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do, And if they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III

BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES

A diagnosis of our hist’ry proves Our native land a land its native loves; Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores; Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand-- The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land.

IV

BY R-LPH W-LDO EM-R--N

Source immaterial of material naught, Focus of light infinitesimal, Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars To the stars bent incipient on our flag, The beam translucent, neutrifying death, And raise to immortality the rag.

V

By W-LL--M C-LL-N B-Y-NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev’ning Post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our Flag of Heav’n has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our Country’s nobler planet glows While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VI

By N. P. W-LL-S

One hue of our Flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, It conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.

VII

BY TH-M-S B-IL-Y ALD--CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings, The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs, The dainty sunflow’r hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gaily springs. I love the dainty sunflow ’r, too. And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all;--but I love--I love-- I love my country best.

Edward Rowland Sill, writing of the West for many years, wrote delightful humor on other subjects as well.

EVE’s DAUGHTER

I waited in the little sunny room: The cool breeze waved the window-lace at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come. “Such an old friend--she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair.” I turned, and lo, Danæ in her shower! and fit to slay All a man’s hoarded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain’s flow. “She would not make me wait!”--but well I know She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

Newspaper humor of this period included the Danbury News Man, Peck’s Bad Boy and Eli Perkins (Melville D. Landon).

Charles E. Carryl, though his books are called Juveniles, wrote delicious nonsense, approaching nearer to Lewis Carroll than any other American writer.

THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND

A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the “Walloping Window-blind”-- No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain’s mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he’d been in his bunk below.

The boatswain’s mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain’s boots, In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore’s hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such: For the food he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will, On a diet that’s cheap and rude; And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook In a tub of his gluesome food. Then nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land, And trimmed with cinnamon straws; And pink and blue was the pleasing hue Of the Tickletoeteaser’s claws. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn’t much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubagub tree.

Robert Jones Burdette, known as the Burlington Hawkeye Man, was one of the prototypes of our present day newspaper columnists.

His witty verse and prose has lived, and he ranks with the humorists of our land.

WHAT WILL WE DO?

What will we do when the good days come-- When the prima donna’s lips are dumb. And the man who reads us his “little things” Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums-- Oh, what will we do when the good time comes? Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime! And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appetite Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,” Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”; When the funny man is humorsome-- How can we stand the millennium?

“SOLDIER, REST!”

A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea Just when the war was growing hot, And he shouted, “I’m Tjalikavakeree-- Karindabrolikanavandorot-- Schipkadirova-- Ivandiszstova-- Sanilik-- Danilik-- Varagobhot!”

A Turk was standing upon the shore Right where the terrible Russian crossed; And he cried, “Bismillah! I’m Abd el Kor-- Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk-- Getzinpravadi-- Kilgekosladji-- Grivido-- Blivido-- Jenikodosk!”

So they stood like brave men, long and well, And they called each other their proper names, Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell They buried them both by the Irdosholames-- Kalatalustchuk-- Mischaribustchup-- Bulgari-- Dulgari-- Sagharimainz.

Marietta Holley wrote with shrewd observation and much homely common sense. Her books about Betsey Bobbet and Josiah Allen’s Wife were best sellers in the seventies or thereabouts.

Like many of her contemporaries for her fun she depended largely on misspelling.

* * * * *

Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the Augah has no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favorite authar. You have devorhed him haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.

“Mahtan Fahqueah Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.

“No, mam,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper, nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.”

“Oh, you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet tender lines.”

“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and so I read:

GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL

“‘Oh, let who will, Oh, let who can, Be tied onto A horrid male man.’

“Thus said I ere My tendah heart was touched; Thus said I ere My tendah feelings gushed.

“But oh, a change Hath swept ore me, As billows sweep The ‘deep blue sea.’

“A voice, a noble form One day I saw; An arrow flew, My heart is nearly raw.

“His first pardner lies Beneath the turf; He is wondering now In sorrow’s briny surf.

“Two twins, the little Death cherub creechahs, Now wipe the teahs From off his classic feachahs.

“Oh, sweet lot, worthy Angel arisen, To wipe teahs From eyes like hisen.”

“What think you of it?” says she, as I finished readin’.

I looked right at her ’most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of her false curls and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter. I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yellow bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain’t the editor of the Augur a widower with a pair of twins?”

“Yes,” says she, with a happy look.

Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one.... There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly.

“We kindred soles soah above such petty feelin’s--we soah far above them.”

“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and to tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.” “The editah of the Augah,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen the stand and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the editah of this paper is a kindred sole; he appreciates me, he undahstands me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah go down to posterety togathah?”

“Then,” says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you was both of you in posterity now.”

--My Opinions and Betsey Bobbet’s.

George Thomas Lanigan wrote clever verse, of which The Akhoond of Swat is among the best.

A THRENODY

“The Akhoond of Swat is dead,”--_London Papers of January 22, 1878_.

What, what, what, What’s the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Cometh by cable led Through the Indian Ocean’s bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean: he’s dead,-- The Akhoond is dead!

For the Akhoond I mourn. Who wouldn’t? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Akhoondn’t.

Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow, Swats!) Swats wha hae wi’ Akhoond bled, Swats wham he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be,-- Sorrow, Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Akhoond is dead! That’s Swat’s the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat, Your great Akhoond is not, But laid ’mid worms to rot,-- His mortal part alone: his soul was caught (Because he was a good Akhoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthly walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground), And sceptics mock the lowly mound And say, “He’s now of no Akhoond!” His soul is in the skies,-- The azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat; He sees, with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries; He knows what’s Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Akhoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Akhoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength. Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned, Dead lies the great Akhoond, The great Akhoond of Swat, Is not!

Lanigan also wrote Fables, which he signed G. Washington Æsop.

THE OSTRICH AND THE HEN

An Ostrich and a Hen chanced to occupy adjacent apartments, and the former complained loudly that her rest was disturbed by the cackling of her humble neighbor. “Why is it,” she finally asked the Hen, “that you make such an intolerable noise?” The Hen replied, “Because I have laid an egg.” “Oh, no,” said the Ostrich, with a superior smile, “it is because you are a Hen and don’t know any better.”

Moral.--The moral of the foregoing is not very clear, but it contains some reference to the Agitation for Female Suffrage.

THE KIND-HEARTED SHE-ELEPHANT

A kind-hearted She-Elephant, while walking through the Jungle where the Spicy Breezes blow soft o’er Ceylon’s Isle, heedlessly set foot upon a Partridge, which she crushed to death within a few inches of the Nest containing its Callow Brood. “Poor little things!” said the generous Mammoth. “I have been a Mother myself, and my affection shall atone for the Fatal Consequences of my neglect.” So saying, she sat down upon the Orphaned Birds.

Moral.--The above Teaches us What Home is Without a Mother; also, that it is not every Person who should be entrusted with the Care of an Orphan Asylum.

* * * * *

James Jeffrey Roche wrote delightful verse, which is properly classed as Vers de Société, but which shows more wit than much of that type.

THE V-A-S-E

From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell, from sight alone, In which had Culture ripest grown--

The Gotham Million, fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo--

For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshiped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said, “What a lovely vace!”

Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”

But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”

And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

“I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!”

_Dies erit praegelida Sinistra quum Bostonia._

A BOSTON LULLABY

Baby’s brain is tired of thinking On the Wherefore and the Whence; Baby’s precious eyes are blinking With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning Heavy leaves of lexicon; Little nose is fretted learning How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature Are beneficent and wise; His medulla oblongata Bids my darling close his eyes,

And his pneumogastrics tell him Quietude is always best When his little cerebellum Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation, Let the world go wrong or right. Sleep, my darling, leave Creation To its chances for the night.

Joel Chandler Harris is in a class by himself. Although he wrote other things, he will always be remembered for the immortal Uncle Remus stories. The Tar Baby and Brer Rabbit are known and loved of all American families. A short bit is given from:

THE SAD END OF BRER WOLF

“Bimeby, one day w’en Brer Rabbit wuz fixin’ fer ter call on Miss Coon, he heered a monst’us fussen clatter up de big road, en ’mos’ ’fo’ he could fix his years fer ter lissen, Brer Wolf run in de do’. De little Rabbits dey went inter dere hole in de cellar, dey did, like blowin’ out a cannle. Brer Wolf wuz far’ly kiver’d wid mud, en mighty nigh outer win’.

“‘Oh, do pray save me, Brer Rabbit!’ sez Brer Wolf, sezee. ‘Do, please, Brer Rabbit! de dogs is atter me, en dey’ll t’ar me up. Don’t you year um comin’? Oh, do please save me Brer Rabbit! Hide me some’rs whar de dogs won’t git me.’

“No quicker sed dan done.

“‘Jump in dat big chist dar, Brer Wolf,’ sez Brer Rabbit sezee; ‘jump in dar en make yo’se’f at home.’

“In jump Brer Wolf, down come de lid, en inter de hasp went de hook, en dar Mr. Wolf wuz. Den Brer Rabbit went ter de lookin’-glass, he did, en wink at hisse’f, en den he draw’d de rockin’-cheer in front er de fier, he did, en tuck a big chaw terbarker.”

“Tobacco, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy incredulously.

“Rabbit terbarker, honey. You know dis yer life ev’lastin’ w’at Miss Sally puts ’mong de cloze in de trunk; well, dat’s rabbit terbarker. Den Brer Rabbit sot dar long time, he did, turnin’ his mine over en wukken’ his thinkin’ masheen. Bimeby he got up, en sorter stir ’roun’. Den Brer Wolf open up:

“‘Is de dogs all gone, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Seem like I hear one un um smellin’ roun’ de chimbly cornder des now.’

“Den Brer Rabbit git de kittle en fill it full er water, en put it on de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m fixin’ fer ter make you a nice cup er tea, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went ter de cubberd, en git de gimlet, en commence for ter bo’ little holes in de chist-lid.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-bo’in’ little holes so you kin get bref, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went out en git some mo’ wood, en fling it on de fier.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-chunkin’ up de fier so you won’t git cole, Brer Wolf.’

“Den Brer Rabbit went down inter de cellar en fotch out all his chilluns.

“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘I’m a-tellin’ my chilluns w’at a nice man you is, Brer Wolf.’

“En de chilluns, dey had ter put der han’s on her moufs fer ter keep fum laffin’. Den Brer Rabbit he got de kittle en commenced fer to po’ de hot water on de chist-lid.

“‘W’at dat I hear, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You hear de win’ a-blowin’, Brer Wolf.’

“Den de water begin fer ter sif’ thoo.

“‘W’at dat I feel, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘You feels de fleas a-bitin’, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er bitin’ mighty hard, Brer Rabbit.’

“‘Tu’n over on de udder side, Brer Wolf.’

“‘W’at dat I feel now, Brer Rabbit?’

“‘Still you feels de fleas, Brer Wolf.’

“‘Dey er eatin’ me up, Brer Rabbit,’ en dem wuz de las’ words er Brer Wolf, kase de scaldin’ water done de bizness.

“Den Brer Rabbit call in his nabers, he did, en dey hilt a reg’lar juberlee; en ef you go ter Brer Rabbit’s house right now, I dunno but w’at you’ll fine Brer Wolf’s hide hangin’ in de back-po’ch, en all bekaze he wuz so bizzy wid udder fo’kses doin’s.”

--From Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings.

Eugene Field, beside being the greatest of newspaper paragraphers was a versatile writer of all sorts, from Christmas Hymns to the most flippant themes.

His own personal charm imbued his work, and whether writing Echoes of Horace or appalling tales of Little Willie, he was always original and truly funny.

THE DINKEY-BIRD

In an ocean, ’way out yonder (As all sapient people know), Is the land of Wonder-Wander, Whither children love to go; It’s their playing, romping, swinging, That give great joy to me While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing In the Amfalula-tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries, And taffy’s thick as peas,-- Caramels you pick like berries When, and where, and how you please: Big red sugar-plums are clinging To the cliffs beside that sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.

So when children shout and scamper And make merry all the day, When there’s naught to put a damper To the ardor of their play; When I hear their laughter ringing, Then I’m sure as sure can be That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras And staccatos are so sweet-- His roulades, appogiaturas, And robustos so complete, That the youth of every nation-- Be they near or far away-- Have especial delectation In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter, Their lungs begin to crow, Their hearts get light and lighter, And their cheeks are all aglow; For an echo cometh bringing The news to all and me. That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.

I’m sure you’d like to go there To see your feathered friend-- And so many goodies grow there You would like to comprehend! _Speed, little dreams, your winging To that land across the sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-Tree!_

THE LITTLE PEACH

A little peach in the orchard grew, A little peach of emerald hue: Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew, It grew.

One day, walking the orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue-- Those two.

Up at the peach a club they threw: Down from the limb on which it grew, Fell the little peach of emerald hue-- Too true!

John took a bite, and Sue took a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,-- Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,-- Paregoric too.

Under the turf where the daisies grew, They planted John and his sister Sue; And their little souls to the angels flew-- Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well! its mission on earth is through-- Adieu!

GOOD JAMES AND NAUGHTY REGINALD

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 Plumb 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.

--From the Tribune Primer.

Edgar Wilson Nye, known commonly as Bill Nye, wrote in prose and also made a success on the lecture platform, as well as in his newspaper work.

THE GARDEN HOSE

It is now the proper time for the cross-eyed woman to fool with the garden hose. I have faced death in almost every form, and I do not know what fear is, but when a woman with one eye gazing into the zodiac and the other peering into the middle of next week, and wearing one of those floppy sun-bonnets, picks up the nozzle of the garden hose and turns on the full force of the institution, I fly wildly to the Mountains of Hepsidam.

Water won’t hurt any one, of course, if care is used not to forget and drink any of it, but it is this horrible suspense and uncertainty about facing the nozzle of a garden hose in the hands of a cross-eyed woman that unnerves and paralyzes me.

Instantaneous death is nothing to me. I am as cool and collected where leaden rain and iron hail are thickest as I would be in my own office writing the obituary of the man who steals my jokes. But I hate to be drowned slowly in my good clothes and on dry land, and have my dying gaze rest on a woman whose ravishing beauty would drive a narrow-gage mule into convulsions and make him hate himself t’death.

* * * * *

Richard Kendall Munkittrick wielded a graceful pen and his verses show an original wit.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

In letters large upon a frame, That visitors might see, The painter placed his humble name, O’Callaghan McGee.

And from Beersheba unto Dan, The critics with a nod Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman Adores his native sod.

“His stout heart’s patriotic flame There’s naught on earth can quell He takes no wild romantic name To make his pictures sell!”

Then poets praised in sonnets neat His stroke so bold and free; No parlor wall was thought complete That hadn’t a McGee.

All patriots before McGee Threw lavishly their gold; His works in the Academy Were very quickly sold.

His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,” His “When the Morning Smiled,” His “Seven Miles from Ararat,” His “Portrait of a Child,” Were purchased in a single day And lauded as divine.

* * * * *

That night as in his atelier The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames, He grinned from ear to ear: “They little think my real name’s V. Stuyvesant De Vere!”

Edward Waterman Townsend, varied the time-honored tradition of misspelling by introducing an example of Bowery slang. His Chimmie Fadden took a firm hold on the public notice and the vogue lasted for many years.

* * * * *

“Naw, I ain’t stringin’ ye. ‘Is Whiskers is de loidy’s fadder. Sure!

“’E comes ter me room wid der loidy, ’is Whiskers does, an’ he says, says ’e, ‘Is dis Chimmie Fadden?’ says ’e.

“‘Yer dead on,’ says I.

“‘Wot t’ell?’ ’e says, turning to ’is daughter. ‘Wot does de young man say?’ ’e says.

“Den de loidy she kinder smiled--say, ye otter seed ’er smile. Say, it’s outter sight. Dat’s right. Well, she says: ‘I t’ink I understan’ Chimmie’s langwudge,’ she says. ‘‘E means ’e’s de kid youse lookin’ fer. ’E’s de very mug.’

“Dat’s wot she says; somet’n like dat, only a felly can’t just remember ’er langwudge.

“Den ’is Whiskers gives me a song an’ dance ’bout me bein’ a brave young man fer t’umpin’ der mug wot insulted ’is daughter, an’ ’bout ’is heart bein’ all broke dat ’is daughter should be doin’ missioner work in de slums.

“I says, ‘Wot tell’; but der loidy, she says, ‘Chimmie,’ says she, ‘me fadder needs a footman,’ she says, ‘an’ I taut you’d be de very mug fer de job,’ says she. See?

“Say, I was all broke up, an’ couldn’t say nottin’, fer ’is Whiskers was so solemn. See?

“‘Wot’s yer lay now?’ says ’is Whiskers, or somet’n’ like dat.

“Say, I could ’ave give ’im a string ’bout me bein’ a hard-workin’ boy, but I knowed der loidy was dead on ter me, so I only says, says I, ‘Wot t’ell?’ says I, like dat, ‘Wot t’ell?’ See?

“Den ’is Whiskers was kinder paralized like, an’ ’e turns to ’is daughter an’ ’e says--dese is ’is very words--’e says:

“Really, Fannie,’ ’e says, ‘really, Fannie, you must enterpret dis young man’s langwudge.’

“Den she laffs an’ says, says she:

“Chimmie is a good boy if ’e only had a chance,’ she says.

“Den ’is Whiskers ’e says, ‘I dare say,’ like dat. See? ‘I dare say.’ See? Say, did ye ever ’ear words like dem? Say, I was fer tellin’ ’is Whiskers ter git t’ell outter dat, only fer der loidy. See?

“Well, den we all give each odder a song an’ dance, an’ de end was I was took fer a footman. See? Tiger, ye say? Naw, dey don’t call me no tiger.

“Say, wouldn’t de gang on de Bow’ry be paralized if dey seed me in dis harness? Ain’t it great? Sure! Wot am I doin’? Well, I’m doin’ pretty well. I had ter t’ump a felly dey calls de butler de first night I was dere for callin’ me a heathen. See? Say, dere’s a kid in de house wot opens de front door when youse ring de bell, an’ I win all ’is boodle de second night I was dere showin’ ’im how ter play Crusoe. Say, it’s a dead easy game, but de loidy she axed me not to bunco de farmers--dey’s all farmers up in dat house, dead farmers--so I leaves ’em alone. ’Scuse me now, dat’s me loidy comin’ outter der shop. I opens de door of de carriage an’ she says, ‘Home, Chames.’ Den I jumps on de box an’ strings de driver. Say, ’e’s a farmer, too. I’ll tell you some more ’bout de game next time. So long.”

--Chimmie Fadden.

Sam Walter Foss added to his misspelling a certain understanding of human nature and produced many mildly satirical verses.

A PHILOSOPHER

Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize About the ocean and the skies, An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon About the other side the moon; An’ ’bout the natur of the place Ten miles beyend the end of space. An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank If he wouldn’t kinder try to yank Hisself outdoors an’ git some wood To make her kitchen fire good, So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies, He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize About the natur an’ the size Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp, An’ wonder how they made ’em flop. He’d calkerlate how long a skid ’Twould take to move the sun, he did; An’ if the skid wuz strong an’ prime, It couldn’t be moved to supper-time. An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout If he wouldn’t kinder waltz about An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies, He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize ’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies, Then lettin’ out the lots to rent So’s he could make an honest cent. An’ if he’d find it pooty tough To borry cash fer fencin’ stuff. An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth An’ go to Europe for his health, Or save his cash till he’d enough To buy some more of fencin’ stuff. Then, if his wife she’d ask the gump If he wouldn’t kinder try to hump Hisself to t’other side the door So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor, He’d look at her with mournful eyes, An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize ’Bout w’at it wuz held up the skies, An’ how God made this earthly ball Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall, An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form Of nawthin’ that He made it from. Then, if his wife sh’d ask the freak If he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak Out to the barn an’ find some aigs, He’d never move, nor lift his laigs, He’d never stir, nor try to rise, But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize About the earth an’ sea an’ skies, An’ scratch his head an’ ask the cause Of w’at there wuz before time wuz, An’ w’at the universe’d do Bimeby w’en time had all got through; An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb If we sh’d travel out er time, An’ if we’d need, w’en we got there To keep our watches in repair. Then, if his wife she’d ask the gawk If he wouldn’t kinder try to walk To where she had the table spread An’ kinder git his stomach fed, He’d leap for that ’ar kitchen door, An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?” An’ w’en he’d got his supper et, He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set, An’ fold his arms an’ shet his eyes, An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.

Finley Peter Dunne created the immortal Mr. Dooley about the time of the Spanish War.

The Irish dialect is perfect, the humor most droll and the wit quiet and clean-cut.

Among the best of the chapters is the one that burlesques the proceedings that took place at a celebrated murder trial of the day.

ON EXPERT TESTIMONY

“Annything new?” said Mr. Hennessy, who had been waiting patiently for Mr. Dooley to put down his newspaper.

“I’ve been r-readin’ th’ tistimony iv th’ Lootgert case,” said Mr. Dooley.

“What d’ye think iv it?”

“I think so,” said Mr. Dooley.

“Think what?”

“How do I know?” said Mr. Dooley. “How do I know what I think? I’m no combination iv chemist, doctor, osteologist, polisman, an’ sausage-maker, that I can give ye an opinion right off th’ bat. A man needs to be all iv thim things to detarmine annything about a murdher trile in these days. This shows how intilligent our methods is, as Hogan says. A large German man is charged with puttin’ his wife away into a breakfas’-dish, an’ he says he didn’t do it. Th’ question thin is, Did or did not Alphonse Lootgert stick Mrs. L. into a vat, an’ rayjooce her to a quick lunch? Am I right?”

“Ye ar-re,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“That’s simple enough. What th’ Coort ought to’ve done was to call him up, an’ say: ‘Lootgert, where’s ye’er good woman?’ If Lootgert cudden’t tell, he ought to be hanged on gin’ral principles; f’r a man must keep his wife around th’ house, an’ whin she isn’t there it shows he’s a poor provider. But, if Lootgert says, ‘I don’t know where me wife is,’ the Coort shud say:’ Go out an’ find her. If ye can’t projooce her in a week, I’ll fix ye.’ An’ let that be th’ end iv it.

“But what do they do? They get Lootgert into coort an’ stand him up befure a gang iv young rayporthers an’ th’ likes iv thim to make pitchers iv him. Thin they summon a jury composed iv poor tired, sleepy expressmen an’ tailors an’ clerks. Thin they call in a profissor from a college. ‘Professor,’ says th’ lawyer f’r the State, ‘I put it to ye if a wooden vat three hundherd an’ sixty feet long, twenty-eight feet deep, an’ sivinty-five feet wide, an’ if three hundherd pounds iv caustic soda boiled, an’ if the leg iv a guinea-pig, an’ ye said yestherdah about bi-carbonate iv soda, an’ if it washes up an’ washes over, an’ th’ slimy, slippery stuff, an’ if a false tooth or a lock iv hair or a jawbone or a goluf ball across th’ cellar eleven feet nine inches--that is, two inches this way an’ five gallons that?’ ‘I agree with ye intirely,’ says th’ profissor. I made lab’ratory experiments in an’ ir’n basin, with bichloride iv gool, which I will call soup-stock, an’ coal-tar, which I will call ir’n filings. I mixed th’ two over a hot fire, an’ left in a cool place to harden. I thin packed it in ice, which I will call glue, an’ rock-salt, which I will call fried eggs, an’ obtained a dark queer solution that is a cure f’r freckles, which I will call antimony or doughnuts or annything I blamed please.’

“‘But,’ says th’ lawyer f’r th’ State, ‘measurin’ th’ vat with gas--an’ I lave it to ye whether this is not th’ on’y fair test--an’ supposin’ that two feet acrost is akel to tin feet sideways, an’ supposin’ that a thick green an’ hard substance, an’ I daresay it wud; an’ supposin’ you may, takin’ into account th’ measuremints--twelve be eight--th’ vat bein’ wound with twine six inches fr’m th’ handle an’ a rub iv th’ green, thin ar-re not human teeth often found in counthry sausage?’ ‘In th’ winter,’ says th’ profissor. ‘But th’ sisymoid bone is sometimes seen in th’ fut, sometimes worn as a watch-charm. I took two sisymoid bones, which I will call poker dice, an’ shook thim together in a cylinder, which I will call Fido, poored in a can iv milk, which I will call gum arabic, took two pounds iv rough-on-rats, which I rayfuse to call; but th’ raysult is th’ same.’ Question be th’ Coort: ‘Different?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Th’ Coort: ‘Th’ same.’ Be Misther McEwen: ‘Whose bones?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Be Misther Vincent: ‘Will ye go to th’ divvle?’ Answer: ‘It dissolves th’ hair.’

“Now what I want to know is where th’ jury gets off. What has that collection iv pure-minded pathrites to larn fr’m this here polite discussion, where no wan is so crool as to ask what anny wan else means? Thank th’ Lord, whin th’ case is all over, the jury’ll pitch th’ tistimony out iv th’ window, an’ consider three questions: ‘Did Lootgert look as though he’d kill his wife? Did his wife look as though she ought so be kilt? Isn’t it time we wint to supper?’ An’, howiver they answer, they’ll be right, an’ it’ll make little diff’rence wan way or th’ other. Th’ German vote is too large an’ ignorant annyhow.”

* * * * *

George Ade, in the Biographical Dictionaries, is classed almost exclusively as a playwright, but to those who know and love his Fables in Slang,--and who does not?--he will always be a humorist.

His slang is all that slang should be, witty, trenchant, picturesque and used but once. His own rule for slang stipulates that it shall be impromptu, spontaneous and never repeated.

From his opera The Sultan of Sulu, we quote one song.

THE COCKTAIL

The cocktail is a pleasant drink, It’s mild and harmless--I don’t think! When you have one, you call for two-- And then you don’t care what you do.

Last night I hoisted twenty-three Of those arrangements into me; My bosom heaved, I swelled with pride, I was pickled, primed and ossified!

But R-E-M-O-R-S-E-- The water wagon is the place for me! It is no time for mirth and laughter, The cold, dark dawn of the Morning After!

THE FABLE OF THE CADDY WHO HURT HIS HEAD WHILE THINKING

One day a Caddy sat in the Long Grass near the Ninth Hole and wondered if he had a Soul. His number was 27, and he almost had forgotten his Real Name.

As he sat and Meditated, two Players passed him. They were going the Long Round, and the Frenzy was upon them.

They followed the Gutta-Percha Balls with the intent swiftness of trained Bird-Dogs, and each talked feverishly of Brassy Lies, and getting past the Bunker, and Lofting to the Green, and Slicing into the Bramble--each telling his own Game to the Ambient Air, and ignoring what the other Fellow had to say.

As they did the St. Andrews Full Swing for eighty Yards apiece and then Followed Through with the usual Explanations of how it Happened, the Caddy looked at them and Reflected that they were much inferior to his Father.

His Father was too Serious a Man to get out in Mardi Gras Clothes and hammer a Ball from one Red flag to another.

His Father worked in a Lumber-Yard.

He was an Earnest Citizen, who seldom Smiled, and he knew all about the Silver Question and how J. Pierpont Morgan done up a Free People on the Bond Issue.

The Caddy wondered why it was that his Father, a really Great Man, had to shove Lumber all day and could seldom get one Dollar to rub against another, while these superficial Johnnies who played Golf all the Time had Money to Throw at the Birds. The more he Thought the more his Head ached.

MORAL.--Don’t try to Account for Anything.

* * * * *

Will Carleton wrote many long narrative ballads, of a homely type. His Betsey and I Are Out, and Over the Hills to the Poorhouse, in their day were known to every household.

A shorter work is:

ELIPHALET CHAPIN’S WEDDING

’Twas when the leaves of Autumn were by tempest-fingers picked, Eliphalet Chapin started to become a benedict; With an ancient two-ox waggon to bring back his new-found goods, He hawed and gee’d and floundered through some twenty miles o’ woods; With prematrimonial ardour he his hornèd steeds did press, But Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t bristle with success. Oh no, Woe, woe! With candour to digress, Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t tremble with success.

He had not carried five miles his mouth-disputed face, When his wedding garments parted in some inconvenient place; He’d have given both his oxen to a wife that now was dead, For her company two minutes with a needle and a thread. But he pinned them up, with twinges of occasional distress, Feeling that his wedding wouldn’t be a carnival of dress: “Haw, Buck! Gee, Bright! Derned pretty mess!” No; Eliphalet was not strictly a spectacular success.

He had not gone a ten-mile when a wheel demurely broke, A disunited family of felloe, hub, and spoke; It joined, with flattering prospects, the Society of Wrecks; And he had to cut a sapling, and insert it ’neath the “ex.” So he ploughed the hills and valleys with that Doric wheel and tire, Feeling that his wedding journey was not all he could desire. “Gee, Bright! G’long, Buck!” He shouted, hoarse with ire! No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey none in candour could admire!

He had not gone fifteen miles with extended face forlorn, When Night lay down upon him hard, and kept him there till morn; And when the daylight chuckled at the gloom within his mind, One ox was “Strayed or Stolen,” and the other hard to find. So yoking Buck as usual, he assumed the part of Bright (Constituting a menagerie diverting to the sight); With “Haw, Buck! Gee, Buck! Sh’n’t get there till night!” No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey was not one intense delight.

Now, when he drove his equipage up to his sweetheart’s door, The wedding guests had tired and gone, just half-an-hour before; The preacher had from sickness an unprofitable call, And had sent a voice proclaiming that he couldn’t come at all; The parents had been prejudiced by some one, more or less, And the sire the bridegroom greeted with a different word from “bless.” “Blank your head, You blank!” he said; “We’ll break this off, I guess!” No; Eliphalet’s wedding was not an unqualified success.

Now, when the bride saw him arrive, she shook her crimson locks, And vowed to goodness gracious she would never wed an ox; And with a vim deserving rather better social luck, She eloped that day by daylight with a swarthy Indian “buck,” With the presents in the pockets of her woollen wedding-dress; And “Things ain’t mostly with me,” quoth Eliphalet, “I confess,” No--no; As things go, No fair mind ’twould impress, That Eliphalet Chapin’s wedding was an unalloyed success.

Dr. William H. Drummond is best known humorously by his apt rendition of the French-Canadian dialect.

THE WRECK OF THE “JULIE PLANTE.”

A Legend of Lake St. Peter.

On wan dark night on Lac Saint Pierre, De win’ she blow, blow, blow, An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante” Got scar’t, an’ run below-- For de win’ she blow lak hurricain, Bimeby she blow some more, An’ de scow buss h’up on Lac Saint Pierre Wan h’arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk h’on de fronte deck, An’ walk de hin’ deck too-- He call de crew from h’up de ’ole He call de cook h’also. De crew she’s name was Rosie, She’s come from Montreal, Was chambre maid h’on lombaire barge, H’on de Grande La Chine Canal.

De win’ she’s blow from nor’-eass-wess-- De sout’ win’ she’s blow too, W’en Rosie cry, “Mon cher captinne, Mon cher, w’at I shall do?” Den de captinne trow de big h’ankerre, But steel de scow she dreef, De crew he can’t pass on de shore, Becos he loss hees skeef.

De night was dark lak’ wan black cat, De wave run ’igh an’ fas’, W’en de captinne tak’ de poor Rosie An’ tie her to de mas’. Den he h’also tak’ de life preserve, An’ jomp h’off on de lak’, An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear, I go drown for your sak’.”

Nex’ morning very h’early Bout haf-pas’ two--t’ree--four-- De captinne--scow--an’ de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore. For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricain, Bimeby she blow some more, An’ de scow bus’ h’up on Lac Saint Pierre, Wan h’arpent from de shore.

MORAL

Now h’all good wood scow sailor man Tak’ warning by dat storm, An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl An’ leev on one beeg farm.

De win’ can blow lak hurricain An’ s’pose she blow some more, You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre So long you stay on shore.

Ben King is responsible for at least two humorous jingles of wide popularity.

THE PESSIMIST

Nothing to do but work; Nothing to eat but food; Nothing to wear but clothes, To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air; Quick as a flash ’tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off; Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair; Nowhere to sleep but in bed; Nothing to weep but tears; Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out; Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights; Nothing to quench but thirst; Nothing to have but what we’ve got; Thus thro’ life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

If I should die to-night, And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick o’er my lifeless clay-- If I should die to-night, And you should come in deepest grief and wo-- And say, “Here’s that ten dollars that I owe,” I might arise in my large white cravat, And say, “What’s that?”

If I should die to-night, And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, I say, if I should die to-night, And you should come to me, and there and then Just even hint ’bout payin’ me that ten, I might arise the while, But I’d drop dead again.

A humorous jingle that achieved immediate vogue is Casey at the Bat. The authorship has been questioned but consensus of research seems to ascribe it to Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

CASEY AT THE BAT

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 which 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, And 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-despised Blakie tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakie 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 on 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 lips, his teeth are clenched in 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 favored 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.

John Kendrick Bangs, one time Editor of Puck, of lamented memory, wrote tomes of humorous verse. As a pastime in tricky rhyming we quote:

MONA LISA

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar! Who’s the Chap so bold and pinchey Thus to swipe the great da Vinci, Taking France’s first Chef d’œuvre Squarely from old Mr. Louvre, Easy as some pocket-picker Would remove our handkerchicker As we ride in careless folly On some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Who’s your Captor? Doubtless he’s a Crafty sort of treasure-seeker-- Ne’er a Turpin e’er was sleeker-- But, alas, if he can win you Easily as I could chin you, What is safe in all the nations From his dreadful depredations? He’s the style of Chap, I’m thinkin’ Who will drive us all to drinkin’!

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Next he’ll swipe the Tower of Pisa, Pulling it from out its socket For to hide it in his pocket; Or perhaps he’ll up and steal, O, Madame Venus, late of Milo; Or maybe while on the grab he Will annex Westminster Abbey, And elope with that distinguished Heap of Ashes long extinguished.

Maybe too, O Mona Lisa, He will come across the seas a-- Searching for the style of treasure That we have in richest measure. Sunset Cox’s brazen statue, Have a care lest he shall catch you Or maybe he’ll set his eye on Hammerstein’s, or the Flatiron, Or some bit of White Wash done By those lads at Washington-- Truly he’s a crafty geezer, Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

Thomas L. Masson, humorous writer, and for many years editor of Life, has doubtless written more humor and books of humor than any one in the country.

THE KISS

“What other men have dared, I dare,” He said. “I’m daring, too: And tho’ they told me to beware, One kiss I’ll take from you.

“Did I say one? Forgive me, dear; That was a grave mistake, For when I’ve taken one, I fear, One hundred more I’ll take.

“’Tis sweet one kiss from you to win, But to stop there? Oh, no! One kiss is only to begin; There is no end, you know.”

The maiden rose from where she sat And gently raised her head: “No man has ever talked like that-- You may begin,” she said.

DESOLATION

Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old fashioned country seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw. And there throughout the livelong day, Jemima plays the pi-a-na. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands, And there Jemima plies her hands, While her papa, beneath his cloak, Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!” And swears to himself and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth She plays as if she owned the earth Through every swift vicissitude She drums as if it did her good, And still she sits from morn till night And plunks away with main and might Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be Free-hearted hospitality; But that was many years before Jemima dallied with the score. When she began her daily plunk, Into their graves the neighbors sunk. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled, All thankful that they’re safely dead. They stood the racket while alive Until Jemima rose at five. And then they laid their burdens down, And one and all they skipped the town. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

Stephen Crane, a strange and often misunderstood genius, never waxed humorous in a broad sense. But the incisive, satirical wit of his lines can seldom be found bettered.

A man said to the universe, “Sir, I exist!” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation.”

Upon the road of my life, Passed me many fair creatures, Clothed all in white, and radiant; To one, finally, I made speech: “Who art thou?” But she, like the others, Kept cowled her face, And answered in haste, anxiously, “I am Good Deed, forsooth; You have often seen me.”

“Not uncowled,” I made reply. And with rash and strong hand, Though she resisted, I drew away the veil, And gazed at the features of Vanity. She, shamefaced, went on; And after I had mused a time, I said of myself, “Fool!”

“Think as I think,” said a man, “Or you are abominably wicked; You are a toad.” And after I had thought of it, I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

Charles Battell Loomis was a favorably known writer of humorous jingles, and he wielded a facile pen in parody.

JACK AND JILL

(As Austin Dobson might have written it)

Their pail they must fill In a crystalline springlet, Brave Jack and fair Jill. Their pail they must fill At the top of the hill, Then she gives him a ringlet. Their pail they must fill In a crystalline springlet.

They stumbled and fell, And poor Jack broke his forehead, Oh, how he did yell! They stumbled and fell, And went down pell-mell-- By Jove! it was horrid. They stumbled and fell, And poor Jack broke his forehead.

(As Swinburne might have written it)

The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees! The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas! The moaning of the night wind on the wold, That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze!

On such a night as this went Jill and Jack With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black To find the hill’s high top and water cold, Then toiling through the town to bear it back.

The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips, And then with arms entwined they homeward go; Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips.

Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight, His crazèd cries and cranium cracked; the fright Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo! Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night!

(As Walt Whitman might have written it)

I celebrate the personality of Jack! I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering. Each wart upon his hands I sing, Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades. Also Jill! Her I celebrate. I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue, Whoop her up! What’s the matter with Jill? Oh, she’s all right! Who’s all right? Jill.

Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands; So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling. I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and through the darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds of myriad creatures of the night. I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their mother. Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time. She is simply immense!

But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill. (I didn’t mean that rhyme.) I must watch them. I love to watch their walk, And wonder as I watch; He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound, Yet lusty, Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a paperweight. She, erect, standing, her head uplifting, Holding, but bearing not the bucket. They have reached the spring. They have filled the bucket. Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”? I will sing it:--

Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed! Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born. The father is happy, the mother is happy. Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.” Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms, Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile, A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping. Here’s a large piece of black cloth! “Have you any last words to say?” “No.” “Sheriff, do your work!” Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill. I see them descending, obstacles not heeding. I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring, a noise from leathern lungs out-belching. The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his pate with gore besmeared. I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes. Whoop!!!

Guy Wetmore Carryl, son of Charles E. Carryl, possessed a lovable and whimsical nature and wielded an exceedingly clever pen, both in verse and prose. His untimely death robbed us of one of our most delightful young humorists.

HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin, Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in; Her general form was German, By which I mean that you Her waist could not determine Within a foot or two. And not only did she stammer, But she used the kind of grammar That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire. She was willing, she was active, She was sober, she was kind, But she never looked attractive And she hadn’t any mind. I knew her more than slightly, And I treated her politely When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll, She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll, And threw with much composure A smallish rubber ball At an inoffensive osier By a little waterfall; But Matilda’s way of throwing Was like other people’s mowing, And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide. And, before her eyes astounded, On a fallen maple’s trunk Ricochetted and rebounded In the rivulet, and sunk! Matilda, greatly frightened, In her grammar unenlightened, Remarked, “Well now I ast yer, who’d ’er thunk?”

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose. He beheld her fright and frenzy And, her panic to dispel, On his knee by Miss Mackenzie He obsequiously fell. With quite as much decorum As a speaker in a forum He started in his history to tell.

“Fair maid,” he said, “I beg you do not hesitate or wince, If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince; For a fairy, old and vicious, An enchantment round me spun!” Then he looked up, unsuspicious, And he saw what he had won, And in terms of sad reproach, he Made some comments, sotto voce, (Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold; “I never! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain’t you awful bold!” Just a glance he paused to give her, And his head was seen to clutch, Then he darted to the river, And he dived to beat the Dutch! While the wrathful maiden panted “I don’t think he was enchanted!” (And he really didn’t look it overmuch!)

THE MORAL

In one’s language one conservative should be; Speech is silver and it never should be free!

Edwin Arlington Robinson, among the greatest of our later poets, has a fine wit, nowhere better shown than in:

MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace, And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed he was without it; Miniver thought and thought and thought And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

TWO MEN

There be two men of all mankind That I should like to know about; But search and question where I will, I cannot ever find them out.

Melchizedek he praised the Lord, And gave some wine to Abraham; But who can tell what else he did Must be more learned than I am.

Ucalegon he lost his house When Agamemnon came to Troy; But who can tell me who he was-- I’ll pray the gods to give him joy.

There be two men of all mankind That I’m forever thinking on; They chase me everywhere I go,-- Melchizedek, Ucalegon.

Arthur Guiterman, among the best of our present day humorous writers, never did anything better than this intensified bit of burlesque.

MAVRONE

ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES

From Arranmore the weary miles I’ve come; An’ all the way I’ve heard A Shrawn[2] that’s kep’ me silent, speechless, dumb, Not sayin’ any word. An’ was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[3] you’ll say, For him that died the death on Carrisbool? It was not that; nor was it, by the way, The Sons of Garnim[4] blitherin’ their drool; Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[5] Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[6] For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me. ’Twas but my own heart cryin’ out for you Magraw![7] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru, Aroon, Machree, Aboo![8]

ELEGY

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss In what was once Persepolis. Proud Babylon is but a trace Upon the desert’s dusty face. The topless towers of Ilium Are ashes. Judah’s harp is dumb. The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire And all the oligarchies, kings, And potentates that ruled these things Are gone! But cheer up; don’t be sad; Think what a lovely time they had!

Oliver Herford, born in England but living most of his life in America, has without doubt the most humorous soul in the world.

His art, which is pictorial as well as literary, is unique and of an intangible, indescribable nature.

As graceful of fancy as Spenser, as truly funny as Sir William Gilbert, he also possesses a deep philosophy and a perfect technique.

PHYLLIS LEE

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill Her likeness, as a Shepherdess. Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill His Brush refused to work his Will.

“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes I cannot paint to-day,” he said; “Their Brightness shames the very Skies And turns their Turquoise into Lead.” Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear, Not dreaming of such Treachery, Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear, “Without the Light, how can one See?” “If you are sure that none can see I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

SOME GEESE

Ev-er-y child who has the use Of his sen-ses knows a goose. See them un-der-neath the tree Gath-er round the goose-girl’s knee, While she reads them by the hour From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.

How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend! But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend What Scho-pen-hau-er’s driv-ing at? Oh, not at all; but what of that? Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she; And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

THE CHIMPANZEE

Children, behold the Chimpanzee: He sits on the ancestral tree From which we sprang in ages gone. I’m glad we sprang: had we held on, We might, for aught that I can say, Be horrid Chimpanzees to-day.

THE HEN

Alas! my Child, where is the Pen That can do Justice to the Hen? Like Royalty, She goes her way, Laying foundations every day, Though not for Public Buildings, yet For Custard, Cake and Omelette.

Or if too Old for such a use They have their Fling at some Abuse, As when to Censure Plays Unfit Upon the Stage they make a Hit, Or at elections Seal the Fate Of an Obnoxious Candidate. No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen, Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.

MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM

Well I recall how first I met Mark Twain--an infant barely three Rolling a tiny cigarette While cooing on his nurse’s knee.

Since then in every sort of place I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke, Yet how can I describe his face? I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a smokership, At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.) His name was soon on every lip, They made him “smoker” of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout With Mount Vesuvius--our cheers-- When Mount Vesuvius went out And didn’t smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England’s King, Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay, Offered him dukedoms--anything To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he, “To no imperial command, No ducal coronet for me, My smoke is for my native land!”

For Mark there waits a brighter crown! When Peter comes his card to read-- He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down, --Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

GOLD

Some take their gold In minted mold, And some in harps hereafter, But give me mine In tresses fine, And keep the change in laughter!

AFTER HERRICK

SONG

Gather Kittens while you may, Time brings only Sorrow; And the Kittens of To-day Will be Old Cats To-morrow.

THE PRODIGAL EGG

An egg of humble sphere By vain ambition stung, Once left his mother dear When he was very young.

’Tis needless to dilate Upon a tale so sad; The egg, I grieve to state, Grew very, very bad.

At last when old and blue, He wandered home, and then They gently broke it to The loving mother hen.

She only said, in fun, “I fear you’re spoiled, my son!”

Frank Gelett Burgess, one time editor of The Lark, a short-lived humorous periodical, is at his best in the realms of sheer nonsense. His Purple Cow has a nation-wide reputation and his humorous excursions into the French Forms are always marked by exact precision as to rule and law.

THE PURPLE COW

I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I’d rather see than be one.

THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

I’d Never Dare to Walk across A Bridge I Could Not See; For Quite afraid of Falling off, I fear that I Should Be!

VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING

These are the things that make me laugh-- Life’s a preposterous farce, say I! And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half.

The high-heeled antics of colt and calf, The men who think they can act, and try-- These are the things that make me laugh.

The hard-boiled poses in photograph, The groom still wearing his wedding tie-- And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

These are the bubbles I gayly quaff With the rank conceit of the new-born fly-- These are the things that make me laugh!

For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff, And people will tickle me till I die-- And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

So write me down in my epitaph As one too fond of his health to cry-- These are the things that make me laugh, And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

PSYCHOLOPHON

Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee

Twine then the rays Round her soft Theban tissues! All will be as She says, When that dead past reissues. Matters not what nor where, Hark, to the moon’s dim cluster! How was her heavy hair Lithe as a feather duster! Matters not when nor whence; Flittertigibbet! Sounds make the song, not sense, Thus I inhibit!

Carolyn Wells has written much humorous verse and prose. Her work has appeared in many of the periodicals and in book form.

THE IDIOT’S DELIGHT

A curious man of the human clan Is a man who fools himself; Who thinks he can swing the Pierian spring Through a conduit of books on a shelf! Who thinks if he pores in the old bookstores And browses among the rares, He is fit to belong to the scholarly throng And gives himself scholarly airs.

He gasps as he speaks of his worn antiques-- With emotion almost dumb! Or he solemnly turns his Kilmarnock Burns With an awed and reverent thumb; He’ll scrimp to possess a Kelmscott Press, And hoard up his hard-earned wage Till he saves the cost of a Paradise Lost With the right sort of title page.

If he has on his shelves some dumpy twelves, Of which he’s a connoisseur, The bibliophile, with a fatuous smile, Believes he’s a littérateur! Because he achieves incunabula leaves, On himself as a scholar he’ll look; Though I’m ready to bet no scholar I’ve met Has ever collected a book!

The difference, you see, in the viewpoint must be, And it is a distinction nice; A scholar will look at the worth of a book, A collector will think of its price. He nearly bursts with pride in his firsts; And you can’t get it into his dome That he cannot affect his intellect By buying a tattered tome!

A collector may have matter gray, He may have wisdom, too; As he may have a head of a carroty red Or eyes of a chicory blue. But he has these things by the grace of God; Especially his good looks; By Nature’s laws, and not because The things he collects are books!

And so I maintain there is no brain, No genius or talent or mind, Required to look for a certain book, Or to struggle that book to find. No collector reads his precious screeds, He appraises his books by sight; And I make claim that the blooming game Is the idiot’s delight!

THE MYSTERY

I can understand politics, civics and law, Of national issues I have no great awe; The theories of Einstein are simple to me, And psychoanalysis mere A. B. C. But there is one thing I can’t get in my head-- Why do people marry the people they wed?

I can do mathematics, no matter how high; And to me fourth dimension is easy as pie; Most intricate problems I readily solve, And I know why the nebular spirals revolve. But on this baffling question no light has been shed; Why do people marry the people they wed?

Long hours over Nietzsche I frequently spend, I’ve all his philosophy at my tongue’s end. Of Freudian conclusions I haven’t a doubt. I’ve got human complexes all straightened out. But on this deep problem I muse in my bed-- Why do people marry the people they wed?

I’ve studied up ancient religions and cults, I’ve tried spiritism with curious results; I know the Piltdown and Neanderthal man, How big is Betelgeuse and how old is Ann; But this I shall wonder about till I’m dead-- Why do people marry the people they wed?

WOMAN

Women are dear and women are queer Men call them, with a laugh, The female of the species, Or a husband’s better half. They sing their praise in many ways, They flatter them--but, oh, How little they know of Woman Who only women know!

Now women are pert and women will flirt, And they’re catty and rude and vain; And sometimes they’re witty and sometimes they’re pretty-- And sometimes they’re awfully plain. But Woman is rare beyond compare, The poets tell us so; How little they know of Woman Who only women know!

Women are petty and women are fretty, They try to hide their years; They steadily nag and nervously rag, And frequently burst into tears. But Woman is gracious, serene and calm, Above all tricks or arts, Her sympathy’s like a soothing balm To sad and sorrowing hearts.

Women are very perverse and contrary, They will contradict you flat; Oh, women I’ll call the devil and all, There’s no denying that! But Woman, oh, men, is beyond our ken, Too angelic for mortals below; How little they know of Woman Who only women know!

A SYMPOSIUM OF POETS

Once upon a time a few of the greatest Poets of all ages gathered together for the purpose of discussing the merits of the Classic Poem:

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her, Put her in a Pumpkin shell, And there he kept her very well.

In many ways this historic narrative called forth admiration. One must admit Peter’s great strength of character, his power of quick decision, and immediate achievement. Some hold that his inability to retain the lady’s affection in the first place, argues a defect in his nature; but remembering the lady’s youth and beauty (implied by the spirit of the whole poem), we can only reiterate our appreciation of the way he conquered circumstances, and proved himself master of his fate, and captain of his soul! Truly, the Pumpkin-Eaters must have been a forceful race, able to defend their rights and rule their people.

The Poets at their symposium unanimously felt that the style of the poem, though hardly to be called crude, was a little bare, and they took up with pleasure the somewhat arduous task of rewriting it.

Mr. Ed. Poe opined that there was lack of atmosphere, and that the facts of the narrative called for a more impressive setting. He therefore offered:

The skies, they were ashen and sober, The lady was shivering with fear; Her shoulders were shud’ring with fear. On a dark night in dismal October, Of his most Matrimonial Year. It was hard by the cornfield of Auber, In the musty Mud Meadows of Weir, Down by the dank frog-pond of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted cornfield of Weir.

Now, his wife had a temper Satanic, And when Peter roamed here with his Soul, Through the corn with his conjugal Soul, He spied a huge pumpkin Titanic, And he popped her right in through a hole. Then solemnly sealed up the hole.

And thus Peter Peter has kept her Immured in Mausoleum gloom, A moist, humid, damp sort of gloom. And though there’s no doubt he bewept her, She is still in her yellow hued tomb, Her unhallowed, Hallowe’en tomb And ever since Peter side-stepped her, He calls her his lost Lulalume, His Pumpkin-entombed Lulalume.

This was received with acclaim, but many objected to the mortuary theory.

* * * * *

Mrs. Robert Browning was sure that Peter’s love for his wife, though perhaps that of a primitive man, was of the true Portuguese stamp, and with this view composed the following pleasing Sonnet:

How do I keep thee? Let me count the ways. I bar up every breadth and depth and height My hands can reach, while feeling out of sight For bolts that stick and hasps that will not raise. I keep thee from the public’s idle gaze, I keep thee in, by sun or candle light. I keep thee, rude, as women strive for Right. I keep thee boldly, as they seek for praise, I keep thee with more effort than I’d use To keep a dry-goods shop or big hotel. I keep thee with a power I seemed to lose With that last cook. I’ll keep thee down the well, Or up the chimney-place! Or if I choose, I shall but keep thee in a Pumpkin shell.

This was of course meritorious, though somewhat suggestive of the cave-men, who, we have never been told, were Pumpkin Eaters.

Austin Dobson’s version was really more ladylike:

BALLADE OF A PUMPKIN

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright, Wondrous of texture and hue, Bathed in a soft, sunny light, Pearled with a silvery dew. Fair as a flower to the view, Ripened by summer’s soft heat, Basking beneath Heaven’s blue,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Peter consumed day and night, Pumpkin in pie or in stew; Hinted to Cook that she might Can it for winter use, too. Pumpkin croquettes, not a few, Peter would happily eat; Knowing content would ensue,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Everything went along right, Just as all things ought to do; Till Peter,--unfortunate wight,-- Married a girl that he knew, Each day he had to pursue, His runaway Bride down the street,-- So her into prison he threw,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

L’envoi

Lady, a sad lot, ’tis true, Staying your wandering feet; But ’tis the best place for you,-- This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Like the other women present Dinah Craik felt the pathos of the situation, and gave vent to her feelings in this tender burst of song:

Could I come back to you Peter, Peter, From this old pumpkin that I hate; I would be so tender, so loving, Peter,-- Peter, Peter, gracious and great.

You were not half worthy of me, Peter, Not half worthy the like of I; Now all men beside are not in it, Peter,-- Peter, Peter, I feel like a pie.

Stretch out your hand to me, Peter, Peter, Let me out of this Pumpkin, do; Peter, my beautiful Pumpkin Eater, Peter, Peter, tender and true.

Mr. Hogg took his own graceful view of the matter, thus:

Lady of wandering, Blithesome, meandering, Sweet was thy flitting o’er moorland and lea; Emblem of restlessness, Blest be thy dwelling place, Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Peter, though bland and good, Never thee understood, Or he had known how thy nature was free; Goddess of fickleness, Blest be thy dwelling place, Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Mr. Kipling grasped at the occasion for a ballad in his best vein. The plot of the story aroused his old time enthusiasm, and he transplanted the pumpkin eater and his wife to the scenes of his earlier powers:

In a great big Mammoth pumpkin Lookin’ eastward to the sea, There’s a wife of mine a-settin’ And I know she’s mad at me. For I hear her calling, “Peter!” With a wild hysteric shout; “Come you back, you Punkin Eater,-- Come you back and let me out!” For she’s in a punkin shell, I have locked her in her cell; But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell; And there she’ll have to dwell, For she didn’t treat me well, So I put her in the punkin and I’ve kept her very well.

Algernon Swinburne was also in one of his early moods, and as a result he wove the story into this exquisite fabric of words:

IN THE PUMPKIN

Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see, What is this confine either side of me? Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl, Seen sidelong, like a ’possum in a tree,-- Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out; From this gold lush encircling me about; I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall. The crescent moon shines slim,--but I am stout,-- Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams; Ah, Pete,--too sweet to me,--my Pete, it seems Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall; And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,-- Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

This intense poesy thrilled the heavens, and it was with a sense of relief to their throbbing souls that they listened to Mr. Bret Harte’s contribution:

Which I wish to remark, That the lady was plain; And for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, She had predilections peculiar, And drove Peter nearly insane.

Far off, anywhere, She wandered each day; And though Peter would swear, The lady would stray; And whenever he thought he had got her, She was sure to be rambling away.

Said Peter, “My Wife, Hereafter you dwell For the rest of your life In a big Pumpkin Shell.” He popped her in one that was handy, And since then he’s kept her quite well.

Which is why I remark, Though the lady was plain, For ways that are dark And tricks that are vain, A husband is very peculiar, And the same I am free to maintain.

Oscar Wilde in a poetic fervour and a lily-like kimono, recited with tremulous intensity this masterpiece of his own:

Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud; (Ah me; ah me! Hurroo, Hurree!)

Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith; Ah me! ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) Wan hope a dolorous Musing saith; (Ah me; ah me! Dum diddle dee!)

Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin shell Ah me! ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) (Fast and forever! Sooth, ’tis well. (Ah me; ah me! Faloodle dee!)

There was little to be said after this, so the meeting was closed with a solo by Lady Arthur Hill, using with a truly touching touch:

In the pumpkin, oh, my darling, Think not bitterly of me; Though I went away in silence, Though I couldn’t set you free. For my heart was filled with longing, For another piece of pie; It was best to leave you there, dear, Best for you and best for I.

Two of our most gentle and kindly humorists may not be quoted, because it would be a crime to separate their text and pictures.

Peter Newell and J. G. Francis have drawn some of the most delicately witty pictures and have written quatrains or Limericks to accompany them, but picture and text must be shown together, if at all.

For the same reason our cartoonists may not be touched upon.

Nor can we include any writers whose work did not appear before 1900.

The scope of this book is bounded by the twentieth century, and much as we should like to present the Columnists and the more recent versifiers, they must be left for a later chronicler.

INDEX

About a Woman’s Promise, Unknown, 172

ABRAHAM Á SANCTA CLARA, Burdensome Wife, A (from Hie! Fie!), 413 Donkey’s Voice, The (from Judas, the Arch-Rogue), 412 St. Anthony’s Sermon to the Fishes, 413

ABU ISHAK, Parody on Hafiz, 154

Academy of Syllographs, The, Count Giacomo Leopardi, 616

Acrostics, Sir John Davies, 309

ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY, To Sally, 650

ADDISON, JOSEPH, 421 Will of a Virtuoso, The (from The Tatler), 422

Address to Bacchus, An, Marc-Antoine Gerard, 392

Address to the Toothache, Robert Burns, 444

ADE, GEORGE, Cocktail, The (from The Sultan of Sulu), 722 Fable of the Caddy Who Hurt His Head While Thinking, The, 723

Adventures of Baron Münchausen, (selections), Rudolph Erich Raspe, 589

Advice to a Friend on Marriage, Eustache Deschampes, 315

Advice to an Innkeeper, José Morell, 412

Advice to Ponticus, Johannes Audœmus, 194

ÆSOP’S Fables, 44 Lion, the Bear, the Monkey and the Fox, The, 44 Partial Judge, The, 45

ÆSOP, G. WASHINGTON. See Lanigan, George Thomas

Æstivation, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 666

After a Wedding (from Mrs. Partington), Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber, 664

After Herrick: Song, Oliver Herford, 747

After Swimming the Hellespont, Lord Byron, 462

Against Abolishing Christianity, Jonathan Swift, 415

AGATHIAS, Grammar and Medicine, 76

Alarmed Skipper, The, James Thomas Fields, 668

ALCAZAR, BALTAZAR DEL, Sleep, 359

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, 683

ALEXIS, Epigrams, 69

ALY BEN AHMED BEN MANSOUR, _To the Vizier Cassim Obid Allah, on the Death of One of His Sons_, 191

American humor, 643–760

AMICIS, EDMONDO DE, Tooth for Tooth, 623

AMMIANUS, Epitaph, An, 77

Analects of Confucius, The (extracts), 156

ANAXANDRIADES, Epigrams, 68

ANSTEY, F. See Guthrie, T. A.

Anthologies, 311

ANTIPHANES, 66 Epigrams, 67

APOLLODORUS, Epigrams, 85

Apology for Cider, Olivier Basselin, 317

Apology for Herodotus (Noodle Stories from), Henry Stephens (Henri Estienn), 215

APULEIUS, Metamorphose, or The Golden Ass (extracts), 112

Arabian humor, 33, 126–138, 208

Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, The, 33, 126 Bakbarah’s Visit to the Harem, 132 Husband and the Parrot, The, 131 Ignorant Man Who Set Up for a Schoolmaster, The, 129 Simpleton and the Sharper, The, 127 Thief Turned Merchant and the Other Thief, The, 128

Arabian Riddle, 35

Arabian tale, the universal, 208

ARBUTHNOT, JOHN, Dissertation on Dumplings, A, (from Bull and Mouth), 427

ARISTOPHANES, Birds, The (plot), 64 Frogs, The (extracts), 55

ARISTOPHON, Epigram, 69

ARISTOTLE, definition of the Ridiculous, 3, 70 Disappointment Theory, 4 ff.

AROUET. See Voltaire

Artist and Public, Friedrich Rückert, 609

“As with my hat upon my head,” Samuel Johnson, 431

As You Like It (extract), Shakespeare, 288

Ass and the Flute, The, Thomas Yriarte, 626

Ass’s Testament, The, Rutebœuf, 312

At the Sign of the Cock, Sir Owen Seaman, 541

AUDŒMUS, JOHANNES, Advice to Ponticus, 194 To a Friend in Distress, 194

AUTHORS UNKNOWN, Convenient Partnership, 78 Creation of Woman, The (_from The Churning of the Ocean of Time_), 122 Good Wife and the Bad Husband, The, 37 Lerneans, The, 79 Long and Short, 78 On Late Acquired Wealth, 190 On the Inconstancy of Woman’s Love, 191 Perplexity, 79 Voice from the Grave, A, 190 Wife’s Ruse, A: A Rabbinical Tale, 32

AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE, 493 Husband’s Petition, The, 494 Lay of the Lovelorn, The, 495

Baby’s Début, The, James Smith, 466

BACON, FRANCIS, Epigrams, 291

Baharistan, The (extracts), Jami, 196

Bakbarah’s Visit to the Harem (from The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment), 132

BAKIN, KIOKUTEI, On Clothes and Comforts (from The Land of Dreams), 161

Balaam and his Ass, story of, 30

Ballad, after Rosetti, Charles Stuart Calverly, 506

Ballad (from Hans Breitmann Ballads), Charles Godfrey Leland, 680

Ballad literature, 365

Ballad of the Primitive Jest, Andrew Lang, 526

Ballad of the Women of Paris, François Villon, 320

Ballad of Women’s Doubleness, Chaucer, 258

Ballade of an Anti-Puritan, A, Gilbert K. Chesterton, 558

Ballade of Dead Ladies, The, François Villon, 318

Ballade of Literary Fame, Andrew Lang, 527

Ballade of Old Time Ladies, A, François Villon, 319

Ballade of Suicide, A, Gilbert K. Chesterton, 557

BALZAC, HONORÉ DE, Innocence (from Contés Drolatiques), 568 Slight Misunderstanding, A (from Contés Drolatiques), 567

BANGS, JOHN KENDRICK, Mona Lisa, 731

Bards or rhapsodists, 26

BAR HEBRÆUS, GREGORY, The Book of Laughable Stories (extracts), 204

BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS, Ingoldsby Legends, 455 Raising the Devil, 456 “True and Original” Version, A, 455

BARRIE, JAMES MATTHEW, Humourist on his Calling, A (from A Window in Thrums), 535

BARROW, DR. ISAAC, on facetiousness, 9

BASSELIN, OLIVIER, Apology for Cider, 317 To My Nose, 316

Battle of the Frogs and Mice, The, Homer, 51 Version by “Singing Mouse,” 53 Version by Samuel Wesley, 54

Battle of the Kegs, The, Francis Hopkinson, 647

BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES, Why Don’t the Men Propose? 472

Beating of Thersites, The (from The Iliad), Homer, 49

Beer, Julian, 76

BELLOC, HILAIRE, Bison, The, 556 Frog, The, 557 Microbe, The, 556 Python, The, 555

Beneficence and Gratitude, Ivan Turgenieff, 638

BERANGER, PIERRE JEAN DE, 563 Dead Alive, The, 565 Education of Young Ladies, The, 564

BERCHEURE, PIERRE, 243

BERGERAC, CYRANO DE, Soul of the Cabbage, The, 390

BERGSON, on playfulness of animals and man, 18

BERNI, FRANCESCO, Living in Bed (from Roland Enamored), 352

Between the Lines, Martial, 107

BEZA, THEODORUS, Epigram, 193

BHARTRIHARI, cynical paragraphs, 195, 196

BIDPAI. See Pilpay

Biglow Papers (extract), James Russell Lowell, 674

BILLINGS, JOSH. See Shaw, Henry Wheeler

Bison, The, Hilaire Belloc, 556

Bizarrures of Sieur Gaulard, 211

Board or Lodging, Lucilius, 78

BOCCACCIO, GIOVANNI, Decameron, 164, 343 Of Three Girls and Their Talk (a sonnet), 343 Stolen Pig, The (from The Decameron), 345

Bohemian Life Sketches (extracts), Henri Murger, 579

BOILEAU-DESPREAUX, NICOLAS, On Cotin, 405 To Perrault, 405

BONIFACIUS, BALTHASAR, Dangerous Love, 194

Book of Laughable Stories, The (extracts), 204

Boston Lullaby, A, James Jeffrey Roche, 708

BRANDT, 337

BROWNE, CHARLES FARRAR (Artemus Ward), 684 On Forts, 685

BROWNING, ROBERT, Pope and the Net, The, 502

BRUYERE, JEAN DE LA, Iphis, 406 Thoughts, 406

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN, To a Mosquito, 655

BUCHANANUS, GEORGIUS, On Leonora, 193 To Zoilus, 193

Buddha’s Jatakas, 34, 214

Buffoons, 26, 87

Burdensome Wife, A (from Hie! Fie!), Abraham á Sancta Clara, 413

BURDETTE, ROBERT JONES, “Soldier, Rest!” 701 What Will We Do? 700

BURGESS, FRANK GELETT, Invisible Bridge, The, 748 Psycholophon, 749 Purple Cow, The, 748 Villanelle of Things Amusing, 748

Burlesque, 25, 47

BURNAND, FRANCIS C., True To Poll, 532

BURNS, ROBERT, Address to the Toothache, 444 Holy Willie’s Prayer, 440

BUSCH, WILHELM, 613

BUTLER, SAMUEL, Description of Holland, 377 Poets, 377 Puffing, 377 Religion of Hudibras, The (from Hudibras), 374 Saintship versus Conscience, (from Hudibras), 375

BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN, 681

BYRON, LORD, After Swimming the Hellespont, 462 Don Juan (extracts), 460

C. Mery Talys (Hundred Merry Tales) (extracts), 263, 265, 270 ff

CALVERLY, CHARLES STUART, 537 Ballad, after Rossetti, 506 Cock and the Bull, The, 507 Lovers and a Reflection, 511 Ode to Tobacco, 513

CAMDEN, Britannia (extracts), 383 Witticisms, 274 ff

Candide (extract), Voltaire, 560

CANNING, GEORGE, 438 Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder, The, 439

CAREW, THOMAS, 368

Caricature, 25, 27, 47, 226

CARLETON, WILL, Eliphalet Chapin’s Wedding, 723

CARROLL, LEWIS (Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge), 514 Jabberwocky (from Through the Looking-Glass), 515 Some Hallucinations, 518 Ways and Means (from Through the Looking-Glass), 516

CARRYL, CHARLES E., Walloping Window-Blind, The, 699

CARRYL, GUY WETMORE, How a Girl Was Too Reckless of Grammar, 738

CARY, PHOEBE, I Remember, 676 Jacob, 677 Reuben, 678 “There’s a Bower of Bean-Vines,” 677