The Wit and Humor of America, Volume IX

Whatever my life may have been, and however short I may have fallen in my great struggle for a generous recognition by the American people, I propose to place my grave within reach of all.

Monticello is reached by a circuitous route to the top of a beautiful hill, on the crest of which rests the brick house where Mr. Jefferson lived. You enter a lodge gate in charge of a venerable negro, to whom you pay two bits apiece for admission. This sum goes toward repairing the roads, according to the ticket which you get. It just goes toward it, however; it don't quite get there, I judge, for the roads are still appealing for aid. Perhaps the negro can tell how far it gets. Up through a neglected thicket of Virginia shrubs and ill-kempt trees you drive to the house. It is a house that would readily command $750, with queer porches to it, and large, airy windows. The top of the whole hill was graded level, or terraced, and an enormous quantity of work must have been required to do it, but Jefferson did not care. He did not care for fatigue. With two hundred slaves of his own, and a dowry of three hundred more which was poured into his coffers by his marriage, Jeff did not care how much toil it took to polish off the top of a bluff or how much the sweat stood out on the brow of a hill.

Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence. He sent it to one of the magazines, but it was returned as not available, so he used it in Congress and afterward got it printed in the Record.

I saw the chair he wrote it in. It is a plain, old-fashioned wooden chair, with a kind of bosom-board on the right arm, upon which Jefferson used to rest his Declaration of Independence whenever he wanted to write it.

There is also an old gig stored in the house. In this gig Jefferson used to ride from Monticello to Washington in a day. This is untrue, but it goes with the place. It takes from 8:30 A. M. until noon to ride this distance on a fast train, and in a much more direct line than the old wagon road ran.

Mr. Jefferson was the father of the University of Virginia, one of the most historic piles I have ever clapped eyes on. It is now under the management of a classical janitor, who has a tinge of negro blood in his veins, mixed with the rich Castilian blood of somebody else.

He has been at the head of the University of Virginia for over forty years, bringing in the coals and exercising a general oversight over the curriculum and other furniture. He is a modest man, with a tendency toward the classical in his researches. He took us up on the roof, showed us the outlying country, and jarred our ear-drums with the big bell. Mr. Estes, who has general charge of Monticello—called Montechello—said that Mr. Jefferson used to sit on his front porch with a powerful glass, and watch the progress of the work on the University, and if the workmen undertook to smuggle in a soft brick, Mr. Jefferson, five or six miles away, detected it, and bounding lightly into his saddle, he rode down there to Charlottesville, and clubbed the bricklayers until they were glad to pull down the wall to that brick and take it out again.

This story is what made me speak of that section a few minutes ago as an outlying country.

The other day Charles L. Seigel told us the Confederate version of an attack on Fort Moultrie during the early days of the war, which has never been printed. Mr. Seigel was a German Confederate, and early in the fight was quartered, in company with others, at the Moultrie House, a seaside hotel, the guests having deserted the building.

Although large soft beds with curled hair mattresses were in each room, the department issued ticks or sacks to be filled with straw for the use of the soldiers, so that they would not forget that war was a serious matter. Nobody used them, but they were there all the same.

Attached to the Moultrie House, and wandering about the back-yard, there was a small orphan jackass, a sorrowful little light-blue mammal, with a tinge of bitter melancholy in his voice. He used to dwell on the past a good deal, and at night he would refer to it in tones that were choked with emotion.

The boys caught him one evening as the gloaming began to arrange itself, and threw him down on the green grass. They next pulled a straw bed over his head, and inserted him in it completely, cutting holes for his legs. Then they tied a string of sleigh-bells to his tail, and hit him a smart, stinging blow with a black snake.

Probably that was what suggested to him the idea of strolling down the beach, past the sentry, and on toward the fort. The darkness of the night, the rattle of hoofs, the clash of the bells, the quick challenge of the guard, the failure to give the countersign, the sharp volley of the sentinels, and the wild cry, "to arms," followed in rapid succession. The tocsin sounded, also the slogan. The culverin, ukase, and door-tender were all fired. Huge beacons of fat pine were lighted along the beach. The whole slumbering host sprang to arms, and the crack of the musket was heard through the intense darkness.

In the morning the enemy was found intrenched in a mud-hole, south of the fort, with his clean new straw tick spattered with clay, and a wildly disheveled tail.

On board the Richmond train not long ago a man lost his hat as we pulled out of Petersburg, and it fell by the side of the track. The train was just moving slowly away from the station, so he had a chance to jump off and run back after it. He got the hat, but not till we had placed seven or eight miles between us and him. We could not help feeling sorry for him, because very likely his hat had an embroidered hat band in it, presented by one dearer to him than life itself, and so we worked up quite a feeling for him, though of course he was very foolish to lose his train just for a hat, even if it did have the needle-work of his heart's idol in it.

Later I was surprised to see the same man in Columbia, South Carolina, and he then told me this sad story:

"I started out a month ago to take a little trip of a few weeks, and the first day was very, very happily spent in scrutinizing nature and scanning the faces of those I saw. On the second day out, I ran across a young man whom I had known slightly before, and who is engaged in the business of being a companionable fellow and the life of the party. That is about all the business he has. He knows a great many people, and his circle of acquaintances is getting larger all the time. He is proud of the enormous quantity of friendship he has acquired. He says he can't get on a train or visit any town in the Union that he doesn't find a friend.

"He is full of stories and witticisms, and explains the plays to theater parties. He has seen a great deal of life and is a keen critic. He would have enjoyed criticizing the Apostle Paul and his elocutionary style if he had been one of the Ephesians. He would have criticized Paul's gestures, and said, 'Paul, I like your Epistles a heap better than I do your appearance on the platform. You express yourself well enough with your pen, but when you spoke for the Ephesian Y. M. C.nbsp;A. , we were disappointed in you and we lost money on you.'

"Well, he joined me, and finding out where I was going, he decided to go also. He went along to explain things to me, and talk to me when I wanted to sleep or read the newspaper. He introduced me to large numbers of people whom I did not want to meet, took me to see things I didn't want to see, read things to me that I didn't want to hear, and introduced to me people who didn't want to meet me. He multiplied misery by throwing uncongenial people together and then said: 'Wasn't it lucky that I could go along with you and make it pleasant for you?'

"Everywhere he met more new people with whom he had an acquaintance. He shook hands with them, and called them by their first names, and felt in their pockets for cigars. He was just bubbling over with mirth, and laughed all the time, being so offensively joyous, in fact, that when he went into a car, he attracted general attention, which suited him first-rate. He regarded himself as a universal favorite and all-around sunbeam.

"When we got to Washington, he took me up to see the President. He knew the President well—claimed to know lots of things about the President that made him more or less feared by the administration. He was acquainted with a thousand little vices of all our public men, which virtually placed them in his power. He knew how the President conducted himself at home, and was 'on to everything' in public life.

"Well, he shook hands with the President, and introduced me. I could see that the President was thinking about something else, though, and so I came away without really feeling that I knew him very well.

"Then we visited the departments, and I can see now that I hurt myself by being towed around by this man. He was so free, and so joyous, and so bubbling, that wherever we went I could hear the key grate in the lock after we passed out of the door.

"He started south with me. He was going to show me all the battle-fields, and introduce me into society. I bought some strychnine in Washington, and put it in his buckwheat cakes; but they got cold, and he sent them back. I did not know what to do, and was almost wild, for I was traveling entirely for pleasure, and not especially for his pleasure either.

"At Petersburg I was told that the train going the other way would meet us. As we started out, I dropped my hat from the window while looking at something. It was a desperate move, but I did it. Then I jumped off the train, and went back after it. As soon as I got around the curve I ran for Petersburg, where I took the other train. I presume you all felt sorry for me, but if you'd seen me fold myself in a long, passionate embrace after I had climbed on the other train, you would have changed your minds."

He then passed gently from my sight.

THE OLD-FASHIONED CHOIR

BY BENJAMIN F. TAYLORI have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beamThat trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream,Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest,From the pillow of stone to the blue of the Blest,And the angels descended to dwell with us here,"Old Hundred," and "Corinth," and "China," and "Mear."All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod,That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and God!Ah! "Silver Street" leads by a bright, golden road—O! not to the hymns that in harmony flowed—But to those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned choir,To the girls that sang alto, the girls that sang air!"Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said,All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York,"Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,And politely picked out the key note with a fork,And the vicious old viol went growling alongAt the heels of the girls in the rear of the song.I need not a wing—bid no genii come,With a wonderful web from Arabian loom,To bear me again up the River of Time,When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme;Where the streams of the year flowed so noiseless and narrow,That across them there floated the song of a sparrow;For a sprig of green caraway carries me there,To the old village church and the old village choir,When clear of the floor my feet slowly swung,And timed the sweet praise of the songs as they sung,Till the glory aslant of the afternoon sunSeemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun!You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown,Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down;And the dear sister Green, with more goodness than grace,Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place,And where "Coronation" exultingly flows,Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes!To the land of the leal they went with their song,Where the choir and the chorus together belong;O, be lifted, ye gates! Let me hear them again—Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever, amen!

WHEN THE LITTLE BOY RAN AWAY

BY FRANK L. STANTONWhen the little boy ran away from homeThe birds in the treetops knew,And they all sang "Stay!" But he wandered awayUnder the skies of blue.And the Wind came whispering from the tree:"Follow me—follow me!"And it sang him a song that was soft and sweet,And scattered the roses before his feetThat day—that dayWhen the little boy ran away.The Violets whispered: "Your eyes are blueAnd lovely and bright to see;And so are mine, and I'm kin to you,So dwell in the light with me!"But the little boy laughed, while the Wind in gleeSaid: "Follow me—follow me!"And the Wind called the clouds from their home in the skiesAnd said to the Violet: "Shut your eyes!"That day—that dayWhen the little boy ran away.Then the Wind played leap-frog over the hillsAnd twisted each leaf and limb;And all the rivers and all the rillsWere foaming mad with him!And 'twas dark as the darkest night could be,But still came the Wind's voice: "Follow me!"And over the mountain, and up from the hollowCame echoing voices, with: "Follow him—follow!"That awful dayWhen the little boy ran away!Then the little boy cried: "Let me go—let me go!"For a scared—scared boy was he!But the Thunder growled from a black cloud: "No!"And the Wind roared: "Follow me!"And an old gray Owl from a treetop flew,Saying: "Who are you-oo? Who are you-oo?"And the little boy sobbed: "I'm lost away,And I want to go home where my parents stay!"Oh, the awful dayWhen the little boy ran away!Then the Moon looked out from a cloud and said:"Are you sorry you ran away?If I light you home to your trundle bed,Will you stay, little boy, will you stay?"And the little boy promised—and cried and cried—He would never leave his mother's side;And the Moonlight led him over the plainAnd his mother welcomed him home again.But oh, what a dayWhen the little boy ran away!

HE WANTED TO KNOW

BY SAM WALTER FOSSHe wanted to know how God made the worl'Out er nothin' at all,W'y it wasn't made square, like a block or a brick,Stid er roun', like a ball,How it managed to stay held up in the air,An' w'y it don't fall;All such kin' er things, above an' below,He wanted to know.He wanted to know who Cain had for a wife,An' if the two fit;Who hit Billy Patterson over the head,If he ever got hit;An' where Moses wuz w'en the candle went out,An' if others were lit;If he couldn' fin' these out, w'y his cake wuz all dough,An' he wanted to know.An' he wanted to know 'bout original sin;An' about Adam's fall;If the snake hopped aroun' on the end of his tailBefore doomed to crawl,An' w'at would hev happened if Adam hedn' etThe ol' apple at all;These ere kind er things seemed ter fill him 'ith woe,An' he wanted to know.An' he wanted to know w'y some folks wuz good,An' some folks wuz mean,W'y some folks wuz middlin' an' some folks wuz fat,An' some folks wuz lean,An' some folks were very learned an' wise,An' some folks dern green;All these kin' er things they troubled him soThat he wanted to know.An' so' he fired conundrums aroun',For he wanted to know;An' his nice crop er taters 'ud rot in the groun',An' his stuff wouldn't grow;For it took so much time to ask questions like these,He'd no time to hoe;He wanted to know if these things were so,Course he wanted know.An' his cattle they died, an' his horses grew sick,'Cause they didn't hev no hay;An' his creditors pressed him to pay up his bills,But he'd no time to pay,For he had to go roun' askin' questions, you know,By night an' by day;He'd no time to work, for they troubled him so,An' he wanted to know.An' now in the poorhouse he travels aroun'In just the same way,An' asks the same questions right over ag'in,By night an' by day;But he haint foun' no feller can answer 'em yit,An' he's ol' an' he's gray,But these same ol' conundrums they trouble him so,That he still wants to know.

SOLDIER, REST!

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTEA 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 shoreRight 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 lock-jaw seized them, and where they fellThey buried them both by the Irdosholames-Kalatalustchuk-Mischaribustchup-Bulgari-Dulgari-Sagharimainz.

THE EXPERIENCES OF GENTLE JANE

BY CAROLYN WELLSThe Carnivorous BearGentle Jane went walking, whereShe espied a Grizzly Bear;Flustered by the quadrupedGentle Jane just lost her head.The Rude TrainLast week, Tuesday, gentle JaneMet a passing railroad train;"Ah, good afternoon," she said;But the train just cut her dead.The Careless NieceOnce her brother's child, for fun,Pointed at her aunt a gun.At this conduct of her niece'sGentle Jane went all to pieces.The Naughty AutomobileGentle Jane went for a ride,But the automobile shied;Threw the party all about—Somehow, Jane felt quite put out.The Cold, Hard LakeGentle Jane went out to skate;She fell through at half-past eight.Then the lake, with icy glare,Said, "Such girls I can not bear."The Calm Steam-RollerIn the big steam-roller's pathGentle Jane expressed her wrath.It passed over. After thatGentle Jane looked rather flat.A New ExperienceMuch surprised was gentle JaneWhen a bullet pierced her brain;"Such a thing as that," she said,"Never came into my head!"The Battering-Ram"Ah!" said gentle Jane, "I amProud to meet a battering-ram."Then, with shyness overcome,Gentle Jane was just struck dumb.

A FEW REFLECTIONS

BY BILL ARP

I rekon I've lived as much as most foaks accordin' to age, and I ain't tired of livin' yit. I like it. I've seen good times, and bad times, and hard times, and times that tired men's soles, but I never seed a time that I coulden't extrakt sum cumfort out of trubble. When I was a boy I was a lively little devil, and lost my edycashun bekaus I couldn't see enuf fun in the spellin' book to get thru it. I'm sorry for it now, for a blind man can see what a fool I am. The last skhoolin' I got was the day I run from John Norton, and there was so much fun in that my daddy sed he rekoned I'd got larnin' enuf. I had a bile on my back as big as a ginney egg, and it was mighty nigh ready to bust. We boys had got in a way of ringin' the bell before old Norton got there, and he sed that the first boy he kotched at it would ketch hail Kolumby. Shore enuf he slipped upon us one mornin', and before I knowed it he had me by the collar, and was layin' it on like killin' snakes. I hollered, "My bile, my bile, don't hit me on my bile," and just then he popped a center shot, and I jumped three feet in the atmosphere, and with a hoop and a beller I took to my heels. I run and hollered like the devil was after me, and shore enuf he was. His long legs gained on me at every jump, but just as he was about to grab me I made a double on him, and got a fresh start. I was aktiv as a cat, and so we had it over fences, thru the woods, and round the meetin' house, and all the boys was standin' on skool house hill a hollerin', "Go it, my Bill—go it, my Bill." As good luck would have it there was a grape vine a swingin' away ahead of me, and I ducked my head under it just as old Norton was about two jumps behind. He hadn't seen it, and it took him about the middle and throwed him the hardest summerset I ever seed a man git. He was tired, and I knowd it, and I stopped about three rods off and laffd at him as loud as I could ball. I forgot all about my bile. He never follered me another step, for he was plum giv out, but he set there bareheaded and shook his hickory at me, lookin' as mad and as miserable as possible. That lick on my bile was about the keenest pain I ever felt in my life, and like to have killed me. It busted as wide open as a soap trof, and let every drop of the juice out, but I've had a power of fun thinkin' about it for the last forty years.

But I didn't start to tell you about that.

1

Railway cars.

2

Rocked.

3

Basket.

4

From "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1904, by Dodd, Mead & Co.