The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI

BANTY TIM

REMARKS OF SERGEANT TILMON JOY TO THE WHITE MAN'S COMMITTEE OF SPUNKY POINT, ILLINOISBY JOHN HAYI reckon I git your drift, gents,—        You 'low the boy sha'n't stay;This is a white man's country;        You're Dimocrats, you say;And whereas, and seein', and wherefore,        The times bein' all out o' j'int,The nigger has got to mosey        From the limits o' Spunky P'int!Le's reason the thing a minute:        I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too,Though I laid my politics out o' the way        For to keep till the war was through.But I come back here, allowin'        To vote as I used to do,Though it gravels me like the devil to train        Along o' sich fools as you.Now dog my cats ef I kin see,        In all the light of the day,What you've got to do with the question        Ef Tim shill go or stay.And furder than that I give notice,        Ef one of you tetches the boy,He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime        Than he'll find in Illanoy.Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me!        You know that ungodly dayWhen our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped        And torn and tattered we lay.When the rest retreated I stayed behind,        Fur reasons sufficient to me,—With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike,        I sprawled on that cursed glacee.Lord! how the hot sun went for us,        And br'iled and blistered and burned!How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us        When a cuss in his death-grip turned!Till along toward dusk I seen a thing        I couldn't believe for a spell:That nigger—that Tim—was a crawlin' to me        Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!The Rebels seen him as quick as me,        And the bullets buzzed like bees;But he jumped for me, and shouldered me,        Though a shot brought him once to his knees;But he staggered up, and packed me off,        With a dozen stumbles and falls,Till safe in our lines he drapped us both,        His black hide riddled with balls.So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer,        And here stays Banty Tim:He trumped Death's ace for me that day,        And I'm not goin' back on him!You may rezoloot till the cows come home,        But ef one of you tetches the boy,He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell,        Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!

EVENING

By A TailorBY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES        Day hath put on his jacket, and aroundHis burning bosom buttoned it with stars.Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,That is like padding to earth's meager ribs,And hold communion with the things about me.Ah me! how lovely is the golden braidThat binds the skirt of night's descending robe!The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,Do make a music like to rustling satin,As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.        Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?It is, it is that deeply injured flower,Which boys do flout us with;—but yet I love thee,Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as brightAs these, thy puny brethren; and thy breathSweetened the fragrance of her spicy air;But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,And growing portly in his sober garments.        Is that a swan that rides upon the water?O no, it is that other gentle bird,Which is the patron of our noble calling.I well remember, in my early years,When these young hands first closed upon a goose;I have a scar upon my thimble finger,Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.My father was a tailor, and his father,And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;They had an ancient goose,—it was an heirloomFrom some remoter tailor of our race.It happened I did see it on a timeWhen none was near, and I did deal with it,And it did burn me,—O, most fearfully!        It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,And leap elastic from the level counter,Leaving the petty grievances of earth,The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,And all the needles that do wound the spirit,For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,Lays bare her shady bosom;—I can feelWith all around me;—I can hail the flowersThat sprig earth's mantle,—and yon quiet bird,That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,Where Nature stows away her loveliness.But this unnatural posture of the legsCramps my extended calves, and I must goWhere I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

THE OLD SETTLER

His Reasons for Thinking there is Natural Gas in Deep Rock GulleyBY ED. MOTT

"I see by the papers, Squire," said the Old Settler, "that they're a-finding signs o' coal ile an' nat'ral gas like sixty here an' thar in deestric's not so terrible fur from here, an' th't konsekently land they usety beg folks to come an' take offen their hands at any price at all is wuth a dollar now, jist for a peep over the stun wall at it. The minute a feller finds signs o' ile or nat'ral gas on his plantation he needn't lug home his supplies in a quart jug no more, but kin roll 'em in by the bar'l, fer signs o' them kind is wuth more an inch th'n a sartin-per-sure grass an' 'tater farm is wuth an acre."

"Guess yer huggin' the truth pooty clus fer wunst, Major," replied the Squire, "but th' hain't none o' them signs ez likely to strike anywhar in our bailiwick ez lightnin' is to kill a crow roostin' on the North Pole. Thuz one thing I've alluz wanted to see," continued the Squire, "but natur' has ben agin me an' I hain't never seen it, an' that thing is the h'istin' of a balloon. Th' can't be no balloons h'isted nowhar, I'm told, 'nless thuz gas to h'ist it with. I s'pose if we'd ha' had gas here, a good many fellers with balloons 'd ha' kim 'round this way an' showed us a balloon raisin' ev'ry now an' then. Them must be lucky deestric's that's got gas, an' I'd like to hev somebody strike it 'round here some'rs, jist fer the sake o' havin' the chance to see a balloon h'istin' 'fore I turn my toes up. But that's 'bout ez liable to happen ez it is fer to go out an' find a silver dollar rollin' up hill an' my name gouged in it."

"Don't ye be so consarned sure o' that, Squire," said the Old Settler mysteriously, and with a knowing shake of his head. "I've been a-thinkin' a leetle sence readin' 'bout them signs o' gas, b'gosh! I hain't been only thinkin', but I've been a-recollectin', an' the chances is th't me an' you'll see wonders yet afore we paddle over Jurdan. I'm a-gointer tell ye fer w'y, but I hadn't orter, Squire, an' if it wa'n't fer makin' ye 'shamed o' yerself, an' showin' th't truth squashed in the mud is bound to git up agin if ye give her time, I wouldn't do it. Ye mowt remember th't jist ten years ago this month I kim in from a leetle b'ar hunt. I didn't bring in no b'ar, but I fotched back an up-an'-up account o' how I had shot one, on' how th' were sumpin' fearful an' queer an' amazin' in the p'formances o' that b'ar arter bein' shot. Mebby ye 'member me a-tellin' ye that story, Squire, an' you a-tellin' me right in my teeth th't ye know'd th't some o' yer friends had took to lyin', but th't ye didn't think any of 'em had it so bad ez that. But I hain't a-holdin' no gredge, an' now I'll tell ye sumpin' that'll s'prise ye.

"Ez I tol' ye at the time, Squire, I got the tip ten year ago this month, th't unless somebody went up to Steve Groner's hill place an' poured a pound or two o' lead inter a big b'ar th't had squatted on tha' farm, th't Steve wouldn't hev no live-stock left to pervide pork an' beef fer his winterin' over, even if he managed to keep hisself an' fam'ly theirselfs from linin' the b'ar's innards. I shouldered my gun an' went up to Steve's to hev some fun with bruin, an' to save Steve's stock, an' resky him an' his folks from the rampagin' b'ar.

"'He's a rip-snorter,' Steve says to me, w'en I got thar. 'He don't think nuthin' o' luggin' off a cow,' he says, 'an' ye don't wanter hev yer weather eye shet w'en you an' him comes together,' he says.

"'B'ars,' I says to Steve, 'b'ars is nuts fer me, an' the bigger an' sassier they be,' I says, 'the more I inj'y 'em,' I says, an' with that I clim' inter the woods to show bruin th't th' wa'n't room enough here below fer me an' him both. Tain't necessary fer me to tell o' the half-dozen or more lively skrimmages me an' that b'ar had ez we follered an' chased one another round an' round them woods—how he'd hide ahind some big tree or stumps, an' ez I went by, climb on to me with all four o' his feet an' yank an' bite an' claw an' dig meat an' clothes offen me till I slung him off an' made him skin away to save his bacon; an' how I'd lay the same way fer him, an' w'en he come sneakin' 'long arter me agin, pitch arter him like a mad painter, an' swat an' pound an' choke an' rassel him till his tongue hung out, till I were sorry for him, an' let him git away inter the brush agin to recooperate fer the next round. 'Tain't wuth w'ile fer me to say anything 'bout them little skrimmages 'cept the last un, an' that un wa'n't a skrimmage but sumpin' that'd 'a' skeert some folks dead in their tracks.

"Arter havin' a half-dozen or so o' rassels with this big b'ar, jist fer fun, I made up my mind, ez 'twere gettin' late, an' ez Steve Groner's folks was mebby feelin' anxious to hear which was gointer run the farm, them or the b'ar, th't the next heat with bruin would be for keeps. I guess the ol' feller had made up his mind the same way, fer w'en I run agin him the las' time, he were riz up on his hind legs right on the edge o' Deep Rock Gulley, and were waitin' fer me with his jaws wide open. I unslung my gun, an' takin' aim at one o' the b'ar's forepaws, thought I'd wing him an' make him come away from the edge o' the gulley 'fore I tackled him. The ball hit the paw, an' the b'ar throw'd 'em both up. But he throw'd 'em up too fur, an' he fell over back'rd, an' went head foremost inter the gulley. Deep Rock Gulley ain't an inch less'n fifty foot from top to bottom, an' the walls is ez steep ez the side of a house. I went up to the edge an' looked over. Ther' were the b'ar layin' on his face at the bottom, whar them queer cracks is in the ground, an' he were a-howlin' like a hurricane and kickin' like a mule. Ther' he laid, and he wa'n't able to rise up. Th' wa'n't no way o' gettin' down to him 'cept by tumblin' down ez he had, an' if ever anybody were poppin' mad I were, ez I see my meat a-layin' at the bottom o' that gulley, an' the crows a-getherin' to hev a picnic with it. The more I kept my eyes on that b'ar the madder I got, an' I were jist about to roll and tumble an' slide down the side o' that gulley ruther than go back home an' say th't I'd let the crows steal a b'ar away from me, w'en I see a funny change comin' over the b'ar. He didn't howl so much, and his kicks wa'n't so vicious. Then his hind parts began to lift themse'fs up offen the ground in a cur'ous sort o' way, and swung an' bobbed in the air. They kep' raisin' higher an' higher, till the b'ar were act'ally standin' on his head, an' swayin' to and fro ez if a wind were blowin' him an' he couldn't help it. The sight was so oncommon out o' the reg'lar way b'ars has o' actin' that it seemed skeery, an' I felt ez if I'd ruther be home diggin' my 'taters. But I kep' on gazin' at the b'ar a-circusin' at the bottom o' the gulley, an 't wa'n't long 'fore the hull big carcase begun to raise right up offen the ground an' come a-floatin' up outen the gulley, fer all the world ez if 't wa'n't more'n a feather. The b'ar come up'ards tail foremost, an' I noticed th't he looked consid'able puffed out like, makin' him seem lik' a bar'l sailin' in the air. Ez the b'ar kim a-floatin' out o' the dep's I could feel my eyes begin to bulge, an' my knees to shake like a jumpin' jack's. But I couldn't move no more'n a stun wall kin, an' thar I stood on the edge o' the gulley, starin' at the b'ar ez it sailed on up to'rd me. The b'ar were making a desper't effort to git itself back to its nat'ral p'sition on all fours, but th' wa'n't no use, an' up he sailed, tail foremost, an' lookin' ez if he were gointer bust the next minute, he were swelled out so. Ez the b'ar bobbed up and passed by me I could ha' reached out an' grabbed him by the paw, an' I think he wanted me to, the way he acted, but I couldn't ha' made a move to stop him, not if he'd ha' ben my gran'mother. The b'ar sailed on above me, an' th' were a look in his eyes th't I won't never fergit. It was a skeert look, an' a look that seemed to say th't it were all my fault, an' th't I'd be sorry fer it some time. The b'ar squirmed an' struggled agin comin' to setch an' onheerdon end, but up'ard he went, tail foremost, to'ard the clouds.

"I stood thar par'lyzed w'ile the b'ar went up'ard. The crows that had been settlin' round in the trees, 'spectin' to hev a bully meal, went to flyin' an' scootin' around the onfortnit b'ar, an' yelled till I were durn nigh deef. It wa'n't until the b'ar had floated up nigh onto a hundred yards in the air, an' begun to look like a flyin' cub, that my senses kim back to me. Quick ez a flash I rammed a load inter my rifle, wrappin' the ball with a big piece o' dry linen, not havin' time to tear it to the right size. Then I took aim an' let her go. Fast ez the ball went, I could see that the linen round it had been sot on fire by the powder. The ball overtook the b'ar and bored a hole in his side. Then the funniest thing of all happened. A streak o' fire a yard long shot out o' the b'ar's side where the bullet had gone in, an' ez long ez that poor bewitched b'ar were in sight—fer o' course I thort at the time th't the b'ar were bewitched—I could see that streak o' fire sailin' along in the sky till it went out at last like a shootin' star. I never knowed w'at become o' the b'ar, an' the hull thing were a startlin' myst'ry to me, but I kim home, Squire, an' tol' ye the story, jest ez I've tol' ye now, an' ye were so durn polite th't ye said I were a liar. But sence, I've been a-thinkin' an' recollectin'. Squire, I don't hold no gredge. The myst'ry's plain ez day, now. We don't want no better signs o' gas th'n th't, do we, Squire?"

"Than what?" said the Squire.

"Than what!" exclaimed the Old Settler. "Than that b'ar, o' course! That's w'at ailed him. It's plain enough th't thuz nat'ral gas on the Groner place, an' th't it leaks outen the ground in Deep Rock Gulley. Wen that b'ar tumbled to the bottom that day, he fell on his face. He were hurt so th't he couldn't get up. O' course the gas didn't shut itself off, but kep' on a-leakin' an' shot up inter the b'ar's mouth and down his throat. The onfortnit b'ar couldn't help hisself, an' bimby he were filled with gas like a balloon, till he had to float, an' away he sailed, up an' up an' up. Wen I fired at the b'ar, ez he was floatin' to'ard the clouds, the linen on the bullet carried fire with it, an' w'en the bullet tapped the b'ar's side the burnin' linen sot it on fire, showin' th't th' can't be no doubt 'bout it bein' gas th't the b'ar swallered in Deep Rock Gulley. So ye see, Squire, I wa'n't no liar, an' the chances is all in favor o' your seein' a balloon h'isted from gas right in yer own bailiwick afore ye turn up yer toes."

The Squire gazed at the Old Settler in silent amazement for a minute or more. Then he threw up his hands and said:

"Wal—I'll—be—durned!"

VERRE DEFINITE

BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARYIt' verre long, long tam', ma frien',        I'm leeve on Bourbonnais,I'm keep de gen'rale merchandise,        I'm prom'nent man, dey say;I'm sell mos' every t'ing dere ees,        From sulky plow to sock,I don' care w'at you ask me for,        You'll fin' it in my stock.Las' w'ek dere was de petite fille        Of ma frien', Gosse, he com'Into ma shop to get stocking,        She want to buy her som';She was herself not verre ol',        Near twelve year, I suppose;She com' to me an' say, "M'sieu,        I wan' to buy som' hose."I always mak' de custom rule,        No matter who it ees,To be polite an' eloquent        In transack of ma beez;I say to her, "For who you wan'        Dese stockings to be wear?"She say she need wan pair herself,        Also for small bruddére.She say her bruddére's eight years ol'        An' coming almos' nine,An' I am twelve, mos' near t'irteen,        Dat size will do for mine:An' modder she will tak' beeg pair,        She weigh 'bout half a ton,She wan' de size of forty year        Going on forty-one.

THE TALKING HORSE

BY JOHN T. McINTYRE

Upon a fence across the way was posted a "twenty-four sheet block stand," and along the top, in big red letters, it read:

"H. Wellington Sheldon Presents"

Then followed the names of a half dozen famous operatic stars.

Bat Scranton sat regarding it silently for a long time; but after he had placed himself behind his third big cigar he joined in the talk.

"In fifteen years dubbing about this great and glorious," said he, "I never run across a smoother piece of goods than old Cap. Sheldon. To see him, now, in his plug hat, frock coat and white English whiskers, you'd spot him as the main squeeze in a prosperous bank. He's doing the Frohman stunt, too," and Bat nodded toward the poster, "and he handles it with exceeding grace. When I see him after the curtain falls upon a bunch of Verdi or Wagner stuff, come out and bow his thanks to a house full of the town's swellest, and throw out a little spiel with an aristocratic accent, I always think of the time when I first met him.

"Were any of you ever in Langtry, Ohio? Well, never take a chance on it if there is anywhere else to go. It's a tank town with a community of seven hundred of the tightest wads that ever sunk a dollar into the toe of a sock. There was a fair going on in the place, and I blew in there one September day; my turn just then was taking orders for crayon portraits of rural gentlemen with horny hands and plenty of chin fringe. I figure it out that about sixty per cent. of the parlors in the middle west are adorned with one or more of these works of art, but Langtry, Ohio, would not listen to the proposition for a moment; as soon as they discovered that I wasn't giving the stuff away they sort of lost interest in me and mine; so I began to study the time-table and kick off the preliminary dust of the burg, preparatory to seeking a new base of operations.

"As I made my way to the station I caught my first glimpse of Cap. Sheldon. He had a satchel hanging from around his neck and was winsomely wrapping ten dollar notes up with small cylinders of soap and offering to sell them at one dollar a throw.

"'How are they going,' says I.

"'Not at all,' says he. 'There's nothing to it that I can see. The breed and seed of Solomon himself must have camped down in this section; they are the wisest lot I ever saw herd together. Instead of chewing straws and leaning over fences after the customary and natural manner of ruminates, they pike around with a calm, cold-blooded sagacity that is truly awesome. It's me to pull out as soon as I can draw expenses.'

"The next time Cap. dawned upon my vision was a year afterward, down in Georgia. He was doing the ballyho oration in front of a side wall circus in a mellifluous style that was just dragging the tar heels up to the entrance.

"'It's a little better than the Ohio gag,' says he, 'but I've seen better, at that. I had a good paying faro outfit in Cincinnati since I met you, but the police got sore because I wouldn't cut the takings in what they considered the right place, so they closed me up.'

"During the next five years I met Cap. in every section of the country, and handling various propositions. In San Francisco I caught him in the act of selling toy balloons on a street corner; in Chicago he was disposing of old line life insurance with considerable effect; at a county fair, somewhere in Iowa, I ran across him as he gracefully manipulated the shells.

"But Cap. did not break permanently into the show business until he coupled up with the McClintock in Milwaukee. Mac was an Irish Presbyterian, and was proud of it; he came out of the Black North and was the most acute harp, mentally, that I had ever had anything to do with. The Chosen People are not noted for commercial density; but a Jew could enter Mac's presence attired in the height of fashion and leave it with only his shoe strings and a hazy recollection as to how the thing was done.

"Now, when a team like Cap. and Mac took to pulling together, there just naturally had to be something doing. They began with a small show under canvas, and their main card was a twenty-foot boa-constrictor, which they billed as 'Mighty Mardo.' Then they had a boy with three legs, one of which they neglected to state was made of wood; also a blushing damsel with excess embonpoint to the extent of four hundred pounds. With this outfit they campaigned for one season; in the fall they bought a museum in St. Louis and settled themselves as impresarios.

"Now, in my numerous meetings with Cap. I had never thought to ask his name, so when I saw an 'ad' in the Clipper stating that Sheldon & McClintock was in need of a good full-toned lecturer that doubled in brass, I just sat me down in my ignorance and dropped them a line. They sent me a ticket to where I was sidetracked up in Michigan, and I hurried down.

"'Oh, it's you, is it?' says Cap., as I piked into the ten by twelve office and announced myself. 'Well, I've heard you throw a spiel and think you'll do. But I didn't know that you played brass. What's your instrument?'

"Now, I had a faint sentiment from the beginning that this clause in their bill of requirements would get me into trouble, for I knew no more about band music than a he goat knows about the book of common prayer.

"'I do the cymbals,' says I.

"'What!' snorts Cap., rearing up; 'I thought you wrote that you played brass?'

"'Well,' says I, 'ain't cymbals brass?'

"It must have been my cold nerve that won Cap.'s regard, for he placed me as 'curio hall' lecturer and advertising man at twenty a week.

"The museum of Sheldon & McClintock proved to be a great notch. More fake freaks were thought out, worked up and exhibited during the course of that winter season than I would care to count. Then there was a small theater attached in which they put on very bad specialties and where painful-voiced young men and women warbled sentimental ballads about their childhood homes and stuff of that character. These got about ten dollars a week and had to do about thirty turns a day; they lived in their make-up and got so accustomed to grease paint before the end of their engagements that they felt only half dressed without it.

"The trick made money, and in about a year McClintock cut loose and went into a patent promoting scheme.

"Shortly afterward the first 'continuous house' was opened in St. Louis, and the novelty of the thing was a body blow to Cap. He made a good fight, but lost money every day; and at last he imparted to me in confidence that if business did not improve he could see himself getting out the shells and limbering up on them preparatory to going out and facing the world once more.

"'The bank will stand for three hundred thousand dollars' worth more of my checks,' says he, 'and after they're used up I'm done.'

"He began to cut down expenses with the reckless energy of a man who saw the poor-house looming ahead for him; the results was that his bad shows grew worse, and the attendance wasn't enough to dust off the seats. The biggest item of expense about the place was 'Mighty Mardo,' the boa-constrictor; his diet was live rabbits, and a twenty-foot snake with a body as thick as a four-inch pipe can dispose of good and plenty of them when he takes the notion. Cap. began to feed him live rats, and the mighty one soon began to show the effects of it.

"'He'll die on you,' says I to Cap. one day.

"'Let him,' says he; 'the rabbits stay cut out.'

"One day a fellow came along with a high-schooled horse that he wanted to sell. He had more use for ready money just then than he had for the nag, so he offered to put it in cheap. But Cap. waved him away.

"'I'll need the money to buy meals with before long,' says he to the fellow, 'so tempt me not to my going hungry.'

"This little incident seemed to make the old man feel bad; he locked himself up in the office for four hours or so communing with his inner self; but when he came out he was looking bright and gay.

"'Say,' says he, 'I've changed my mind and just bought that horse.'

"'I didn't see the man come back,' says I.

"'I made the deal over the 'phone,' says Cap. Then he pushes a thick wad of penciled stuff at me. 'Here's some truck I want you to take over to the printing house,' he goes on. 'When it's out and up the brute will be well known.'