The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI

"I takes a look over the copy, and my hat was lifted two inches straight off my head. The first one read something like this:

ADMIRALTHE TALKING HORSETALKS LIKE A HUMAN BEINGVOCAL ORGANS DEVELOPED LIKE THOSE OFA MANHEAR HIM SING THE BASS SOLO"DOWN IN THE DEPTHS"TEN THOUSAND DOLLARSTO ANY ONE PROVING THESE CLAIMSFAKE IN THE SLIGHTEST DEGREE

"'Reads good, don't it?' asks Cap., sort of beaming through his nose-pinzes. 'But give a look at the others.'

"The next one was as bad as the first:

ADMIRAL!!!THE HORSE WHO RECITESTHE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCEIN A DEEP BASS VOICEAND WITH PERFECT ENUNCIATION

"'I didn't hear the fellow say the skate could do that kind of stuff,' says I, just a bit dazed, after looking over a lot more of it.

"'He only handed it to me as a sort of last card,' says Cap., 'and that's what made me change my mind about buying him. Get five thousand twelve sheets in yellow and red; ten thousand three sheets; fifteen thousand block one sheets with cut of the horse. And you can place an order for as many black and white dodgers as they can turn out between this and the end of the week. It's a big card and we're going into it up to our eyebrows.'

"If I had had time to consider anything but hustling, I might have thought the thing was a fake. But it was the old man's game and I left him to do the worrying. I threw rush orders into the printers and soon had the presses banging away on the stuff desired.

"Next day Cap. started a four-inch double-column notice in every paper in town. I hired an army of distributers and began to put out the dodgers as they came hot off the bat; then I got a couple of Guinea bands, put them in open wagons, done up with painted muslin announcements, and sent them forth to tear off the melody and otherwise delight the eye and ear of the town. As the big stuff came off the press it was slapped up on every blank wall and fence in the city that wasn't under guard; and when the job was finished, St. Louis fairly glared with it. If there was a person who hadn't heard of the Talking Horse by the end of the week, they must have been deaf, dead or in jail.

"The nag was to make his first appearance on Monday, and the last sheet of paper had been put up and the last hand bill disposed of by Saturday afternoon.

"'How does she look?' says Cap. to me when I came in.

"'Great,' says I. 'If they ain't tearing the place down to get in on Monday, why my bump of prophecy has a dent in it.'

"'Let 'em come,' says Cap., looking very much tickled. 'We need the money and we ain't turning nobody away. The horse has reached town and will be brought around to-morrow morning; so you make it a point to be on hand to let it and the handler in.'

"I was around bright and early on Sunday morning, and along comes the horse. He was got up in the swellest horse stuff I ever saw—beaded blankets of plush and silk, with his name embroidered on them, and all that kind of goods. The handler was a husky with one lamp and a bad one at that.

"'Where do I put him?' says he.

"'On the top floor,' says I. 'We've got planks on the stairs and a rigging fixed to haul him up by.'

"When we got him safely landed and the glad coverings off, I looked him over.

"'His intellect must sort of tell on him, don't it?' asks I.

"'Why, he is some under weight,' says the fellow in charge.

"'He don't look over-bright to me,' I goes on.

"'He never does on Sundays,' the husky comes back. 'It's sort of an off day with him.'

"Then I went out to lunch and stayed about two hours; when I got back I found a gang of cops and things buzzing all over the place. Cap. was in the office, his plug hat on the back of his head and a cigar in his mouth.

"'What's the trouble?' says I.

"'Had a hell of a time around here,' says he. 'I was called up on the 'phone and got down as soon as I could. Just take an observation of that fellow over there.'

"The fellow referred to was the handler of the Talking Horse. His left arm was done up in splints and bandaged from finger-tips to shoulder, and he had a clump of reporters around him about six feet thick.

"'What hit him?' asks I.

"'About everything on the top floor,' says Cap., solemnly. 'The Talking Horse is dead. Mighty Mardo broke out of his showcase about an hour ago, took a couple of half hitches around the Admiral and crushed him to death.'

"'Go 'way!' says I.

"'Sure thing,' says Cap. 'Come up stairs and have a look.'

"We went up and did so. The place was a wreck; the horse was the deadest I ever saw and the constrictor was still twined about him.

"'Why, the snake's passed out, too,' says I.

"Cap. folds his hands meekly across his breast in a resigned sort of way.

"'Yes,' says he; 'he, too, was killed in the dreadful struggle. He must have went straight for the Admiral as soon as he got loose. The handler was down in the office, alone, when the uproar started; he came jumping upstairs six steps to the jump and when he sees Mardo putting in that bunch of body holds on his intelligent charge, why, he took a hand. The result was a dead snake for me and a crippled wing for him. When I got here, Doc. Forbes was tying him up,' Cap. goes on rather sorrowful like; 'and when I sees what's happened, I know that I'm a ruined man. So I 'phones for the police and reporters to come down and view my finish.'

"From the way he talked I expected to see him carted home before the hour was up; but he wasn't. As soon as the newspaper fellows cleared out with all the facts of the case in their note-books, Cap. sends for a fellow and puts him right to work fixing up the horse and snake so's they'll keep, and then lays them out.

"Next morning the newspapers slopped over with scare headlines telling of the battle. According to their way of looking at it, the struggles in the arena of old Rome were scared to death in comparison, and modern times did not come anywhere near showing a parallel of the combat between the terrible constrictor and the horse with the human voice. The result of this was that when the time came to open the doors at noon we had to have a squad of police to keep the mob from blocking traffic for squares around. Cap. had changed and doubled the size of his ads. over night.

"The horse was done up in a big black coffin covered with flowers; and the lid with his name, age and wonderful accomplishment engraved upon a plate stood beside him. The remains of Mighty Mardo, stuffed with baled hay and excelsior, were embracing the dead Admiral with monster coils; and the crowds came, gazed, and marveled; then they went forth to tell their friends that they might come and do likewise.

"For weeks the coin came into the box like a spring freshet in the hill country, and Cap. must have kept the bank working after hours; at any rate, he sat around and smoked with a smile so angelic, that, to look at him, one wondered how he could wear it and not drift away into the ethereal blue. It was a good month before the thing lost its pulling power, and when it stopped Cap. had planted the stake that boosted him into the company he now keeps and set him to handling voices that cost thousands of simoleons an hour.

"When all was over, I found time to take the husky, with the damaged fin out and throw a few drinks into him. Then he told me the whole story.

"'The old man didn't think you could do the thing justice if you were wise,' says he, 'so he kept you out. This ain't the horse the fellow offered to sell him, at all. He bought it at a bazar for ten dollars, the day before I brought it around. When you went out for lunch Cap. he comes in. We done for the plug in a minute, and as Mighty Marda was all but gone, on account of his rat diet, we finished him, too. Then we wrecked the place up some, took a couple of turns about the horse with Mardo, called in Doc. Forbes, who stood in, to fix up the fictitious fracture, and then rung in the show.'

"Yes," observed Bat, thoughtfully, after a pause, "I've made up my mind that H. Wellington Sheldon is a wise plug."

THE OWL-CRITIC

BY JAMES T. FIELDS"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop,The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;The customers, waiting their turns, were all readingThe "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heedingThe young man who blurted out such a blunt question;Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;                                        And the barber kept on shaving."Don't you see, Mr. Brown,"Cried the youth, with a frown,"How wrong the whole thing is,How preposterous each wing isHow flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is—In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!I make no apology;I've learned owl-eology.I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,And can not be blinded to any deflectionsArising from unskilful fingers that failTo stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.Mister Brown! Mister Brown!Do take that bird down,Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"                                        And the barber kept on shaving."I've studied owls,And other night-fowls,And I tell youWhat I know to be true;An owl can not roostWith his limbs so unloosed;No owl in this worldEver had his claws curled,Ever had his legs slanted,Ever had his bill canted,Ever had his neck screwedInto that attitude.He can't do it, because'Tis against all bird-laws.Anatomy teaches,Ornithology preaches,An owl has a toeThat can't turn out so!I've made the white owl my study for years,And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!Mr. Brown, I'm amazedYou should be so gone crazedAs to put up a birdIn that posture absurd!To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"                                        And the barber kept on shaving."Examine those eyes.I'm filled with surpriseTaxidermists should passOff on you such poor glass;So unnatural they seemThey'd make Audubon scream,And John Burroughs laughTo encounter such chaff.Do take that bird down;Have him stuffed again, Brown!"And the barber kept on shaving."With some sawdust and barkI could stuff in the darkAn owl better than that.I could make an old hatLook more like an owlThan that horrid fowl,Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"                                        And the barber kept on shaving.

THE MOSQUITO

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANTFair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,        And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,        In pitiless ears, fall many a plaintive thing,And tell how little our large veins should bleedWould we but yield them to thy bitter need.Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,        Full angrily, men listen 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 sightThy tiny song grew shriller with delight.At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway,—        Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissedBy 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,—Murmured 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        Enriched by generous 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 nowThe 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.

"TIDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-BUM! BUM!"

BY WILBUR D. NESBITWhen our town band gets on the squareOn concert night you'll find me there.I'm right beside Elijah Plumb,Who plays th' cymbals an' bass drum;An' next to him is Henry Dunn,Who taps the little tenor one.I like to hear our town band play,But, best it does, I want to say,Is when they tell a tune's to comeWith        "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-                                                Bum-Bum!"O' course, there's some that likes the tunesLike Lily Dale an' Ragtime Coons;Some likes a solo or duetBy Charley Green—B-flat cornet—An' Ernest Brown—th' trombone man.(An' they can play, er no one can);But it's the best when Henry DunnLets them there sticks just cut an' run,An' 'Lijah says to let her humWith        "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-                                                Bum-Bum!"I don't know why, ner what's the useO' havin' that to interduceA tune—but I know, as fer meI'd ten times over ruther seeElijah Plumb chaw with his chin,A-gettin' ready to begin,While Henry plays that roll o' hisAn' makes them drumsticks fairly sizz,Announcin' music, on th' drum,With        "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-                                                Bum-Bum!"

MY FIRST CIGAR

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE'Twas just behind the woodshed,        One glorious summer day,Far o'er the hills the sinking sun        Pursued his westward way;And in my safe seclusion        Removed from all the jarAnd din of earth's confusion        I smoked my first cigar.                It was my first cigar!                It was the worst cigar!Raw, green and dank, hide-bound and rank                It was my first cigar!Ah, bright the boyish fancies        Wrapped in the smoke-wreaths blue;My eyes grew dim, my head was light,        The woodshed round me flew!Dark night closed in around me—        Black night, without a star—Grim death methought had found me        And spoiled my first cigar.                It was my first cigar!                A six-for-five cigar!No viler torch the air could scorch—                It was my first cigar!All pallid was my beaded brow,        The reeling night was late,My startled mother cried in fear,        "My child, what have you ate?"I heard my father's smothered laugh,        It seemed so strange and far,I knew he knew I knew he knewI'd smoked my first cigar!                It was my first cigar!                A give-away cigar!I could not die—I knew not why—                It was my first cigar!Since then I've stood in reckless ways,        I've dared what men can dare,I've mocked at danger, walked with death,        I've laughed at pain and care.I do not dread what may befall        'Neath my malignant star,No frowning fate again can make        Me smoke my first cigar.                I've smoked my first cigar!                My first and worst cigar!Fate has no terrors for the man                Who's smoked his first cigar!

SHONNY SCHWARTZ

BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMSHaf you seen mine leedle Shonny,—                                                   Shonny Schwartz,—Mit his hair so soft und yellow,Und his face so blump und mellow;Sooch a funny leedle fellow,—                                                        Shonny Schwartz?Efry mornings dot young Shonny—                                                   Shonny Schwartz—Rises mit der preak off day,Und does his chores oup righdt avay;For he gan vork so vell as blay,—                                                   Shonny Schwartz.Mine Katrina says to Shonny,                                                   "Shonny Schwartz,Helb your barents all you gan,For dis life vas bud a shban:Py und py you'll been a man,                                                        Shonny Schwartz."How I lofes to see dot Shonny—                                                   Shonny Schwartz—Vhen he schgampers off to schgool,Vhere he alvays minds der rule!For he vas nopody's fool,—                                                   Shonny Schwartz.How I vish dot leedle Shonny—                                                   Shonny Schwartz—Could remain von leedle poy,Alvays full off life und shoy,Und dot Time vould not annoy                                                   Shonny Schwartz!Nefer mindt, mine leedle Shonny,—                                                   Shonny Schwartz;Efry day prings someding new:Alvays keep der righdt in view,Und baddle, den, your own canoe,                                                   Shonny Schwartz.Keep her in der channel, Shonny,—                                                   Shonny Schwartz:Life's voyich vill pe quickly o'er;Und den ubon dot bedder shoreVe'll meet again, to bart no more,                                                   Shonny Schwartz.

A BULLY BOAT AND A BRAG CAPTAIN

A Story of Steamboat Life on the MississippiBY SOL SMITH

Does any one remember the Caravan? She was what would now be considered a slow boat—then (1827) she was regularly advertised as the "fast running," etc. Her regular trips from New Orleans to Natchez were usually made in from six to eight days; a trip made by her in five days was considered remarkable. A voyage from New Orleans to Vicksburg and back, including stoppages, generally entitled the officers and crew to a month's wages. Whether the Caravan ever achieved the feat of a voyage to the Falls (Louisville) I have never learned; if she did, she must have "had a time of it!"

It was my fate to take passage in this boat. The Captain was a good-natured, easy-going man, careful of the comfort of his passengers, and exceedingly fond of the game of brag. We had been out a little more than five days, and we were in hopes of seeing the bluffs of Natchez on the next day. Our wood was getting low, and night coming on. The pilot on duty above (the other pilot held three aces at the time, and was just calling out the Captain, who "went it strong" on three kings) sent down word that the mate had reported the stock of wood reduced to half a cord. The worthy Captain excused himself to the pilot whose watch was below and the two passengers who made up the party, and hurried to the deck, where he soon discovered by the landmarks that we were about half a mile from a woodyard, which he said was situated "right round yonder point." "But," muttered the Captain, "I don't much like to take wood of the yellow-faced old scoundrel who owns it—he always charges a quarter of a dollar more than any one else; however, there's no other chance." The boat was pushed to her utmost, and in a little less than an hour, when our fuel was about giving out, we made the point, and our cables were out and fastened to trees alongside of a good-sized wood pile.

"Hallo, Colonel! How d'ye sell your wood this time?"

A yellow-faced old gentleman, with a two weeks' beard, strings over his shoulders holding up to his armpits a pair of copperas-colored linsey-woolsey pants, the legs of which reached a very little below the knee; shoes without stockings; a faded, broad-brimmed hat, which had once been black, and a pipe in his mouth—casting a glance at the empty guards of our boat and uttering a grunt as he rose from fastening our "spring line," answered:

"Why, Capting, we must charge you three and a quarter this time."

"The d—l!" replied the Captain—(captains did swear a little in those days); "what's the odd quarter for, I should like to know? You only charged me three as I went down."

"Why, Capting," drawled out the wood merchant, with a sort of leer on his yellow countenance, which clearly indicated that his wood was as good as sold, "wood's riz since you went down two weeks ago; besides, you are awar that you very seldom stop going down—when you're going up you're sometimes obleeged to give me a call, becaze the current's aginst you, and there's no other woodyard for nine miles ahead; and if you happen to be nearly out of fooel, why—"

"Well, well," interrupted the Captain, "we'll take a few cords, under the circumstances," and he returned to his game of brag.

In about half an hour we felt the Caravan commence paddling again. Supper was over, and I retired to my upper berth, situated alongside and overlooking the brag-table, where the Captain was deeply engaged, having now the other pilot as his principal opponent. We jogged on quietly—and seemed to be going at a good rate.

"How does that wood burn?" inquired the Captain of the mate, who was looking on at the game.

"'Tisn't of much account, I reckon," answered the mate; "it's cottonwood, and most of it green at that."

"Well, Thompson—(Three aces again, stranger—I'll take that X and the small change, if you please. It's your deal)—Thompson, I say, we'd better take three or four cords at the next woodyard—it can't be more than six miles from here—(Two aces and a bragger, with the age! Hand over those V's.)."

The game went on, and the paddles kept moving. At eleven o'clock it was reported to the Captain that we were nearing the woodyard, the light being distinctly seen by the pilot on duty.

"Head her in shore, then, and take in six cords if it's good—see to it, Thompson; I can't very well leave the game now—it's getting right warm! This pilot's beating us all to smash."

The wooding completed, we paddled on again. The Captain seemed somewhat vexed when the mate informed him that the price was the same as at the last woodyard—three and a quarter; but soon again became interested in the game.

From my upper berth (there were no staterooms then) I could observe the movements of the players. All the contention appeared to be between the Captain and the pilots (the latter personages took it turn and turn about, steering and playing brag), one of them almost invariably winning, while the two passengers merely went through the ceremony of dealing, cutting, and paying up their "anties." They were anxious to learn the game—and they did learn it! Once in a while, indeed, seeing they had two aces and a bragger, they would venture a bet of five or ten dollars, but they were always compelled to back out before the tremendous bragging of the Captain or pilot—or if they did venture to "call out" on "two bullits and a bragger," they had the mortification to find one of the officers had the same kind of a hand, and were more venerable! Still, with all these disadvantages, they continued playing—they wanted to learn the game.