The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI

Peggy grew more pleased with her play. The velocipede described wider and wider gyrations with accelerating speed; its keen buzz swelled on the air.

"It'll hit somepin!" warned Johnny-Ivan in an access of fear.

But Peggy's soul was dauntless to recklessness. "No, it won't," she flung back. Her shining head was between Johnny and the whirling wheels. He thought a most particularly beautiful little swinging gate in peril and tried to swerve the flying thing; how it happened, neither of the children knew; there was a smash, a crash, and gate and velocipede lay in splinters under a bronze bust. The glass of the show-case was etched with a sinister gray line.

"Now look what you've done!" exclaimed Peggy, with the natural irritation of disaster. "Oh, my!" squeaked the shabby little boy, "won't you catch it!" Peggy's anger was swallowed up in fright and sympathy; she pushed Johnny-Ivan ahead of her. "That Miss Hopkins is looking," cried she, "get behind these folks down the aisle!"

She propelled the little boy out of the immediate neighborhood of the calamity; she forced a wicked, deceitful smile (alas! guile comes easy to her sex) and pointed out things to him, whispering, "Look pleasant! Don't be so scared! They'll never know we did it." Already she was shouldering her share in crime, with a woman's willingness; she said "we" quite unconsciously; but she added (and this was of direct volition): "I did it more'n you; you were just trying to keep the nasty thing straight; I was a heap more to blame. Anyhow, I guess it ain't so awful bad. Just those wooden things."

Johnny-Ivan shook a tragic head; even his lips had gone bluish-white. "She said thousands wouldn't repair the damage," moaned he.

"You can't make me believe those mean little wooden tricks are worth any thousand dollars!" volleyed Peggy; nevertheless, her heart beat faster,—grown people are so queer. "Are you sure she meant them? Maybe it was those things in the next glass case; they're her own things! They're some kind of Chinese china and cost a heap." Peggy's sturdy womanly wits were rising from the shock.

"And the show-case is broked!" sniffed Johnny-Ivan, gulping down a sob.

"It ain't broke, it's only cracked; 'sides, it was cracked a right smart befo'!"

"But this was a new place—I know, 'cause I cut my finger on the other, scraping it over."

"Well, anyhow, I reckon it didn't be much value," Peggy insisted.

"I saw that young lady come back,"—Johnny-Ivan had switched on to a new track leading to grisly possibilities—"maybe she'll find it!"

"Well, we're gone, all right."

Peggy gave an unprincipled giggle; "Maybe she'll think it was him."

"Then we got to tell," moaned Johnny.

"No, we ain't. He'll run off and so she won't ask him questions."

"But she'll think it's him. It'll be mean."

"No it won't."

"It's mean to have somebody else take your blame or your punishment; mamma said so."

The small casuist was too discreet to attack Johnny's oracle; she only pouted her pretty lips and quibbled:

"'Tain't mean if the people who get blamed are mean themselves—like him. I don't care how blamed he gets; I wouldn't care if he got licked."

But Johnny's conscience was not so elastic. "I don't care, either," he protested. "I—I wouldn't care if he was deaded"—anxious to propitiate—"but it would be mean just the same. I got to tell papa, Peggy, I truly have."

Peggy grew very cross. "You are just the foolest, obsternatest little boy I ever did see," she grumbled; "you're a plumb idiot! I'd like to slap you! Your papa'll be awful mad."

Johnny-Ivan essayed an indifferent mien, but his eyes were miserable.

"Say, Jo'nivan,"—her voice sank to a whisper that curdled his blood—"were you ever spanked?"

"Only Hilma sorter kinder—not really spanking, you know," confessed Johnny with a toss of his head. "I just made faces at her; I didn't cry!" he bragged.

"Never your mamma or your papa?"

"Course not," said Johnny with a haughty air; "but, Peggy," he said very low, "were you—did—"

"Oh, my, yes! Mammy did when I was little. I'm too big now."

"I'm too big, too, now, ain't I?"

"I don't know," said Peggy. "Wulf Greiner was licked by teacher, and he's thirteen. It's whether it's mighty bad, you know."

Johnny-Ivan caught his breath and his legs shook under him; the horror of his father's "licking" him came over him cold; it was not the pain; he had never minded Hilma's sturdy blows and he had let Michael cut a splinter out of his thumb with a pocket-knife, and never whimpered; it was the ignominy, the unknown terror of his father's wrath that looked awful to him. As he looked down the crowded room and suddenly beheld Winslow's face bent gravely over Miss Hopkins, who was talking earnestly, he could hardly move his feet. Yet he had no thought of wavering. "I got to tell," he said, and walked as fast as he could, with his white face, straight to the group.

Winslow looked down and saw the two children; and one could discover the signals of calamity in their faces: Peggy's a fine scarlet and Johnny-Ivan's grayish-white.

"What's the matter, Johnny?" asked Winslow.

Johnny's eyelids were glued tight—just as they were when he pulled Peggy's tooth—he blurted everything out breathlessly: "I've done something awful, papa! It'll cost thousands of dollars."

Emma Hopkins had considered Winslow an unattractive man, of a harsh visage, but now, as he looked at his little son, she changed her mind.

"What did you do, son?" said he quietly; his hand found Johnny's brown curls and lay on them a second.

"He didn't do it, really; it was me," Peggy broke in, too agitated for grammar. "I was playing with the little tricks on the table, the models, sah, and I was making the v'losipid run round and he was 'fraid I'd break it; but I did it, really, sah."

"And the model fell on to something valuable? I see."

"But he wasn't playing with it, he was only trying to keep me from breaking—"

"Well, young lady, you two are evidently in the same boat; but you aren't a bit sneaky, either of you. Let's see the wreckage; I suppose you got into trouble because you wanted to see how things worked, and Johnny, as usual, couldn't keep out of other folks' hot water. Where's the ruin?"

"The show-case is broked, too," said Johnny-Ivan in a woeful, small voice.

"But it was cracked before," interjected Peggy.

Winslow looked at her with a little twist. "That's a comfort," said he, "and you have horse sense, my little Southerner. I guess you didn't either of you mean any harm—"

"Indeed, no, sah, and Johnny was just as good; never touched a thing—"

"But you see your intentions didn't protect you. Distrust good intentions, my dears; look out for the possible consequences. However, I think there is one person to blame you haven't mentioned, and that is one Josiah C. Winslow, who let two such giddy young persons explore by themselves. Contributory negligence is proved; and said Winslow will pay the bill and not kick."

So saying, he took Peggy's warm, chubby little fingers in one of his big white hands and Johnny-Ivan's cold little palm in the other, and nodded a farewell to Emma.

THE BALLAD OF GRIZZLY GULCH 1

BY WALLACE IRWINThe rocks are rough, the trail is tough,        The forest lies before,As madly, madly to the hunt        Rides good King TheodoreWith woodsmen, plainsmen, journalists        And kodaks thirty-four.The bob-cats howl, the panthers growl,        "He sure is after us!"As by his side lopes Bill, the Guide,        A wicked-looking cuss—"Chee-chee!" the little birds exclaim,        "Ain't Teddy stren-oo-uss!"Though dour the climb with slip and slime,        King Ted he doesn't care,Till, cracking peanuts on a rock,        Behold, a Grizzly Bear!King Theodore he shows his teeth,        But he never turns a hair."Come hither, Court Photographer,"        The genial monarch saith,"Be quick to snap your picture-trap        As I do yon Bear to death.""Dee-lighted!" cries the smiling Bear,        As he waits and holds his breath.Then speaks the Court Biographer,        And a handy guy is he,"First let me wind my biograph,        That the deed recorded be.""A square deal!" saith the patient Bear,        With ready repartee.And now doth mighty Theodore        For slaughter raise his gun;A flash, a bang, an ursine roar—        The dready deed is done!And now the kodaks thirty-four        In chorus click as one.The big brown bruin stricken falls        And in his juices lies;His blood is spent, yet deep content        Beams from his limpid eyes."Congratulations, dear old pal!"        He murmurs as he dies.From Cripple Creek and Soda Springs,        Gun Gulch and Gunnison,A-foot, a-sock, the people flock        To see that deed of gun;And parents bring huge families        To show what they have done.In the damp corse stands Theodore        And takes a hand of each,As loud and long the happy throng        Cries, "Speech!" again and "Speech!"Which pleaseth well King Theodore,        Whose practice is to preach."Good friends," he says, "lead outdoor lives        And Fame you yet may see—Just look at Lincoln, Washington,        And great Napoleon B.;And after that take off your hats        And you may look at me!"But as he speaks, a Messenger        Cries, "Sire, a telegraft!"The king up takes the wireless screed        Which he opens fore and aft,And reads: "The Venezuelan stew        Is boiling over. TAFT."Then straight the good King Theodore        In anger drops his gunAnd turns his flashing spectacles        Toward high-domed Washington."O tush!" he saith beneath his breath,        "A man can't have no fun!"Then comes a disappointed wail        From every rock and tree."Good-by, good-by!" the grizzlies cry        And wring their handkerchee.And a sad bob-cat exclaims, "O drat!        He never shot at me!"So backward, backward from the hunt        The monarch lopes once more.The Constitution rides behind        And the Big Stick rides before(Which was a rule of precedent        In the reign of Theodore).

MY PHILOSOFY

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEYI ain't, ner don't p'tend to be,Much posted on philosofy;But thare is times, when all alone,I work out idees of my own.And of these same thare is a fewI'd like to jest refer to you—Pervidin' that you don't objectTo listen clos't and rickollect.I allus argy that a manWho does about the best he canIs plenty good enugh to suitThis lower mundane institute—No matter ef his daily walkIs subject fer his neghbor's talk,And critic-minds of ev'ry whimJest all git up and go fer him!I knowed a feller onc't that hadThe yeller-janders mighty bad,—And each and ev'ry friend he'd meetWould stop and give him some receetFer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd sayHe kindo' thought they'd go awayWithout no medicin', and boastThat he'd git well without one doste.He kep' a-yellerin' on—and theyPerdictin' that he'd die some dayBefore he knowed it! Tuck his bed,The feller did, and lost his head,And wundered in his mind a spell—Then rallied, and, at last, got well;But ev'ry friend that said he'd dieWent back on him eternally!Its natchurl enugh, I guess,When some gits more and some gits less,Fer them-uns on the slimmest sideTo claim it ain't a fare divide;And I've knowed some to lay and wait,And git up soon, and set up late,To ketch some feller they could hateFer goin' at a faster gait.The signs is bad when folks commenceA-findin' fault with Providence,And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shakeAt ev'ry prancin' step they take.No man is grate tel he can seeHow less than little he would beEf stripped to self, and stark and bareHe hung his sign out anywhare.My doctern is to lay asideContensions, and be satisfied:Jest do your best, and praise er blameThat follers that, counts jest the same.I've allus noticed grate successIs mixed with troubles, more or less,And it's the man who does the bestThat gits more kicks than all the rest.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

BY BRET HARTEI 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 rowThat broke up our society upon the Stanislow.But first I would remark, that it is not a proper planFor any scientific man 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 seeThan the first six months' proceedings of that same society,Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bonesThat 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 gentTo say another is an ass—at least, to all intent;Nor should the individual who happens to be meantReply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, whenA 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 engageIn a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic 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 rowThat broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

LOST CHORDS

BY EUGENE FIELDOne autumn eve, when soft the breeze        Came sweeping through the lattice wide,        I sat me down at organ sideAnd poured my soul upon the keys.It was, perhaps by heaven's design,        That from my half unconscious touch,        There swept a passing chord of suchSweet harmony, it seemed divine.In one soft tone it seemed to say        The sweetest words I ever heard,        Then like a truant forest bird,It soared from me to heaven away.Last eve, I sat at window whence        I sought the spot where erst had stood        A cord—a cord of hick'ry wood,Piled up against the back yard fence.Four dollars cost me it that day,        Four dollars earned by sweat of brow,        Where was the cord of hick'ry now?The thieves had gobbled it away!Ah! who can ever count the cost,        Of treasures which were once our own,        Yet now, like childhood dreams are flown,Those cords that are forever lost.

THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEYThe summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wingsAnd roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow—Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how;So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing—But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dryThrough the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does he run?Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?Ort a mortul be complanin' when dumb animals rejoice?Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;The June is here this mornin', and the sun is shining hot.Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.

THE MODERN FARMER 2

BY JACK APPLETONObserve the modern farmer! In the shade        He works his crops by letters-patent now:Steam drives the reaper (which is union-made),        As in the spring it pushed the auto-plough;        A patent milker manages each cow;Electric currents guide the garden spade,And cattle, poultry, pigs through "process" wade        To quick perfection—Science shows them how.But while machinery plants and reaps, he rests        Upon his porch, and listens to the quailThat pipe far off in yonder hand-made vale,        With muscles flabby and with strength gone stale,Until, in desperation, he invests        In "Muscle-Building Motions Taught by Mail"!

THE APOSTASY OF WILLIAM DODGE

BY STANLEY WATERLOO

Billy Dodge rose from a seat near the door, and gave the two ladies chairs. Kate looked at him and smiled. The voice of the speaker seemed far away as she thought of the boy and his enthusiasms. Of all the earnest and sincere converts in the Lakeside House none could compare with Master William Dodge, the only son of the mistress of the place. He might be only eleven years old, he might be the most freckled boy in the block, but he had received new light, and he had his convictions. He had listened, and he had learned. He had learned that if you "hold a thought" and carry it around with you on a piece of paper, and read it from time to time throughout the day, it will bring you strength and give you victory in all the affairs of life. He thought the matter over much, for he had great need. He wanted help.

Of Master William Dodge, known as Billy, it may be said that in school he had ordinarily more fights on his hands than any other boy of his age and size, and it may be said, also, that as a rule, where the chances were anywhere near even, he came out "on top." But doggedly brave as the little freckled villain was, he had down in the bottom of his heart an appreciation that some day Jim McMasters might lick him. Jim McMasters was a boy only some six months older than Billy, of North of Ireland blood—than which there is none better—a lank, scrawny, reddish-haired youngster, freckled almost as profusely as Billy. Three times had they met in noble battle, and three times had Billy been the conqueror, but somehow the spirit of young McMasters did not seem particularly broken, nor did he become a serf. Billy felt that the air was full of portent, and he didn't like it.

It was just at this time that to Billy came the conviction that by "holding the thought" he would have what he called "the bulge on Jim," and having the energy of his convictions, he promptly set to the work of getting up texts which he could carry around in his pocket and which would make him just invincible. He talked cautiously with Mandy Make as to good watch-words, in no way revealing his designs, and from her secured certain texts which she had herself unconsciously memorized from many hearings of Jowler preachers. They were:

"Fight the good fight."

"Never give up."

"He never fails who dies in a good cause."

"Never say die."

For a time Billy was content with these quotations, written in a school-boy hand upon brown paper, and carried in his left-hand trousers pocket, but later he discovered that most of the scientists in the house who "held a thought" themselves prepared their own little bit of manuscript to be carried and read during the day, and that the text was made to apply to their special needs. Billy, after much meditation, concluded this was the thing for him, and with great travail he composed and wrote out the new texts which he should carry constantly and which should be his bulwark. Here they are:

"Ketch hold prompt and hang on."

"Strike from the shoulder."

"A kick for a blow, always bestow."

"When you get a good thing, keep it—keep it."

"When you get a black cat, skin it to the tail."

Only a week later one William Dodge and one Jim McMasters again met in more or less mortal combat, and one William Dodge, repeating the shorter of his texts as he fought, was again the victor.

"Gimme Christian Science!" he said to himself, as he put on his coat after the fray was over.

Billy Dodge was fast drifting, although unconsciously, toward a crisis in his religious and worldly experiences. At school, during the last term, and so far in the summer vacation, his scheme of fortifying his physical powers with mental stimulants in the form of warlike "thoughts" had worked well. His chief rival for the honors of war, an energetic youngster, whose name, Jim McMasters, proclaimed his Irish ancestry, he had soundly thrashed more than once since adopting his new tactics. So far Billy had found that to hold the thought, "Ketch hold prompt and hang on," while he acted vigorously upon that stirring sentiment, meant victory, and he had more than once tried the efficacy of, "Strike from the shoulder," under adverse conditions and with success.

It was during this summer of anxiety to the more important personages of this story that Billy Dodge was called upon to prove the practical value of his belief in the supremacy of mind over matter, and although Billy emerged from the trial none the worse for his experience, it effected a radical change in his views.

Jim McMasters returned one summer's day from a short camping excursion in the Michigan woods. He had been the only boy in a party of young men, and during their spare hours, as the members of the fishing party were lying around camp, they had instructed Jim in a few of the first principles of the noble science of self-defense. This unselfish action on the part of his elders was brought about by Jim's bitter complaints of Billy's treatment of himself in a fair fight, and by his dire thirst for vengeance.

And so Jim McMasters came back to the city a dangerous opponent, and he looked it. Even Billy, secure in the prestige of former victories, and armed with hidden weapons—namely, the "thoughts" he so tenaciously held—felt some misgivings when he saw Jim and noted his easy, swaggering mien.

"I've got to lick him again," thought Billy, "and I've got to be good and ready for him this time. I must get a set of thoughts well learned and hold 'em, or I'll be lammed out of my life."

The youngsters met one day, each with his following of admirers, in a vacant lot not far from the Lakeside House. There was a queer look in Jim's eye when he hailed Billy, and there was instant response in language of a violent character from the young disciple of Christian Science. As the two stood in a ring of boys, each watching the other and alert to catch some advantage of beginning, Billy was certainly the most unconcerned, and he appeared to advantage. He was occupied throughout every nerve and vein of his being, first in "holding the thought" he had fixed upon for this special occasion, and second, by his plan of attack, for Billy made it a point always to take the initiative in a fight.

As for Jim, that active descendant of the Celts failed to exhibit that alarm and apprehension which should appertain to a young gentleman of his age when facing an antagonist who had "whaled" him repeatedly. His face was neither sallow with long dread, nor white with present fear before his former conqueror. In fact, it must be said of him that he capered about in a fashion not particularly graceful. He rose upon the ends of his toes and made wild feints which Billy did not understand. It was hard, under such disquieting circumstances, to hold a thought, and Billy found himself struggling in mind for equilibrium while he stood forward to the attack. He aimed a wild blow at his capering opponent, and drove into soundless air only, and before he could recover himself the capering opponent had "landed" on Billy's cheek in a most surprising but altogether unrefreshing manner.