The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI

"You run a dreadful risk, however," said the Doctor, with a sarcastic smile. "The Wagner habit is a terrible thing to acquire, Mr. Idiot."

"That may be," said the Idiot. "Worse than the sulfonal habit by a great deal I am told, but I am in no danger of becoming a victim to it while it costs from five to seven dollars a dose. In addition to this experience I have also the testimony of a friend of mine who was cured of a frightful attack of the colic by Sullivan's Lost Chord played on a Cornet. He had spent the day down at Asbury Park and had eaten not wisely but too copiously. Among other things that he turned loose in his inner man were two plates of Lobster Salade, a glass of fresh cider and a saucerful of pistache ice-cream. He was a painter by profession and the color scheme he thus introduced into his digestive apparatus was too much for his artistic soul. He was not fitted by temperament to assimilate anything quite so strenuously chromatic as that, and as a consequence shortly after he had retired to his studio for the night the conflicting tints began to get in their deadly work and within two hours he was completely doubled up. The pain he suffered was awful. Agony was bliss alongside of the pangs that now afflicted him and all the palliatives and pain killers known to man were tried without avail, and then, just as he was about to give himself up for lost, an amateur cornetist who occupied a studio on the floor above began to play the Lost Chord. A counter-pain set in immediately. At the second bar of the Lost Chord the awful pain that was gradually gnawing away at his vitals seemed to lose its poignancy in the face of the greater suffering, and physical relief was instant. As the musician proceeded the internal disorder yielded gradually to the external and finally passed away entirely, leaving him so far from prostrated that by one a.m. he was out of bed and actually girding himself with a shotgun and an Indian Club to go upstairs for a physical encounter with the cornetist."

"And you reason from this that Sullivan's Lost Chord is a cure for Cholera morbus, eh?" sneered the Doctor.

"It would seem so," said the Idiot. "While the music continued my friend was a well man ready to go out and fight like a warrior, but when the cornetist stopped—the colic returned and he had to fight it out in the old way. In these episodes in my own experience I find ample justification for my belief and that of others that some day the music cure for human ailments will be recognized and developed to the full. Families going off to the country for the summer instead of taking a medicine-chest along with them will go provided with a music-box with cylinders for mumps, measles, summer complaint, whooping-cough, chicken-pox, chills and fever and all the other ills the flesh is heir to. Scientific experiment will demonstrate before long what composition will cure specific ills. If a baby has whooping-cough, an anxious mother, instead of ringing up the Doctor, will go to the piano and give the child a dose of Hiawatha. If a small boy goes swimming and catches a cold in his head and is down with a fever, his nurse, an expert on the accordeon, can bring him back to health again with three bars of Under the Bamboo Tree after each meal. Instead of dosing kids with cod liver oil when they need a tonic, they will be set to work at a mechanical piano and braced up on Narcissus. There'll Be a Hot Time In The Old Town To-Night will become an effective remedy for a sudden chill. People suffering from sleeplessness can dose themselves back to normal conditions again with Wagner the way I did. Tchaikowski, to be well Tshaken before taken, will be an effective remedy for a torpid liver, and the man or woman who suffers from lassitude will doubtless find in the lively airs of our two-step composers an efficient tonic to bring their vitality up to a high standard of activity. Nothing in it? Why, Doctor, there's more in it that's in sight to-day that is promising and suggestive of great things in the future than there was of the principle of gravitation in the rude act of that historic pippin that left the parent tree and swatted Sir Isaac Newton on the nose."

"And the Drug Stores will be driven out of business, I presume," said the Doctor.

"No," said the Idiot. "They will substitute music for drugs, that is all. Every man who can afford it will have his own medical phonograph or music-box, and the drug stores will sell cylinders and records for them instead of quinine, carbonate of soda, squills, paregoric and other nasty tasting things they have now. This alone will serve to popularize sickness and instead of being driven out of business their trade will pick up."

"And the Doctor? And the Doctor's gig and all the appurtenances of his profession—what becomes of them?" demanded the Doctor.

"We'll have to have the Doctor just the same to prescribe for us, only he will have to be a musician, but the gig—I'm afraid that will have to go," said the Idiot.

"And why, pray?" asked the Doctor. "Because there are no more drugs must the physician walk?"

"Not at all," said the Idiot. "But he'd be better equipped if he drove about in a piano-organ, or if he preferred an auto on a steam calliope."

THE OCTOPUSSYCAT 4

BY KENYON COXI love Octopussy, his arms are so long;There's nothing in nature so sweet as his song.'Tis true I'd not touch him—no, not for a farm!If I keep at a distance he'll do me no harm.

THE BOOK-CANVASSER

ANONYMOUS

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said,—

"Mr. –, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name.

"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving. "That's—lemme see—yes, that's Columbus. Perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered—no; was it Columbus that dis—oh, yes, Columbus he discovered America,—was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph; all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that's the way they dressed in them days.

"Look at this one. Now, isn't that splendid? That's William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down he set one on top of his son's head and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold, he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? face shaved clean; he didn't wear a moustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is that every man ought to have a picture of that patriarch, so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs, too! Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?

"There's something nice. That, I think is—is—that—a—a—yes, to be sure, Washington; you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country. George—Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.

"Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a—oh, yes, flying a kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd 'a' ben hit, it'd just made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin'. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.

"Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe; anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is, there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick; evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.

"And now we come to—to—ah—to—Putnam,—General Putnam: he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways, the publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck; but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it?

"Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then when the Ku-Kluxes got after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em till they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,—hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.

"And then here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures; so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?"

HER VALENTINE

BY RICHARD HOVEYWhat, send her a valentine? Never!I see you don't know who "she" is.I should ruin my chances forever;My hopes would collapse with a fizz.I can't see why she scents such disasterWhen I take heart to venture a word;I've no dream of becoming her master,I've no notion of being her lord.All I want is to just be her lover!She's the most up-to-date of her sex,And there's such a multitude of her,No wonder they call her complex.She's a bachelor, even when married,She's a vagabond, even when housed;And if ever her citadel's carriedHer suspicions must not be aroused.She's erratic, impulsive and human,And she blunders,—as goddesses can;But if she's what they call the New Woman,Then I'd like to be the New Man.I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures,And typewrites and hoes her own row,And it's quite beyond reach of conjecturesHow much further she's going to go.When she scorns, in the L-road, my profferOf a seat and hangs on to a strap;I admire her so much, I could offerTo let her ride up on my lap.Let her undo the stays of the ages,That have cramped and confined her so long!Let her burst through the frail candy cagesThat fooled her to think they were strong!She may enter life's wide vagabondage,She may do without flutter or frill,She may take off the chains of her bondage,—And anything else that she will.She may take me off, for example,And she probably does when I'm gone.I'm aware the occasion is ample;That's why I so often take on.I'm so glad she can win her own dollarsAnd know all the freedom it brings.I love her in shirt-waists and collars,I love her in dress-reform things.I love her in bicycle skirtlings—Especially when there's a breeze—I love her in crinklings and quirklingsAnd anything else that you please.I dote on her even in bloomers—If Parisian enough in their style—In fact, she may choose her costumers,Wherever her fancy beguile.She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle,She may argue, hold office or vote,She may engineer turret or trestle,And build a few ships that will float.She may lecture (all lectures but curtain)Make money, and naturally spend,If I let her have her way, I'm certainShe'll let me have mine in the end!

THE WELSH RABBITTERN 5

BY KENYON COXThis is a very fearsome bird        Who sits upon men's chests at night.With horrid stare his eyeballs glare:        He flies away at morning's light.

COMIC MISERIES

BY JOHN G. SAXEIMy dear young friend, whose shining wit        Sets all the room ablaze,Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"        For all your merry ways;But learn to wear a sober phiz,        Be stupid, if you can,It's such a very serious thing        To be a funny man!IIYou're at an evening party, with        A group of pleasant folks,—You venture quietly to crack        The least of little jokes:A lady doesn't catch the point,        And begs you to explain,—Alas for one who drops a jest        And takes it up again!IIIYou're taking deep philosophy        With very special force,To edify a clergyman        With suitable discourse:You think you've got him,—when he calls        A friend across the way,And begs you'll say that funny thing        You said the other day!IVYou drop a pretty jeu-de-mot        Into a neighbor's ears,Who likes to give you credit for        The clever thing he hears,And so he hawks your jest about,        The old, authentic one,Just breaking off the point of it,        And leaving out the pun!VBy sudden change in politics,        Or sadder change in Polly,You lose your love, or loaves, and fall        A prey to melancholy,While everybody marvels why        Your mirth is under ban,They think your very grief "a joke,"        You're such a funny man!VIYou follow up a stylish card        That bids you come and dine,And bring along your freshest wit        (To pay for musty wine);You're looking very dismal, when        My lady bounces in,And wonders what you're thinking of,        And why you don't begin!VIIYou're telling to a knot of friends        A fancy-tale of woesThat cloud your matrimonial sky,        And banish all repose,—A solemn lady overhears        The story of your strife,And tells the town the pleasant news:—        You quarrel with your wife!VIIIMy dear young friend, whose shining wit        Sets all the room ablaze,Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"        For all your merry ways;But learn to wear a sober phiz,        Be stupid, if you can,It's such a very serious thing        To be a funny man!

THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK-AGENT

ANONYMOUS

A book-agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book,—the "Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then, taking it under his arm, he started for the train which takes him to his office in the city.

Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said, "Well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope?"

"Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."

"Ah, and who was she?"

"It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman,—a book-agent."

"A what?"

"A book-agent; and to get rid of his importuning I bought his book,—the 'Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is," she exclaimed, advancing toward her husband.

"I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly.

"Why, husband?" asked his wife.

"Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the same book,—two copies of the 'Early Christian Martyrs,' and—"

"But, husband, we can—"

"No, we can't, either!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "The man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I—"

"Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for the train.

"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my boots, and—"

Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr. Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse.

"Here, Stevens!" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!"

"All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road.

Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted, "All aboard!"

"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train. "Book-agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."

"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."

"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How much is it?"

"Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent, as he reached for the money and passed the book out of the car-window.

Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.

"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,—"just got it, and that's all."

"Got what?" yelled Watson.

"Why, I got the book,—'Early Christian Martyrs,'—and paid—"

"By—the—great—guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hands to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.

THE COQUETTE

A PortraitBY JOHN G. SAXE"You're clever at drawing, I own,"        Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,As we sat by the window alone,        "But say, can you paint a Coquette?""She's painted already," quoth I;        "Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette,"Now none of your joking,—but try        And paint me a thorough Coquette.""Well, cousin," at once I began        In the ear of the eager Lisette,"I'll paint you as well as I can        That wonderful thing, a Coquette."She wears a most beautiful face,"        ("Of course!" said the pretty Lisette),"And isn't deficient in grace,        Or else she were not a Coquette."And then she is daintily made"        (A smile from the dainty Lisette),"By people expert in the trade        Of forming a proper Coquette."She's the winningest ways with the beaux,"        ("Go on!"—said the winning Lisette),"But there isn't a man of them knows        The mind of the fickle Coquette!"She knows how to weep and to sigh,"        (A sigh from the tender Lisette),"But her weeping is all in my eye,—        Not that of the cunning Coquette!"In short, she's a creature of art,"        ("Oh hush!" said the frowning Lisette),"With merely the ghost of a heart,—        Enough for a thorough Coquette."And yet I could easily prove"        ("Now don't!" said the angry Lisette),"The lady is always in love,—        In love with herself,—the Coquette!"There,—do not be angry!—you know,My dear little cousin Lisette,You told me a moment agoTo paint you—a thorough Coquette!"

A SPRING FEELING

BY BLISS CARMANI think it must be spring. I feel        All broken up and thawed.I'm sick of everybody's "wheel";        I'm sick of being jawed.I am too winter-killed to live,        Cold-sour through and through.O Heavenly Barber, come and give        My soul a dry shampoo!I'm sick of all these nincompoops,        Who weep through yards of verse,And all these sonneteering dupes        Who whine and froth and curse.I'm sick of seeing my own name        Tagged to some paltry line,While this old corpus without shame        Sits down to meat and wine.I'm sick of all these Yellow Books,        And all these Bodley Heads;I'm sick of all these freaks and spooks        And frights in double leads.When good Napoleon's publisher        Was dangled from a limb,He should have had an editor        On either side of him.I'm sick of all this taking on        Under a foreign name;For when you call it decadent,        It's rotten just the same.I'm sick of all this puling trash        And namby-pamby rot,—A Pegasus you have to thrash        To make him even trot!An Age-end Art! I would not give,        For all their plotless plays,One round Flagstaffian adjective        Or one Miltonic phrase.I'm sick of all this poppycock        In bilious green and blue;I'm tired to death of taking stock        Of everything that's "New."New Art, New Movements, and New Schools,        All maimed and blind and halt!And all the fads of the New Fools        Who can not earn their salt.I'm sick of the New Woman, too.        Good Lord, she's worst of all.Her rights, her sphere, her point of view,        And all that folderol!She makes me wish I were the snake        Inside of Eden's wall,To give the tree another shake,        And see another fall.I'm very much of Byron's mind;        I like sufficiency;But just the common garden kind        Is good enough for me.I want to find a warm beech wood,        And lie down, and keep still;And swear a little; and feel good;        Then loaf on up the hill,And let the Spring house-clean my brain,        Where all this stuff is crammed;And let my heart grow sweet again;        And let the Age be damned.

WASTED OPPORTUNITIES 6

BY ROY FARRELL GREENEThe lips I might have tasted, rosy ripe as any cherry,        How they pair off by the dozens when my memory goes backAcross the current of the years aboard of Fancy's ferry,        Which shuns the shores of What-We-Have and touches What-We-Lack.The girl I took t' singin'-school one night, who vowed she'd never        Before walked with a feller 'thout her mother bein' by,I reckon that her temptin' mouth will haunt my dreams forever,        The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try!I recollect another girl, as chipper as a robin,        Who rode beside me in a sleigh one night through snow an' sleet,An' both my hands I kept in use a guidin' good ol' Dobbin—        One didn't need them any mor'n a chicken needs four feet.Too scared was I to hold her in, or warm her cheeks with kisses,—        I know, now, she expected it, for once I heard her sigh—To-day I'd like t' kick myself for these neglected blisses,        The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.I never kissed Rebecca, she was sober as a Quaker,        I never kissed Alvira, though I took her home one night,That city cousin of the Smiths, a Miss Myrtilla Baker,        Though scores of opportunities slipped by me, left an' right.It makes me hate myself to-day when I on Fancy's ferry        Have crossed the current of the years to olden days gone by,T' think of all the lips I've missed, ripe-red as topmost cherry,        The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.