The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI

THE WEDDIN'

BY JENNIE BETTS HARTSWICK

Well, it's over, it's all over—bein' the last to leave I know that—and I declare, I'm that full of all the things we had to eat that John and me won't want any supper for a good hour yet, so I just ran in to tell you about it while it's on top of my mind.

It's an everlastin' shame you had to miss it! One thing, though, you'll get a trayful of the good things sent in to you, I shouldn't wonder. I know there's loads left, for I happened to slip out to the kitchen for a drink of water—I was that dry after all those salty nuts, and I didn't want to trouble 'em—and I saw just heaps of things standin' round.

Most likely you'll get a good, large plate of cake, not just a pinchin' little mite of a piece in a box. The boxes is real pretty, though, and they did look real palatial all stacked up on a table by the front door with a strange colored man, in white gloves like a pall-bearer, to hand 'em to you.

How did I get two of 'em? Why, it just happened that way. You see, when I was leavin' I missed my sun-shade and I laid my box down on the hatrack-stand while I went upstairs to look for it. I went through all the rooms, and just when I'd about given it up, why, there it was, right in my hand all the time! Wasn't it foolish? And when I came downstairs I found I'd clean forgot where I'd laid that box of cake. I hunted everywhere, and then I just had to tell the man how 'twas, so he handed me another one, and I was just walkin' out the front door when, would you believe it! if there wasn't the other one, just as innocent, on the hatrack-stand where I had laid it. So now I have three of 'em, countin' John's.

I just can't seem to realize that Eleanor Jamison is married at last, can you? She took her time if ever anybody did. They do say she was real taken with that young college professor with the full beard and spectacles that visited there last summer, and then to think that, after all, she went and married a man with a smooth face. He wears glasses, though; that's one point in common.

Eleanor's gone off a good deal lately, don't you think so? You hadn't noticed it? But then you never was any great hand at noticin', I've noticed you weren't. Why, the other day when I was there offerin' to help 'em get ready for the weddin' I noticed that she looked real worn, and there was two or three little fine lines in her eye-corners—not real wrinkles, of course—but we all know that lines is a forerunner. Her hair's beginnin' to turn, too; I noticed that comin' out of church last Sunday. I dare say her knowing this made her less particular than she'd once have been; and after all, marryin' any husband is a good deal like buyin' a new black silk dress pattern—an awful risk.

You may look at it on both sides and hold it up to the light, and pull it to see if it'll fray and try if it'll spot, but you can't be sure what it'll do till after you've worn it a spell.

There's one advantage to the dress pattern, though—you can make 'em take it back if you mistrust it won't wear—if you haven't cut into it, that is—but when you've got a husband, why, you've got him, to have and to hold, for better and worse and good and all.

Yes, I'm comin' to the weddin'—I declare, when I think how careless Eleanor is about little things I can't help mistrusting what kind of a housekeeper she'll turn out. Why, when John's and my invitation came it was only printed to the church—there wasn't any reception card among it.

Now I've supplied Eleanor's folks with butter and eggs and spring chickens for thirty years, and I'd just have gone anyway, for I knew it was a mistake, but John held out that 'twasn't—that they didn't mean to have us to the house part; so to settle it I went right over and told 'em. I told Eleanor she mustn't feel put out about it—we was all mortal—and if it hadn't been for satisfyin' John I'd never have let her know how careless she'd been—of course I'd made allowance, a weddin' is upsettin' to the intellect—and so 'twas all right.

I had a real good view of the ceremony; but 'twasn't their fault that I had; it just happened that way.

When John and me got there I asked the young man at the door—he was a yusher and a stranger to me—to give us a front seat, but he said that all the front places was reserved for the relations of the bride and groom, and then I noticed that they'd tied off the middle aisle about seven pews back with white satin ribbons and a big bunch of pink roses. It seemed real impolite to invite folks to a weddin' and then take the best seats themselves.

Well, just then I happened to feel my shoelacin' gettin' loose and I stepped to one side to fix it; and when I got up from stoopin' and my gloves on and buttoned—I had to take 'em off to tie my shoe—and straightened John's cravat for him, why, there was the families on both sides just goin' in.

Of course we had to follow right along behind 'em, and when we came up to the ribbons—would you believe it?—the big bow just untied itself—or seemed to—I heard afterward it was done by somebody pullin' a invisible wire—and we all walked through and took seats. I made John go into the pew ahead of me so's I could get out without disturbin' anybody if I should have a headache or feel faint.

When John found we was settin' with the family—he was right close up against Eleanor's mother—he was for gettin' up and movin' back. But I just whispered to him, "John Appleby, do sit still! I hear the bridal party comin'!"

Of course I didn't just hear 'em, but I was sure they'd be along in a minute, and I knew it wouldn't do to move our seats anyway, as if we weren't satisfied with 'em.

The church was decorated beautiful. Eleanor's folks must have cleaned out their green-house to put into it, besides tons of greens from the city.

Pretty near the whole of Wrenville was there, and I must say the church was a credit to the Wrenville dressmakers.

I could pick out all their different fits without any trouble.

There was Arabella Satterlee's—she shapes her backs like the top of a coffin, or sometimes they remind me more of a kite; and Sallie Ann Hodd's—she makes 'em square; and old Mrs. Tucker's—you can always tell hers by the way the armholes draw; she makes the minister's wife's. But they'd every one of 'em done their level best and I was proud of 'em.

Well, when the organ—it had been playin' low and soft all the time—changed off into the weddin' march and the bridesmaids, eight of 'em, marched up the aisle behind the eight yushers, I tell you, Miss Halliday, it was a sight!

They was all in pink gauzy stuff—I happened to feel one of 'em as she went by but I couldn't tell what 'twas made of; it seemed dreadful flimsy—and big flat hats all made of roses on their heads, and carryin' bunches pf long-stemmed roses so big that they had to hold 'em in their arms like young babes.

Eleanor came behind 'em all, walkin' with her father. He always was a small-built man, and with her long trail and her veil spreadin' out so, why, I declare, you couldn't hardly see him.

I whispered to John that they looked more as if Eleanor was goin' to give her pa away than him her.

Eleanor's dress was elegant, only awful plain. It was made in New York at Greenleaf's. I know, because when I was upstairs lookin' for my sunshade—I told you about that, didn't I?—I happened to get into Eleanor's room by mistake, and there was the box it came in right on the bed before my eyes.

Well, when they was all past, I kept lookin' round me for the groom and wonderin' how I had come to miss him, when all at once John nudged me, and there he was right in front of me and the minister beginnin' to marry 'em, and where he had sprung from I can't tell you this livin' minute!

Came in from the vestry, did he? Well, now, I never would have thought of that!

Well, when they was most married the most ridiculous thing happened.

You see, Eleanor's father in steppin' back after givin' her away had put his foot right down on her trail and never noticed, and when it came time for the prayer Eleanor pulled and pulled—they was to kneel down on two big white satin cushions in front of 'em—but her pa never budged—just stood there with his eyes shut and his head bowed as devout as anything—and before Eleanor could stop him, her husband—he was most her husband, anyway—had kneeled right down on to the cushion, with his eyes shut, too, I suppose, and the minister had to pray over 'em that way. I could see Eleanor's shoulders shakin' under her veil, and of course it was ridiculous if it hadn't been so solemn.

And then they all marched down the aisle, with the bride and groom leadin' the procession. Eleanor's veil was put back, and I noticed that she was half-laughin' yet, and her cheeks were real pink, and her eyes sort of bright and moist—she looked real handsome. Good gracious, Miss Halliday, don't ever tell me that's six o'clock! And I haven't told a thing about the presents, and who was there, and Eleanor's clothes, and what they had to eat—why, they didn't even use their own china-ware! They had a colored caterer from New York, and he brought everything—all the dishes and table-cloths and spoons and forks, besides the refreshments. I know, because just after he came I happened to carry over my eleven best forks—John broke the dozenth tryin' to pry the cork out of a bottle of raspberry vinegar the year we was married—I never take a fork to pry with—and offered to loan 'em for the weddin', but they didn't need 'em, so I just stayed a minute or two in the butler's pantry and then went home—but I saw the caterer unpackin'.

There! I knew I'd stay too long! There's John comin' in the gate after me. I must go this blessed minute.

THE THOMPSON STREET POKER CLUB

Some Curious Points in the Noble Game UnfoldedBY HENRY GUY CARLETON

When Mr. Tooter Williams entered the gilded halls of the Thompson Street Poker Club Saturday evening it was evident that fortune had smeared him with prosperity. He wore a straw hat with a blue ribbon, an expression of serene content, and a glass amethyst on his third finger whose effulgence irradiated the whole room and made the envious eyes of Mr. Cyanide Whiffles stand out like a crab's. Besides these extraordinary furbishments, Mr. Williams had his mustache waxed to fine points and his back hair was precious with the luster and richness which accompany the use of the attar of Third Avenue roses combined with the bear's grease dispensed by basement barbers on that fashionable thoroughfare.

In sharp contrast to this scintillating entrance was the coming of the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who had been disheveled by the heat, discolored by a dusty evangelical trip to Coney Island, and oppressed by an attack of malaria which made his eyes bloodshot and enriched his respiration with occasional hiccoughs and that steady aroma which is said to dwell in Weehawken breweries.

The game began at eight o'clock, and by nine and a series of two-pair hands and bull luck Mr. Gus Johnson was seven dollars and a nickel ahead of the game, and the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who was banking, was nine stacks of chips and a dollar bill on the wrong side of the ledger. Mr. Cyanide Whiffles was cheerful as a cricket over four winnings amounting to sixty-nine cents; Professor Brick was calm, and Mr. Tooter Williams was gorgeous and hopeful, and laying low for the first jackpot, which now came. It was Mr. Whiffles's deal, and feeling that the eyes of the world were upon him, he passed around the cards with a precision and rapidity which were more to his credit than the I.O.U. from Mr. Williams which was left over from the previous meeting.

Professor Brick had nine high and declared his inability to make an opening.

Mr. Williams noticed a dangerous light come into the Reverend Mr. Smith's eye and hesitated a moment, but having two black jacks and a pair of trays, opened with the limit.

"I liffs yo' jess tree dollahs, Toot," said the Reverend Mr. Smith, getting out the wallet and shaking out a wad.

Mr. Gus Johnson, who had a four flush and very little prudence, came in. Mr. Whiffles sighed and fled.

Mr. Williams polished the amethyst, thoroughly examining a scratch on one of its facets, adjusted his collar, skinned his cards, stealthily glanced again at the expression of the Reverend Mr. Smith's eye, and said he would "Jess—jess call."

Mr. Whiffles supplied the wants of the gentleman from the pack with the mechanical air of a man who had lost all hope in a hereafter. Mr. Williams wanted one card, the Reverend Mr. Smith said he'd take about three, and Mr. Gus Johnson expressed a desire for a club, if it was not too much trouble.

Mr. Williams caught another tray, and, being secretly pleased, led out by betting a chip. The Reverend Mr. Smith uproariously slammed down a stack of blue chips and raised him seven dollars.

Mr. Gus Johnson had captured the nine of hearts and so retired.

Mr. Williams had four chips and a dollar left.

"I sees dat seven," he said impressively, "an' I humps it ten mo'."

"Whar's de c'lateral?" queried the Reverend Mr. Smith calmly, but with aggressiveness in his eye.

Mr. Williams sniffed contemptuously, drew off the ring, and deposited it in the pot with such an air as to impress Mr. Whiffles with the idea that the jewel must have been worth at least four million dollars. Then Mr. Williams leaned back in his chair and smiled.

"Whad yer goin' ter do?" asked the Reverend Mr. Smith, deliberately ignoring Mr. Williams's action.

Mr. Williams pointed to the ring and smiled.

"Liff yo' ten dollahs."

"On whad?"

"Dat ring."

"Dat ring?"

"Yezzah." Mr. Williams was still cool.

"Huh!" The Reverend Mr. Smith picked the ring up, examined it scientifically with one eye closed, dropped it several times as if to test its soundness, and then walked across and rasped it several times heavily on the window pane.

"Whad yo' doin' dat for?" excitedly asked Mr. Williams.

A double rasp with the ring was the Reverend Mr. Smith's only reply.

"Gimme dat jule back!" demanded Mr. Williams.

The Reverend Mr. Smith was now vigorously rubbing the setting of the stone on the floor.

"Leggo dat sparkler," said Mr. Williams again.

The Reverend Mr. Smith carefully polished off the scratches by rubbing the ring a while on the sole of his foot. Then he resumed his seat and put the precious thing back into the pot. Then he looked calmly at Mr. Williams, and leaned back in his chair as if waiting for something.

"Is yo' satisfied?" said Mr. Williams, in the tone used by men who have sustained a deep injury.

"Dis is pokah," said the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith.

"I rised yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, pointing to the ring.

"Did yer ever saw three balls hangin' over my do'?" asked the Reverend Mr. Smith. "Doesn't yo' know my name hain't Oppenheimer?"

"Whad yo' mean?" asked Mr. Williams excitedly.

"Pokah am pokah, and dar's no 'casion fer triflin' wif blue glass 'n junk in dis yar club," said the Reverend Mr. Smith.

"I liffs yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, ignoring the insult.

"Pud up de c'lateral," said the Reverend Mr. Smith. "Fo' chips is fohty, 'n a dollah's a dollah fohty, 'n dat's a dollah fohty-fo' cents."

"Whar's de fo' cents?" smiled Mr. Williams, desperately.

The Reverend Mr. Smith pointed to the ring. Mr. Williams rose indignantly, shucked off his coat, hat, vest, suspenders and scarfpin, heaped them on the table, and then sat down and glared at the Reverend Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith rolled up the coat, put on the hat, threw his own out of the window, gave the ring to Mr. Whiffles, jammed the suspenders into his pocket, and took in the vest, chips and money.

"Dis yar's buglry!" yelled Mr. Williams.

The Reverend Mr. Smith spread out four eights and rose impressively.

"Toot," he said, "doan trifle wif Prov'dence. Because a man wars ten-cent grease 'n' gits his july on de Bowery, hit's no sign dat he kin buck agin cash in a jacker 'n' git a boodle from fo' eights. Yo's now in yo' shirt sleeves 'n' low sperrets, bud de speeyunce am wallyble. I'se willin' ter stan' a beer an' sassenger, 'n' shake 'n' call it squar'. De club'll now 'journ."

THE BUMBLEBEAVER 7

BY KENYON COXA cheerful and industrious beast,        He's always humming as he goesTo make mud-houses with his tail        Or gather honey with his nose.Although he flits from flower to flower        He's not at all a gay deceiver.We might take lessons by the hour        From busy, buzzy Bumblebeaver.

AFTER THE FUNERAL

BY JAMES M. BAILEY

It was just after the funeral. The bereaved and subdued widow, enveloped in millinery gloom, was seated in the sitting-room with a few sympathizing friends. There was that constrained look so peculiar to the occasion observable on every countenance. The widow sighed.

"How do you feel, my dear?" said her sister.

"Oh! I don't know," said the poor woman, with difficulty restraining her tears. "But I hope everything passed off well."

"Indeed it did," said all the ladies.

"It was as large and respectable a funeral as I have seen this winter," said the sister, looking around upon the others.

"Yes, it was," said the lady from next door. "I was saying to Mrs. Slocum, only ten minutes ago, that the attendance couldn't have been better—the bad going considered."

"Did you see the Taylors?" asked the widow faintly, looking at her sister. "They go so rarely to funerals that I was surprised to see them here."

"Oh, yes! the Taylors were all here," said the sympathizing sister. "As you say, they go but a little: they are so exclusive!"

"I thought I saw the Curtises also," suggested the bereaved woman droopingly.

"Oh, yes!" chimed in several. "They came in their own carriage, too," said the sister, animatedly. "And then there were the Randalls and the Van Rensselaers. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had her cousin from the city with her; and Mrs. Randall wore a very black heavy silk, which I am sure was quite new. Did you see Colonel Haywood and his daughters, love?"

"I thought I saw them; but I wasn't sure. They were here, then, were they?"

"Yes, indeed!" said they all again; and the lady who lived across the way observed:

"The Colonel was very sociable, and inquired most kindly about you, and the sickness of your husband."

The widow smiled faintly. She was gratified by the interest shown by the Colonel.

The friends now rose to go, each bidding her good-by, and expressing the hope that she would be calm. Her sister bowed them out. When she returned, she said:

"You can see, my love, what the neighbors think of it. I wouldn't have had anything unfortunate to happen for a good deal. But nothing did. The arrangements couldn't have been better."

"I think some of the people in the neighborhood must have been surprised to see so many of the uptown people here," suggested the afflicted woman, trying to look hopeful.

"You may be quite sure of that," asserted the sister. "I could see that plain enough by their looks."

"Well, I am glad there is no occasion for talk," said the widow, smoothing the skirt of her dress.

And after that the boys took the chairs home, and the house was put in order.

CASEY AT THE BAT

BY ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYERIt looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day:The score stood four to six with just an inning left to play;And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the restWith that hope that springs eternal within the human breast;For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at thatThey'd put up even money, with Casey at the bat.But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake,But the former was a pudding, and the latter was a fake;So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat,For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all,And the much-despisèd Blaikie tore the cover off the ball;And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging third!Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell,It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat;For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place,There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face;And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped:"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one in the stand.And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,But Casey still ignored it; and the umpire said, "Strike two.""Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, "Fraud!"But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched with hate;He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

THE MARTYRDOM OF MR. STEVENS 8

BY HERBERT QUICKPietro:           Th' offense, it seemeth me,Is one that by mercy's extremest stretchMight be o'erpassed.Cosimo:           Never, Pietro, never!The Brotherhood's honor untouchableIs touch'd thereby. We build our labyrinthOf sacred words and potent spells, and allThe deep-involved horrors of our craft—Its entrance hedg'd about with dreadful oaths,And every step in thridding it made dankBy dripping terror and out-seeping awe,Shall it be said that e'en LudovicoMay break our faith and live? Never, say I!—Vision of Cosimo.

The Bellevale lodge of the Ancient Order of Christian Martyrs held its meetings in the upper story of a tall building. Mr. Alvord called for Amidon at eight, and took him up, all his boldness in the world of business replaced by wariness in the atmosphere of mystery. As he and his companion went into an anteroom and were given broad collars from which were suspended metal badges called "jewels," he felt a good deal like a spy. They walked into the lodge-room where twenty-five or thirty men with similar "jewels" sat smoking and chatting. All seemed to know him, but (much to his relief) before he could be included in the conversation, the gavel fell; certain ones with more elaborate "jewels" and more ornate collars than the rest took higher-backed and more highly upholstered chairs at the four sides of the room, another stood at the door; and still another, in complete uniform, with sword and belt, began hustling the members to seats.

"The Deacon Militant," said the wielder of the gavel, "will report if all present are known and tested members of our Dread and Mystic Conclave."

"All, Most Sovereign Pontiff," responded the Deacon Militant, who proved to be the man in the uniform, "save certain strangers who appear within the confines of our sacred basilica."

"Let them be tested," commanded the Sovereign Pontiff, "and, if brethren, welcomed; if spies, executed!"