Kitabı oku: «The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI», sayfa 12
THE MOSQUITO
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Fair 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 bleed
Would 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 sight
Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.
At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway,—
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By 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 now
The 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. NESBIT
When our town band gets on the square
On 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 come
With
"Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-
Bum-Bum!"
O' course, there's some that likes the tunes
Like Lily Dale an' Ragtime Coons;
Some likes a solo or duet
By 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 Dunn
Lets them there sticks just cut an' run,
An' 'Lijah says to let her hum
With
"Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-
Bum-Bum!"
I don't know why, ner what's the use
O' havin' that to interduce
A tune—but I know, as fer me
I'd ten times over ruther see
Elijah Plumb chaw with his chin,
A-gettin' ready to begin,
While Henry plays that roll o' his
An' 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 jar
And 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 knew
I'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 ADAMS
Haf 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 shore
Ve'll meet again, to bart no more,
Shonny Schwartz.
A BULLY BOAT AND A BRAG CAPTAIN
A Story of Steamboat Life on the Mississippi
BY 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.
At two o'clock the Captain asked the mate how we were getting on.
"Oh, pretty glibly, sir," replied the mate; "we can scarcely tell what headway we are making, for we are obliged to keep the middle of the river, and there is the shadow of a fog rising. This wood seems rather better than that we took in at Yellow-Face's, but we're nearly out again, and must be looking out for more. I saw a light just ahead on the right—shall we hail?"
"Yes, yes," replied the Captain; "ring the bell and ask 'em what's the price of wood up here. (I've got you again; here's double kings.)"
I heard the bell and the pilot's hail, "What's your price for wood?"
A youthful voice on the shore answered, "Three and a quarter!"
"D—nèt!" ejaculated the Captain, who had just lost the price of two cords to the pilot—the strangers suffering some at the same time—"three and a quarter again! Are we never to get to a cheaper country? (Deal, sir, if you please; better luck next time.)"
The other pilot's voice was again heard on deck:
"How much have you?"
"Only about ten cords, sir," was the reply of the youthful salesman.
The Captain here told Thompson to take six cords, which would last till daylight—and again turned his attention to the game.
The pilots here changed places. When did they sleep?
Wood taken in, the Caravan again took her place in the middle of the stream, paddling on as usual.
Day at length dawned. The brag-party broke up and settlements were being made, during which operation the Captain's bragging propensities were exercised in cracking up the speed of his boat, which, by his reckoning, must have made at least sixty miles, and would have made many more if he could have procured good wood. It appears the two passengers, in their first lesson, had incidentally lost one hundred and twenty dollars. The Captain, as he rose to see about taking in some good wood, which he felt sure of obtaining now that he had got above the level country, winked at his opponent, the pilot, with whom he had been on very bad terms during the progress of the game, and said, in an undertone, "Forty apiece for you and I and James (the other pilot) is not bad for one night."
I had risen and went out with the Captain, to enjoy a view of the bluffs. There was just fog enough to prevent the vision taking in more than sixty yards—so I was disappointed in my expectation. We were nearing the shore, for the purpose of looking for wood, the banks being invisible from the middle of the river.
"There it is!" exclaimed the Captain; "stop her!" Ding—ding—ding! went the big bell, and the Captain hailed:
"Hallo! the woodyard!"
"Hallo yourself!" answered a squeaking female voice, which came from a woman with a petticoat over her shoulders in place of a shawl.
"What's the price of wood?"
"I think you ought to know the price by this time," answered the old lady in the petticoat; "it's three and a qua-a-rter! and now you know it."
"Three and the d—l!" broke in the Captain. "What, have you raised on your wood, too? I'll give you three, and not a cent more."
"Well," replied the petticoat, "here comes the old man—he'll talk to you."
And, sure enough, out crept from the cottage the veritable faded hat, copperas-colored pants, yellow countenance and two weeks' beard we had seen the night before, and the same voice we had heard regulating the price of cottonwood squeaked out the following sentence, accompanied by the same leer of the same yellow countenance:
"Why, darn it all, Capting, there is but three or four cords left, and since it's you, I don't care if I do let you have it for three—as you're a good customer!"
After a quick glance at the landmarks around, the Captain bolted, and turned in to take some rest.
The fact became apparent—the reader will probably have discovered it some time since—that we had been wooding all night at the same woodyard!
WHEN THE ALLEGASH DRIVE GOES THROUGH
BY HOLMAN F. DAY
We're spurred with the spikes in our soles;
There is water a-swash in our boots;
Our hands are hard-calloused by peavies and poles,
And we're drenched with the spume of the chutes;
We gather our herds at the head,
Where the axes have toppled them loose,
And down from the hills where the rivers are fed
We harry the hemlock and spruce.
We hurroop them with the peavies from their sullen beds of snow;
With the pickpole for a goadstick, down the brimming streams we go;
They are hitching, they are halting, and they lurk and hide and dodge,
They sneak for skulking-eddies, they bunt the bank and lodge;
And we almost can imagine that they hear the yell of saws
And the grunting of the grinders of the paper-mills, because
They loiter in the shallows and they cob-pile at the falls,
And they buck like ugly cattle where the broad dead-water crawls;
But we wallow in and welt 'em, with the water to our waist,
For the driving pitch is dropping and the drouth is gasping "Haste"!
Here a dam and there a jam, that is grabbed by grinning rocks,
Gnawed by the teeth of the ravening ledge that slavers at our flocks;
Twenty a month for daring Death—for fighting from dawn to dark—
Twenty and grub and a place to sleep in God's great public park;
We roofless go, with the cook's bateau to follow our hungry crew—
A billion of spruce and hell turned loose when the Allegash drive goes through.
My lad with the spurs at his heel
Has a cattle-ranch bronco to bust;
A thousand of Texans to wheedle and wheel
To market through smother and dust;
But I with the peavy and pole
Am driving the herds of the pine,
Grant to my brother what suits his soul,
But no bellowing brutes in mine.
He would wince to wade and wallow—and I hate a horse or steer!
But we stand the kings of herders—he for There and I for Here;
Though he rides with Death behind him when he rounds the wild stampede,
I will chop the jamming king-log and I'll match him deed for deed;
And for me the greenwood savor, and the lash across my face
Of the spitting spume that belches from the back-wash of the race;
The glory of the tumult where the tumbling torrent rolls,
With half a hundred drivers riding through with lunging poles;
Here's huzza, for reckless chances! Here's hurrah for those who ride
Through the jaws of boiling sluices, yeasty white from side to side!
Our brawny fists are calloused, and we're mostly holes and hair,
But if grit were golden bullion we'd have coin to spend and spare!
Here some rips and there the lips of a whirlpool's bellowing mouth,
Death we clinch and Time we fight, for behind us gasps the Drouth;
Twenty a month, bateau for a home, and only a peep at town,
For our money is gone in a brace of nights after the drive is down;
But with peavies and poles and care-free souls our ragged and roofless crew
Swarms gayly along with whoop and song when the Allegash drive goes through.
