Kitabı oku: «The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI», sayfa 6

THE BALLAD OF GRIZZLY GULCH ¹

BY WALLACE IRWIN

 
The rocks are rough, the trail is tough,
        The forest lies before,
As madly, madly to the hunt
        Rides good King Theodore
With 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 gun
And 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 RILEY

 
I 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 few
I'd like to jest refer to you—
Pervidin' that you don't object
To listen clos't and rickollect.
 
 
I allus argy that a man
Who does about the best he can
Is plenty good enugh to suit
This lower mundane institute—
No matter ef his daily walk
Is subject fer his neghbor's talk,
And critic-minds of ev'ry whim
Jest all git up and go fer him!
 
 
I knowed a feller onc't that had
The yeller-janders mighty bad,—
And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet
Would stop and give him some receet
Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say
He kindo' thought they'd go away
Without no medicin', and boast
That he'd git well without one doste.
 
 
He kep' a-yellerin' on—and they
Perdictin' that he'd die some day
Before 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 die
Went back on him eternally!
 
 
Its natchurl enugh, I guess,
When some gits more and some gits less,
Fer them-uns on the slimmest side
To 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 hate
Fer goin' at a faster gait.
 
 
The signs is bad when folks commence
A-findin' fault with Providence,
And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake
At ev'ry prancin' step they take.
No man is grate tel he can see
How less than little he would be
Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare
He hung his sign out anywhare.
 
 
My doctern is to lay aside
Contensions, and be satisfied:
Jest do your best, and praise er blame
That follers that, counts jest the same.
I've allus noticed grate success
Is mixed with troubles, more or less,
And it's the man who does the best
That gits more kicks than all the rest.
 

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

BY BRET HARTE

 
I 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 row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
 
 
But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For 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 see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That 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 gent
To say another is an ass—at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.
 
 
Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when
A 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 engage
In 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 row
That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.
 

LOST CHORDS

BY EUGENE FIELD

 
One autumn eve, when soft the breeze
        Came sweeping through the lattice wide,
        I sat me down at organ side
And 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 such
Sweet 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 RILEY

 
The 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 wings
And 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 dry
Through 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 APPLETON

 
Observe 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 quail
That 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.

The concussion made the cheek the color of an old-fashioned peony, and the jar caused the nose to bleed a little as the astonished Billy staggered back under the impact of a clenched fist.

Then the real fight began, but Billy, though he made a strong effort to rally, was beaten, and he knew, or thought he knew, why he was beaten. "It was holding the thought that done it," he faltered, as he fell after a quick stroke from Jim. He lay quiet on the grass, and his one wish was to die. He fixed his mind resolutely upon this wish, but failed to die at once; indeed he felt every moment the reviving forces of life throbbing through his tough young body. How could he look up and face his victorious foe? He decided rather to continue his efforts to die, and forthwith stiffened out into such rigidity as can be observed only in the bodies of those who have been dead forty-eight hours.

This manœuver frightened the lads around him. "See here!" said Johnny Flynn, "Billy's hurt bad, an' we ought to do something."

"He looks dead!" whimpered little Davy Runnion, the smallest boy present, and he ran off to tell Jim McMasters, who stood at ease, at a short distance, arranging his disordered dress.

The victor faltered as he looked upon Billy's stiffened limbs.

"We must take him home," he said, ruefully.

Four boys lifted Billy, two at his shoulders, two at his feet. In the center he sagged slightly, despite his silent efforts to be rigidity itself. The small procession was preceded by a rabble of white-faced small boys, while the rear was guarded by Jim McMasters, meditating on the reflection that victory might be too dearly bought. Just as they reached the front steps of Mrs. Dodge's house, and were beginning the tug up toward the door, Jim burst into a loud bawl, and this so much disconcerted the youngsters who were carrying Billy that they almost dropped him on the white door-stone.

Johnny Flynn gave a mighty ring at the door-bell, and then fled down the steps and ran to the street corner, where he stood, one foot in the air, ready to run when the door opened. The neat maid who answered the bell gave a little shriek when she saw Billy's inanimate form. The boys pushed by her, dumped their burden upon the big hall sofa, and rushed out before any questions could be asked. It was plain enough, however, that Billy had got the worst of the fight. "And sure enough he deserves it," mentally pronounced the servant maid as she ran to call her mistress.

Mrs. Dodge gave a dismal shriek when she saw Billy. She sent the maid for Dr. Gordon, and sat down on the sofa with Billy's head in her lap. This was ignominious, and Billy decided to live. He opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for water.

When the man of medicine arrived he ordered the vanquished to bed. In the goodness of his heart, pitying the household of women, he even carried Billy upstairs and assisted in undressing him. The doctor noticed during this process various small folded papers flying out of Billy's pockets, but he did not know their meaning. It was left for Cora and Pearl, later in the day, to pick them up and examine them. Alas for Billy's faith!

In his own boyish handwriting were his inspiring "thoughts," "Never say die," "Ketch hold prompt," etc. Billy turned his face to the wall with a groan as the twins laid the slips of paper on his pillow.

That evening, after Billy had held a long session of sweet, silent thought, for he could not sleep, and had eaten a remarkably good supper, he opened his mind to his mother.

"No more of these for me," he began, brushing the texts from his bed onto the floor.

"Of what, Willy?" questioned Mrs. Dodge.

"No more holdin' the thought, and all that," said Billy. "I'm through. Had too much. That's what did me up. If I hadn't been trying to think that blamed thought, I'd 'a' seen Jim a-comin'."

"But, Willy," expostulated Mrs. Dodge, "you must hold fast."

"Hold nothin'!" said Billy. He arose and sat up very straight in the bed. "I tell you I am goin' to have no more nonsense. Gimme quinine, hell, a gold basis, and capital punishment! That's my platform from this on. I'm goin' to look up a good Sunday-school to-morrow, in a church with a steeple on it, and a strict, regular minister, and all the fixin's. Remember, mother, after this I travel on my muscle weekdays, and keep Sunday like a clock!"

The twins picked up the scattered thoughts from the floor—Billy was lying in his mother's room—and their eyes were big with wonder.

"Burn 'em!" commanded Billy. Then, on second thought, he relented slightly. "Keep 'em yourself if you want to," he said to the twins. "Holdin' the thought may be all right for girls, but with boys it don't work!"