The Wit and Humor of America, Volume IX
TextHe put on his long coat and the tie, and when he kissed his wife adieu she patted him affectionately on the cheek.
"It is good of you to go to this old dance and let me stay at home," she said, smiling sweetly at him. "Have as good a time as you can and be sure to see what Mrs. Harris wears."
When Tom got into the street he drew a long breath of fresh air, and then lighted a cigarette to quiet his nerves.
"I've got to go to that party for a few minutes," he said to himself, "or I may get caught when I come to take my examination to-morrow morning. I can't possibly make up a whole lot about dresses. And then some woman may tell Ruth that I was not there. Let's see," he looked at his watch, "it's nearly nine. Some people will be there. I can look them over and then take a few notes about the dressing-room as I come away."
Tom paused but a moment in the dressing-room, where a few oldish men waited for their fat, rejuvenated wives, and some young stags smoked cigarettes until the buds could get up to the hall.
The young Mrs. Tad-Wallington received him with a gracious smile and inquired for Mrs. Porter.
"A blinding headache," said Tom. "She was determined to come until the last minute, but then had to give it up."
The old Mr. Tad-Wallington took one hand from behind his back to give it to Tom, and for a moment almost lost that tired, married-to-a-young-woman look.
"How a' you, Tom?" he said. "Did you find out anything about that Barnesville business? Can you levy on Harmon's property?"
"I haven't looked any further, but I still think you can."
"Call me up as soon as you find out."
Tom was pushed away by a large wife with a little husband whom the hostess was presenting to Mr. Tad-Wallington, and this couple was followed by an extremely tall man who had apparently become stoop-shouldered talking to his very small wife. Tom sidled around where he could see the people as they came, and began making mental notes.
"Mrs. Tad-Wallington, dressed in a kind of silverish flowered—brocaded, I guess—stuff, with a bunch of white carnations—no, little roses. Blond hair done up with a kind of a roach that lops over at one side of her forehead." "There are our namesakes, the John Porters. Mrs. John has a banana colored dress with a sort of mosquito netting all over it. She's got one red rose pinned on in front." "There are the three Long sisters, one pink, one white, and one blue. Pink and white are fluffy goods. But Ruth'll not care how girls are dressed. It's the women." "Here's a queen in black. Who is it? Oh, Lord! I am sorry I saw her face. It's Mrs. May –, the Irish washerwoman, as Ruth calls her. And who's the Cleopatra with the silver snake around her arm, and the silver do-funnies around her waist? Oh, Bess Smith! I am getting so many details I'll have 'em all mixed up the first thing I know. Let me see, who had on the red dress? Ding, I've forgotten. I'd better write them down."
He got a card from his pocket and began writing abbreviated descriptions on it. "Mrs. R. strp. slk." "Mrs. J. J. white; h. of a long train." "Sm. Small brt. Mrs. Jones, wid." He filled up two cards and then slipped to the dressing-room and away.
"Solomon could not beat that trick. I can tell Sweetheart more than she could have found out herself if she had come. Now for something that's a little more fun." He chuckled at his cleverness as he stepped on a car to go the faster to his more fascinating party.
And he chuckled the following morning as he dressed.
"They were going to strip me, were they," he said to himself, as he pulled a small roll of bills from the vest pocket of his dress suit. "Well, not quite. Let me see. I had nineteen dollars with me. Now I have five, ten, and ten are twenty, and five are twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and two are thirty, thirty-one. And some change. That's not stripping, anyway."
He laughed again as he pulled two cards from his pocket and saw his memoranda of dresses.
"Good thought. I'd better read them over, for the morning paper may contain some description, and I'd like to make good. 'Mrs. Paton, wht. slk.' white silk. 'Mrs. Mull, d. t.' d. t.? What does d. t. stand for? d. t.? I can't think of anything but delirium tremens, but that's not it. D. t. Dark—dark what? Dark trous—No. Dark tresses? Not that, either. Dark—trousseau? Hardly that. She's just married, but she didn't have her whole trousseau on. Dark—? Search me, I don't know. 'Mrs. B.' Mrs. Brown, 'l. d.' Long dress? Lawn dress? No, lavender dress, I remember. This cipher is worse than the one in the 'Gold Bug.' I wish I had written it out."
Some of the things he could interpret and some he could not, but he could remember none when he took his eyes away from the card.
He found his wife waiting for him in the breakfast room, dressed in a blue tea-gown, and she looked so charming that he could not refrain from taking two kisses from her red lips. She put her arms around his neck and took one of them back again.
"How are you this morning? Did you have a good time at the dance?"
"Oh, so-so," Tom answered. "I've had better."
"Breakfast is ready. Now tell me all about it while we eat."
"Well, it was just like all others. Same people there, dressed about the same. I was in hopes you would read about it in the morning paper and let me off. That would give you a better account of it than I can."
"But I want to hear about it from your point of view. Did anything of any special importance happen? Whom did you dance with?"
There was a sharp questioning look in Mrs. Porter's eyes, that Tom, if he noticed it at all, took in a masculine way to indicate a touch of jealousy.
"No, nothing of any note. I danced with about the same people I do usually. Mrs. DeBruler, I think."
"You think? That's complimentary to her. How was she dressed?"
"Oh, ah; (mentally) 'bl. slk.' Blue silk or black silk, which was it? (Aloud) Blue silk, I think."
"Blue silk! My, she oughtn't to wear blue. What's that card you have in your hand, your program?"
"Yes, I wanted to see whom else I danced with."
"Oh, let me see," Mrs. Porter exclaimed.
"Well, it is—that is, I was just looking for my program. I can't find it. I must have lost it."
"Oh, that is too bad. I wanted to see it. Did you dance many dances?"
"No, not many. Just a few people we are under obligations to."
"How late did you stay?" Mrs. Porter asked, as she passed him his second cup of coffee.
"About midnight, I think."
"Oh, where were you after that? You didn't get home until after one."
"M'm, my, this coffee's hot! One? Did you say one? The clock must have been striking half-past eleven."
"No, I am sure it was after one, because I laid awake for a while and heard it strike two."
"May be you are right. I did not look. But lots of people were still there when I left. Do you like the two-step better than the waltz?"
"Yes, I do. But that was on Sunday—after twelve o'clock. Weren't you ashamed to dance on Sunday?"
"I think I like the waltz better. The waltz is to the two-step what the minuet is to the jig. Don't you think so now? Young Mrs. Black is a splendid waltzer. Next to you, she is about the best."
"Well, I do not care to be compared with her. And I hope you didn't dance with her. She, divorced and married again, and not twenty-four yet!"
"I don't see as much harm in a young woman being divorced as an old one."
"I do. They ought to live together long enough to know if their troubles are real."
"Hers were."
"I always thought Mr. Hughes was real nice. Did you find your program?"
"No, I must have lost it."
They rose from the breakfast table and went, arm in arm, to the sitting-room. They divided the morning paper and sat in silence for a while. Tom went over the first page, read the prospects for war between Russia and Japan, then the European despatches, and then came to the page with the city news. He glanced carelessly over it, seeing little to attract him. By and by his eyes returned to a column that he had passed because calamities did not interest him, something about an explosion. When he came to it the second time his eyes fell on one of the subheadings and it made him catch his breath. He read the headlines from the top.
"Great Heavens!" he said to himself, and shot a glance at his wife from the corners of his eyes. "Lord, I am in for it."
The heading that he saw was:
Terrific Explosion at a Ball
Panic Barely Averted
Mrs. Tad-Wallington's Dance Interrupted
Fire Ensued, but no Great Damage Done
Many of the Women Fainted
He then read the article through to see if there was any loop-hole, but found that the explosion had occurred, perhaps, before he was five squares away—about a quarter of ten, in fact. And he had admitted to his wife that he had stayed there until late at night!
"She mustn't see this page," he said to himself. "I must get it out of here and burn it."
He glanced at his wife again. She was reading her sheet interestedly. He separated the part that contained the city news and was preparing to smuggle it from the room under his coat.
"Here is the account of the dance," she exclaimed, looking up, "and you need not tell me any more—"
"The what!"
"The dance, and I can read all—"
"Did we get two papers this morning?" Tom stammered, feeling cold about the heart.
"No, I have the society sheet, and it tells what everybody wore—Why, what is the matter with you, Tom? You look sick. You are not sick, are you, Tom?" she asked, rising and coming over to him.
"No, no, I am not sick. I am all right. Go on and read the description of the dresses; that will relieve me more than anything else. I'll not have to think it all up."
"Oh, but you look sick."
"I am not; I am—I never was so well. See how strong I am. I can crush that piece of paper up into a very small ball with my bare hands. I am awfully strong."
"Oh, don't do that. There may be something in it that I want to read."
"No, there isn't. There's nothing in it. I read it through. I have an idea. I'll tell you what let's do. Let's burn the paper and I'll tell you what the women wore. These society notes are written beforehand and are not authentic. The only way is to have it from an eye-witness. Let's do it, will you?"
"No, I would rather read it. Aren't you sick, Tom? What makes your brow so damp?"
"It's so hot, it's infernally hot in here."
"I thought it was rather cold. I saw you shiver a moment ago. Tom, you are sick. You must have eaten too much salad last night. You know you can't eat salad."
"I didn't touch any salad. I only ate a frankfurter and drank a high-ball—"
"A frankfurter and a high-ball! Why, what sort of refreshments did they have?"
"I didn't mean that. I meant a canary-bird sandwich and a glass of water."
"I know what it is then, Tom. You inhaled a lot of the smoke."
Tom took a long hard look at his wife. "What!" he almost screamed at last.
"I say you have inhaled too much smoke. You have been smoking too much."
"Oh, that. Yes, I expect I have."
She looked at him with a twinkle in her eye as she sat on the arm of his chair, holding to the back with her hands.
"Tom, I'll bet you are a great hero."
"I'll bet I'm not."
"I'll bet you are, and are too modest to admit it."
"Too modest to admit what?"
"Too modest to admit the heroic things you have done."
"I never did any."
"Yes, you did. I know you saved two or three people's lives at the risk of your own."
"I haven't any medals."
"But you must have done something brave, and that's why you didn't tell me about the explosion."
Tom did not answer. The machinery of his voice would not turn. The power ran through his throat like cogwheels out of gear.
"My dear, sweet, brave, modest husband."
"I—I'm not all of that."
"Yes you are. You were the bravest man there. How many fainting women did you rescue?"
"Oh, not many. I think only five or six."
"Did you inhale much of the flame and smoke?"
"Yes, I think I must have inhaled some, but I did not notice it until now."
"Was the smoke very thick?"
"Awfully thick in places."
"And you walked right into it?"
"I had to. There wasn't any way to ride."
"Ride?"
"I mean I walked into the smoke. I don't know what I am saying. You must be right. I am sick."
"How brave my husband is. How proud I am of him. And not only brave but skilful. How did you manage to go through the smoke and flame and get no odor of smoke on your clothes, nor smut the front of your shirt?"
"I don't know, dear. I did not have time to notice. I was too busy."
"Ah, my hero! I am proud of you. Did you win or lose?"
"Did I what?"
"Did you win or lose?"
Tom took another look into her innocent blue eyes.
"Which?" she repeated.
"Ruth, what have you been doing to me?"
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"Don't I look it?"
A THRENODY
BY GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN
What, what, what,
What's the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Comes by the cable led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea and the Med-
Iterranean—he's dead;
The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn,
Who wouldn't?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Ahkoodn't.
Dead, dead, dead;
(Sorrow Swats!)
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
Swats whom he hath often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to victory,
As the case might be,
Sorrow Swats!
Tears shed,
Shed tears like water,
Your great Ahkoond is dead!
That Swats the matter!
Mourn, city of Swat!
Your great Ahkoond is not,
But lain 'mid worms to rot.
His mortal part alone, his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Ahkoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthy walls his frame surround
(Forever hallowed be the ground!)
And skeptics mock the lowly mound
And say, "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
His soul is in the skies,—
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat.
He sees with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries—
He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the
Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength,
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond,
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not!
THE CONSCIENTIOUS CURATE AND THE BEAUTEOUS BALLET GIRL
BY WILLIAM RUSSELL ROSE
Young William was a curate good,
Who to himself did say:
"I cawn't denounce the stage as vile
Until I've seen a play."
He was so con-sci-en-ti-ous
That, when the play he sought,
To grasp its entire wickedness
A front row seat he bought.
'Twas in the burlesque, you know, the burlesque of "Prince Prettypate, or the Fairy Muffin Ring," and when the ballet came on, that good young curate met his fate. She, too, was in the front row, and—
She danced like this, she danced like that,
Her feet seemed everywhere;
They scarcely touched the floor at all
But twinkled in the air.
She entrechat, her fairy pas
Filled William with delight;
She whirled around, his heart did bound—
'Twas true love at first sight.
He sought her out and married her;
Of course, she left the stage,
And in his daily parish work
With William did engage.
She helped him in his parish school,
Where ragged urchins go,
And all the places on the map
She'd point out with her toe.
And when William gently remonstrated with her, she only said: "William, when I married you I gave you my hand—my feet are still my own."
She'd point like this, she'd point like that,
The scholars she'd entrance—
"This, children, is America;
And this, you see, is France.
"A highland here, an island there,
'Round which the waters roll;
And this is Pa-ta-go-ni-ah,
And this is the frozen Pole."
Young William's bishop called one day,
But found the curate out,
And so he told the curate's wife
What he had come about
"Your merit William oft to me
Most highly doth extol;
I trust, my dear, you always try
To elevate the soul."
Then William's wife made the bishop a neat little curtsey, and gently said: "Oh, yes, your Grace, I always do—in my own peculiar way."
She danced like this, she danced like that,
The bishop looked aghast;
He could not see her mazy skirts,
They switched around so fast.
She tripped it here, she skipped it there,
The bishop's eyes did roll—
"God bless me! 'tis a pleasant way
To elevate the sole!"
THE HOSS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
The hoss he is a splendud beast;
He is man's friend, as heaven desined,
And, search the world from west to east,
No honester you'll ever find!
Some calls the hoss "a pore dumb brute,"
And yit, like Him who died fer you,
I say, as I theyr charge refute,
"'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"
No wiser animal makes tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose the axium, true as facts,
Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!"
The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,—
You hitch him up a time er two
And lash him, and he'll go his len'th
And kick the dashboard out fer you!
But, treat him allus good and kind,
And never strike him with a stick,
Ner aggervate him, and you'll find
He'll never do a hostile trick.
A hoss whose master tends him right
And worters him with daily care,
Will do your biddin' with delight,
And act as docile as you air.
He'll paw and prance to hear your praise,
Because he's learn't to love you well;
And, though you can't tell what he says,
He'll nicker all he wants to tell.
He knows you when you slam the gate
At early dawn, upon your way
Unto the barn, and snorts elate,
To git his corn, er oats, er hay.
He knows you, as the orphant knows
The folks that loves her like theyr own,
And raises her and "finds" her clothes,
And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!
I claim no hoss will harm a man,
Ner kick, ner run away, cavort,
Stump-suck, er balk, er "catamaran,"
Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.
But when I see the beast abused,
And clubbed around as I've saw some,
I want to see his owner noosed,
And jest yanked up like Absolum!
Of course they's differunce in stock,—
A hoss that has a little yeer,
And slender build, and shaller hock,
Can beat his shadder, mighty near!
Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist
And big in leg and full in flank,
That tries to race, I still insist
He'll have to take the second rank.
And I have jest laid back and laughed,
And rolled and wallered in the grass
At fairs, to see some heavy-draft
Lead out at first, yit come in last!
Each hoss has his appinted place,—
The heavy hoss should plow the soil;—
The blooded racer, he must race,
And win big wages fer his toil.
I never bet—ner never wrought
Upon my feller-man to bet—
And yit, at times, I've often thought
Of my convictions with regret.
I bless the hoss from hoof to head—
From head to hoof, and tale to mane!—
I bless the hoss, as I have said,
From head to hoof, and back again!
I love my God the first of all,
Then Him that perished on the cross,
And next, my wife,—and then I fall
Down on my knees and love the hoss.
WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE
BY S. E. KISER
He looked at my tongue and he shook his head—
This was Doctor Smart—
He thumped on my chest, and then he said:
"Ah, there it is! Your heart!
You mustn't run—you mustn't hurry!
You mustn't work—you mustn't worry!
Just sit down and take it cool;
You may live for years, I can not say;
But, in the meantime, make it a rule
To take this medicine twice a day!"
He looked at my tongue, and he shook his head—
This was Doctor Wise—
"Your liver's a total wreck," he said,
"You must take more exercise!
You mustn't eat sweets.
You mustn't eat meats,
You must walk and leap, you must also run;
You mustn't sit down in the dull old way;
Get out with the boys and have some fun—
And take three doses of this a day!"
He looked at my tongue, and he shook his head—
This was Doctor Bright—
"I'm afraid your lungs are gone," he said,
"And your kidney isn't right.
A change of scene is what you need,
Your case is desperate, indeed,
And bread is a thing you mustn't eat—
Too much starch—but, by the way,
You must henceforth live on only meat—
And take six doses of this a day!"
Perhaps they were right, and perhaps they knew,
It isn't for me to say;
Mayhap I erred when I madly threw
Their bitter stuff away;
But I'm living yet and I'm on my feet,
And grass isn't all I dare to eat,
And I walk and I run and I worry, too,
But, to save my life, I can not see
What some of the able doctors would do
If there were no fools like you and me.
THE BOAT THAT AIN'T 4
BY WALLACE IRWIN
A stout, fat boat for gailin'
And a long, slim boat for squall;
But there isn't no fun in sailin'
When you haven't no boat at all.
For what is the use o' calkin'
A tub with a mustard pot—
And what is the use o' talkin'
Of a boat that you haven't got?