DE OLE PLANTATION MULE.
ADAM NEVER WAS A BOY.
A REMARKABLE CASE OF S’POSIN.
A man hobbled into the Colonel’s office upon crutches. Proceeding to a chair and making a cushion of some newspapers, he sat down very gingerly, placed a bandaged leg upon another chair, and said:
“Col. Coffin, my name is Briggs. I want to get your opinion about a little point of law. Now, Colonel, s’posin’ you lived up the pike here a half mile, next door to a man named Johnson. And s’posin’ you and Johnson was to get into an argument about the human intellect, and you was to say to Johnson that a splendid illustration of the superiority of the human intellect was to be found in the power of the human eye to restrain the ferocity of a wild animal. And s’posin’ Johnson was to remark that that was all bosh, because nobody could hold a wild animal with the human eye, and you should declare that you could hold the savagest beast that was ever born if you could once fix your gaze on him.
“Well, then, s’posin’ Johnson was to say he’d bet a hundred dollars he could bring a tame animal that you couldn’t hold with your eye, and you was to take him up on it, and Johnson was to ask you to come down to his place to settle the bet. You’d go, we’ll say, and Johnson’d wander round to the back of the house and pretty soon come front again with a dog bigger’n any four decent dogs ought to be. And then s’posin’ Johnson’d let go of that dog and set him on you, and he’d come at you like a sixteen-inch shell out of a howitzer, and you’d get scary about it and try to hold the dog with your eye and couldn’t.
“And s’posin’ you’d suddenly conclude that maybe your kind of an eye wasn’t calculated to hold that kind of a dog, and you’d conclude to run for a plum tree in order to have a chance to collect your thoughts and to try to reflect what sort of an eye would be best calculated to mollify that sort of a dog. You ketch my idea, of course?
“Very well, then; s’posin’ you’d take your eye off of that dog—Johnson, mind you, all the time hissing him on and laughing, and you’d turn and rush for the tree, and begin to swarm up as fast as you could. Well, sir, s’posin’ just as you got three feet from the ground Johnson’s dog would grab you by the leg and hold on like a vise, shaking you until you nearly lost your hold.
“And s’posin’ Johnson was to stand there and holloa, ‘Fix your eye on him, Briggs! Why don’t you manifest the power of the human intellect?’ and so on, howling out ironical remarks like those; and s’posin’ he kept that dog on that leg until he made you swear to pay the bet, and then at last had to pry the dog off with a hot poker, bringing away at the same time some of your flesh in the dog’s mouth, so that you had to be carried home on a stretcher, and to hire several doctors to keep you from dying with lock-jaw.
“S’posin’ this, what I want to know is, couldn’t you sue Johnson for damages and make him pay heavily for what that dog did? That’s what I want to get at.”
The Colonel thought for a moment, and then said:
“Well, Mr. Briggs, I don’t think I could. If I agreed to let Johnson set the dog at me, I should be a party to the transaction, and I could not recover.”
“Do you mean to say that the law won’t make that infernal scoundrel Johnson suffer for letting his dog eat me up?”
“I think not, if you state the case properly.”
“It won’t, hey?” exclaimed Mr. Briggs, hysterically. “Oh, very well, very well! I s’pose if that dog had chewed me all up it’d ’ve been all the same to this constitutional republic. But hang me if I don’t have satisfaction. I’ll kill Johnson, poison his dog, and emigrate to some country where the rights of citizens are protected!”
Then Mr. Briggs got on his crutches and hobbled out. He is still a citizen, and will vote at the next election.
MY PARROT.
Let your face express contempt on the word “pshaw,” and make the gesture in Figure 24 of Typical Gestures. Drawl out the word “yawned” in the third verse and give a comical wink in the fourth verse. Prolong the sound on “pshaw” in the last line.
BAKIN AND GREENS.
HUNTING A MOUSE.
I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions and shouting “shoo,” in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, “O Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya—shoo—horrid mouse, and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go way—O Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo.”
All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn’t poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment.
I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can’t handle many mice at once to advantage. Besides, I’m not so spry as I was before I had that spine in my back and had to wear plasters.
Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. “O Joshua,” she cried, “I wish you had not killed the cat.”
Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.
That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.
Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria “shoo” them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don’t pay for the trouble.
Joshua Jenkins.
THE VILLAGE SEWING SOCIETY.
This is a very amusing recitation when correctly rendered. The gossips make the most disparaging remarks about their neighbors, but are very pleasant to their faces. The words in parentheses should be spoken ‘aside’ in an undertone. A recital for one who can imitate different female voices.
SIGNS AND OMENS.
An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.
“Vell, I don’t dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don’t pelieve averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say—
“‘Fritz, de dog ish howling!’
“Vell, I don’ dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine paper, und mine frau she says—
“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,—der dog ish howling!’
“Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin’, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like averydings, und he park at de moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say—
“‘Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish someding pad ish happen. De dog ish howling.’
“Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn—
“‘Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas howl all night.’
“Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by shings, vot you dinks; dere vas a man’s vife cracked his skull in Philadelphia!”
THE GHOST.
Sing to the tune of Yankee Doodle the words designated.
A BIG MISTAKE.
Recently our church had a new minister. He is a nice, good, sociable gentleman; but coming from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people. Therefore it happened that during his pastoral calls, he made several ludicrous blunders. One as follows: The other evening he called upon Mrs. Haddon. She had just lost her husband, and she naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a few common-places had been exchanged, she was not surprised to hear him remark:
“It was a sad bereavement, was it not, Mrs. Haddon?”
“Yes,” faltered the widow.
“Totally unexpected?”
“Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it.”
“He died in the barn, I suppose.”
“Oh, no; in the house.”
“Ah, well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him?”
“Of course, sir.”
This was with vim. The minister looked rather surprised, crossed his legs and renewed the conversation.
“Blind staggers was the disease, I believe.”
“No, sir,” snapped the widow. “Apoplexy.”
“Indeed; you must have fed him too much.”
“He was quite capable of feeding himself, sir.”
“Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard?”
“He did.”
“You had to hit him on the head with an axe to put him out of his misery, I am told.”
Mrs. Haddon’s eyes snapped fire.
“Whoever told you that did not speak the truth,” she haughtily uttered. “James died naturally.”
“Yes,” continued the minister, in a perplexed tone. “He kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, didn’t he?”
“No, sir; he did not.”
“Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?”
“Thirty-five.”
“He did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with a better one.”
“Never! sir, will I find such a good one as he.”
“Oh, yes you will; he had the heaves bad, you know.”
“Nothing of the kind, sir.”
“Why, I recollect I saw him one day, with you on his back, and I distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the spring-halt.”
Mrs. H.’s eyes snapped fire, and she stared at the reverend visitor as if she imagined he was crazy.
“He could not have had the spring-halt, for he had a cork-leg,” she replied.
“A cork-leg—remarkable; but really, didn’t he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and kicking the wagon all to pieces?”
“Never, sir; he was not mad.”
“Probably not. But there were some good points about him.”
“I should think so.”
“The way in which he carried his ears, for example.”
“Nobody ever noticed that particular merit,” said the widow, with much asperity, “he was warm-hearted, generous and frank.”
“Good qualities,” answered the minister. “How long did it take him to go a mile?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Not much of a goer. Wasn’t his hair apt to fly?”
“He didn’t have any hair, he was bald-headed.”
“Quite a curiosity.”
“No, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are.”
The minister shifted uneasily, and got red in the face; but he returned to the attack.
“Did you use the whip much on him?”
“Never, sir.”
“Went right along without it, eh?”
“Yes.”
“He must have been a good sort of a brute!”
The widow sat down and cried.
“The idea of your coming here and insulting me,” she sobbed. “If my husband had lived you would not have done it. Your remarks in reference to the poor dead man have been a series of insults, and I won’t stand it.”
He colored, and looked dumfounded.
“Ain’t you Mrs. Blinkers?” at last he stammered, “and has not your gray horse just died?”
“No! no!” she cried. “I never owned a horse, but my husband died a week ago.”
Ten minutes later that minister came out of that house with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man.
“And to think,” he groaned, as he strode home, “that I was talking horse to that woman all the time—and she was talking husband.”
THE DUEL.
Imitate the “bow-wow” of the dog and the “me-ow” of the cat: at least, so deliver the words as to convey the idea of the barking and the mewing.
PLAYING JOKES ON A GUIDE.
European guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart—the history of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would; and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration.
After we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more, we never admired anything, we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We made some of those people savage, at times, but we never lost our serenity.
The doctor asked the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural to him.
The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation—full of impatience. He said:
“Come wis me, genteelmen!—come! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!—write it wis his own hand!—come!”
He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide’s eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger.
“What I tell you, genteelmen! Is it not so? See! handwriting Christopher Colombo!—write it himself!”
We looked indifferent, unconcerned. The doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest,
“Ah—what—what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”
Another deliberate examination.
“Ah—did he write it himself, or—or how?”
“He write it himself!—Christopher Colombo! he’s own handwriting, write by himself!”
Then the doctor laid the document down, and said,
“Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that.”
“But zis is ze great Christo—”
“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t, drive on!”
We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said,
“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo—splendid, grand, magnificent!”
He brought us before the beautiful bust—for it was beautiful—and sprang back and struck an attitude:
“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand—bust Christopher Colombo!—beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”
The doctor put up his eye-glass—procured for such occasions:
“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”
“Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!”
“Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do?”
“Discover America!—discover America, oh, ze devil!”
“Discover America? No—that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?”
“Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!”
“What did he die of?”
“I do not know. I cannot tell.”
“Small-pox, think?”
“I do not know, genteelmen—I do not know what he died of.”
“Measles, likely?”
“Maybe—maybe. I do not know—I think he die of something.”
“Parents living?”
“Im-possible!”
“Ah—which is the bust and which is the pedestal?”
“Santa Maria!—zis ze bust!—zis ze pedestal!”
“Ah, I see, I see—happy combination—very happy combination indeed. Is—is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?”
That joke was lost on the foreigner; guides cannot master the subtleties of the American joke.
We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last—a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him:
“See, genteelmen!—Mummy! Mummy!”
The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever.
“Ah—what did I understand you to say the gentleman’s name was?”
“Name?—he got no name!—Mummy!—’Gyptian mummy!”
“Yes, yes. Born here?”
“No. ’Gyptian mummy.”
“Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?”
“No!—not Frenchman, not Roman!—born in Egypta!”
“Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy—mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed! Is—ah—is he dead?”
“Oh, sacre bleu! been dead three thousan’ year!”
The doctor turned on him, savagely:
“Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this? Playing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn! Trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses on us! Thunder and lightning! I’ve a notion to—to—if you’ve got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!—or, by George, we’ll brain you!”
Mark Twain.