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REMARKS
By BILL NYE
(Edgar W. Nye)
Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What the name might imply:
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
—Bret Harte.
Ah Sin was his name;
And I won’t deny,
Regarding the name,
What it might suggest:
But his smile was thoughtful and innocent,
As I often pointed out to Bill Nye.
—Bret Harte.
With over one hundred and fifty illustrations,
by J.H. SMITH.
{Cover}
{Cover}
{Bill Nye}
Bill Nye
DIRECTIONS.
This book is not designed specially for any one class of people. It is for all. It is a universal repository of thought. Some of my best thoughts are contained in this book. Whenever I would think a thought that I thought had better remain unthought, I would omit it from this book. For that reason the book is not so large as I had intended. When a man coldly and dispassionately goes at it to eradicate from his work all that may not come up to his standard of merit, he can make a large volume shrink till it is no thicker than the bank book of an outspoken clergyman.
This book isn’t specifically meant for any one group of people. It’s for everyone. It’s a universal collection of ideas. Some of my best thoughts are in this book. Whenever I thought of something that I felt should be left unsaid, I’d leave it out of this book. Because of that, the book isn’t as big as I planned. When someone carefully and dispassionately tries to remove anything from their work that doesn’t meet their standards, they can make a big volume shrink down to the size of an outspoken clergyman’s bank book.
This is the fourth book that I have published in response to the clamorous appeals of the public. Whenever the public got to clamoring too loudly for a new book from me and it got so noisy that I could not ignore it any more, I would issue another volume. The first was a red book, succeeded by a dark blue volume, after which I published a green book, all of which were kindly received by the American people, and, under the present yielding system of international copyright, greedily snapped up by some of the tottering dynasties.
This is the fourth book I've published in response to the enthusiastic requests from the public. Whenever the public clamored too loudly for a new book from me and it became impossible to ignore, I would release another volume. The first was a red book, followed by a dark blue volume, and then I published a green book, all of which were well-received by the American people and, under the current flexible system of international copyright, eagerly taken up by some of the struggling dynasties.
But I had long hoped to publish a larger, better and, if possible, a redder book than the first; one that would contain my better thoughts, thoughts that I had thought when I was feeling well; thoughts that I had emitted while my thinker was rearing up on its hind feet, if I may be allowed that term; thoughts that sprang forth with a wild whoop and demanded recognition.
But I had long wanted to publish a bigger, better, and, if possible, a more exciting book than the first; one that would include my best ideas, ideas that came to me when I was feeling good; ideas that burst forth when my mind was fully engaged, if I can put it that way; ideas that erupted with enthusiasm and demanded to be acknowledged.
This book is the result of that hope and that wish. It is my greatest and best book. It is the one that will live for weeks after other books have passed away. Even to those who cannot read, it will come like a benison when there is no benison in the house. To the ignorant, the pictures will be pleasing. The wise will revel in its wisdom, and the housekeeper will find that with it she may easily emphasize a statement or kill a cockroach.
This book is the product of that hope and desire. It’s my greatest and best work. It’s the one that will stick around long after other books have faded away. Even for those who can’t read, it will feel like a blessing when there’s nothing else good in the house. For those who don’t know much, the pictures will be enjoyable. The knowledgeable will appreciate its insights, and the housekeeper will see that it can help her make a point or get rid of a cockroach easily.
The range of subjects treated in this book is wonderful, even to me. It is a library of universal knowledge, and the facts contained in it are different from any other facts now in use. I have carefully guarded, all the way through, against using hackneyed and moth-eaten facts. As a result, I am able to come before the people with a set of new and attractive statements, so fresh and so crisp that an unkind word would wither them in a moment.
The variety of topics covered in this book is impressive, even to me. It’s like a library of universal knowledge, and the information it holds is unlike anything else out there. I’ve been really careful not to use worn-out or outdated facts. Because of this, I can present a collection of new and engaging statements that are so fresh and appealing that even a harsh word could ruin them instantly.
I believe there is nothing more to add, except that I most heartily endorse the book. It has been carefully read over by the proof-reader and myself, so we do not ask the public to do anything that we were not willing to do ourselves.
I don't think there's anything more to say except that I really support this book. The proof-reader and I have gone through it carefully, so we’re not asking the public to do anything we weren't willing to do ourselves.
I cannot be responsible for the board of orphans whose parents read this book and leave their children in destitute circumstances.
I can't be held accountable for the group of orphans whose parents read this book and leave their kids in tough situations.
Bill Nye
Bill Nye the Science Guy
CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ALPHABETIZED CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
About Geology
About Geology
About Portraits
About Portraits
A Bright Future for Pugilism
A Bright Future for Boxing
Absent Minded
Forgetful
A Calm
A Chill
Accepting the Laramie Postoffice
Accepting the Laramie Post Office
A Circular
A Circular
A Collection of Keys
A Key Collection
A Convention
A Father's Advice to his Son
A Convention
A Father's Advice to his Son
A Father's Letter
A Dad's Letter
A Goat in a Frame
A Goat in a Frame
A Great Spiritualist
A Great Spiritual Leader
A Great Upheaval
A Major Disruption
A Journalistic Tenderfoot
A Journalism Rookie
A Letter of Regrets
A Letter of Apologies
All About Menials
All About Service Workers
All About Oratory
All About Public Speaking
Along Lake Superior
By Lake Superior
A Lumber Camp
A Logging Camp
A Mountain Snowstorm
A Mountain Snowstorm
Anatomy
Anatomy
Anecdotes of Justice
Justice Stories
Anecdotes of the Stage
Stage Stories
A New Autograph Album
A New Autograph Book
A New Play
A New Play
An Operatic Entertainment
An Opera Performance
Answering an Invitation
Responding to an Invitation
Answers to Correspondents
Responses to Correspondents
A Peaceable Man
A Peaceful Man
A Picturesque Picnic
A Beautiful Picnic
A Powerful Speech
An Inspiring Speech
Archimedes
Archimedes
A Resign
A Resignation
Arnold Winkelreid
Arnold Winkelried
Asking for a Pass
Requesting a Pass
A Spencerian Ass
Astronomy
A Spencerian Ass
Astronomy
A Thrilling Experience
An Exciting Experience
A Wallula Night
A Wallula Night
B. Franklin, Deceased
B. Franklin, Deceased
Biography of Spartacus
Biography of Spartacus
Boston Common and Environs
Boston Common and Surroundings
Broncho Sam
Bronco Sam
Bunker Hill
Bunker Hill
Care of House Plants
Plant Care
Catching a Buffalo
Catching a Bison
Causes for Thanksgiving
Reasons for Thanksgiving
Chinese Justice
Chinese Justice
Christopher Columbus
Christopher Columbus
Come Back
Come Back
Concerning Book Publishing
About Book Publishing
Concerning Coroners
About Coroners
Crowns and Crowned Heads
Crowns and Royalty
Daniel Webster
Daniel Webster
Dessicated Mule
Dried Mule
Dogs and Dog Days
Dogs and Summer Days
Doosedly Dilatory
“Done It A-Purpose”
Doosedly Slow
“Did It On Purpose”
Down East Rum
Down East Rum
Dr. Dizart's Dog
Dr. Dizart's Dog
Drunk in a Plug Hat
Early Day Justice
Drunk in a Top Hat
Early Day Justice
Eccentricity in Lunch
Uniqueness at Lunch
Etiquette at Hotels
Hotel Etiquette
Every Man His Own Paper-Hanger
Every Guy His Own Wallpaperhanger
Extracts from a Queen's Diary
Queen's Diary Excerpts
Farming in Maine
Farming in Maine
Favored a Higher Fine
Preferred a Higher Fine
Fifteen Years Apart
Fifteen Years Later
Flying Machines
Drones
General Sheridan's Horse
Sheridan's Horse
George the Third
Great Sacrifice of Bric-a-Brac
George the Third
Great Sacrifice of Bric-a-Brac
Habits of a Literary Man
“Heap Brain”
Habits of a Literary Person
“Loaded Mind”
History of Babylon
History of Babylon
Hours With Great Men
Time Spent with Great People
How Evolution Evolves
In Acknowledgment
How Evolution Changes
In Recognition
Insomnia in Domestic Animals
Insomnia in Pets
In Washington
“I Spy”
In Washington “I Spy”
I Tried Milling
I Tried Milling
John Adams
John Adams
John Adams' Diary
John Adams' Diary, (No. 2.)
John
Adams' Diary, (No. 3.)
John Adams' Diary
John Adams' Diary, (No. 2.)
John Adams' Diary, (No. 3.)
Knights of the Pen
Letter from New York
Knights of the Pen
Letter from New York
Letter to a Communist
Letter to a Communist
Life Insurance as a Health Restorer
Life Insurance as a Health Restorer
Literary Freaks
Literary Nerds
Lost Money
Lost Funds
Lovely Horrors
Lovely Horrors
Man Overbored
Mark Antony
Man Overboard
Mark Antony
Milling in Pompeii
Milling in Pompeii
Modern Architecture
Modern Architecture
More Paternal Correspondence
More Dad Correspondence
Mr. Sweeney's Cat
Mr. Sweeney's Cat
Murray and the Mormons
Murray and the Mormons
Mush and Melody
Mush and Melody
My Dog
My Dog
My Experience as an Agriculturist
My Journey as a Farmer
My Lecture Abroad
My Lecture Overseas
My Mine
My Mine
My Physician
My Doctor
My School Days
My School Days
Nero
Nero
No More Frontier
No More Frontiers
On Cyclones
On Hurricanes
One Kind of Fool
One Type of Fool
Our Forefathers
Our Ancestors
Parental Advice
Parenting Tips
Petticoats at the Polls
Skirts at the Polls
Picnic Incidents
Picnic Mishaps
Plato
Plato
Polygamy as a Religious Duty
Polygamy as a Religious Obligation
Preventing a Scandal
Avoiding a Scandal
Railway Etiquette
Train Etiquette
Recollections of Noah Webster
Memories of Noah Webster
Rev. Mr. Hallelujah's Hoss
Rev. Mr. Hallelujah's Horse
Roller Skating
Roller Skating
Rosalinde
Rosalinde
Second Letter to the President
Second Letter to the President
She Kind of Coaxed Him
She sort of encouraged him
Shorts
Shorts
Sixty Minutes in America
Sixty Minutes in America
Skimming the Milky Way
Exploring the Milky Way
Somnambulism and Crime
Sleepwalking and Crime
Spinal Meningitis
Spinal Meningitis
Spring
Spring
Squaw Jim
Squaw Jim
Squaw Jim's Religion
Squaw Jim's Faith
Stirring Incidents at a Fire
Strabismus and Justice
Stirring Incidents at a Fire
Strabismus and Justice
Street Cars and Curiosities
Streetcars and Oddities
Taxidermy
Taxidermy
The Amateur Carpenter
The DIY Carpenter
The Approaching Humorist
The Upcoming Comedian
The Arabian Language
Arabic Language
The Average Hen
The Average Chicken
The Bite of a Mad Dog
The Bite of a Mad Dog
The Blase Young Man
The Unimpressed Young Man
The Board of Trade
The Trade Board
The Cell Nest
The Cell Nest
The Chinese God
The God of China
The Church Debt
The Cow Boy
The Church Debt
The Cowboy
The Crops
The Crops
The Duke of Rawhide
The Duke of Rawhide
The Expensive Word
The Costly Word
The Heyday of Life
The Prime of Life
The Holy Terror
The Holy Terror
The Indian Orator
The Indian Speaker
The Little Barefoot Boy
The Little Barefoot Kid
The Miner at Home
The Home Miner
The Newspaper
The News
The Old South
The South
The Old Subscriber
The Longtime Subscriber
The Opium Habit
The Opium Addiction
The Photograph Habit
The Photography Habit
The Poor Blind Pig
The Poor Blind Pig
The Sedentary Hen
The Lazy Hen
The Silver Dollar
The Silver Dollar
The Snake Indian
The Snake Indian
The Story of a Struggler
The Wail of a Wife
The Story of a Struggler
The Cry of a Wife
The Warrior's Oration
The Warrior's Speech
The Ways of Doctors
The Practices of Doctors
The Weeping Woman
The Crying Woman
The Wild Cow
The Wild Cow
They Fell
They fell.
Time's Changes
Time's Changes
To a Married Man
To a Married Guy
To an Embryo Poet
To an Embryo Poet
To Her Majesty
To The President-Elect
To Her Majesty
To The President-Elect
Twombley's Tale
Twombley's Story
Two Ways of Telling It
Two Ways to Tell It
Venice
Venice
Verona
“We”
Verona
"Us"
What We Eat
What We Eat
Woman's Wonderful Influence
Woman's Amazing Influence
Woodtick William's Story
Woodtick William's Story
Words About Washington
Wrestling With the Mazy
“You Heah
Me, Sah!”
{Illustration: WE WERE NOT ON TERMS OF INTIMACY.}
Words About Washington
Wrestling With the Mazy
“You Hear Me, Sir!”
{Illustration: WE WERE NOT ON TERMS OF INTIMACY.}
My School Days.
Looking over my own school days, there are so many things that I would rather not tell, that it will take very little time and space for me to use in telling what I am willing that the carping public should know about my early history.
Looking back on my school days, there are so many things I’d rather not share that it will take very little time and space to mention what I'm okay with the critical public knowing about my early history.
I began my educational career in a log school house. Finding that other great men had done that way, I began early to look around me for a log school house where I could begin in a small way to soak my system full of hard words and information.
I started my education in a log schoolhouse. Noticing that other great people had done the same, I quickly began to search for a log schoolhouse where I could start learning in a small way, filling my mind with complex words and knowledge.
For a time I learned very rapidly. Learning came to me with very little effort at first. I would read my lesson over once or twice and then take my place in the class. It never bothered me to recite my lesson and so I stood at the head of the class. I could stick my big toe through a knot-hole in the floor and work out the most difficult problem. This became at last a habit with me. With my knot-hole I was safe, without it I would hesitate.
For a while, I learned really quickly. At first, learning came to me with hardly any effort. I would read my lesson once or twice and then take my place in class. I didn’t mind reciting my lesson, so I often stood at the front of the class. I could stick my big toe through a knot-hole in the floor and solve the toughest problems. Eventually, this became a habit for me. With my knot-hole, I felt secure; without it, I would hesitate.
A large red-headed boy, with feet like a summer squash and eyes like those of a dead codfish, was my rival. He soon discovered that I was very dependent on that knot-hole, and so one night he stole into the school house and plugged up the knot-hole, so that I could not work my toe into it and thus refresh my memory.
A big red-headed boy, with feet like a summer squash and eyes like a dead fish, was my rival. He quickly figured out that I relied heavily on that knot-hole, so one night he sneaked into the schoolhouse and blocked it up, making it impossible for me to stick my toe in and jog my memory.
Then the large red-headed boy, who had not formed the knot-hole habit went to the head of the class and remained there.
Then the big red-headed boy, who hadn't picked up the habit of knot-holing, went to the front of the class and stayed there.
After I grew larger, my parents sent me to a military school. That is where I got the fine military learning and stately carriage that I still wear.
After I got older, my parents sent me to a military school. That’s where I learned about military life and developed the dignified presence that I still carry today.
My room was on the second floor, and it was very difficult for me to leave it at night, because the turnkey locked us up at 9 o'clock every evening. Still, I used to get out once in a while and wander around in the starlight. I did not know yet why I did it, but I presume it was a kind of somnambulism. I would go to bed thinking so intently of my lessons that I would get up and wander away, sometimes for miles, in the solemn night.
My room was on the second floor, and it was really hard for me to leave it at night because the guy in charge locked us up at 9 o'clock every evening. Still, I managed to sneak out once in a while and stroll around in the starlight. I didn't fully understand why I did it yet, but I guess it was some kind of sleepwalking. I would go to bed so focused on my lessons that I’d get up and wander off, sometimes for miles, in the quiet night.
One night I awoke and found myself in a watermelon patch. I was never so ashamed in my life. It is a very serious thing to be awakened so rudely out of a sound sleep, by a bull dog, to find yourself in the watermelon vineyard of a man with whom you are not acquainted. I was not on terms of social intimacy with this man or his dog. They did not belong to our set. We had never been thrown together before.
One night I woke up and found myself in a watermelon patch. I had never felt so embarrassed in my life. It’s really shocking to be jolted awake from a deep sleep by a bulldog and realize you’re in the watermelon field of someone you don’t know. I wasn’t on friendly terms with this guy or his dog. They weren’t part of my social circle. We had never crossed paths before.
After that I was called the great somnambulist and men who had watermelon conservatories shunned me. But it cured me of my somnambulism. I have never tried to somnambule any more since that time.
After that, I was known as the great sleepwalker, and guys who had watermelon gardens avoided me. But it got rid of my sleepwalking. I haven't tried to sleepwalk again since then.
There are other little incidents of my schooldays that come trooping up in my memory at this moment, but they were not startling in their nature. Mine is but the history of one who struggled on year after year, trying to do better, but most always failing to connect. The boys of Boston would do well to study carefully my record and then—do differently.
There are other minor events from my school days that come to mind right now, but they weren't particularly remarkable. My story is just about someone who kept trying year after year to improve, but mostly fell short. The boys from Boston would benefit from closely examining my experiences and then—doing things differently.
Recollections of Noah Webster.
Mr. Webster, no doubt, had the best command of language of any American author prior to our day. Those who have read his ponderous but rather disconnected romance known as “Websters Unabridged Dictionary, or How One Word Led on to Another.” will agree with me that he was smart. Noah never lacked for a word by which to express himself. He was a brainy man and a good speller.
Mr. Webster definitely had the best command of language of any American author before our time. Anyone who has read his heavy but somewhat random romance known as “Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, or How One Word Led to Another” will agree with me that he was sharp. Noah never struggled to find the right word to express himself. He was a smart guy and a great speller.
It would ill become me at this late day to criticise Mr. Webster's great work—a work that is now in almost every library, school-room and counting house in the land. It is a great book. I do believe that had Mr. Webster lived he would have been equally fair in his criticism of my books.
It wouldn't be right for me to criticize Mr. Webster's significant work at this point, a work that is now found in nearly every library, classroom, and office in the country. It’s an important book. I truly believe that if Mr. Webster were still alive, he would have been just as fair in critiquing my books.
I hate to compare my own works with those of Mr. Webster, because it may seem egotistical in me to point out the good points in my literary labors; but I have often heard it said, and so do not state it solely upon my own responsibility, that Mr. Webster's book does not retain the interest of the reader all the way through.
I dislike comparing my work to Mr. Webster's, as it may come off as self-serving for me to highlight the strengths in my writing. However, I've often heard others say—so I'm not claiming this solely on my own authority—that Mr. Webster's book doesn't keep the reader's interest from start to finish.
He has tried to introduce too many characters, and so we cannot follow them all the way through. It is a good book to pick up and while away an idle hour with, perhaps, but no one would cling to it at night till the fire went out, chained to the thrilling plot and the glowing career of its hero.
He has tried to introduce too many characters, and because of that we can't follow them all the way through. It's a good book to pick up and pass the time with, maybe, but no one would stay up all night captivated by the exciting plot and the inspiring journey of its hero.
Therein consists the great difference between Mr. Webster and myself. A friend of mine at Sing Sing once wrote me that from the moment he got hold of my book, he never left his room till he finished it. He seemed chained to the spot, he said, and if you can't believe a convict, who is entirely out of politics, who in the name of George Washington can you believe?
There lies the big difference between Mr. Webster and me. A friend of mine at Sing Sing once told me that from the moment he picked up my book, he didn’t leave his room until he finished it. He said he felt like he was glued to the spot, and if you can’t trust a convict, who’s completely out of politics, then who can you trust, for crying out loud?
Mr. Webster was most assuredly a brilliant writer, and I have discovered in his later editions 118,000 words, no two of which are alike. This shows great fluency and versatility, it is true, but we need something else. The reader waits in vain to be thrilled by the author's wonderful word painting. There is not a thrill in the whole tome. I had heard so much of Mr. Webster that when I read his book I confess I was disappointed. It is cold, methodical and dispassionate in the extreme.
Mr. Webster was definitely a brilliant writer, and I found 118,000 words in his later editions, none of which are the same. While this demonstrates impressive fluency and versatility, we need something more. The reader waits in vain to be excited by the author's amazing word imagery. There isn't a single thrill in the entire book. I had heard so much about Mr. Webster that when I read his book, I have to admit I was let down. It feels cold, systematic, and extremely unemotional.
As I said, however, it is a good book to pick up for the purpose of whiling away an idle moment, and no one should start out on a long journey without Mr. Webster's tale in his pocket. It has broken the monotony of many a tedious trip for me.
As I mentioned, it’s a great book to grab when you want to pass the time, and no one should head out on a long trip without Mr. Webster's story in their pocket. It has made many boring journeys much more enjoyable for me.
Mr. Webster's “Speller” was a work of less pretentions, perhaps, and yet it had an immense sale. Eight years ago this book had reached a sale of 40,000,000, and yet it had the same grave defect. It was disconnected, cold, prosy and dull. I read it for years, and at last became a close student of Mr. Webster's style, yet I never found but one thing in this book, for which there seems to have been such a perfect stampede, that was even ordinarily interesting, and that was a little gem. It was so thrilling in its details, and so diametrically different from Mr. Webster's style, that I have often wondered who he got to write it for him. It related to the discovery of a boy by an elderly gentleman, in the crotch of an ancestral apple tree, and the feeling of bitterness and animosity that sprung up at the time between the boy and the elderly gentleman.
Mr. Webster's “Speller” was a less ambitious work, yet it had a massive sales record. Eight years ago, this book had sold 40 million copies, but it still had the same serious flaw. It was disjointed, cold, boring, and unexciting. I read it for years and eventually became a dedicated student of Mr. Webster's style, but I only found one thing in this book that seemed to cause such a rush—something that was even somewhat interesting, and that was a little gem. It was so captivating in its details and so completely different from Mr. Webster's usual style that I've often wondered who he had write it for him. It was about a boy discovered by an elderly gentleman in the fork of an ancestral apple tree, and the resentment and hostility that developed between the boy and the elderly gentleman at that moment.
Though I have been a close student of Mr. Webster for years, I am free to say, and I do not wish to do an injustice to a great man in doing so, that his ideas of literature and my own are entirely dissimilar. Possibly his book has had a little larger sale than mine, but that makes no difference. When I write a book it must engage the interest of the reader, and show some plot to it. It must not be jerky in its style and scattering in its statements.
Though I've been a dedicated student of Mr. Webster for years, I admit, without wanting to do a disservice to a great man, that his ideas about literature and mine are completely different. His book might have sold a bit more than mine, but that doesn't matter. When I write a book, it has to capture the reader's interest and have a clear storyline. It shouldn't be choppy in style or lack coherence in its statements.
I know it is a great temptation to write a book that will sell, but we should have a higher object than that.
I know it's really tempting to write a book just to make money, but we should aim for a higher purpose than that.
I do not wish to do an injustice to a man who has done so much for the world, and one who could spell the longest word without hesitation, but I speak of these things just as I would expect people to criticise my work. If we aspire to monkey with the literati of our day we must expect to be criticised. That's the way I look at it.
I don’t want to disrespect someone who has contributed so much to the world, especially someone who can spell the longest word without breaking a sweat. But I discuss these things just like I would want others to critique my work. If we aim to engage with the intellectuals of our time, we have to be ready for criticism. That’s how I see it.
P.S.—I might also state that Noah Webster was a member of the Legislature of Massachusetts at one time, and though I ought not to throw it up to him at this date, I think it is nothing more than right that the public should know the truth.
P.S.—I should also mention that Noah Webster was once a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, and even though I shouldn’t bring it up now, I believe it’s only fair for the public to know the truth.
To Her Majesty.
To Queen Victoria, Regina Dei Gracia and acting mother-in-law on the side:
To Queen Victoria, Regina Dei Gracia and also acting mother-in-law:
Dear Madame.—Your most gracious majesty will no doubt be surprised to hear from me after my long silence. One reason that I have not written for some time is that I had hoped to see you ere this, and not because I had grown cold. I desire to congratulate you at this time upon your great success as a mother-in-law, and your very exemplary career socially. As a queen you have given universal satisfaction, and your family have married well.
Dear Madame,—I know you’ll be surprised to hear from me after my long silence. One reason I haven’t written in a while is that I had hoped to see you by now, not because I’ve lost interest. I want to congratulate you on your success as a mother-in-law and your outstanding social life. As a queen, you’ve been widely admired, and your family has made good marriages.
{Illustration: ADVERTISING THE ENTERPRISE.}
{Illustration: PROMOTING THE BUSINESS.}
But I desired more especially to write you in relation to another matter. We are struggling here in America to establish an authors' international copyright arrangement, whereby the authors of all civilized nations may be protected in their rights to the profits of their literary labor, and the movement so far has met with generous encouragement. As an author we desire your aid and endorsement. Could you assist us? We are giving this season a series of authors' readings in New York to aid in prosecuting the work, and we would like to know whether we could not depend upon you to take a part in these readings, rendering selections from your late work.
But I wanted to particularly write to you about something else. We are working here in America to set up an international copyright system for authors, so that writers from all civilized countries can have their rights protected regarding the profits of their literary work. So far, this movement has received a lot of support. As an author, we would like your help and endorsement. Could you assist us? This season, we're hosting a series of author readings in New York to help continue this effort, and we would like to know if we could count on you to participate in these readings, sharing selections from your recent work.
I assure your most gracious majesty that you would meet some of our best literary people while here, and no pains would be spared to make your visit a pleasant one, aside from the reading itself. We would advertise your appearance extensively and get out a first-class audience on the occasion of your debut here.
I assure you, your gracious majesty, that you will meet some of our best writers while you’re here, and we will do everything we can to make your visit enjoyable, in addition to the reading itself. We will promote your appearance widely and ensure a top-notch audience for your debut here.
{Illustration: QUEEN VIC. READING.}
{Illustration: QUEEN VIC. READING.}
An effort would be made to provide passes for yourself, and reduced rates, I think, could be secured for yourself and suite at the hotels. Of course you could do as you thought best about bringing suite, however. Some of us travel with our suites and some do not. I generally leave my suite at home, myself.
An effort will be made to provide passes for you, and I think we can get you reduced rates at the hotels for you and your suite. Of course, you can decide what’s best regarding bringing a suite. Some of us travel with our suites, while others do not. I usually leave my suite at home.
You would not need to make any special change as to costume for the occasion. We try to make it informal, so far as possible, and though some of us wear full dress we do not make that obligatory on those who take a part in the exercises. If you decide to wear your every-day reigning clothes it will not excite comment on the part of our literati. We do not judge an author or authoress by his or her clothes.
You don’t need to change your outfit for the occasion. We try to keep it casual, as much as we can, and while some of us dress up, it’s not required for those participating in the activities. If you choose to wear your everyday clothes, no one from our literary crowd will comment. We don’t judge a writer by their appearance.
You will readily see that this will afford you an opportunity to appear before some of the best people of New York, and at the same time you will aid in a deserving enterprise.
You will easily see that this will give you a chance to meet some of the best people in New York, and at the same time, you will be supporting a worthy cause.
It will also promote the sale of your book.
It will also help sell your book.
Perhaps you have all the royalty you want aside from what you may receive from the sale of your works, but every author feels a pardonable pride in getting his books into every household.
Perhaps you have all the royalties you want besides what you might earn from selling your works, but every author feels a justifiable pride in getting their books into every home.
I would assure your most gracious majesty that your reception here as an authoress will in no way suffer because you are an unnaturalized foreigner. Any alien who feels a fraternal interest in the international advancement of thought and the universal encouragement of the good, the true and the beautiful in literature, will be welcome on these shores.
I want to assure your majesty that your reception here as a writer will not be affected at all by the fact that you are a foreigner. Anyone from another country who shares a genuine interest in the global progress of ideas and the universal promotion of goodness, truth, and beauty in literature will be welcomed here.
This is a broad land, and we aim to be a broad and cosmopolitan people. Literature and free, willing genius are not hemmed in by State or national linos. They sprout up and blossom under tropical skies no less than beneath the frigid aurora borealis of the frozen North. We hail true merit just as heartily and uproariously on a throne as we would anywhere else. In fact, it is more deserving, if possible, for one who has never tried it little knows how difficult it is to sit on a hard throne all day and write well. We are to recognize struggling genius wherever it may crop out. It is no small matter for an almost unknown monarch to reign all day and then write an article for the press or a chapter for a serial story, only, perhaps, to have it returned by the publishers. All these things are drawbacks to a literary life, that we here in America know little of.
This is a vast land, and we aspire to be a diverse and cosmopolitan people. Literature and creative genius aren't restricted by state or national boundaries. They flourish and thrive in tropical climates just as much as they do under the cold northern lights of the Arctic. We celebrate true talent just as enthusiastically and loudly on a throne as we would anywhere else. In fact, it might be even more commendable, because those who have never experienced it don't realize how challenging it is to sit on a hard throne all day and still write well. We should recognize struggling talent wherever it appears. It's no small feat for an almost unknown monarch to rule all day and then write an article for the press or a chapter for a serialized story, only to possibly have it rejected by the publishers. All these challenges are obstacles to a literary life that we here in America are largely unfamiliar with.
I hope your most gracious majesty will decide to come, and that you will pardon this long letter. It will do you good to get out this way for a few weeks, and I earnestly hope that you will decide to lock up the house and come prepared to make quite a visit. We have some real good authors here now in America, and we are not ashamed to show them to any one. They are not only smart, but they are well behaved and know how to appear in company. We generally read selections from our own works, and can have a brass band to play between the selections, if thought best. For myself, I prefer to have a full brass band accompany me while I read. The audience also approves of this plan.
I hope your gracious majesty will decide to come, and that you'll forgive this long letter. It would be good for you to come out this way for a few weeks, and I sincerely hope you'll decide to close up the house and get ready for a nice visit. We have some great authors here in America right now, and we're proud to show them off. They’re not only talented, but they’re also well-mannered and know how to handle themselves in company. We usually read excerpts from our own works, and we can have a brass band play between the readings if that seems best. Personally, I’d rather have a full brass band accompany me while I read. The audience seems to like that idea too.
{Illustration: THE ACCOMPANIMENT.}
{Illustration: THE ACCOMPANIMENT.}
We have been having some very hot weather here for the past week, but it is now cooler. Farmers are getting in their crops in good shape, but wheat is still low in price, and cranberries are souring on the vines. All of our canned red raspberries worked last week, and we had to can them over again. Mr. Riel, who went into the rebellion business in Canada last winter, will be hanged in September if it don't rain. It will be his first appearance on the gallows, and quite a number of our leading American criminals are going over to see his debut.
We’ve been experiencing some really hot weather here for the past week, but it’s finally cooler now. Farmers are harvesting their crops in good shape, but wheat prices are still low and cranberries are rotting on the vines. We managed to can all our red raspberries last week, but we had to redo it. Mr. Riel, who got involved in the rebellion in Canada last winter, is set to be hanged in September if it doesn’t rain. It’ll be his first time on the gallows, and quite a few of our prominent criminals from America are planning to go see his execution.
Hoping to hear from you by return mail or prepaid cablegram, I beg leave to remain your most gracious and indulgent majesty's humble and obedient servant.
Hoping to hear from you by reply mail or prepaid telegram, I respectfully remain your most gracious and understanding majesty's humble and obedient servant.
Bill Nye.
Bill Nye the Science Guy.
Habits of a Literary Man.
The editor of an Eastern health magazine, having asked for information relative to the habits, hours of work, and style and frequency of feed adopted by literary men, and several parties having responded who were no more essentially saturated with literature than I am, I now take my pen in hand to reveal the true inwardness of my literary life, so that boys, who may yearn to follow in my footsteps and wear a laurel wreath the year round in place of a hat, may know what the personal habits of a literary party are.
The editor of an Eastern health magazine, having requested information about the habits, work hours, and eating styles of writers, received responses from several people who were no more involved in literature than I am. Now, I’m taking a moment to share the real details of my literary life, so that young aspiring writers, who might dream of following in my footsteps and wearing a laurel wreath year-round instead of a hat, can understand the personal habits of a literary crowd.
I rise from bed the first thing in the morning, leaving my couch not because I am dissatisfied with it, but because I cannot carry it with me during the day.
I get out of bed first thing in the morning, leaving my couch not because I’m unhappy with it, but because I can’t take it with me during the day.
I then seat myself on the edge of the bed and devote a few moments to thought. Literary men who have never set aside a few moments on rising for thought will do well to try it.
I then sit on the edge of the bed and take a few moments to think. Writers who have never taken a few moments in the morning to reflect should definitely give it a try.
I then insert myself into a pair of middle-aged pantaloons. It is needless to say that girls who may have a literary tendency will find little to interest them here.
I then put on a pair of middle-aged trousers. It's worth mentioning that girls who have an interest in literature will find little that captures their attention here.
Other clothing is added to the above from time to time. I then bathe myself. Still this is not absolutely essential to a literary life. Others who do not do so have been equally successful.
Other clothing is sometimes added to what I mentioned earlier. I then take a shower. Still, this isn't absolutely necessary for a literary life. Others who don't do this have been just as successful.
Some literary people bathe before dressing.
Some literary people take a bath before getting dressed.
I then go down stairs and out to the barn, where I feed the horse. Some literary men feel above taking care of a horse, because there is really nothing in common between the care of a horse and literature, but simplicity is my watchword. T. Jefferson would have to rise early in the day to eclipse me in simplicity. I wish I had as many dollars as I have got simplicity.
I then go downstairs and out to the barn, where I feed the horse. Some literary types think they're too good for taking care of a horse because there's really nothing similar between horse care and literature, but simplicity is my motto. T. Jefferson would have to get up pretty early in the morning to outdo me in simplicity. I wish I had as many dollars as I have got simplicity.
I then go in to breakfast. This meal consists almost wholly of food. I am passionately fond of food, and I may truly say, with my hand on my heart, that I owe much of my great success in life to this inward craving, this constant yearning for something better.
I then head in for breakfast. This meal is pretty much all about food. I'm really passionate about food, and I can honestly say, with my hand on my heart, that I owe a lot of my success in life to this inner craving, this ongoing desire for something better.
During this meal I frequently converse with my family. I do not feel above my family, at least, if I do, I try to conceal it as much as possible. Buckwheat pancakes in a heated state, with maple syrup on the upper side, are extremely conducive to literature. Nothing jerks the mental faculties around with greater rapidity than buckwheat pancakes.
During this meal, I often chat with my family. I don’t consider myself better than them; if I ever do, I try to hide it as much as possible. Hot buckwheat pancakes with maple syrup on top are great for inspiring creativity. Nothing gets my mind going faster than buckwheat pancakes.
After breakfast the time is put in to good advantage looking forward to the time when dinner will be ready. From 8 to 10 A. M., however, I frequently retire to my private library hot-bed in the hay mow, and write 1,200 words in my forthcoming book, the price of which will be $2.50 in cloth and $4 with Russia back.
After breakfast, the time is used wisely, anticipating when dinner will be ready. From 8 to 10 A.M., though, I often retreat to my cozy library in the hayloft and write 1,200 words for my upcoming book, which will cost $2.50 in cloth and $4 with a leather cover.
I then play Copenhagen with some little girls 21 years of age, who live near by, and of whom I am passionately fond.
I then play Copenhagen with some little girls who are 21 years old and live nearby, and whom I am very fond of.
After that I dig some worms, with a view to angling. I then angle. After this I return home, waiting until dusk, however, as I do not like to attract attention. Nothing is more distasteful to a truly good man of wonderful literary acquirements, and yet with singular modesty, than the coarse and rude scrutiny of the vulgar herd.
After that, I gather some worms to go fishing. Then, I fish. After that, I head home, waiting until dusk because I prefer not to draw attention. There's nothing more unpleasant for a genuinely good person with great literary knowledge, yet marked humility, than the crude and rude gaze of the common crowd.
In winter I do not angle. I read the “Pirate Prince” or the “Missourian's Mash,” or some other work, not so much for the plot as the style, that I may get my mind into correct channels of thought I then play “old sledge” in a rambling sort of manner. I sometimes spend an evening at home, in order to excite remark and draw attention to my wonderful eccentricity.
In winter, I don't fish. I read "Pirate Prince" or "Missourian's Mash," or some other book, not so much for the story but for the writing style, so I can get my mind in the right place. Then I play "old sledge" in a laid-back way. Sometimes, I spend an evening at home to spark comments and draw attention to my quirky habits.
I do not use alcohol in any form, if I know it, though sometimes I am basely deceived by those who know of my peculiar prejudice, and who do it, too, because they enjoy watching my odd and amusing antics at the time.
I don’t consume alcohol in any form, if I’m aware of it, though sometimes I’m totally fooled by those who know about my specific dislike, and they do it because they enjoy watching my strange and funny reactions at the moment.
Alcohol should be avoided entirely by literary workers, especially young women. There can be no more pitiable sight to the tender hearted, than a young woman of marked ability writing an obituary poem while under the influence of liquor.
Alcohol should be completely avoided by writers, especially young women. There's nothing more heartbreaking to sensitive people than seeing a talented young woman trying to write an obituary poem while intoxicated.
I knew a young man who was a good writer. His penmanship was very good, indeed. He once wrote an article for the press while under the influence of liquor. He sent it to the editor, who returned it at once with a cold and cruel letter, every line of which was a stab. The letter came at a time when he was full of remorse.
I knew a young man who was a talented writer. His handwriting was really impressive. He once wrote an article for the newspaper while having a drink. He sent it to the editor, who immediately returned it with a cold and harsh letter, each line cutting deep. The letter arrived when he was feeling really regretful.
He tossed up a cent to see whether he should blow out his brains or go into the ready-made clothing business. The coin decided that he should die by his own hand, but his head ached so that he didn't feel like shooting into it. So he went into the ready-made clothing business, and now he pays taxes on $75,000, so he is probably worth $150,000. This, of course, salves over his wounded heart, but he often says to me that he might have been in the literary business to-day if he had let liquor alone.
He flipped a coin to decide if he should end his life or start a ready-made clothing business. The coin told him to take his own life, but his head hurt so much that he didn’t feel like pulling the trigger. So, he started the clothing business, and now he pays taxes on $75,000, meaning he’s probably worth $150,000. This, of course, eases his pain a bit, but he often tells me that he might have been in the literary world today if he had stayed away from alcohol.
A Father's Letter.
My dear son.—Your letter of last week reached us yesterday, and I enclose $13, which is all I have by me at the present time. I may sell the other shote next week and make up the balance of what you wanted. I will probably have to wear the old buffalo overcoat to meetings again this winter, but that don't matter so long as you are getting an education.
My dear son, your letter from last week arrived yesterday, and I'm enclosing $13, which is all I have right now. I might sell the other pig next week and cover the rest of what you needed. I’ll probably have to wear the old buffalo coat to meetings again this winter, but that doesn’t matter as long as you’re getting an education.
I hope you will get your education as cheap as you can, for it cramps your mother and me like Sam Hill to put up the money. Mind you, I don't complain. I knew education come high, but I didn't know the clothes cost so like sixty.
I hope you can get your education for as little money as possible because it really strains your mother and me to pay for it. Just so you know, I’m not complaining. I knew education would be expensive, but I had no idea the clothes cost so much.
I want you to be so that you can go anywhere and spell the hardest word. I want you to be able to go among the Romans or the Medes and Persians and talk to any of them in their own native tongue.
I want you to be able to travel anywhere and spell the toughest words. I want you to be able to mingle with the Romans or the Medes and Persians and converse with any of them in their own language.
I never had any advantages when I was a boy, but your mother and I decided that we would sock you full of knowledge, if your liver held out, regardless of expense. We calculate to do it, only we want you to go as slow on swallowtail coats as possible till we can sell our hay.
I never had any advantages when I was a kid, but your mom and I decided that we would fill you with knowledge, if you can handle it, no matter the cost. We're planning to do it, but we want you to take it slow with those swallowtail coats until we can sell our hay.
Now, regarding that boat-paddling suit, and that baseball suit, and that bathing suit, and that roller-rinktum suit, and that lawn-tennis suit, mind, I don't care about the expense, because you say a young man can't really educate himself thoroughly without them, but I wish you'd send home what you get through with this fall, and I'll wear them through the winter under my other clothes. We have a good deal severer winters here than we used to, or else I'm failing in bodily health. Last winter I tried to go through without underclothes, the way I did when I was a boy, but a Manitoba wave came down our way and picked me out of a crowd with its eyes shet.
Now, about that boat-paddling suit, the baseball suit, the bathing suit, the roller rink suit, and the lawn tennis suit—I don't really care about the cost, since you say a young man can't fully educate himself without them. But I’d like you to send home whatever you finish with this fall, and I'll wear them under my other clothes through the winter. Our winters are a lot harsher now than they used to be, or maybe I'm just not as healthy as I was. Last winter, I tried to get by without underclothes like I did when I was a kid, but a cold front from Manitoba hit us and knocked me out of a crowd without warning.
In your last letter you alluded to getting injured in a little “hazing scuffle with a pelican from the rural districts.” I don't want any harm to come to you, my son, but if I went from the rural districts and another young gosling from the rural districts undertook to haze me, I would meet him when the sun goes down, and I would swat him across the back of the neck with a fence board, and then I would meander across the pit of his stomach and put a blue forget-me-not under his eye.
In your last letter, you mentioned getting hurt in a little “hazing fight with a pelican from the countryside.” I don’t want you to get hurt, my son, but if I were from the countryside and another young goose tried to haze me, I would meet him at sunset, and I would hit him across the back of the neck with a fence board, then I would wander across his stomach and put a blue forget-me-not under his eye.
Your father aint much on Grecian mythology and how to get the square root of a barrel of pork, but he wouldn't allow any educational institutions to haze him with impunity. Perhaps you remember once when you tried to haze your father a little, just to kill time, and how long it took you to recover. Anybody that goes at it right can have a good deal of fun with your father, but those who have sought to monkey with him, just to break up the monotony of life, have most always succeeded in finding what they sought.
Your dad isn't really into Greek mythology or figuring out the square root of a barrel of pork, but he wouldn't let any schools mess with him without facing consequences. Maybe you remember that time you tried to mess with your dad just to pass the time, and how long it took you to bounce back. Anyone who approaches it the right way can have a lot of fun with your dad, but those who tried to play around with him just to shake up the boredom of life usually ended up getting exactly what they were looking for.
{Illustration: RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE.}
{Illustration: RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE.}
I ain't much of a pensman, so you will have to excuse this letter. We are all quite well, except old Fan, who has a galded shoulder, and hope this will find you enjoying the same great blessing.
I’m not much of a writer, so please forgive this letter. We’re all doing well, except for old Fan, who has a sore shoulder, and I hope this finds you enjoying the same great blessing.
Your Father.
Your dad.
Archimedes.
Archimedes, whose given name has been accidentally torn off and swallowed up in oblivion, was born in Syracuse, 2,171 years ago last spring. He was a philosopher and mathematical expert. During his life he was never successfully stumped in figures. It ill befits me now, standing by his new-made grave, to say aught of him that is not of praise. We can only mourn his untimely death, and wonder which of our little band of great men will be the next to go.
Archimedes, whose first name has been lost to time, was born in Syracuse, 2,171 years ago last spring. He was a philosopher and a math expert. Throughout his life, no one ever managed to outsmart him with numbers. It doesn't suit me now, standing by his freshly dug grave, to say anything about him that isn’t complimentary. We can only grieve his early death and wonder which of our group of remarkable men will be the next to leave us.
Archimedes was the first to originate and use the word “Eureka.” It has been successfully used very much lately, and as a result we have the Eureka baking powder, the Eureka suspender, the Eureka bed-bug buster, the Eureka shirt, and the Eureka stomach bitters. Little did Archimedes wot, when he invented this term, that it would come into such general use.
Archimedes was the first to come up with and use the word "Eureka." It has been used a lot lately, leading to products like Eureka baking powder, Eureka suspenders, Eureka bed-bug buster, Eureka shirts, and Eureka stomach bitters. Little did Archimedes know, when he invented this term, that it would become so widely used.
Its origin has been explained before, but it would not be out of place here for me to tell it as I call it to mind now, looking back over Archie's eventful life.
Its origin has been explained before, but it wouldn’t hurt to share it again as I remember it now, reflecting on Archie’s eventful life.
King Hiero had ordered an eighteen karat crown, size 7-1/8, and, after receiving it from the hands of the jeweler, suspected that it had been adulterated. He therefore applied to Archimedes to ascertain, if possible, whether such was the case or not. Archimedes had just got in on No. 3, two hours late, and covered with dust. He at once started for a hot and cold bath emporium on Sixteenth street, meantime wondering how the dickens he would settle that crown business.
King Hiero had ordered an eighteen karat crown, size 7-1/8, and after getting it from the jeweler, he suspected it had been tampered with. So, he turned to Archimedes to find out if that was true. Archimedes had just arrived on No. 3, two hours late, and covered in dust. He immediately headed to a hot and cold bath place on Sixteenth Street, all the while wondering how he was going to deal with the crown issue.
He filled the bath-tub level full, and, piling up his raiment on the floor, jumped in. Displacing a large quantity of water, equal to his own bulk, he thereupon solved the question of specific gravity, and, forgetting his bill, forgetting his clothes, he sailed up Sixteenth street and all over Syracuse, clothed in shimmering sunlight and a plain gold ring, shouting “Eureka!” He ran head-first into a Syracuse policeman and howled “Eureka!” The policeman said: “You'll have to excuse me; I don't know him.” He scattered the Syracuse Normal school on its way home, and tried to board a Fifteenth street bob-tail car, yelling “Eureka!” The car-driver told him that Eureka wasn't on the car, and referred Archimedes to a clothing store.
He filled the bathtub to the top, tossed his clothes on the floor, and jumped in. Splashing out a lot of water, equal to his own weight, he figured out the concept of specific gravity, and, forgetting his bill and his clothes, he wandered up Sixteenth Street and all around Syracuse, wearing only the warm sunlight and a simple gold ring, shouting “Eureka!” He ran straight into a Syracuse policeman and yelled “Eureka!” The policeman replied, “You'll have to excuse me; I don't know him.” He scattered the Syracuse Normal School students on their way home and tried to catch a Fifteenth Street streetcar, shouting “Eureka!” The driver told him that Eureka wasn’t on the route and directed Archimedes to a clothing store.
Everywhere he was greeted with surprise. He tried to pay his car-fare, but found that he had left his money in his other clothes.
Everywhere he went, people were surprised to see him. He tried to pay for his cab fare, but realized he had left his money in his other clothes.
Some thought it was the revised statute of Hercules; that he had become weary of standing on his pedestal during the hot weather, and had started out for fresh air. I give this as I remember it. The story is foundered on fact.
Some people believed it was the updated version of Hercules’s statue; that he had grown tired of being on display during the hot weather and had gone out for some fresh air. I share this as I recall it. The story is based on real events.
Archimedes once said: “Give me where I may stand, and I will move the world.” I could write it in the original Greek, but, fearing that the nonpareil delirium tremens type might get short, I give it in the English language.
Archimedes once said, “Give me a place to stand, and I will move the world.” I could write it in the original Greek, but since I’m worried that some might not understand it, I’ll provide it in English.
It may be tardy justice to a great mathematician and scientist, but I have a few resolutions of respect which I would be very glad to get printed on this solemn occasion, and mail copies of the paper to his relatives and friends:
It might be late justice for a great mathematician and scientist, but I have a few expressions of respect that I would really like to get printed for this important occasion and send copies of the paper to his family and friends:
“WHEREAS, It has pleased an All-wise Providence to remove from our midst Archimedes, who was ever at the front in all deserving labors and enterprises; and
“WHEREAS, It has pleased a wise Providence to take away from us Archimedes, who was always at the forefront in all worthy efforts and endeavors; and
“WHEREAS, We can but feebly express our great sorrow in the loss of Archimedes, whose front name has escaped our memory; therefore
“WHEREAS, We can only weakly express our deep sadness at the loss of Archimedes, whose first name we have forgotten; therefore
“Resolved, That in his death we have lost a leading citizen of Syracuse, and one who never shook his friends—never weakened or gigged back on those he loved.
Resolved, That with his death we have lost a prominent citizen of Syracuse, and one who never turned his back on his friends—never weakened or backed down from those he loved.
“Resolved, That copies of these resolutions will be spread on the moments of the meeting of the Common Council of Syracuse, and that they be published in the Syracuse papers eodtfpdq&cod, and that marked copies of said papers be mailed to the relatives of the deceased.”
Resolved, That copies of these resolutions will be shared at the meeting of the Common Council of Syracuse, and that they will be published in the Syracuse newspapers, and that marked copies of these papers will be sent to the relatives of the deceased.
To the President-Elect.
Dear Sir.—The painful duty of turning over to you the administration of these United States and the key to the front door of the White House has been assigned to me. You will find the key hanging inside the storm-door, and the cistern-pole up stairs in the haymow of the barn. I have made a great many suggestions to the outgoing administration relative to the transfer of the Indian bureau from the department of the Interior to that of the sweet by-and-by. The Indian, I may say, has been a great source of annoyance to me, several of their number having jumped one of my most valuable mining claims on White river. Still, I do not complain of that. This mine, however, I am convinced would be a good paying property if properly worked, and should you at any time wish to take the regular army and such other help as you may need and re-capture it from our red brothers, I would be glad to give you a controlling interest in it.
Dear Sir, It’s my uncomfortable responsibility to hand over the management of these United States and the key to the front door of the White House to you. You’ll find the key hanging inside the storm door, and the cistern pole upstairs in the hayloft of the barn. I’ve made a lot of suggestions to the outgoing administration about moving the Indian bureau from the Department of the Interior to the department of the sweet by-and-by. I should mention that the Indian situation has been quite bothersome for me, as several of them have claimed one of my most valuable mining claims on the White River. Still, I’m not complaining about that. However, I truly believe this mine could be a profitable venture if it were properly worked. If at any point you decide to take the regular army and any other support you may need to reclaim it from our red brothers, I’d be happy to give you a controlling interest in it.
{Illustration: A DEARTH OF SOAP IN THE LAUNDRY AND BATH-ROOM.}
{Illustration: A LACK OF SOAP IN THE LAUNDRY AND BATHROOM.}
You will find all papers in their appropriate pigeon-holes, and a small jar of cucumber pickles down cellar, which were left over and to which you will be perfectly welcome. The asperities and heart burnings that were the immediate result of a hot and unusually bitter campaign are now all buried. Take these pickles and use them as though they were your own. They are none too good for you. You deserve them. We may differ politically, but that need not interfere with our warm personal friendship.
You will find all the papers in their designated spots, and there's a small jar of cucumber pickles in the cellar that were leftover, which you're totally welcome to. The tensions and resentment that came from a heated and particularly harsh campaign are all in the past now. Take these pickles and enjoy them as if they were yours. They’re more than good enough for you. You deserve them. We may have different political views, but that shouldn't get in the way of our close personal friendship.
You will observe on taking possession of the administration, that the navy is a little bit weather-beaten and wormy. I would suggest that it be newly painted in the spring. If it had been my good fortune to receive a majority of the suffrages of the people for the office which you now hold, I should have painted the navy red. Still, that need not influence you in the course which you may see fit to adopt.
You’ll notice when you take over the administration that the navy is somewhat worn out and damaged. I recommend that it gets a fresh coat of paint in the spring. If I had been lucky enough to receive the majority of votes from the people for the position you currently hold, I would have painted the navy red. However, that shouldn’t affect the decision you choose to make.
There are many affairs of great moment which I have not enumerated in this brief letter, because I felt some little delicacy and timidity about appearing to be at all dictatorial or officious about a matter wherein the public might charge me with interference.
There are many important issues that I haven't listed in this short letter because I felt a bit shy and hesitant about coming across as dictatorial or pushy regarding a matter that the public might see as me interfering.
I hope you will receive the foregoing in a friendly spirit, and whatever your convictions may be upon great questions of national interest, either foreign or domestic, that you will not undertake to blow out the gas on retiring, and that you will in other ways realize the fond anticipations which are now cherished in your behalf by a mighty people whose aggregated eye is now on to you.
I hope you take the above in a positive way, and no matter what your beliefs are on important national issues, whether they're international or local, that you won't extinguish the light on your way out. I also hope you will fulfill the strong hopes that a large population has for you, as they are all looking to you now.
Bill Nye.
Bill Nye the Science Guy.
P.S.—You will be a little surprised, no doubt, to find no soap in the laundry or bath-rooms. It probably got into the campaign in some way and was absorbed.
P.S.—You might be a bit surprised to find no soap in the laundry or bathrooms. It likely got mixed up in the campaign somehow and disappeared.
B.N.
B.N.
Anatomy.
The word anatomy is derived from two Greek spatters and three polywogs, which, when translated, signify “up through” and “to cut,” so that anatomy actually, when translated from the original wappy-jawed Greek, means to cut up through. That is no doubt the reason why the medical student proceeds to cut up through the entire course.
The word anatomy comes from two Greek words that mean "up through" and "to cut," so anatomy literally means to cut up through. This is probably why medical students end up dissecting throughout their entire program.
{Illustration: STUDYING ANATOMY.}
{Illustration: LEARNING ANATOMY.}
Anatomy is so called because its best results are obtained from the cutting or dissecting of organism. For that reason there is a growing demand in the neighborhood of the medical college for good second-hand organisms. Parties having well preserved organisms that they are not actually using, will do well to call at the side door of the medical college after 10 P.M.
Anatomy gets its name because you get the best results from cutting or dissecting living things. Because of this, there’s an increasing demand around the medical college for good-quality used specimens. Anyone who has well-preserved specimens that they aren't currently using should consider stopping by the side door of the medical college after 10 PM.
The branch of the comparative anatomy which seeks to trace the unities of plan which are exhibited in diverse organisms, and which discovers, as far as may be, the principles which govern the growth and development of organized bodies, and which finds functional analogies and structural homologies, is denominated philosophical or transcendental anatomy. (This statement, though strictly true, is not original with me.)
The part of comparative anatomy that aims to identify the common plans seen in different organisms and seeks to understand the principles that control the growth and development of living beings, while also finding functional similarities and structural similarities, is called philosophical or transcendental anatomy. (This statement, while strictly accurate, is not my original idea.)
Careful study of the human organism after death, shows traces of functional analogies and structural homologies in people who were supposed to have been in perfect health all their lives Probably many of those we meet in the daily walks of life, many, too, who wear a smile and outwardly seem happy, have either one or both of these things. A man may live a false life and deceive his most intimate friends in the matter of anatomical analogies or homologies, but he cannot conceal it from the eagle eye of the medical student. The ambitious medical student makes a specialty of true inwardness.
A close examination of the human body after death reveals signs of functional similarities and structural commonalities in individuals who were thought to be completely healthy throughout their lives. It's likely that many of the people we encounter in our daily lives, including those who wear a smile and appear happy, actually have one or both of these conditions. A person might live a deceptive life and fool even his closest friends regarding their anatomical similarities or commonalities, but he can't hide it from the keen observations of a medical student. The eager medical student focuses on understanding the true inner workings.
The study of the structure of animals is called zootomy. The attempt to study the anatomical structure of the grizzly bear from the inside has not been crowned with success. When the anatomizer and the bear have been thrown together casually, it has generally been a struggle between the two organisms to see which would make a study of the structure of the other. Zootomy and moral suasion are not homogeneous, analogous, nor indigenous.
The study of animal structure is known as zootomy. Attempts to examine the internal anatomy of the grizzly bear have not been successful. When the anatomist and the bear have met randomly, it usually turned into a struggle between the two to see which one could study the anatomy of the other. Zootomy and moral persuasion are neither similar, comparable, nor native to each other.
Vegetable anatomy is called phytonomy, sometimes. But it would not be safe to address a vigorous man by that epithet. We may call a vegetable that, however, and be safe.
Vegetable anatomy is sometimes referred to as phytonomy. However, it wouldn’t be wise to call a strong man that. We can call a plant that, though, without any issue.
Human anatomy is that branch of anatomy which enters into the description of the structure and geographical distribution of the elements of a human being. It also applies to the structure of the microbe that crawls out of jail every four years just long enough to whip his wife, vote and go back again.
Human anatomy is the part of anatomy that describes the structure and geographical distribution of the elements of a human being. It also pertains to the structure of the microbe that escapes from jail every four years just long enough to abuse his wife, vote, and then return.
Human anatomy is either general, specific, topographical or surgical. Those terms do not imply the dissection and anatomy of generals, specialists, topographers and surgeons, as they might seem to imply, but really mean something else. I would explain here what they actually do mean if I had more room and knew enough to do it.
Human anatomy can be classified as general, specific, topographical, or surgical. These terms don't refer to the dissection and anatomy of generals, specialists, topographers, and surgeons, as they might suggest, but actually signify different concepts. I would clarify what they truly mean if I had more space and sufficient knowledge to do so.
Anatomists divide their science, as well as their subjects, into fragments. Osteology treats of the skeleton, myology of the muscles, angiology of the blood vessels, splanchology the digestive organs or department of the interior, and so on.
Anatomists break their field and subjects down into parts. Osteology focuses on the skeleton, myology on the muscles, angiology on the blood vessels, and splanchology on the digestive organs or internal systems, and so forth.
People tell pretty tough stories of the young carvists who study anatomy on subjects taken from life. I would repeat a few of them here, but they are productive of insomnia, so I will not give them.
People share some pretty intense stories about the young carvers who study anatomy using live subjects. I could repeat a few of them here, but they tend to cause insomnia, so I won't.
I visited a matinee of this kind once for a short time, but I have not been there since. When I have a holiday now, the idea of spending it in the dissecting-room of a large and flourishing medical college does not occur to me.
I went to a matinee like this once for a little while, but I haven't been back since. Now, when I have a day off, the thought of spending it in the dissecting room of a big, busy medical college doesn't even cross my mind.
I never could be a successful surgeon, I fear. While I have no hesitation about mutilating the English, I have scruples about cutting up other nationalities. I should always fear, while pursuing my studies, that I might be called upon to dissect a friend, and I could not do that. I should like to do anything that would advance the cause of science, but I should not want to form the habit of dissecting people, lest some day I might be called upon to dissect a friend for whom I had a great attachment, or some creditor who had an attachment for me.
I don’t think I could ever be a successful surgeon. While I have no problem with messing up the English language, I have real doubts about operating on people from other nationalities. I would always worry, while studying, that I might have to dissect a friend, and I just couldn’t do that. I want to contribute to science in any way I can, but I wouldn’t want to get into the habit of cutting people open, in case I might one day be required to dissect a close friend or a creditor who has feelings for me.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
Mr. Sweeney's Cat.
Robert Ormsby Sweeney is a druggist of St. Paul, and though a recent chronological record reveals the fact that he is a direct descendant of a sure-enough king, and though there is mighty good purple, royal blood in his veins that dates back where kings used to have something to do to earn their salary, he goes right on with his regular business, selling drugs at the great sacrifice which druggists will make sometimes in order to place their goods within the reach of all.
Robert Ormsby Sweeney is a pharmacist in St. Paul, and even though recent records show that he is a direct descendant of an actual king, and even though he has some impressive royal blood in his veins that goes back to a time when kings had real responsibilities, he continues to run his regular business, selling medicines at significant discounts that pharmacists sometimes offer to make their products accessible to everyone.
As soon as I learned that Mr. Sweeney had barely escaped being a crowned head, I got acquainted with him and tried to cheer him up, and I told him that people wouldn't hold him in any way responsible, and that as it hadn't shown itself in his family for years he might perhaps finally wear it out.
As soon as I found out that Mr. Sweeney had nearly become royalty, I introduced myself to him and tried to lift his spirits. I assured him that people wouldn't blame him at all, and since it hadn't appeared in his family for years, he might eventually just outgrow it.
He is a mighty pleasant man to meet, anyhow, and you can have just as much fun with him as you could with a man who didn't have any royal blood in his veins. You could be with him for days on a fishing trip and never notice it at all.
He’s a really nice guy to meet, anyway, and you can have just as much fun with him as you could with someone without any royal blood. You could spend days on a fishing trip with him and never even realize it.
But I was going to speak more in particular about Mr. Sweeney's cat. Mr. Sweeney had a large cat, named Dr. Mary Walker, of which he was very fond. Dr. Mary Walker remained at the drug store all the time, and was known all over St. Paul as a quiet and reserved cat. If Dr. Mary Walker took in the town after office hours, nobody seemed to know anything about it. She would be around bright and cheerful the next morning and attend to her duties at the store just as though nothing whatever had happened.
But I wanted to talk more specifically about Mr. Sweeney's cat. Mr. Sweeney had a big cat named Dr. Mary Walker, and he was very fond of her. Dr. Mary Walker stayed at the drug store all the time and was known throughout St. Paul as a quiet and reserved cat. If Dr. Mary Walker explored the town after hours, no one seemed to notice. She would be back the next morning, bright and cheerful, ready to do her duties at the store as if nothing had happened.
One day last summer Mr. Sweeney left a large plate of fly-paper with water on it in the window, hoping to gather in a few quarts of flies in a deceased state. Dr. Mary Walker used to go to this window during the afternoon and look out on the busy street while she called up pleasant memories of her past life. That afternoon she thought she would call up some more memories, so she went over on the counter and from there jumped down on the window-sill, landing with all four feet in the plate of fly-paper.
One day last summer, Mr. Sweeney left a big plate of flypaper with water in it on the windowsill, hoping to catch a few quarts of dead flies. Dr. Mary Walker would often stand at this window in the afternoon, looking out at the busy street while reminiscing about her happy memories. That afternoon, she decided to recall even more memories, so she climbed onto the counter and jumped down onto the windowsill, landing squarely in the plate of flypaper.
At first she regarded it as a joke, and treated the matter very lightly, but later on she observed that the fly-paper stuck to her feet with great tenacity of purpose. Those who have never seen the look of surprise and deep sorrow that a cat wears when she finds herself glued to a whole sheet of fly-paper, cannot fully appreciate the way Dr. Mary Walker felt. She did not dash wildly through a $150 plate-glass window, as some cats would have done. She controlled herself and acted in the coolest manner, though you could have seen that mentally she suffered intensely. She sat down a moment to more fully outline a plan for the future. In doing so, she made a great mistake. The gesture resulted in glueing the fly-paper to her person in such a way that the edge turned up behind in the most abrupt manner, and caused her great inconvenience.
At first, she thought it was a joke and took the situation lightly, but later she noticed that the fly-paper was really stuck to her feet. Anyone who has never seen the look of surprise and deep sadness on a cat's face when it finds itself stuck to a whole sheet of fly-paper can’t fully understand how Dr. Mary Walker felt. She didn’t go crashing through a $150 plate-glass window like some cats would. Instead, she kept her cool and handled the situation calmly, though it was clear that she was mentally suffering a lot. She took a moment to think through a plan for the future. In doing so, she made a big mistake. The movement caused the fly-paper to stick to her in such a way that the edge flipped up awkwardly behind her, making things really uncomfortable.
{Illustration: AT FIRST SHE REGARDED IT AS A JOKE.}
{Illustration: AT FIRST SHE SAW IT AS A JOKE.}
Some one at that time laughed in a coarse and heartless way, and I wish you could have seen the look of pain that Dr. Mary Walker gave him.
Someone at that time laughed in a rough and uncaring way, and I wish you could have seen the pained look that Dr. Mary Walker gave him.
Then she went away. She did not go around the prescription case as the rest of us did, but strolled through the middle of it, and so on out through the glass door at the rear of the store. We did not see her go through the glass door, but we found pieces of fly-paper and fur on the ragged edges of a large aperture in the glass, and we kind of jumped at the conclusion that Dr. Mary Walker had taken that direction in retiring from the room.
Then she walked away. She didn’t go around the prescription counter like the rest of us, but instead strolled right through the middle of it, and out through the glass door at the back of the store. We didn’t actually see her go through the glass door, but we found bits of flypaper and fur on the torn edges of a big hole in the glass, and we kind of leaped to the conclusion that Dr. Mary Walker had exited that way from the room.
Dr. Mary Walker never returned to St. Paul, and her exact whereabouts are not known, though every effort was made to find her. Fragments of flypaper and brindle hair were found as far west as the Yellowstone National Park, and as far north as the British line, but the doctor herself was not found. My own theory is, that if she turned her bow to the west so as to catch the strong easterly gale on her quarter, with the sail she had set and her tail pointing directly toward the zenith, the chances for Dr. Mary Walker's immediate return are extremely slim.
Dr. Mary Walker never went back to St. Paul, and her exact location is unknown, even though extensive searches were conducted to find her. Pieces of flypaper and brindle hair were discovered as far west as Yellowstone National Park and as far north as the Canadian border, but the doctor herself was never located. Personally, I believe that if she headed west to take advantage of the strong easterly wind with the sail she had up and her tail aiming straight up, the chances of Dr. Mary Walker returning anytime soon are very low.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
The Heyday of Life.
There will always be a slight difference in the opinions of the young and the mature, relative to the general plan on which the solar system should be operated, no doubt. There are also points of disagreement in other matters, and it looks as though there always would be.
There will always be a small difference in the opinions of young people and older individuals regarding the overall plan for how the solar system should function, no doubt. There are also points of disagreement on other issues, and it seems like there always will be.
To the young the future has a more roseate hue. The roseate hue comes high, but we have to use it in this place. To the young there spreads out across the horizon a glorious range of possibilities. After the youth has endorsed for an intimate friend a few times, and purchased the paper at the bank himself later on, the horizon won't seem to horizon so tumultuously as it did aforetime. I remember at one time of purchasing such a piece of accommodation paper at a bank, and I still have it. I didn't need it any more than a cat needs eleven tails at one and the same time. Still the bank made it an object for me, and I secured it. Such things as these harshly knock the flush and bloom off the cheek of youth, and prompt us to turn the strawberry box bottom side up before we purchase it.
To young people, the future looks more optimistic. That hopeful perspective comes with a price, but we have to accept it here. For the young, a wide range of exciting possibilities stretches out on the horizon. After experiencing a few close friendships and dealing with things like buying a bank note on their own, that horizon won’t seem so overwhelming as it once did. I remember buying such a bank note once, and I still have it. I didn't need it any more than a cat needs eleven tails at the same time. Yet, the bank made it seem important to me, and I got it. Experiences like these can take away the freshness and excitement of youth, prompting us to be more cautious before making a purchase.
Youth is gay and hopeful, age is covered with experience and scars where the skin has been knocked off and had to grow on again. To the young a dollar looks large and strong, but to the middle-aged and the old it is weak and inefficient.
Youth is cheerful and optimistic, while age comes with experience and scars where the skin has been worn down and had to heal. To young people, a dollar seems substantial and powerful, but to those who are middle-aged and older, it feels fragile and ineffective.
When we are in the heyday and fizz of existence, we believe everything; but after awhile we murmur: “What's that you are givin' us,” or words of like character. Age brings caution and a lot of shop-worn experience, purchased at the highest market price. Time brings vain regrets and wisdom teeth that can be left in a glass of water over night.
When we're enjoying the peak of life, we believe in everything; but after some time we grumble: “What are you trying to sell us?” or something similar. With age comes caution and a lot of tired experiences, bought at a premium. Time gives us empty regrets and wisdom that can be left in a glass of water overnight.
Still we should not repine. If people would repine less and try harder to get up an appetite by persweating in someone's vineyard at so much per diem, it would be better. The American people of late years seem to have a deeper and deadlier repugnance for mannish industry, and there seems to be a growing opinion that our crops are more abundant when saturated with foreign perspiration. European sweat, if I may be allowed to use such a low term, is very good in its place, but the native-born Duke of Dakota, or the Earl of York State should remember that the matter of perspiration and posterity should not be left solely to the foreigner.
Still, we shouldn’t complain. If people complained less and worked harder to build an appetite by sweating it out in someone’s vineyard for a daily wage, it would be better. Recently, Americans seem to have developed a stronger and more destructive aversion to hard work, and there’s a growing belief that our crops do better when they’re grown with foreign labor. European labor, if I can put it bluntly, is useful in its place, but the homegrown Duke of Dakota or the Earl of York State should remember that the responsibility for hard work and future generations shouldn’t be left only to foreigners.
There are too many Americans who toil not, neither do they spin. They would be willing to have an office foisted upon them, but they would rather blow their so-called brains out than to steer a pair of large steel-gray mules from day to day. They are too proud to hoe corn, for fear some great man will ride by and see the termination of their shirts extending out through the seats of their pantaloons, but they are not too proud to assign their shattered finances to a friend and their shattered remains to the morgue.
There are too many Americans who don’t work and aren’t willing to do anything productive. They’d accept being given an office job, but they’d rather do something drastic than drive a pair of big gray mules day in and day out. They’re too proud to work in the fields, worried that some important person will see their worn-out clothes, but they aren't too proud to hand over their financial issues to a friend and leave their broken bodies for the morgue.
Pride is all right if it is the right kind, but the pride that prompts a man to kill his mother, because she at last refuses to black his boots any more, is an erroneous pride. The pride that induces a man to muss up the carpet with his brains because there is nothing left for him to do but to labor, is the kind that Lucifer had when he bolted the action of the convention and went over to the red-hot minority.
Pride is okay as long as it's the right kind, but the pride that drives a man to kill his mother just because she finally says she won't clean his boots anymore is misguided pride. The pride that makes a man mess up the carpet with his brains because he thinks he has no choice but to work is the same kind Lucifer had when he disrupted the convention and joined the fiery minority.
Youth is the spring-time of life. It is the time to acquire information, so that we may show it off in after years and paralyze people with what we know. The wise youth will “lay low” till he gets a whole lot of knowledge, and then in later days turn it loose in an abrupt manner. He will guard against telling what he knows, a little at a time. That is unwise. I once knew a youth who wore himself out telling people all he knew from day to day, so that when he became a bald-headed man he was utterly exhausted and didn't have anything left to tell anyone. Some of the things that we know should be saved for our own use. The man who sheds all his knowledge, and don't leave enough to keep house with, fools himself.
Youth is the springtime of life. It’s the time to gather knowledge so we can impress others later on with what we know. The smart young person will “keep a low profile” until they have a wealth of knowledge, and then unleash it all at once in the future. They’ll be careful not to share bits and pieces of what they know over time, as that’s not wise. I once knew a guy who exhausted himself sharing everything he knew every single day, so by the time he was bald, he had nothing left to offer anyone. Some of the knowledge we gain should be kept for our own use. A person who spills all their knowledge without saving enough to live off of is only fooling themselves.
They Fell.
Two delegates to the General Convocation of the Sons of Ice Water were sitting in the lobby of the Windsor, in the city of Denver, not long ago, strangers to each other and to everybody else. One came from Huerferno county, and the other was a delegate from the Ice Water Encampment of Correjos county.
Two delegates to the General Convocation of the Sons of Ice Water were sitting in the lobby of the Windsor in Denver not long ago, strangers to each other and to everyone else. One was from Huerferno County, and the other was a delegate from the Ice Water Encampment of Correjos County.
From the beautiful billiard hall came the sharp rattle of ivory balls, and in the bar-room there was a glitter of electric light, cut glass, and French plate mirrors. Out of the door came the merry laughter of the giddy throng, flavored with fragrant Havana smoke and the delicate odor of lemon and mirth and pine apple and cognac.
From the beautiful billiard hall came the sharp clatter of ivory balls, and in the bar area, there was a sparkle of electric light, cut glass, and French plate mirrors. Out of the door came the cheerful laughter of the lively crowd, mingled with the sweet scent of Havana smoke and the light aromas of lemon, joy, pineapple, and cognac.
The delegate from Correjos felt lonely, and he turned to the Ice Water representative from Huerferno:
The delegate from Correjos felt isolated, so he approached the Ice Water representative from Huerferno:
“That was a bold and fearless speech you made this afternoon on the demon rum at the convocation.”
“That was a bold and fearless speech you gave this afternoon about demon rum at the meeting.”
“Think so?” said the sad Huerferno man.
“Really?” said the sad Huerferno man.
“Yes, you entered into the description of rum's maniac till I could almost see the red-eyed centipedes and tropical hornets in the air. How could you describe the jimjams so graphically?”
“Yes, you got into describing rum's madness until I could almost see the red-eyed centipedes and tropical hornets buzzing around. How could you describe the jitters so vividly?”
“Well, you see, I'm a reformed drunkard. Only a little while ago I was in the gutter.”
“Well, you see, I’m a reformed alcoholic. Just a little while ago, I was down and out.”
“So was I.”
"Me too."
“How long ago?”
“How long ago was that?”
“Week ago day after to-morrow.”
“Week ago the day after tomorrow.”
“Next Tuesday it'll be a week since I quit.”
“Next Tuesday, it will be a week since I quit.”
“Well, I swan!”
“Well, I swear!”
“Ain't it funny?”
"Isn't it funny?"
“Tolerable.”
"Acceptable."
“It's going to be a long, cold winter; don't you think so?”
“It's going to be a long, cold winter; don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I dread it a good deal.”
"Yeah, I'm really nervous about it."
“It's a comfort, though, to know that you never will touch rum again.”
“It's a relief, though, to know that you will never touch rum again.”
“Yes, I am glad in my heart to-night that I am free from it. I shall never touch rum again.”
“Yes, I’m happy in my heart tonight that I’m free from it. I will never drink rum again.”
When he said this he looked up at the other delegate, and they looked into each other's eyes earnestly, as though each would read the other's soul. Then the Huerferno man said:
When he said this, he looked up at the other delegate, and they gazed into each other's eyes sincerely, as if each was trying to read the other's soul. Then the Huerferno man said:
“In fact, I never did care much for rum.”
“In fact, I never really liked rum much.”
Then there was a long pause.
Then there was a long pause.
Finally the Correjos man ventured: “Do you have to use an antidote to cure the thirst?”
Finally, the Correjos guy ventured, “Do you need to use an antidote to quench the thirst?”
“Yes, I've had to rely on that a good deal at first. Probably this vain yearning that I now feel in the pit of the bosom will disappear after awhile.”
“Yes, I had to depend on that quite a bit at first. Probably this empty longing I feel deep inside will fade away after a while.”
“Have you got any antidote with you?”
“Do you have any antidote on you?”
“Yes, I've got some up in 232-1/2. If you'll come up I'll give you a dose.”
“Yes, I've got some up in 232-1/2. If you come up, I'll give you a dose.”
“There's no rum in it, is there?”
“There's no rum in it, right?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
Then they went up the elevator. They did not get down to breakfast, but at dinner they stole in. The man from Huerferno dodged nervously through the archway leading to the dining-room as though he had doubts about getting through so small a space with his augmented head, and the man from Correjos looked like one who had wept his eyes almost blind over the woe that rum has wrought in our fair land.
Then they took the elevator. They didn’t make it down for breakfast, but snuck in for dinner. The guy from Huerferno hesitated nervously at the archway to the dining room, as if he was unsure he could fit through such a small space with his oversized head, and the guy from Correjos looked like someone who had cried almost blind from the misery that rum has caused in our beautiful land.
When the waiter asked the delegate from Correjos for his dessert order, the red-nosed Son of Ice Water said: “Bring me a cup of tea, some pudding without wine sauce, and a piece of mince pie. You may also bring me a corkscrew, if you please, to pull the brandy out of the mince pie with.”
When the waiter asked the delegate from Correjos for his dessert order, the red-nosed Son of Ice Water said, “Bring me a cup of tea, some pudding without wine sauce, and a piece of mince pie. You can also bring me a corkscrew, please, to take the brandy out of the mince pie.”
Then the two reformed drunkards looked at each other, and laughed a hoarse, bitter and joyous laugh.
Then the two reformed drunks glanced at each other and let out a rough, bitter, yet joyous laugh.
At the afternoon session of the Sons of Ice Water, the Huerferno delegate couldn't get his regalia over his head.
At the afternoon session of the Sons of Ice Water, the Huerferno delegate couldn't get his ceremonial attire over his head.
Second Letter to the President.
To the President.—I write this letter not on my own account, but on behalf of a personal friend of mine who is known as a mugwump. He is a great worker for political reform, but he cannot spell very well, so he has asked me to write this letter. He knew that I had been thrown among great men all my life, and that, owing to my high social position and fine education, I would be peculiarly fitted to write you in a way that would not call forth disagreeable remarks, and so he has given me the points and I have arranged them for you.
To the President.—I'm writing this letter not for myself, but on behalf of a personal friend of mine who identifies as a mugwump. He’s dedicated to political reform but struggles with spelling, so he asked me to write this. He knows I’ve been around influential people all my life and that my high social standing and good education make me well-suited to write to you in a way that won’t provoke any negative comments. He provided me with the key points, and I’ve organized them for you.
In the first place, my friend desires me to convey to you, Mr. President, in a delicate manner, and in such language as to avoid giving offense, that he is somewhat disappointed in your Cabinet. I hate to talk this way to a bran-new President, but my friend feels hurt and he desires that I should say to you that he regrets your short-sighted policy. He says that it seems to him there is very little in the course of the administration so far to encourage a man to shake off old party ties and try to make men better. He desires to say that after conversing with a large number of the purest men, men who have been in both political parties off and on for years and yet have never been corrupted by office, men who have left convention after convention in years past because those conventions were corrupt and endorsed other men than themselves for office, he finds that your appointment of Cabinet officers will only please two classes, viz: Democrats and Republicans.
Firstly, my friend wants me to tell you, Mr. President, in a gentle way and using language that won’t offend you, that he’s a bit disappointed with your Cabinet. I don’t like bringing this up to a brand-new President, but my friend feels let down, and he wants me to express that he regrets your short-sighted policy. He thinks that, so far, there’s not much in your administration that encourages someone to break away from old party loyalties and work to better things. He wants to point out that after talking to many of the most honest people—those who have been in both political parties over the years but have never been corrupted by holding office—who have walked away from corrupt conventions in the past because they supported anyone but themselves for office, he believes your choice of Cabinet members will only satisfy two groups: Democrats and Republicans.
{Illustration: WORKING FOR REFORM.}
{Illustration: WORKING FOR CHANGE.}
Now, what do you care for an administration which will only gratify those two old parties? Are you going to snap your fingers in disdain at men who admit that they are superior to anybody else? Do you want history to chronicle the fact that President Cleveland accepted the aid of the pure and highly cultivated gentlemen who never did anything naughty or unpretty, and then appointed his Cabinet from men who had been known for years as rude, naughty Democrats?
Now, why would you care about an administration that only pleases those two old parties? Are you really going to dismiss with a snap of your fingers those who claim they're better than everyone else? Do you want history to record that President Cleveland accepted help from the refined and cultured gentlemen who have never done anything wrong or unseemly, and then chose his Cabinet from men who have been known for years as rude, bad Democrats?
My friend says that he feels sure you would not have done so if you had fully realized how he felt about it. He claims that in the first week of your administration you have basely truckled to the corrupt majority. You have shown yourself to be the friend of men who never claimed to be truly good.
My friend says that he's sure you wouldn’t have done that if you had fully understood how he felt about it. He claims that during the first week of your administration, you shamelessly catered to the corrupt majority. You've shown yourself to be friendly with people who never pretended to be genuinely good.
If you persist in this course you will lose the respect and esteem of my friend and another man who is politically pure, and who has never smirched his escutcheon with an office. He has one of the cleanest and most vigorous escutcheons in that county. He never leaves it out over night during the summer, and in the winter he buries it in sawdust. Both of these men will go back to the Republican party in 1888 if you persist in the course you have thus far adopted. They would go back now if the Republican party insisted on it.
If you keep this up, you'll lose the respect and admiration of my friend and another man who is politically upright and has never tarnished his reputation with a position. He has one of the cleanest and most impressive reputations in that county. He never leaves it out overnight during the summer, and in the winter, he buries it in sawdust. Both of these men will return to the Republican party in 1888 if you continue on the path you've taken so far. They would go back now if the Republican party urged them to.
Mr. President, I hate to write to you in this tone of voice, because I know the pain it will give you. I once held an office myself, Mr. President, and it hurt my feelings very much to have a warm personal friend criticise my official acts.
Mr. President, I really don’t want to write to you in this way because I know it will upset you. I once held a position myself, Mr. President, and it really hurt my feelings when a close friend criticized my official actions.
The worst feature of the whole thing, Mr. President, is that it will encourage crime. If men who never committed any crime are allowed to earn their living by the precarious methods peculiar to manual labor, and if those who have abstained from office for years, by request of many citizens, are to be denied the endorsement of the administration, they will lose courage to go on and do right in the future. My friend desires to state vicariously, in the strongest terms, that both he and his wife feel the same way about it, and they will not promise to keep it quiet any longer. They feel like crippling the administration in every way they can if the present policy is to be pursued.
The worst part of all this, Mr. President, is that it will promote crime. If people who have never committed any crime are allowed to make a living through the unstable methods typical of manual labor, and if those who have stayed out of office for years at the request of many citizens are denied the support of the administration, they will lose the motivation to continue doing the right thing in the future. My friend wants to express very strongly that both he and his wife feel the same way about this, and they won't keep quiet about it any longer. They feel like they need to undermine the administration in every way they can if the current policy continues.
He says he dislikes to begin thus early to threaten a President who has barely taken off his overshoes and drawn his mileage, but he thinks it may prevent a recurrence of these unfortunate mistakes. He claims that you have totally misunderstood the principles of the mugwumps all the way through. You seem to regard the reform movement as one introduced for the purpose of universal benefit. This was not the case. While fully endorsing and supporting reform, he says that they did not go into it merely to kill time or simply for fun. He also says that when he became a reformer and supported you, he did not think there were so many prominent Democrats who would have claims upon you. He can only now deplore the great national poverty of offices and the boundless wealth of raw material in the Democratic party from which to supply even that meagre demand.
He says he doesn’t like to start this early by threatening a President who has just taken off his overshoes and calculated his mileage, but he believes it might help avoid a repeat of these unfortunate mistakes. He claims that you’ve completely misunderstood the principles of the mugwumps all along. You seem to see the reform movement as something aimed at universal benefit. That wasn’t the case. While fully endorsing and supporting reform, he says they didn’t get involved just to pass the time or for fun. He also mentions that when he became a reformer and backed you, he didn’t expect so many prominent Democrats would have claims on you. He can only now lament the significant national shortage of offices and the abundant raw material in the Democratic party that could satisfy even that meager demand.
He wishes me to add, also, that you must have over-estimated the zeal of his party for civil service reform. He says that they did not yearn for civil service reform so much as many people seem to think.
He wants me to also mention that you might have overestimated the enthusiasm of his party for civil service reform. He says they didn't crave civil service reform as much as many people believe.
I must now draw this letter to a close. We are all well with the exception of colds in the head, but nothing that need give you any uneasiness. Our large seal-brown hen last week, stimulated by a rising egg market, over-exerted herself, and on Saturday evening, as the twilight gathered, she yielded to a complication of pip and softening of the brain and expired in my arms. She certainly led a most exemplary life and the forked tongue of slander could find naught to utter against her.
I need to wrap up this letter now. We're all fine except for some colds, but nothing to worry about. Our big seal-brown hen, motivated by a surge in egg prices, pushed herself too hard and on Saturday evening, as dusk fell, she succumbed to a mix of illness and went soft in the head and died in my arms. She truly lived an exemplary life, and no rumors could say anything bad about her.
Hoping that you are enjoying the same great blessing and that you will write as often as possible without waiting for me, I remain,
Hoping you’re enjoying the same wonderful blessing and will write as often as you can without waiting for me, I remain,
Very respectfully yours,
Sincerely,
Bill Nye.
Bill Nye the Science Guy.
{Dictated Letter.}
{Dictated Message.}
Milling in Pompeii.
While visiting Naples, last fall, I took a great interest in the wonderful museum there, of objects that have been exhumed from the ruins of Pompeii. It is a remarkable collection, including, among other things, the cumbersome machinery of a large woolen factory, the receipts, contracts, statements of sales, etc., etc., of bankers, brokers, and usurers. I was told that the exhumist also ran into an Etruscan bucket-shop in one part of the city, but, owing to the long, dry spell, the buckets had fallen to pieces.
While visiting Naples last fall, I was really interested in the amazing museum filled with items that were dug up from the ruins of Pompeii. It's a remarkable collection, featuring, among other things, the heavy machinery from a large wool factory, along with receipts, contracts, sales statements, and so on, from bankers, brokers, and loan sharks. I heard that the archaeologist also discovered an Etruscan bucket shop in one part of the city, but because of the long dry spell, the buckets had fallen apart.
The object which engrossed my attention the most, however, was what seems to have been a circular issued prior to the great volcanic vomit of 79 A.D., and no doubt prior even to the Christian era. As the date is torn off however, we are left to conjecture the time at which it was issued. I was permitted to make a copy of it, and with the aid of my hired man, I have translated it with great care.
The thing that caught my attention the most was what seems to be a circular that was released before the massive volcanic eruption of 79 A.D., and likely even before the Christian era. Since the date has been torn off, we can only guess when it was issued. I was allowed to make a copy of it, and with the help of my hired assistant, I have translated it very carefully.
Office of Lucretius & Procalus, Dealers In Flour, Bran, Shorts, Middlings, Screenings, Etruscan Hen Feed, and Other Choice Bric-A-Brac.
Office of Lucretius & Procalus, Dealers in Flour, Bran, Shorts, Middlings, Screenings, Etruscan Chicken Feed, and Other Unique Items.
Highest Cash Price Paid for Neapolitan Winter Wheat and Roman Corn
Highest Cash Price Paid for Neapolitan Winter Wheat and Roman Corn
Why haul your Wheat through the sand to Herculaneum when we pay the same price here?
Why drag your wheat through the sand to Herculaneum when we pay the same price here?
Office and Mill, Via VIII, Near the Stabian Gate, Only Thirteen Blocks From the P.O., Pompeii.
Office and Mill, Via VIII, Near the Stabian Gate, Only Thirteen Blocks From the P.O., Pompeii.
Dear Sir: This circular has been called out by another one issued last month by Messrs. Toecorneous & Chilblainicus, alleged millers and wheat buyers of Herculaneum, in which they claim to pay a quarter to a half-cent more per bushel than we do for wheat, and charge us with docking the farmers around Pompeii a pound per bushel more than necessary for cockle, wild buck-wheat, and pigeon-grass seed. They make the broad statement that we have made all our money in that way, and claim that Mr. Lucretius, of our mill, has erected a fine house, which the farmers allude to as the “wild buckwheat villa.”
Dear Sir: This circular has been issued in response to another one released last month by Messrs. Toecorneous & Chilblainicus, who claim to be millers and wheat buyers in Herculaneum. They assert that they pay a quarter to a half-cent more per bushel for wheat than we do, and accuse us of shortchanging the farmers around Pompeii by a pound per bushel more than necessary for cockle, wild buckwheat, and pigeon-grass seed. They broadly state that we've made all our profits this way, and claim that Mr. Lucretius, from our mill, has built a nice house that the farmers refer to as the “wild buckwheat villa.”
{Illustration: TWO OLD ROMANS.}
{Illustration: TWO ANCIENT ROMANS.}
We do not, as a general rule, pay any attention to this kind of stuff; but when two snide romans, who went to Herculaneum without a dollar and drank stale beer out of an old Etruscan tomato-can the first year they were there, assail our integrity, we feel justified in making a prompt and final reply. We desire to state to the Roman farmers that we do not test their wheat with the crooked brass tester that has made more money for Messrs. Toecorneous & Chilblainicus than their old mill has. We do not do that kind of business. Neither do we buy a man's wheat at a cash price and then work off four or five hundred pounds of XXXX Imperial hog feed on him in part payment. When we buy a man's wheat we pay him in money. We do not seek to fill him up with sour Carthagenian cracked wheat and orders on the store.
We generally don’t pay attention to this kind of stuff, but when two snarky Romans, who showed up in Herculaneum broke and drank stale beer from an old Etruscan tomato can their first year there, attack our integrity, we feel it's necessary to respond quickly and definitively. We want to tell the Roman farmers that we don’t test their wheat with the crooked brass tester that has made more money for Messrs. Toecorneous & Chilblainicus than their old mill ever has. We don’t do that kind of business. Nor do we buy a man’s wheat at a cash price and then unload four or five hundred pounds of XXXX Imperial hog feed on him as part payment. When we buy a man’s wheat, we pay him in cash. We’re not looking to fill him up with sour Carthaginian cracked wheat and store credit.
We would also call attention to the improvements that we have just made in our mill. Last week we put a handle in the upper burr, and we have also engaged one of the best head millers in Pompeii to turn the crank day-times. Our old head miller will oversee the business at night, so that the mill will be in full blast night and day, except when the head miller has gone to his meals or stopped to spit on his hands.
We also want to highlight the upgrades we've just completed in our mill. Last week, we added a handle to the upper burr, and we've also hired one of the best head millers in Pompeii to operate the crank during the day. Our previous head miller will manage the operations at night, so the mill will be running at full capacity around the clock, except when the head miller takes breaks for meals or to spit on his hands.
The mill of our vile contemporaries at Herculaneum is an old one that was used around Naples one hundred years ago to smash rock for the Neapolitan road, and is entirely out of repair. It was also used in a brick-yard here near Pompeii; then an old junk man sold it to a tenderfoot from Jerusalem as an ice-cream freezer. He found that it would not work, and so used it to grind up potato bugs for blisters. Now it is grinding ostensible flour at Herculaneum.
The mill of our terrible contemporaries in Herculaneum is an old one that was used around Naples a hundred years ago to crush rock for the Neapolitan road and is completely out of order. It was also used in a brickyard near Pompeii; then an old junk dealer sold it to a newbie from Jerusalem as an ice cream maker. He found it didn’t work, so he used it to grind up potato bugs for making blisters. Now it’s grinding what appears to be flour in Herculaneum.
We desire to state to the farmers about Pompeii and Herculaneum that we aim to please. We desire to make a grade of flour this summer that will not have to be run through the coffee mill before it can be used. We will also pay you the highest price for good wheat, and give you good weight. Our capacity is now greatly enlarged, both as to storage and grinding. We now turn out a sack of flour, complete and ready for use, every little while. We have an extra handle for the mill, so that in case of accident to the one now in use, we need not shut down but a few moments. We call attention to our XXXX Git-there brand of flour. It is the best flour in the market for making angels' food and other celestial groceries. We fully warrant it, and will agree that for every sack containing whole kernels of corn, corncobs, or other foreign substances, not thoroughly pulverized, we will refund the money already paid, and show the person through our mill.
We want to inform the farmers about Pompeii and Herculaneum that we aim to please. This summer, we plan to produce a flour that doesn’t need to be run through the coffee mill before use. We will also offer you the highest price for quality wheat and provide good weight. Our capacity for storage and grinding has significantly increased. We now produce a sack of flour, fully ready for use, quite often. We have an extra handle for the mill, so if anything happens to the one in use, we won’t have to shut down for long. We’d like to highlight our XXXX Git-there brand of flour. It’s the best flour on the market for making angel food and other heavenly treats. We fully guarantee it, and if any sack contains whole kernels of corn, corncobs, or other foreign materials that aren’t completely ground, we will refund the money you paid and show the person through our mill.
{Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN MILLER.}
{Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN MILLER.}
We would also like to call the attention of farmers and housewives around Pompeii to our celebrated Dough Squatter. It is purely automatic in its operation, requiring only two men to work it. With this machine two men will knead all the bread they can eat and do it easily, feeling thoroughly refreshed at night. They also avoid that dark maroon taste in the mouth so common in Pompeii on arising in the morning.
We'd also like to grab the attention of farmers and homemakers around Pompeii for our famous Dough Squatter. It runs completely on its own, needing just two people to operate it. With this machine, two people can knead all the bread they want without any hassle, and they’ll feel completely refreshed by the end of the day. Plus, they’ll steer clear of that dark maroon taste in their mouths that many people in Pompeii wake up with in the morning.
To those who do not feel able to buy one of these machines, we would say that we have made arrangements for the approaching season, so that those who wish may bring their dough to our mammoth squatter and get it treated at our place at the nominal price of two bits per squat. Strangers calling for their squat or unsquat dough, will have to be identified.
To anyone who can't afford to buy one of these machines, we want to say that we've set things up for the upcoming season. Those who want to can bring their dough to our large establishment and have it processed here for just two bits per batch. New customers picking up their processed or unprocessed dough will need to show identification.
Do not forget the place, Via VIII, near Stabian gate.
Do not forget the location, Via VIII, close to the Stabian gate.
Lucretius & Peocalus,
Lucretius & Peocalus,
Dealers in choice family flour, cut feed and oatmeal with or without clinkers in it. Try our lumpless bran for indigestion.
Dealers in premium family flour, chopped feed, and oatmeal with or without clinkers. Give our lump-free bran a try for indigestion.
Broncho Sam.
Speaking about cowboys, Sam Stewart, known from Montana to Old Mexico as Broncho Sam, was the chief. He was not a white man, an Indian, a greaser or a negro, but he had the nose of an Indian warrior, the curly hair of an African, and the courtesy and equestrian grace of a Spaniard. A wide reputation as a “broncho breaker” gave him his name.
Speaking about cowboys, Sam Stewart, known from Montana to New Mexico as Broncho Sam, was the leader. He wasn't a white man, an Indian, a Mexican, or a Black man, but he had the nose of a Native American warrior, the curly hair of an African, and the politeness and riding skill of a Spaniard. His wide reputation as a "bronco buster" earned him his name.
To master an untamed broncho and teach him to lead, to drive and to be safely-ridden was Sam's mission during the warm weather when he was not riding the range. His special delight was to break the war-like heart of the vicious wild pony of the plains and make him the servant of man.
To train a wild horse and teach him to be led, driven, and safely ridden was Sam's goal during the warm months when he wasn’t out on the range. His greatest joy was to tame the fierce spirit of the savage wild pony of the plains and make him a servant to humans.
I've seen him mount a hostile “bucker,” and, clinching his italic legs around the body of his adversary, ride him till the blood would burst from Sam's nostrils and spatter horse and rider like rain. Most everyone knows what the bucking of the barbarous Western horse means. The wild horse probably learned it from the antelope, for the latter does it the same way, i.e., he jumps straight up into the air, at the same instant curving his back and coming down stiff-legged, with all four of his feet in a bunch. The concussion is considerable.
I've seen him get on a stubborn horse, and, wrapping his legs tightly around the body of his opponent, ride him until blood would burst from Sam's nostrils and splatter both horse and rider like rain. Most people know what the bucking of a wild Western horse means. The wild horse probably learned it from the antelope, as they do it similarly, jumping straight up into the air while simultaneously curving their back and coming down stiff-legged, with all four feet together. The impact is significant.
I tried it once myself. I partially rode a roan broncho one spring day, which will always be green in my memory. The day, I mean, not the broncho.
I gave it a shot myself. I half-ridden a roan bronco one spring day, which will always stay fresh in my memory. The day, I mean, not the bronco.
It occupied my entire attention to safely ride the cunning little beast, and when he began to ride me I put in a minority report against it.
It took all my focus to ride the tricky little creature, and when it started to ride me, I filed a minority report against it.
I have passed through an earthquake and an Indian outbreak, but I would rather ride an earthquake without saddle or bridle than to bestride a successful broncho eruption. I remember that I wore a large pair of Mexican spurs, but I forgot them until the saddle turned. Then I remembered them. Sitting down on them in an impulsive way brought them to my mind. Then the broncho steed sat down on me, and that gave the spurs an opportunity to make a more lasting impression on my mind.
I’ve experienced an earthquake and an Indian uprising, but I’d take riding an earthquake without saddle or reins over dealing with a wild bronco any day. I remember wearing a big pair of Mexican spurs, but I totally forgot about them until the saddle shifted. That’s when it hit me. When I sat down on them impulsively, it reminded me. Then the bronco decided to sit down on me, and that gave the spurs a chance to really leave a lasting impression.
To those who observed the charger with the double “cinch” across his back and the saddle in front of him like a big leather corset, sitting at the same time on my person, there must have been a tinge of amusement; but to me it was not so frolicsome.
To anyone watching the horse with the double "cinch" across its back and the saddle in front like a big leather corset, resting on me at the same time, it probably seemed a bit funny; but to me, it wasn’t amusing at all.
There may be joy in a wild gallop across the boundless plains, in the crisp morning, on the back of a fleet broncho; but when you return with your ribs sticking through your vest, and find that your nimble steed has returned to town two hours ahead of you, there is a tinge of sadness about it all.
There can be joy in a fast ride across the endless plains, in the fresh morning air, on a speedy horse; but when you come back with your ribs showing through your shirt and see that your quick horse got back to town two hours before you did, there’s a hint of sadness to it all.
Broncho Sam, however, made a specialty of doing all the riding himself. He wouldn't enter into any compromise and allow the horse to ride him.
Broncho Sam, on the other hand, specialized in doing all the riding himself. He wouldn’t compromise and let the horse ride him.
In a reckless moment he offered to bet ten dollars that he could mount and ride a wild Texas steer. The money was put up. That settled it. Sam never took water. This was true in a double sense. Well, he climbed the cross-bar of the corral-gate, and asked the other boys to turn out their best steer, Marquis of Queensbury rules.
In a impulsive moment, he challenged everyone to a ten-dollar bet that he could get on and ride a wild Texas steer. The money was on the table. That was that. Sam never backed down. This was true in more ways than one. So, he climbed up to the top bar of the corral gate and asked the other guys to bring out their best steer, following Marquis of Queensbury rules.
As the steer passed out, Sam slid down and wrapped those parenthetical legs of his around that high-headed, broad-horned brute, and he rode him till the fleet-footed animal fell down on the buffalo grass, ran his hot red tongue out across the blue horizon, shook his tail convulsively, swelled up sadly and died.
As the steer collapsed, Sam slid down and wrapped his legs around the high-headed, broad-horned beast, and he rode it until the swift animal fell to the buffalo grass, stuck its hot red tongue out across the blue horizon, shook its tail violently, swelled up sadly, and died.
It took Sam four days to walk back.
It took Sam four days to walk back.
A ten-dollar bill looks as large to me as the star spangled banner, some times; but that is an avenue of wealth that had not occurred to me.
A ten-dollar bill looks as big to me as the stars and stripes sometimes; but that’s a way to wealth I hadn’t thought of.
I'd rather ride a buzz-saw at two dollars a day and found.
I'd rather ride a buzzsaw for two dollars a day and be broke.
{Illustration: A BRONCO ERUPTION.}
{Illustration: A BRONCO ERUPTION.}
How Evolution Evolves.
The following paper was read by me in a clear, resonant tone of voice, before the Academy of Science and Pugilism at Erin Prairie, last month, and as I have been so continually and so earnestly importuned to print it that life was no longer desirable, I submit it to you for that purpose, hoping that you will print my name in large caps, with astonishers at the head of the article, and also in good display type at the close:
The following paper was read by me in a clear, resonant tone of voice, before the Academy of Science and Pugilism at Erin Prairie, last month, and since I have been constantly and insistently asked to publish it to the point that life has become unbearable, I submit it to you for that purpose, hoping that you will print my name in large caps, with astonishers at the beginning of the article, and also in good display type at the end:
Some Features Of Evolution.
Evolutionary Features.
No one could possibly, in a brief paper, do the subject of evolution full justice. It is a matter of great importance to our lost and undone race. It lies near to every human heart, and exercises a wonderful influence over our impulses and our ultimate success or failure. When we pause to consider the opaque and fathomless ignorance of the great masses of our fellow men on the subject of evolution, it is not surprising that crime is rather on the increase, and that thousands of our race are annually filling drunkards' graves, with no other visible means of support, while multitudes of enlightened human beings are at the same time obtaining a livelihood by meeting with felons' dooms.
No one can really cover the topic of evolution thoroughly in a brief paper. It’s incredibly important for our lost and struggling humanity. It resonates with every human heart and significantly influences our impulses and our ultimate success or failure. When we take a moment to think about the profound ignorance surrounding evolution among the majority of people, it's not surprising that crime is on the rise, and thousands of individuals are ending up in graves due to alcoholism, with no other visible way to survive, while many educated individuals are making a living by confronting the consequences of crime.
These I would ask in all seriousness and in a tone of voice that would melt the stoniest heart: “Why in creation do you do it?” The time is rapidly approaching when there will be two or three felons for each doom. I am sure that within the next fifty years, and perhaps sooner even than that, instead of handing out these dooms to Tom, Dick and Harry as formerly, every applicant for a felon's doom will have to pass through a competitive examination, as he should do.
These are questions I would ask earnestly and in a way that could soften even the toughest heart: “Why on Earth do you do this?” The time is quickly coming when there will be two or three criminals for every sentence. I believe that within the next fifty years, maybe even sooner, instead of just giving sentences to Tom, Dick, and Harry like before, anyone seeking a criminal sentence will have to go through a competitive exam, as they rightly should.
It will be the same with those who desire to fill drunkards' graves. The time is almost here when all positions of profit and trust will be carefully and judiciously handed out, and those who do not fit themselves for those positions will be left in the lurch, whatever that may be.
It will be the same for those who want to end up filling the graves of alcoholics. The time is nearly here when all profitable and trustworthy roles will be carefully and thoughtfully assigned, and those who don't prepare themselves for those roles will be left behind, whatever that means.
It is with this fact glaring me in the face that I have consented to appear before you to-day and lay bare the whole hypothesis, history, rise and fall, modifications, anatomy, physiology and geology of evolution. It is for this that I have poured over such works as Huxley, Herbert Spencer, Moses in the bulrushes, Anaxagoras, Lucretius and Hoyle. It is for the purpose of advancing the cause of common humanity and to jerk the rising generation out of barbarism into the dazzling effulgence of clashing intellects and fermenting brains that I have sought the works of Pythagoras, Democritus and Epluribus. Whenever I could find any book that bore upon the subject of evolution, and could borrow it, I have done so while others slept.
It’s with this truth staring me down that I’ve agreed to be here today to explain the entire concept, history, rise and fall, changes, structure, function, and background of evolution. I’ve done this by studying works by Huxley, Herbert Spencer, Moses in the bulrushes, Anaxagoras, Lucretius, and Hoyle. My goal is to promote the cause of common humanity and to pull the next generation out of ignorance into the bright light of competing ideas and innovative thinking, which is why I’ve explored the works of Pythagoras, Democritus, and Epluribus. Whenever I could find a book related to the topic of evolution and could borrow it, I did so while others were asleep.
That is a matter which rarely enters into the minds of those who go easily and carelessly through life. Even the general superintendent of the Academy of Science and Pugilism here in Erin Prairie, the hotbed of a free and untrammeled, robust democracy, does not stop to think of the midnight and other kinds of oil that I have consumed in order to fill myself full of information and to soak my porous mind with thought. Even the O'Reilly College of this place, with its strong mental faculty, has not informed itself fully relative to the great effort necessary before a lecturer may speak clearly, accurately and exhaustingly of evolution.
That’s something that hardly crosses the minds of those who breeze carelessly through life. Even the head of the Academy of Science and Boxing here in Erin Prairie, a hub of a free and unrestrained, vibrant democracy, doesn’t consider the late nights and countless hours I've dedicated to gathering knowledge and filling my open mind with ideas. Even the O'Reilly College in this town, with its strong intellectual capacity, hasn’t fully grasped the immense effort needed before a lecturer can clearly, accurately, and thoroughly discuss evolution.
And yet, here in this place, where education is rampant, and the idea is patted on the back, as I may say; here in Erin Prairie, where progress and some other sentiments are written on everything; here where I am addressing you to-night for $2 and feed for my horse, I met a little child with a bright and cheerful smile, who did not know that evolution consisted in a progress from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous.
And yet, here in this place, where education is everywhere and the idea is celebrated, as I might put it; here in Erin Prairie, where progress and various other feelings are evident in everything; here where I’m speaking to you tonight for $2 and food for my horse, I met a little child with a bright and cheerful smile, who didn’t know that evolution meant a shift from uniformity to diversity.
So you see that you never know where ignorance lurks. The hydra-headed upas tree and bete noir of self-acting progress, is such ignorance as that, lurking in the very shadow of magnificent educational institutions and hard words of great cast. Nothing can be more disagreeable to the scientist than a bete noir. Nothing gives him greater satisfaction than to chase it up a tree or mash it between two shingles.
So, you see, you never know where ignorance hides. The many-headed poisonous tree and nightmare of self-driven progress is that ignorance, lurking right in the shadow of impressive educational institutions and lofty terminology. Nothing is more frustrating for a scientist than a nightmare. Nothing brings him more satisfaction than to chase it up a tree or squash it between two boards.
For this reason, as I said, it gives me great pleasure to address you on the subject of evolution, and to go into details in speaking of it. I could go on for hours as I have been doing, delighting you with the intricacies and peculiarities of evolution, but I must desist. It would please me to do so, and you would no doubt remain patiently and listen, but your business might suffer while you were away, and so I will close, but I hope that anyone now within the sound of my voice, and in whose breast a sudden hunger for more light on this great subject may have sprung up, will feel perfectly free to call on me and ask me about it or immerse himself in the numerous tomes that I have collected from friends, and which relate to this matter.
For this reason, as I mentioned, I'm really happy to talk to you about evolution and get into the details. I could go on for hours, as I have been, captivating you with the complexities and quirks of evolution, but I need to stop. I would love to continue, and you would probably stay patient and listen, but your work might suffer while you’re away, so I’ll wrap up. However, I hope that anyone hearing me now, who feels a sudden eagerness to learn more about this important topic, will feel completely free to reach out to me and ask about it or dive into the many books I’ve gathered from friends that relate to this subject.
In closing I wish to say that I have made no statements in this paper relative to evolution which I am not prepared to prove; and, if anything, I have been over-conservative. For that reason I say now, that the person who doubts a single fact as I have given it to-night, bearing upon the great subject of evolution, will have to do so over my dumb remains.
In closing, I want to say that I have made no claims in this paper about evolution that I'm not ready to back up; if anything, I've been overly cautious. For that reason, I now say that anyone who doubts even one fact I've shared tonight regarding the important topic of evolution will have to do so over my silent remains.
And a man who will do that is no gentleman. I presume that many of these statements will be snapped up and sharply criticised by other theologians and many of our foremost thinkers, but they will do well to pause before they draw me into a controversy, for I have other facts in relation to evolution, and some personal reminiscences and family history, which I am prepared to introduce, if necessary, together with ideas that I have thought up myself. So I say to those who may hope to attract notice and obtain notoriety by drawing me into a controversy, beware. It will be to your interest to beware!
And any man who would do that is no gentleman. I expect that many of these statements will be quickly picked apart and harshly criticized by other theologians and some of our leading thinkers, but they should think twice before pulling me into a debate. I have other facts related to evolution, along with personal memories and family history, that I'm ready to share if needed, along with ideas I've come up with myself. So I warn those who might want to seek attention and infamy by dragging me into a controversy: be careful. It's in your best interest to be careful!
Hours With Great Men.
I presume that I could write an entire library of personal reminiscences relative to the eminent people with whom I have been thrown during a busy life, but I hate to do it, because I always regarded such things as sacred from the vulgar eye, and I felt bound to respect the confidence of a prominent man just as much as I would that of one who was less before the people. I remember very well my first meeting with General W.T. Sherman. I would not mention it here if it were not for the fact that the people seem so be yearning for personal reminiscences of great men, and that is perfectly right, too.
I guess I could write an entire library of personal stories about the remarkable people I've met throughout my busy life, but I really don't want to, because I've always considered those moments private and not for public consumption. I believe I should respect the confidence of a well-known figure just as much as I would for someone less in the spotlight. I clearly remember my first encounter with General W.T. Sherman. I wouldn't bring it up here if it weren't for the fact that people seem to crave personal stories about great individuals, and that's completely understandable.
It was since the war that I met General Sherman, and it was on the line of the Union Pacific Railway, at one of those justly celebrated eating-houses, which I understand are now abandoned. The colored waiter had cut off a strip of the omelette with a pair of shears, the scorched oatmeal had been passed around, the little rubber door mats fried in butter and called pancakes had been dealt around the table, and the cashier at the end of the hall had just gone through the clothes of a party from Vermont, who claimed a rebate on the ground that the waiter had refused to bring him anything but his bill. There was no sound in the dining-room except the weak request of the coffee for more air and stimulants, or perhaps the cry of pain when the butter, while practicing with the dumb-bells, would hit a child on the head; then all would be still again.
It was since the war that I met General Sherman, and it was on the line of the Union Pacific Railway, at one of those famous dining spots, which I hear are now closed down. The Black waiter had cut off a piece of the omelette with a pair of shears, the burnt oatmeal had been passed around, the little rubber door mats fried in butter and called pancakes had been served at the table, and the cashier at the end of the hall had just gone through the belongings of a group from Vermont, who claimed a refund because the waiter had only brought him his bill. There was no noise in the dining room except the faint request of the coffee for more air and stimulants, or maybe the sound of distress when the butter, while practicing with the dumbbells, would hit a child on the head; then everything would fall silent again.
General Sherman sat at one end of the table, throwing a life-preserver to a fly in the milk pitcher.
General Sherman sat at one end of the table, tossing a life preserver to a fly in the milk pitcher.
We had never met before, though for years we had been plodding along life's rugged way—he in the war department, I in the postoffice department. Unknown to each other, we had been holding up opposite corners of the great national fabric, if you will allow me that expression.
We had never met before, but for years we had been trudging through life’s tough journey—he in the war department, I in the post office department. Unbeknownst to each other, we had been supporting opposite corners of the great national structure, if you’ll let me use that phrase.
I remember, as well as though it were but yesterday, how the conversation began. General Sherman looked sternly at me and said:
I remember it as if it were just yesterday, how the conversation started. General Sherman looked at me seriously and said:
“I wish you would overpower that butter and send it up this way.”
“I wish you would take control of that butter and send it over here.”
“All right,” said I, “if you will please pass those molasses.”
“All right,” I said, “if you could please pass the molasses.”
That was all that was said, but I shall never forget it, and probably he never will. The conversation was brief, but yet how full of food for thought! How true, how earnest, how natural! Nothing stilted or false about it. It was the natural expression of two minds that were too great to be verbose or to monkey with social, conversational flapdoodle.
That was all that was said, but I'll never forget it, and he probably won't either. The conversation was short, yet it was so thought-provoking! It was genuine, sincere, and natural—nothing forced or fake about it. It was just the honest expression of two minds that were too deep to be wordy or get caught up in pointless small talk.
{Illustration: AN ENCOUNTER WITH THE BUTTER.}
{Illustration: A MEETING WITH THE BUTTER.}
I remember, once, a great while ago, I was asked by a friend to go with him in the evening to the house of an acquaintance, where they were going to have a kind of musicale, at which there was to be some noted pianist, who had kindly consented to play a few strains, I did not get the name of the professional, but I went, and when the first piece was announced I saw that the light was very uncertain, so I kindly volunteered to get a lamp from another room. I held that big lamp, weighing about twenty-nine pounds, for half an hour, while the pianist would tinky tinky up on the right hand, or bang, boomy to bang down on the bass, while he snorted and slugged that old concert grand piano and almost knocked its teeth down its throat, or gently dawdled with the keys like a pale moonbeam shimmering through the bleached rafters of a deceased horse, until at last there was a wild jangle, such as the accomplished musician gives to an instrument to show the audience that he has disabled the piano, and will take a slight intermission while it is sent to the junk shop.
I remember, a long time ago, a friend invited me to join him in the evening at the home of an acquaintance where they were hosting a musical gathering with a well-known pianist who had kindly agreed to play a few pieces. I didn’t catch the pianist's name, but I went anyway. When the first piece was announced, I noticed the lighting was quite dim, so I offered to get a lamp from another room. I held this large lamp, which must have weighed about twenty-nine pounds, for half an hour while the pianist tinkled away on the high notes and slammed down hard on the bass. He thrashed that old grand piano as if he were trying to knock its teeth down its throat, then lightly danced across the keys like a pale moonbeam filtering through the faded rafters of a long-gone horse. Finally, there was a loud jangle, the kind a skilled musician makes to show the audience that he has just broken the piano and will take a short break while it gets sent to the junk shop.
With a sigh of relief I carefully put down the twenty-nine pound lamp, and my friend told me that I had been standing there like liberty enlightening the world, and holding that heavy lamp for Blind Tom.
With a sigh of relief, I carefully set down the twenty-nine-pound lamp, and my friend told me that I had been standing there like Liberty enlightening the world, holding that heavy lamp for Blind Tom.
I had never seen him before, and I slipped out of the room before he had a chance to see me.
I had never seen him before, and I quietly left the room before he could notice me.
Concerning Coroners.
I am glad to notice that in the East there is a growing disfavor in the public mind for selecting a practicing physician for the office of coroner. This matter should have attracted attention years ago. Now it gratifies me to notice a finer feeling on the part of the people, and an awakening of those sensibilities which go to make life more highly prized and far more enjoyable.
I’m happy to see that in the East, more people are starting to feel negatively about choosing a practicing doctor for the position of coroner. This issue should have been addressed years ago. It’s encouraging to observe a more refined perspective from the public and a growing awareness of the values that make life more precious and much more enjoyable.
I had the misfortune at one time to be under the medical charge of a coroner who had graduated from a Chicago morgue and practiced medicine along with his inquest business with the most fiendish delight. I do not know which he enjoyed best, holding the inquest or practicing on his patient and getting the victim ready for the quest.
I once unfortunately ended up being treated by a coroner who had graduated from a Chicago morgue and handled both his inquest work and medical practice with a wicked sense of pleasure. I’m not sure which he liked more: conducting the inquest or working on his patient to prepare them for it.
One day he wrote out a prescription and left it for me to have filled. I was surprised to find that he had made a mistake and left a rough draft of the verdict in my own case and a list of jurors which he had made in memorandum, so as to be ready for the worst. I was alarmed, for I did not know that I was in so dangerous a condition. He had the advantage of me, for he knew just what he was giving me, and how long human life could be sustained under his treatment. I did not.
One day he wrote a prescription and left it for me to get filled. I was shocked to find that he had made a mistake and left a rough draft of the verdict in my own case along with a list of jurors he had jotted down as a backup plan. I was worried because I didn’t realize I was in such a risky situation. He had the upper hand because he knew exactly what he was giving me and how long someone could survive under his treatment. I didn't.
That is why I say that the profession of medicine should not be allowed to conflict with the solemn duties of the coroner. They are constantly clashing and infringing upon each other's territory. This coroner had a kind of tread-softly-bow-the-head way of getting around the room that made my flesh creep. He had a way, too, when I was asleep, of glancing hurriedly through the pockets of my pantaloons as they hung over a chair, probably to see what evidence he could find that might aid the jury in arriving at a verdict. Once I woke up and found him examining a draft that he had found in my pocket. I asked him what he was doing with my funds, and he said that he thought he detected a draft in the room and he had just found out where it came from.
That’s why I believe the medical profession shouldn’t interfere with the important responsibilities of the coroner. They often clash and step on each other’s toes. This coroner had a sneaky way of moving around the room that made my skin crawl. He also had a habit, when I was asleep, of quickly checking the pockets of my pants that were hanging over a chair, probably looking for anything that might help the jury reach a conclusion. Once, I woke up to find him inspecting a dollar bill he had taken from my pocket. I asked him what he was doing with my money, and he replied that he thought he noticed a draft in the room and had just figured out where it was coming from.
After that I hoped that death would come to my relief as speedily as possible. I felt that death would be a happy release from the cold touch of the amateur coroner and pro tem physician. I could look forward with pleasure, and even joy, to the moment when my physician would come for the last time in his professional capacity and go to work on me officially. Then the county would be obliged to pay him, and the undertaker could take charge of the fragments left by the inquest.
After that, I hoped death would come to my rescue as quickly as possible. I felt that dying would be a welcome escape from the cold grip of the amateur coroner and temporary doctor. I could actually look forward to the moment when my doctor would come for the last time in his professional role and officially take care of things. Then the county would have to pay him, and the undertaker could take charge of the remains left by the inquest.
The duties of the physician are with the living, those of the coroner with the dead. No effort, therefore, should be made to unite them. It is in violation of all the finer feelings of humanity. When the physician decides that his tendencies point mostly toward immortality and the names of his patients are nearly all found on the moss-covered stones of the cemetery, he may abandon the profession with safety and take hold of politics. Then, should his tastes lead him to the inquest, let him gravitate toward the office of coroner; but the two should not be united.
The responsibilities of a doctor are with the living, while those of a coroner are with the dead. Therefore, there should be no attempt to combine them. It goes against the deeper feelings of humanity. When a doctor realizes that their focus is mostly on immortality and that the names of their patients are mostly etched on the moss-covered stones in the cemetery, they can safely leave the profession and turn to politics. If their interests lead them to an inquest, they should then consider the position of coroner; however, the two roles should not be merged.
No man ought to follow his fellow down the mysterious river that defines the boundary between the known and the unknown, and charge him professionally till his soul has fled, and then charge a per diem to the county for prying into his internal economy and holding an inquest over the debris of mortality. I therefore hail this movement with joy and wish to encourage it in every way. It points toward a degree of enlightenment which will be in strong contrast with the darker and more ignorant epochs of time, when the practice of medicine was united with the profession of the barber, the well-digger, the farrier, the veterinarian or the coroner.
No one should follow another person down the mysterious river that separates the known from the unknown and then charge them for services until their soul has left. Afterward, it's wrong to bill the county for probing into their inner workings and holding an inquest over the remains. I wholeheartedly support this movement and want to encourage it in every way possible. It signifies a step towards enlightenment that stands in stark contrast to the darker, more ignorant times when the practice of medicine was intertwined with that of barbers, well-diggers, farriers, veterinarians, or coroners.
Why, this physician plenipotentiary and coroner extraordinary that I have referred to, didn't know when he got a call whether to take his morphine syringe or his venire for a jury. He very frequently went to see a patient with a lung tester under one arm and the revised statutes under the other. People never knew when they saw him going to a neighbor's house, whether the case had yielded to the coroner's treatment or not. No one ever knew just when over-taxed nature would yield to the statutes in such case made and provided.
Why, this all-powerful doctor and special coroner I mentioned didn’t know whether to grab his morphine syringe or his jury summons when he got a call. He often showed up to see a patient with a lung test kit under one arm and updated laws under the other. People could never tell if he was visiting a neighbor to help with a medical issue or if the case had already turned into a coroner’s matter. No one ever knew when exhausted nature would give way to the laws that apply in such situations.
When the jury was impanelled, however, we always knew that the medical treatment had been successfully fatal.
When the jury was selected, though, we always knew that the medical treatment had been effectively lethal.
Once he charged the county with an inquest he felt sure of, but in the night the patient got delirious, eluded his nurse, the physician and coroner, and fled to the foot-hills, where he was taken care of and finally recovered.
Once he initiated an inquest with the county that he was confident about, but during the night, the patient became delirious, escaped from his nurse, the doctor, and the coroner, and ran off to the foothills, where he was looked after and eventually got better.
The experiences of some of the patients who escaped from this man read more like fiction than fact. One man revived during the inquest, knocked the foreman of the jury through the window, kicked the coroner in the stomach, fed him a bottle of violet ink, and, with a shriek of laughter, fled. He is now traveling under an assumed name with a mammoth circus, feeding his bald head to the African lion twice a day at $9 a week and found.
The stories of some patients who got away from this man sound more like fiction than reality. One guy came back to life during the inquest, pushed the jury foreman through the window, kicked the coroner in the stomach, forced him to drink a bottle of violet ink, and, laughing maniacally, ran away. He's now going by a fake name and traveling with a huge circus, feeding his bald head to the African lion twice a day for $9 a week and being found.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
Down East Rum.
Rum has always been a curse to the State of Maine. The steady fight that Maine has made, for a century past, against decent rum, has been worthy of a better cause.
Rum has always been a problem for the State of Maine. The continuous struggle that Maine has put up against good rum for the past century has been deserving of a better cause.
Who hath woe? who hath sorrow and some more things of that kind? He that monkeyeth with Maine rum; he that goeth to seek emigrant rum.
Who has misery? Who has sadness and other stuff like that? It's the person who messes with Maine rum; it's the one who goes looking for immigrant rum.
In passing through Maine the tourist is struck with the ever-varying styles of mystery connected with the consumption of rum.
In traveling through Maine, tourists are captivated by the constantly changing styles of mystery surrounding the consumption of rum.
In Denver your friend says: “Will you come with me and shed a tear?” or “Come and eat a clove with me.”
In Denver, your friend says: “Will you come with me and cry a little?” or “Come and share a clove with me.”
In Salt Lake City a man once said to me: “William, which would you rather do, take a dose of Gentile damnation down here on the corner, or go over across the street and pizen yourself with some real old Mormon Valley tan, made last week from ground feed and prussic acid?” I told him that I had just been to dinner, and the doctor had forbidden my drinking any more, and that I had promised several people on their death beds never to touch liquor, and besides, I had just taken a large drink, so he would have to excuse me.
In Salt Lake City, a guy once asked me, “William, which would you prefer, to take a dose of Gentile damnation right here on the corner, or go across the street and poison yourself with some genuine old Mormon Valley tan, made last week from ground feed and prussic acid?” I told him I had just had dinner, and the doctor had told me to stop drinking, plus I had promised several people on their deathbeds never to touch alcohol again, and on top of that, I had just taken a big drink, so he would need to let me off the hook.
But in Maine none of these common styles of invitation prevail. It is all shrouded in mystery. You give the sign of distress to any member in good standing, pound three times on the outer gate, give two hard kicks and one soft one on the inner door, give the password, “Rutherford B. Hayes,” turn to the left, through a dark passage, turn the thumbscrew of a mysterious gas fixture 90 deg. to the right, holding the goblet of the encampment under the gas fixture, then reverse the thumbscrew, shut your eyes, insult your digester, leave twenty-five cents near the gas fixture, and hunt up the nearest cemetery, so that you will not have to be carried very far.
But in Maine, none of these usual ways of inviting people work. It's all a mystery. You signal for help to any member in good standing, pound three times on the outer gate, give two firm kicks and one gentle one on the inner door, say the password, “Rutherford B. Hayes,” turn to the left through a dark passage, twist the knob of a strange gas fixture 90 degrees to the right while holding the goblet of the encampment under the gas fixture, then twist the knob back, shut your eyes, challenge your stomach, leave twenty-five cents near the gas fixture, and find the nearest cemetery so you won't have to be carried very far.
If a man really wants to drink himself into a drunkard's grave, he can certainly save time by going to Maine. Those desiring the most prompt and vigorous style of jim-jams at cut rates will do well to examine Maine goods before going elsewhere. Let a man spend a week in Boston, where the Maine liquor law, I understand, is not in force, and then, with no warning whatever, be taken into the heart of Maine; let him land there a stranger and a partial orphan, with no knowledge of the underground methods of securing a drink, and to him the world seems very gloomy, very sad, and extremely arid.
If a guy really wants to drink himself into a drunken downfall, he can definitely save time by heading to Maine. Those seeking the quickest and most intense experience of withdrawal at bargain prices should check out Maine’s offerings before looking elsewhere. Imagine a man spending a week in Boston, where I hear the Maine liquor law isn’t enforced, and then, without any warning, being taken into the heart of Maine; let him arrive there as a stranger and somewhat alone, with no clue about the secret ways to get a drink, and to him, the world feels very bleak, very miserable, and completely dry.
At the Bangor depot a woman came up to me and addressed me. She was rather past middle age, a perfect lady in her manners, but a little full.
At the Bangor depot, a woman approached me and spoke to me. She was somewhat beyond middle age, a true lady in her demeanor, but a bit plump.
I said: “Madam, I guess you will have to excuse me. You have the advantage. I can't just speak your name at this moment. It has been now thirty years since I left Maine, a child two years old. So people have changed. You've no idea how people have grown out of my knowledge. I don't see but you look just as young as you did when I went away, but I'm a poor hand to remember names, so I can't just call you to mind.”
I said, “Ma’am, I guess you’ll have to forgive me. You have the upper hand. I can’t quite recall your name at the moment. It’s been thirty years since I left Maine as a two-year-old. People change a lot over time. You have no idea how many people I’ve lost touch with. You still look just as young as you did when I left, but I’m really bad at remembering names, so I can’t quite bring you to mind.”
She was perfectly ladylike in her manner, but a little bit drunk. It is singular how drunken people will come hundreds of miles to converse with me. I have often been alluded to as the “drunkard's friend.” Men have been known to get intoxicated and come a long distance to talk with me on some subject, and then they would lean up against me and converse by the hour. A drunken man never seems to get tired of talking with me. As long as I am willing to hold such a man up and listen to him, he will stand and tell me about himself with the utmost confidence, and, no matter who goes by, he does not seem to be ashamed to have people see him talking with me.
She was perfectly ladylike in her manner, but a little tipsy. It's strange how drunk people will travel hundreds of miles just to talk to me. I’ve often been called the “drunkard's friend.” There are guys who have gotten wasted and journeyed a long way just to discuss something with me, and then they would lean on me and chat for hours. A drunk guy never seems to tire of talking to me. As long as I’m there to support him and listen, he'll open up about himself with complete confidence, and no matter who passes by, he doesn’t seem embarrassed to be seen talking to me.
{Illustration: THAT BUTTONHOLE.}
{Illustration: THAT BUTTONHOLE.}
I once had a friend who was very much liked by every one, so he drifted into politics. For seven years he tried to live on free whiskey and popular approval, but it wrecked him at last. Finally he formed the habit of meeting me every day and explaining it to me, and giving me free exhibitions of a breath that he had acquired at great expense. After he got so feeble that he could not walk any more, this breath of his used to pull him out of bed and drag him all over town. It don't seem hardly possible, but it is so. I can show you the town yet.
I once had a friend who was really well-liked by everyone, so he got into politics. For seven years, he tried to survive on free whiskey and public approval, but it ultimately ruined him. Eventually, he got into the habit of meeting me every day to explain things to me and giving me a free demonstration of a breath that he had acquired at great cost. After he became so weak that he could no longer walk, this breath of his would pull him out of bed and drag him all over town. It doesn't seem possible, but it's true. I can still show you around the town.
He used to take me by the buttonhole when he conversed with me. This is a diagram of the buttonhole.
He used to grab me by the buttonhole when he talked to me. This is a diagram of the buttonhole.
If I had a son I would warn him against trying to subsist solely on popular approval and free whiskey. It may do for a man engaged solely in sedentary pursuits, but it is not sufficient in cases of great muscular exhaustion. Free whiskey and popular approval on an empty stomach are highly injurious.
If I had a son, I'd advise him not to rely just on popularity and free whiskey to get by. That might work for someone who's only into lazy activities, but it's not enough when you're really worn out. Having free whiskey and chasing approval on an empty stomach can be very harmful.
Railway Etiquette.
Many people have traveled all their lives and yet do not know how to behave themselves when on the road. For the benefit and guidance of such, these few crisp, plain, horse-sense rules of etiquette have been framed.
Many people have traveled their entire lives and still don’t know how to act when they’re on the road. To help and guide them, these simple, straightforward, common-sense rules of etiquette have been created.
In traveling by rail on foot, turn to the right on discovering an approaching train. If you wish the train to turn out, give two loud toots and get in between the rails, so that you will not muss up the right of way. Many a nice, new right of way has been ruined by getting a pedestrian tourist spattered all over its first mortgage.
In traveling by train on foot, turn to the right when you see an approaching train. If you want the train to pass, give two loud toots and stand between the tracks so you don't mess up the right of way. Many nice, new right of ways have been ruined by a pedestrian tourist getting splattered all over its first mortgage.
On retiring at night on board the train, do not leave your teeth in the ice-water tank. If every one should do so, it would occasion great confusion in case of wreck. It would also cause much annoyance and delay during the resurrection. Experienced tourists tie a string to their teeth and retain them during the night.
On going to bed at night on the train, don’t leave your teeth in the ice-water tank. If everyone did that, it would create a lot of confusion in case of a wreck. It would also lead to a lot of frustration and delays during the aftermath. Seasoned travelers tie a string to their teeth and keep them with them overnight.
If you have been reared in extreme poverty, and your mother supported you until you grew up and married, so that your wife could support you, you will probably sit in four seats at the same time, with your feet extended into the aisles so that you can wipe them off on other people, while you snore with your mouth open clear to your shoulder blades.
If you've grown up in extreme poverty, and your mom took care of you until you got married, so your wife could support you, you’ll probably end up taking up four seats at once, stretching your feet into the aisles to wipe them on other passengers, while snoring loudly with your mouth wide open.
If you are prone to drop to sleep and breathe with a low death rattle, like the exhaust of a bath tub, it would be a good plan to tie up your head in a feather bed and then insert the whole thing in the linen closet; or, if you cannot secure that, you might stick it out of the window and get it knocked off against a tunnel. The stockholders of the road might get mad about it, but you could do it in such a way that they wouldn't know whose head it was.
If you tend to fall asleep and breathe with a faint, wheezy sound, like the noise from a clogged bathtub, it might be a good idea to wrap your head in a fluffy pillow and then stick the whole thing in the linen closet; or, if that’s not possible, you could stick it out of the window and let it get knocked off by a tunnel. The shareholders of the railway might get upset about it, but you could do it in such a way that they wouldn’t know whose head it was.
Ladies and gentlemen should guard against traveling by rail while in a beastly state of intoxication.
Ladies and gentlemen should avoid traveling by train while heavily intoxicated.
In the dining car, while eating, do not comb your moustache with your fork. By all means do not comb your moustache with the fork of another. It is better to refrain altogether from combing the moustache with a fork while traveling, for the motion of the train might jab the fork into your eye and irritate it.
In the dining car, while you’re eating, don’t comb your mustache with your fork. Definitely don’t use someone else’s fork for that. It's best to just avoid using a fork to comb your mustache while traveling, because the train’s movement could cause the fork to poke you in the eye and irritate it.
If your desert is very hot and you do not discover it until you have burned the rafters out of the roof of your mouth, do not utter a wild yell of agony and spill your coffee all over a total stranger, but control yourself, hoping to know more next time.
If your dessert is really hot and you don't realize it until you've burned the roof of your mouth, don’t scream in pain and splash your coffee on a stranger. Instead, stay calm and aim to be more careful next time.
In the morning is a good time to find out how many people have succeeded in getting on the passenger train, who ought to be in the stock car.
In the morning is a good time to find out how many people have managed to get on the passenger train, who should be in the stock car.
Generally, you will find one male and one female. The male goes into the wash room, bathes his worthless carcass from daylight until breakfast time, walking on the feet of any man who tries to wash his face during that time. He wipes himself on nine different towels, because when he gets home, he knows he will have to wipe his face on an old door mat. People who have been reared on hay all their lives, generally want to fill themselves full of pie and colic when they travel.
Generally, you’ll find one guy and one girl. The guy goes into the bathroom, washes up from morning until breakfast, getting in the way of anyone trying to wash their face during that time. He dries off with nine different towels because he knows when he gets home, he’ll have to wipe his face on an old doormat. People who have been raised on hay their whole lives usually want to stuff themselves with pie and end up with a stomachache when they travel.
The female of this same mammal, goes into the ladies' department and remains there until starvation drives her out. Then the real ladies have about thirteen seconds apiece in which to dress.
The female of this same mammal goes into the women's section and stays there until hunger forces her out. Then, the actual women have about thirteen seconds each to get dressed.
If you never rode in a varnished car before, and never expect to again, you will probably roam up and down the car, meandering over the feet of the porter while he is making up the berths. This is a good way to let people see just how little sense you had left after your brain began to soften.
If you've never been in a polished train car before and don’t plan to again, you’ll likely wander around the car, stepping on the porter’s feet while he sets up the berths. This is a great way to show everyone how little sense you have left after your mind started to go.
In traveling, do not take along a lot of old clothes that you know you will never wear.
When traveling, don't pack a bunch of old clothes that you know you'll never wear.
B. Franklin, Deceased.
Benjamin Franklin, formerly of Boston, came very near being an only child. If seventeen children had not come to bless the home of Benjamin's parents, they would have been childless. Think of getting up in the morning and picking out your shoes and stockings from among seventeen pairs of them. Imagine yourself a child, gentle reader, in a family where you would be called upon, every morning, to select your own cud of spruce gum from a collection of seventeen similar cuds stuck on a window sill. And yet B. Franklin never murmured or repined. He desired to go to sea, and to avoid this he was apprenticed to his brother James, who was a printer. It is said that Franklin at once took hold of the great Archimedean lever, and jerked it early and late in the interests of freedom. It is claimed that Franklin at this time invented the deadly weapon known as the printer's towel. He found that a common crash towel could be saturated with glue, molasses, antimony, concentrated lye, and roller composition, and that after a few years of time and perspiration it would harden so that the “Constant Reader” or “Veritas” could be stabbed with it and die soon.
Benjamin Franklin, who used to live in Boston, almost ended up being an only child. If it weren't for the seventeen children who arrived to bless Benjamin's parents' home, they would have had no kids at all. Imagine waking up in the morning and having to choose your shoes and socks from among seventeen pairs. Picture yourself as a child in a family where every morning you have to pick your own piece of spruce gum from a collection of seventeen identical pieces stuck on a windowsill. Yet, B. Franklin never complained or felt sorry for himself. He wanted to go to sea, but to avoid that, he became an apprentice to his brother James, who was a printer. It’s said that Franklin immediately grabbed hold of the big Archimedean lever and pulled it day and night for the sake of freedom. It's claimed that during this time, Franklin invented the dangerous tool known as the printer's towel. He discovered that a regular crash towel could be soaked in glue, molasses, antimony, concentrated lye, and roller composition, and that after a few years of use and sweat, it would harden enough so that the “Constant Reader” or “Veritas” could be stabbed with it and wouldn't survive for long.
{Illustration: A DEADLY ONSLAUGHT.}
{Illustration: A DEADLY ATTACK.}
Many believe that Franklin's other scientific experiments were productive of more lasting benefit to mankind than this, but I do not agree with them.
Many people think that Franklin's other scientific experiments were more beneficial to humanity in the long run than this one, but I don't share that view.
This paper was called the New England Courant. It was edited jointly by James and Benjamin Franklin, and was started to supply a long-felt want. Benjamin edited a part of the time and James a part of the time. The idea of having two editors was not for the purpose of giving volume to the editorial page, but it was necessary for one to run the paper while the other was in jail. In those days you couldn't sass the king, and then, when the king came in the office the next day and stopped his paper, and took out his ad., you couldn't put it off on “our informant” and go right along with the paper. You had to go to jail, while your subscribers wondered why their paper did not come, and the paste soured in the tin dippers in the sanctum, and the circus passed by on the other side.
This paper was called the New England Courant. It was co-edited by James and Benjamin Franklin and was created to fill a long-standing need. Benjamin edited part of the time and James edited at other times. The reason for having two editors wasn't to beef up the editorial section, but because one needed to manage the paper while the other was in jail. Back then, you couldn’t criticize the king, and if the king walked into the office the next day, stopped the paper, and pulled his ad, you couldn’t just blame it on “our informant” and keep going. You had to go to jail, while your subscribers wondered why their paper didn’t arrive, and the paste went bad in the tin dippers in the office, while the circus went on without you.
{Illustration: STOPPING HIS PAPER.}
{Illustration: CANCELING HIS PAPER.}
How many of us to-day, fellow journalists, would be willing to stay in jail while the lawn festival and the kangaroo came and went? Who, of all our company, would go to a prison cell for the cause of freedom while a double-column ad. of sixteen aggregated circuses, and eleven congresses of ferocious beasts, fierce and fragrant from their native lair, went by us?
How many of us today, fellow journalists, would be willing to stay in jail while the lawn festival and the kangaroo came and went? Who among us would go to a prison cell for the cause of freedom while a double-column ad of sixteen aggregated circuses and eleven congresses of ferocious beasts, fierce and fragrant from their native lair, passed us by?
At the age of 17, Ben got disgusted with his brother, and went to Philadelphia and New York, where he got a chance to “sub” for a few weeks, and then got a regular “sit.” Franklin was a good printer, and finally got to be a foreman. He made an excellent foreman, sitting by the hour in the composing room and spitting on the stone, while he cussed the make-up and press work of the other papers. Then he would go into the editorial rooms and scare the editors to death with a wild shriek for more copy. He knew just how to conduct himself as a foreman, so that strangers would think he owned the paper.
At 17, Ben got fed up with his brother and headed to Philadelphia and New York, where he got a temporary job for a few weeks and then landed a regular position. Franklin was a skilled printer and eventually became a foreman. He was an outstanding foreman, spending hours in the composing room while he criticized the layout and press work of other papers. Then, he would storm into the editorial rooms, startling the editors with a loud demand for more copy. He knew exactly how to act as a foreman so that newcomers would think he owned the paper.
In 1730, at the age of 24, Franklin married and established the Pennsylvania Gazette. He was then regarded as a great man, and most everyone took his paper. Franklin grew to be a great journalist, and spelled hard words with great fluency. He never tried to be a humorist in any of his newspaper work, and everybody respected him.
In 1730, at the age of 24, Franklin got married and started the Pennsylvania Gazette. He was seen as a prominent figure, and almost everyone subscribed to his paper. Franklin became an outstanding journalist and could spell difficult words with ease. He never aimed to be a humorist in any of his writing, and everyone held him in high regard.
Along about 1746 he began to study the construction and habits of lightning, and inserted a local in his paper, in which he said that he would be obliged to any of his readers who might notice any new or odd specimens of lightning, if they would send them into the Gazette office by express for examination. Every time there was a thunder storm, Franklin would tell the foreman to edit the paper, and, armed with a string and an old fruit jar, he would go out on the hills and get enough lightning for a mess.
Around 1746, he started studying how lightning formed and its behavior. He included a notice in his paper where he requested any readers who might spot new or unusual lightning occurrences to send those reports to the Gazette office by express for review. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, Franklin would ask the foreman to handle the editing of the paper, and equipped with a string and an old fruit jar, he’d head out to the hills to collect samples of lightning.
{Illustration: “HOW'S TRADE?"}
{Illustration: “HOW'S BUSINESS?"}
In 1753 Franklin was made postmaster-general of the colonies. He made a good postmaster-general, and people say there were less mistakes in distributing their mail than there has ever been since. If a man mailed a letter in those days, old Ben Franklin saw that it went where it was addressed.
In 1753, Franklin was appointed postmaster-general of the colonies. He was an effective postmaster-general, and people claim there were fewer mistakes in mail distribution during his time than there have been since. If someone mailed a letter back then, old Ben Franklin ensured it reached its intended destination.
Franklin frequently went over to England in those days, partly on business, and partly to shock the king. He used to delight in going to the castle with his breeches tucked in his boots, figuratively speaking, and attract a good deal of attention. It looked odd to the English, of course, to see him come into the royal presence, and, leaving his wet umbrella up against the throne, ask the king: “How's trade?” Franklin never put on any frills, but he was not afraid of a crowned head. He used to say, frequently, that to him a king was no more than a seven spot.
Franklin often traveled to England during that time, partly for work and partly to rattle the king. He enjoyed showing up at the castle with his pants tucked into his boots, so to speak, and he drew a lot of attention. It looked strange to the English to see him enter the royal court, leaving his wet umbrella propped up against the throne, and then asking the king, “How's business?” Franklin never dressed up extravagantly, but he wasn’t intimidated by royalty. He often said that to him, a king was no more important than a seven-spot.
He did his best to prevent the Revolutionary war, but he couldn't do it, Patrick Henry had said that the war was inevitable, and given it permission to come, and it came. He also went to Paris and got acquainted with a few crowned heads there. They thought a good deal of him in Paris, and offered him a corner lot if he would build there and start a paper. They also promised him the county printing, but he said no, he would have to go back to America, or his wife might get uneasy about him.
He tried his hardest to stop the Revolutionary War, but he just couldn’t. Patrick Henry had declared that the war was unavoidable and had almost welcomed it, and sure enough, it arrived. He also traveled to Paris, where he met a few of the monarchy. They held him in high regard and offered him a parcel of land if he would build there and start a publication. They even promised him the county printing contract, but he declined, saying he needed to return to America, or his wife might start worrying about him.
Franklin wrote “Poor Richard's Almanac” in 1732-57, and it was republished in England. Benjamin Franklin had but one son, and his name was William. William was an illegitimate son, and, though he lived to be quite an old man, he never got over it entirely, but continued to be but an illegitimate son all his life. Everybody urged him to do differently, but he steadily refused to do so.
Franklin wrote “Poor Richard's Almanac” from 1732 to 1757, and it was republished in England. Benjamin Franklin had only one son, named William. William was born out of wedlock, and although he lived to be quite old, he never fully moved past it and remained an illegitimate son his whole life. Everyone encouraged him to change, but he consistently refused to do so.
Life Insurance as a Health Restorer.
Life insurance is a great thing. I would not be without it. My health is greatly improved since I got my new policy. Formerly I used to have a seal-brown taste in my mouth when I arose in the morning, but that has entirely disappeared. I am more hopeful and happy, and my hair is getting thicker on top. I would not try to keep house without life insurance. Last September I was caught in one of the most destructive cyclones that ever visited a republican form of government. A great deal of property was destroyed and many lives were lost, but I was spared. People who had no insurance were mowed down on every hand, but aside from a broken leg I was entirely unharmed.
Life insurance is amazing. I can't imagine being without it. My health has improved a lot since I got my new policy. I used to wake up with a bad taste in my mouth, but that's completely gone now. I'm feeling more optimistic and happier, and my hair is getting thicker on top. I wouldn't consider managing a home without life insurance. Last September, I was caught in one of the most destructive storms to ever hit a democratic government. A lot of property was destroyed and many lives were lost, but I was lucky enough to be okay. People who didn't have insurance were seriously affected, but aside from a broken leg, I came out unharmed.
{Illustration: PROTECTED BY LIFE INSURANCE.}
{Illustration: PROTECTED BY LIFE INSURANCE.}
I look upon life insurance as a great comfort, not only to the beneficiary, but to the insured, who very rarely lives to realize anything pecuniarily from his venture. Twice I have almost raised my wife to affluence and cast a gloom over the community in which I lived, but something happened to the physician for a few days so that he could not attend to me, and I recovered. For nearly two years I was under the doctor's care. He had his finger on my pulse or in my pocket all the time. He was a young western physician, who attended me on Tuesdays and Fridays. The rest of the week he devoted his medical skill to horses that were mentally broken down. He said he attended me largely for my society. I felt flattered to know that he enjoyed my society after he had been thrown among horses all the week that had much greater advantages than I.
I see life insurance as a big relief, not just for the beneficiary but also for the insured, who rarely gets to benefit financially from it. Twice, I almost made my wife rich and brought sadness to our community, but then something happened to the doctor for a few days, so he couldn’t attend to me, and I ended up recovering. I was under the doctor’s care for nearly two years. He was either checking my pulse or reaching into my pocket the whole time. He was a young doctor from the West, who saw me on Tuesdays and Fridays. The rest of the week, he used his medical skills on horses that were mentally exhausted. He said he mostly treated me for my company. I felt flattered to know he liked spending time with me after being around horses all week that had much better qualities than I did.
My wife at first objected seriously to an insurance on my life, and said she would never, never touch a dollar of the money if I were to die, but after I had been sick nearly two years, and my disposition had suffered a good deal, she said that I need not delay the obsequies on that account. But the life insurance slipped through my fingers somehow, and I recovered.
My wife initially strongly opposed taking out life insurance on me, insisting that she wouldn’t touch a single dollar from it if I died. However, after I had been ill for almost two years and my mood had been affected quite a bit, she said that I shouldn’t put off the funeral for that reason. But somehow, the life insurance fell through, and I ended up recovering.
In these days of dynamite and roller rinks, and the gory meat-ax of a new administration, we ought to make some provision for the future.
In these times of dynamite and roller rinks, and the brutal tactics of a new administration, we should make some plans for the future.
The Opium Habit.
I have always had a horror of opiates of all kinds. They are so seductive and so still in their operations. They steal through the blood like a wolf on the trail, and they seize upon the heart at last with their white fangs till it is still forever.
I have always had a fear of all kinds of opiates. They are so tempting and so quiet in their effects. They creep through the blood like a wolf on a hunt, and they eventually grab hold of the heart with their white fangs until it stops forever.
Up the Laramie there is a cluster of ranches at the base of the Medicine Bow, near the north end of Sheep Mountain, and in sight of the glittering, eternal frost of the snowy range. These ranches are the homes of the young men from Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Ohio, and now there are several “younger sons” of Old England, with herds of horses, steers and sheep, worth millions of dollars. These young men are not of the kind of whom the metropolitan ass writes as saying “youbetcherlife,” and calling everybody “pardner.” They are many of them college graduates, who can brand a wild Maverick or furnish the easy gestures for a Strauss waltz.
Up the Laramie, there’s a group of ranches at the base of Medicine Bow, near the northern end of Sheep Mountain, and within sight of the sparkling, permanent frost of the snowy range. These ranches are home to young men from Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, and now there are a number of “younger sons” from England, with herds of horses, cattle, and sheep worth millions of dollars. These young men aren’t the type that city folks write about saying “you betcha” and calling everyone “partner.” Many of them are college graduates who can brand a wild Maverick or dance gracefully to a Strauss waltz.
They wear human clothes, talk in the United States language, and have a bank account. This spring they may be wearing chaparajos and swinging a quirt through the thin air, and in July they may be at Long Branch, or coloring a meerschaum pipe among the Alps.
They wear human clothes, speak English, and have a bank account. This spring they might be in chaps and swinging a whip through the air, and in July they could be at Long Branch or decorating a meerschaum pipe in the Alps.
Well, a young man whom we will call Curtis lived at one of these ranches years ago, and, though a quiet, mind-your-own-business fellow, who had absolutely no enemies among his companions, he had the misfortune to incur the wrath of a tramp sheep-herder, who waylaid Curtis one afternoon and shot him dead as he sat in his buggy. Curtis wasn't armed. He didn't dream of trouble till he drove home from town, and, as he passed through the gates of a corral, saw the hairy face of the herder, and at the same moment the flash of a Winchester rifle. That was all.
Well, a young man we'll call Curtis lived at one of these ranches years ago. Although he was a quiet, mind-your-own-business type who had no enemies among his friends, he unfortunately angered a tramp sheep-herder. One afternoon, the herder ambushed Curtis and shot him dead while he was sitting in his buggy. Curtis wasn't armed. He didn’t expect any trouble as he drove home from town, and as he passed through the gates of a corral, he saw the herder's hairy face just as the flash from a Winchester rifle went off. That was it.
A rancher came into town and telegraphed to Curtis' father, and then a half dozen citizens went out to help capture the herder, who had fled to the sage brush of the foot-hills.
A rancher came into town and sent a telegram to Curtis' father, and then a few locals went out to help catch the herder, who had escaped to the sagebrush in the foothills.
They didn't get back till toward daybreak, but they brought the herder with them, I saw him in the gray of the morning, lying in a coarse gray blanket, on the floor of the engine house. He was dead.
They didn't return until near dawn, but they brought the herder with them. I saw him in the early morning light, lying in a rough gray blanket on the floor of the engine house. He was dead.
I asked, as a reporter, how he came to his death, and they told me—opium! I said, did I understand you to say “ropium?” They said no, it was opium. The murderer had taken poison when he found that escape was impossible.
I asked, as a reporter, how he died, and they told me—opium! I said, did I hear you say “ropium?” They said no, it was opium. The murderer had taken poison when he realized that escape was impossible.
I was present at the inquest, so that I could report the case. There was very little testimony, but all the evidence seemed to point to the fact that life was extinct, and a verdict of death by his own hand was rendered.
I attended the inquest to report on the case. There wasn’t much testimony, but all the evidence suggested that the person was deceased, and a verdict of death by suicide was given.
It was the first opium work I had ever seen, and it aroused my curiosity. Death by opium, it seems, leaves a dark purple ring around the neck. I did not know this before. People who die by opium also tie their hands together before they die. This is one of the eccentricities of opium poisoning that I have never seen laid down in the books. I bequeath it to medical science. Whenever I run up against a new scientific discovery, I just hand it right over to the public without cost.
It was the first opium-related work I had ever seen, and it piqued my interest. Death by opium, it seems, leaves a dark purple ring around the neck. I didn’t know this before. People who die from opium also bind their hands together before they pass away. This is one of the oddities of opium poisoning that I’ve never come across in any books. I’m passing it on to medical science. Whenever I encounter a new scientific discovery, I just share it with the public for free.
Ever since the above incident, I have been very apprehensive about people who seem to be likely to form the opium habit. It is one of the most deadly of narcotics, especially in a new country. High up in the pure mountain atmosphere, this man could not secure enough air to prolong life, and he expired. In a land where clear, crisp air and delightful scenery are abundant, he turned his back upon them both and passed away. Is it not sad to contemplate?
Ever since that incident, I've been really worried about people who seem likely to develop an addiction to opium. It's one of the most dangerous drugs, especially in a new country. In the high, pure mountain air, this man couldn’t get enough air to stay alive, and he died. In a place where fresh, crisp air and beautiful scenery are everywhere, he chose to ignore them both and passed away. Isn’t it sad to think about?
More Paternal Correspondence.
My dear son.—I tried to write to you last week, but didn't get around to it, owing to circumstances. I went away on a little business tower for a few days on the cars, and then when I got home the sociable broke loose in our once happy home.
My dear son.—I attempted to write to you last week, but I couldn't find the time because of various circumstances. I went on a short business trip for a few days by train, and then when I returned home, everything in our once happy home seemed to go off the rails.
While on my commercial tower down the Omehaw railroad buying a new well-diggin' machine of which I had heard a good deal pro and con, I had the pleasure of riding on one of them sleeping-cars that we read so much about.
While traveling on my commercial train down the Omehaw railroad to buy a new well-digging machine that I had heard a lot about, both good and bad, I had the pleasure of riding in one of those sleeping cars that we read so much about.
I am going on 50 years old, and that's the first time I ever slumbered at the rate of forty-five miles per hour, including stops.
I’m almost 50, and that’s the first time I’ve ever slept while going forty-five miles an hour, stops included.
I got acquainted with the porter, and he blacked my boots in the night unbeknownst to me, while I was engaged in slumber. He must have thought that I was your father, and that we rolled in luxury at home all the time, and that it was a common thing for us to have our boots blacked by menials. When I left the car this porter brushed my clothes till the hot flashes ran up my spinal column, and I told him that he had treated me square, and I rung his hand when he held it out toards me, and I told him that at any time he wanted a good, cool drink of buttermilk, to just holler through our telephone. We had the sociable at our house last week, and when I got home your mother set me right to work borryin' chairs and dishes. She had solicited some cakes and other things. I don't know whether you are on the skedjule by which these sociables are run or not. The idea is a novel one to me.
I got to know the porter, and he polished my boots overnight without me realizing it while I was asleep. He probably thought I was your dad, living in luxury at home all the time, and that it was normal for us to have our boots cleaned by servants. When I got off the train, the porter brushed off my clothes until I felt hot flashes running up my back. I told him he treated me well, shook his hand when he offered it to me, and let him know that anytime he wanted a nice cold glass of buttermilk, he should just call us. We had a social gathering at our place last week, and when I got home, your mom set me to work borrowing chairs and dishes. She had asked for some cakes and other things. I’m not sure if you’re on the schedule for these social events or not. The whole idea is pretty new to me.
The sisters in our set, onct in so often, turn their houses wrong side out for the purpose of raising four dollars to apply on the church debt. When I was a boy we worshiped with less frills than they do now. Now it seems that the debt is a part of the worship.
The sisters in our group, once in a while, clean out their houses to raise four dollars to help pay off the church debt. When I was a kid, we attended church with fewer extras than they do now. Now it feels like the debt is just part of the worship.
Well, we had a good time and used up 150 cookies in a short time. Part of these cookies was devoured and the balance was trod into our all-wool carpet. Several of the young people got to playing Copenhagen in the setting-room and stepped on the old cat in such a way as to disfigure him for life. They also had a disturbance in the front room and knocked off some of the plastering.
Well, we had a great time and went through 150 cookies in no time. Some of those cookies got eaten, while the rest were ground into our wool carpet. A few of the young people started playing Copenhagen in the living room and accidentally stepped on the old cat, causing him some serious injuries. They also caused a ruckus in the front room and knocked off some of the plaster.
So your mother is feeling slim and I am not very chipper myself. I hope that you are working hard at your books so that you will be an ornament to society. Society is needing some ornaments very much. I sincerely hope that you will not begin to monkey with rum. I should hate to have you with a felon's doom or fill a drunkard's grave. If anybody has got to fill a drunkard's grave, let him do it himself. What has the drunkard ever done for you, that you should fill his grave for him?
So your mom is feeling thin, and I’m not feeling great either. I hope you’re focusing on your studies so you can be a positive influence in society. Society really needs more good examples right now. I truly hope you don’t start messing around with alcohol. I’d hate to see you end up with a criminal record or in an early grave because of drinking. If someone has to end up in a drunkard's grave, they should do it on their own. What has a drunk ever done for you that you should take their place?
{Illustration: ROUGH ON THE OLD CAT.}
{Illustration: ROUGH ON THE OLD CAT.}
I expect you to do right, as near as possible. You will not do exactly right all the time, but try to strike a good average. I do not expect you to let your studies encroach, too much on your polo, but try to unite the two so that you will not break down under the strain. I should feel sad and mortified to have you come home a physical wreck. I think one physical wreck in a family is enough, and I am rapidly getting where I can do the entire physical wreck business for our neighborhood.
I expect you to do your best, as much as you can. You won’t always get it perfectly right, but aim to find a good balance. I don’t want your studies to interfere too much with your polo, but try to manage both so you don’t burn out. It would make me sad and embarrassed if you came home completely worn out. I think having one person in the family who’s a physical wreck is enough, and I’m quickly reaching the point where I can handle all the physical wrecking for our neighborhood.
I see by your picture that you have got one of them pleated coats with a belt around it, and short pants. They make you look as you did when I used to spank you in years gone by, and I feel the same old desire to do it now that I did then. Old and feeble as I am, it seems to me as though I could spank a boy that wears knickerbocker pants buttoned onto a Garabaldy waist and a pleated jacket. If it wasn't for them cute little camel's hair whiskers of yours I would not believe that you had grown to be a large, expensive boy, grown up with thoughts. Some of the thoughts you express in your letters are far beyond your years. Do you think them yourself, or is there some boy in the school that thinks all the thoughts for the rest?
I can see from your picture that you're wearing one of those pleated coats with a belt and short pants. It reminds me of when I used to spank you back in the day, and I feel the same urge to do it now. Even though I'm old and weak, I feel like I could still spank a boy dressed in knickerbocker pants attached to a Garabaldy waist and a pleated jacket. If it weren’t for your cute little camel’s hair whiskers, I wouldn’t believe that you’ve grown into such a large, sophisticated kid with your own thoughts. Some of the things you write about in your letters are way beyond your years. Do you come up with those ideas yourself, or is there some boy at school who thinks for everyone else?
Some of your letters are so deep that your mother and I can hardly grapple with them. One of them, especially, was so full of foreign stuff that you had got out of a bill of fare, that we will have to wait till you come home before we can take it in. I can talk a little Chippewa, but that is all the foreign language I am familiar with. When I was young we had to get our foreign languages the best we could, so I studied Chippewa without a master. A Chippewa chief took me into his camp and kept me there for some time while I acquired his language. He became so much attached to me that I had great difficulty in coming away. I wish you would write in the United States dialect as much as possible, and not try to paralize your parents with imported expressions that come too high for poor people.
Some of your letters are so deep that your mom and I can hardly understand them. One of them, especially, was filled with so much foreign stuff that you pulled from a menu, that we'll have to wait until you come home to wrap our heads around it. I can speak a little Chippewa, but that's the only foreign language I know. When I was younger, we had to learn foreign languages however we could, so I picked up Chippewa without a teacher. A Chippewa chief took me into his camp and kept me there for a while while I learned his language. He got so attached to me that I had a hard time leaving. I wish you would write in American English as much as possible and not try to confuse your parents with fancy expressions that are too much for regular folks.
Remember that you are the only boy we've got, and we are only going through the motions of living here for your sake. For us the day is wearing out, and it is now way long into the shank of the evening. All we ask of you is to improve on the old people. You can see where I fooled myself, and you can do better. Read and write, and sifer, and polo, and get nolledge, and try not to be ashamed of your uncultivated parents.
Remember that you are our only son, and we are just going through the motions of living here for you. For us, the day is fading away, and it's already very late in the evening. All we ask of you is to do better than we did. You can see where I misled myself, and you can do a better job. Read and write, and think critically, and play polo, and gain knowledge, and try not to be embarrassed by your unrefined parents.
When you get that checkered little sawed-off coat on, and that pair of knee panties, and that poker-dot necktie, and the sassy little boys holler “rats” when you pass by, and your heart is bowed down, remember that, no matter how foolish you may look, your parents will never sour on you.
When you put on that checkered little short coat, those knee-length shorts, and that polka dot tie, and those sassy little kids shout “rats” as you walk by, and your heart feels heavy, remember that, no matter how silly you might seem, your parents will never turn against you.
Your Father.
Your dad.
Twombley's Tale.
My name is Twombley, G.O.P. Twombley is my full name and I have had a checkered career. I thought it would be best to have my career checked right through, so I did so.
My name is Twombley, G.O.P. Twombley is my full name, and I've had an interesting career. I figured it would be a good idea to review my career thoroughly, so I did.
My home is in the Wasatch Mountains. Far up, where I can see the long, green, winding valley of the Jordan, like a glorious panorama below me, I dwell. I keep a large herd of Angora goats. That is my business. The Angora goat is a beautiful animal—in a picture. But out of a picture he has a style of perspiration that invites adverse criticism.
My home is in the Wasatch Mountains. Way up high, where I can see the long, green, winding valley of the Jordan, like a beautiful view below me, I live. I have a big herd of Angora goats. That's my job. The Angora goat looks great in pictures. But in real life, it has a sweating problem that draws some negative feedback.
Still, it is an independent life, and one that has its advantages, too.
Still, it's an independent life, and it has its perks, too.
When I first came to Utah, I saw one day, in Salt Lake City, a young girl arrive. She was in the heyday of life, but she couldn't talk our language. Her face was oval; rather longer than it was wide, I noticed, and, though she was still young, there were traces of care and other foreign substances plainly written there.
When I first arrived in Utah, I saw a young girl come into Salt Lake City one day. She was in the prime of her life, but she couldn’t speak our language. Her face was oval; a bit longer than it was wide, I noticed, and even though she was still young, there were signs of worry and other experiences clearly visible on her face.
She was an emigrant, about seventeen years of age, and, though she had been in Salt Lake City an hour and a half, she was still unmarried.
She was an immigrant, around seventeen years old, and even though she had been in Salt Lake City for an hour and a half, she was still single.
She was about the medium height, with blue eyes, that somehow, as you examined them carefully in the full, ruddy light of a glorious September afternoon, seemed to resemble each other. Both of them were that way,
She was of average height, with blue eyes that, when you looked closely in the bright, warm light of a beautiful September afternoon, seemed to mirror each other. Both of them were like that,
I know not what gave me the courage, but I stepped to her side, and in a low voice told her of my love and asked her to be mine.
I don't know what gave me the courage, but I walked up to her and, in a quiet voice, told her I loved her and asked her to be mine.
She looked askance at me. Nobody ever did that to me before and lived to tell the tale. But her sex made me overlook it. Had she been any other sex that I can think of, I would have resented it. But I would not strike a woman, especially when I had not been married to her and had no right to do so.
She gave me a skeptical look. No one had ever looked at me like that and lived to talk about it. But because she was a woman, I let it go. If she had been any other gender I could think of, I would have felt angry about it. But I wouldn’t hit a woman, especially since I wasn't married to her and had no right to do that.
I turned on my heel and I went away. I most always turn on my heel when I go away. If I did not turn on my own heel when I went away, whose heel would a lonely man like me turn upon?
I turned on my heel and walked away. I almost always turn on my heel when I leave. If I didn’t turn on my own heel when I go, whose heel would a lonely guy like me turn on?
Years rolled by. I did nothing to prevent it. Still that face came to me in my lonely hut far up in the mountains. That look still rankled in my memory. Before that my memory had been all right. Nothing had ever rankled in it very much. Let the careless reader who never had his memory rankle in hot weather, pass this by. This story is not for him.
Years went by. I did nothing to stop it. Still, that face came to me in my lonely cabin far up in the mountains. That look still bothered me in my memory. Before that, my memory had been fine. Nothing had ever really troubled it. Let the indifferent reader who has never had a nagging memory in the heat of summer skip this. This story isn’t for them.
After our first conversation we did not meet again for three years, and then by the merest accident. I had been out for a whole afternoon, hunting an elderly goat that had grown childish and irresponsible. He had wandered away, and for several days I had been unable to find him. So I sought for him till darkness found me several miles from my cabin. I realized at once that I must hurry back, or lose my way and spend the night in the mountains. The darkness became more rapidly obvious. My way became more and more uncertain.
After our first conversation, we didn’t see each other again for three years, and then it happened totally by chance. I had spent the whole afternoon looking for an old goat that had become kind of foolish and unreliable. He had wandered off, and I hadn’t been able to find him for days. So I kept searching until it was dark, and I was several miles from my cabin. I quickly realized I needed to hurry back, or I would get lost and end up spending the night in the mountains. The darkness became really noticeable, and my path became more and more uncertain.
Finally I fell down an old prospect shaft. I then resolved to remain where I was until I could decide what was best to be done. If I had known that the prospect shaft was there, I would have gone another way. There was another way that I could have gone, but it did not occur to me until too late.
Finally, I fell down an old prospect shaft. I decided to stay put until I figured out what to do next. If I had known the prospect shaft was there, I would have taken a different route. There was another path I could have taken, but it didn’t come to mind until it was too late.
I hated to spend the next few weeks in the shaft, for I had not locked up my cabin when I left it, and I feared that someone might get in while I was absent and play on the piano. I had also set a batch of bread and two hens that morning, and all of these would be in sad knead of me before I could get my business into such shape that I could return.
I really didn’t want to spend the next few weeks in the mine because I hadn’t locked my cabin when I left. I was worried that someone might come in while I was gone and mess around on the piano. I had also started a batch of bread and had two hens that morning, and all of that would be in desperate need of my attention before I could get my business in order to come back.
I could not tell accurately how long I had been in the shaft, for I had no matches by which to see my watch. I also had no watch.
I couldn't say for sure how long I'd been in the tunnel, since I didn't have any matches to see my watch. I also didn't have a watch.
All at once, someone fell down the shaft. I knew that it was a woman, because she did not swear when she landed at the bottom. Still, this could be accounted for in another way. She was unconscious when I picked her up.
All of a sudden, someone fell down the shaft. I knew it was a woman because she didn’t curse when she hit the bottom. Still, there was another explanation for that. She was unconscious when I lifted her up.
I did not know what to do, I was perfectly beside myself, and so was she. I had read in novels that when a woman became unconscious people generally chafed her hands, but I did not know whether I ought to chafe the hands of a person to whom I had never been introduced.
I didn’t know what to do; I was completely at a loss, and so was she. I’d read in novels that when a woman fainted, people usually rubbed her hands, but I wasn’t sure if I should rub the hands of someone I had never been introduced to.
I could have administered alcoholic stimulants to her but I had neglected to provide myself with them when I fell down the shaft. This should be a warning to people who habitually go around the country without alcoholic stimulants.
I could have given her some alcohol to revive her, but I didn’t bring any with me when I fell down the hole. This should serve as a warning to anyone who travels around without alcohol.
Finally she breathed a long sigh and murmured, “where am I?” I told her that I did not know, but wherever it might be, we were safe, and that whatever she might say to me, I would promise her, should go no farther.
Finally, she let out a long sigh and whispered, “Where am I?” I told her I didn’t know, but no matter where we were, we were safe, and that whatever she said to me, I promised would stay between us.
Then there was a long pause.
Then there was a long pause.
To encourage further conversation I asked her if she did not think we had been having a rather backward spring. She said we had, but she prophesied a long, open fall.
To keep the conversation going, I asked her if she didn’t think we had been having a pretty rough spring. She agreed, but predicted a long, clear fall.
Then there was another pause, after which I offered her a seat on an old red empty powder can. Still, she seemed shy and reserved. I would make a remark to which she would reply briefly, and then there would be a pause of a little over an hour. Still it seemed longer.
Then there was another pause, after which I invited her to sit on an old empty red powder can. Still, she seemed shy and reserved. I would make a comment to which she would respond briefly, and then there would be a pause of just over an hour. Yet it felt longer.
Suddenly the idea of marriage presented itself to my mind. If we never got out of the shaft, of course an engagement need not be announced. No one had ever plighted his or her troth at the bottom of a prospect shaft before. It was certainly unique, to say the least. I suggested it to her.
Suddenly, the idea of marriage popped into my mind. If we never got out of the shaft, then of course we wouldn't have to announce an engagement. No one had ever made a promise to marry at the bottom of a prospect shaft before. It was definitely unique, to say the least. I brought it up to her.
She demurred to this on the ground that our acquaintance had been so brief, and that we had never been thrown together before. I told her that this would be no objection, and that my parents were so far away that I did not think they would make any trouble about it.
She hesitated to agree because our relationship had been so short, and we had never spent time together before. I told her this wouldn't be an issue, and since my parents were far away, I doubted they would cause any problems about it.
She said that she did not mind her parents so much as she did the violent temper of her husband.
She said that she didn't mind her parents as much as she did her husband’s violent temper.
I asked her if her husband had ever indulged in polygamy. She replied that he had, frequently. He had several previous wives. I convinced her that in the eyes of the law, and under the Edmunds bill, she was not bound to him. Still she feared the consequences of his wrath.
I asked her if her husband had ever practiced polygamy. She said that he had, often. He had several ex-wives. I assured her that legally, under the Edmunds bill, she wasn't obligated to him. Still, she was afraid of what he might do in anger.
Then I suggested a desperate plan. We would elope!
Then I came up with a bold plan. We would run away together!
I was now thirty-seven years old, and yet had never eloped. Neither had she. So, when the first streaks of rosy dawn crept across the soft, autumnal sky and touched the rich and royal coloring on the rugged sides of the grim old mountains, we got out of the shaft and eloped.
I was now thirty-seven, and I had never run away to get married. Neither had she. So, when the first hints of pink dawn spread across the soft autumn sky and touched the vibrant colors on the rough faces of the old mountains, we got out of the shaft and eloped.
On Cyclones.
I desire to state that my position as United States Cyclonist for this Judicial District is now vacant. I resigned on the 9th day of September, A.D. 1884.
I want to say that my position as the United States Cyclonist for this Judicial District is now open. I resigned on September 9, 1884.
I have not the necessary personal magnetism to look a cyclone in the eye and make it quail. I am stern and even haughty in my intercourse with men, but when a Manitoba simoon takes me by the brow of my pantaloons and throws me across Township 28, Range 18, West of the 5th Principal Meridian, I lose my mental reserve and become anxious and even taciturn. For thirty years I had yearned to see a grown up cyclone, of the ring-tail-puller variety, mop up the green earth with huge forest trees and make the landscape look tired. On the 9th day of September, A.D. 1884, my morbid curiosity was gratified.
I lack the personal charm to face a cyclone head-on and make it back down. I come off as strict and even proud in my interactions with others, but when a Manitoba dust storm grabs me by my pants and tosses me across Township 28, Range 18, West of the 5th Principal Meridian, I lose my composure and become worried and even quiet. For thirty years, I had wanted to see a full-grown cyclone, the kind that can rip the ground apart and scatter massive trees, making the landscape look worn out. On September 9, 1884, my morbid curiosity was finally satisfied.
As the people came out into the forest with lanterns and pulled me out of the crotch of a basswood tree with a “tackle and fall,” I remember I told them I didn't yearn for any more atmospheric phenomena. The old desire for a hurricane that would blow a cow through a penitentiary was satiated. I remember when the doctor pried the bones of my leg together, in order to kind of draw my attention away from the limb, he asked me how I liked the fall style of Zephyr in that locality.
As the people came into the forest with lanterns and pulled me out of the fork of a basswood tree with a "tackle and fall," I remember telling them I didn't want any more crazy weather. My old wish for a hurricane that would blow a cow through a prison was fulfilled. I recall when the doctor pushed the bones of my leg back together, trying to distract me from the pain, he asked me what I thought of the fall style of Zephyr in that area.
I said it was all right, what there was of it. I said this in a tone of bitter irony.
I said it was fine, whatever there was of it. I said this with a tone of bitter irony.
Cyclones are of two kinds, viz: the dark maroon cyclone; and the iron gray cyclone with pale green mane and tail. It was the latter kind I frolicked with on the above-named date.
Cyclones come in two types: the dark maroon cyclone and the iron gray cyclone with a pale green mane and tail. It was the latter type that I played with on the date mentioned above.
My brother and I were riding along in the grand old forest, and I had just been singing a few bars from the opera of “Whoop 'em Up, Lizzie Jane,” when I noticed that the wind was beginning to sough through the trees. Soon after that, I noticed that I was soughing through the trees also, and I am really no slouch of a sougher, either, when I get started.
My brother and I were riding through the beautiful old forest, and I had just been singing a few lines from the opera “Whoop 'em Up, Lizzie Jane,” when I noticed the wind starting to rustle through the trees. Shortly after that, I realized I was rustling through the trees too, and I'm actually pretty good at rustling when I get going.
The horse was hanging by the breeching from the bough of a large butternut tree, waiting for some one to come and pick him.
The horse was hanging by the harness from the branch of a big butternut tree, waiting for someone to come and get him.
{Illustration: WAITING TO BE PICKED.}
{Illustration: WAITING TO BE CHOSEN.}
I did not see my brother at first, but after a while he disengaged himself from a rail fence and came where I was hanging, wrong end up, with my personal effects spilling out of my pockets. I told him that as soon as the wind kind of softened down, I wished he would go and pick the horse. He did so, and at midnight a party of friends carried me into town on a stretcher. It was quite an ovation. To think of a torchlight procession coming way out there into the woods at midnight, and carrying me into town on their shoulders in triumph! And yet I was once only a poor boy!
I didn’t see my brother at first, but after a bit, he freed himself from a fence and came over to where I was hanging, upside down, with my stuff spilling out of my pockets. I told him that as soon as the wind calmed down a bit, I hoped he would go and get the horse. He did, and at midnight, a group of friends carried me into town on a stretcher. It was quite a celebration. Just think of a torchlight procession coming all the way out there into the woods at midnight, carrying me into town on their shoulders in triumph! And yet I was once just a poor kid!
It shows what may be accomplished by anyone if he will persevere and insist on living a different life.
It shows what anyone can achieve if they persevere and choose to live a different life.
The cyclone is a natural phenomenon, enjoying the most robust health. It may be a pleasure for a man with great will power and an iron constitution to study more carefully into the habits of the cyclone, but as far as I am concerned, individually, I could worry along some way if we didn't have a phenomenon in the house from one year's end to another.
The cyclone is a natural occurrence, thriving in full force. It might be enjoyable for someone with a strong will and a tough constitution to delve deeper into the behavior of cyclones, but as for me personally, I could get by just fine without having a constant phenomenon in the house all year round.
As I sit here, with my leg in a silicate of soda corset, and watch the merry throng promenading down the street, or mingling in the giddy torchlight procession, I cannot repress a feeling toward a cyclone that almost amounts to disgust.
As I sit here with my leg in a soda-silicate brace, watching the cheerful crowd walking down the street or joining the exciting torchlight parade, I can't help but feel a level of disgust towards a cyclone.
The Arabian Language.
The Arabian language belongs to what is called the Semitic or Shemitic family of languages, and, when written, presents the appearance of a general riot among the tadpoles and wrigglers of the United States.
The Arabic language is part of the Semitic family of languages, and when it's written, it looks like a chaotic mix of squiggles and shapes similar to a jumble of tadpoles in the United States.
The Arabian letter “jeem” or “jim,” which corresponds with our J, resembles some of the spectacular wonders seen by the delirium tremons expert. I do not know whether that is the reason the letter is called jeem or jim, or not.
The Arabic letter "jeem" or "jim," which corresponds to our J, looks like some of the amazing sights seen by someone experiencing delirium tremens. I'm not sure if that's why the letter is called jeem or jim, or not.
The letter “sheen” or “shin,” which is some like our “sh” in its effect, is a very pretty letter, and enough of them would make very attractive trimming for pantalets or other clothing. The entire Arabic alphabet, I think, would work up first-rate into trimming for aprons, skirts, and so forth.
The letter “sheen” or “shin,” which is somewhat like our “sh” sound, is a really nice letter, and using enough of them could make for some attractive decoration on pantalets or other clothing. I believe the whole Arabic alphabet would look great as trim for aprons, skirts, and so on.
Still it is not so rich in variety as the Chinese language. A Chinaman who desires to publish a paper in order to fill a long felt want, must have a small fortune in order to buy himself an alphabet. In this country we get a press, and then, if we have any money left, we lay it out in type; but in China the editor buys himself an alphabet and then regards the press as a mere annex. If you go to a Chinese type maker and ask him to show you his goods, he will ask you whether you want a two or a three story alphabet.
Still, it's not as diverse as the Chinese language. A Chinese person who wants to publish a paper to address a long-standing need must spend a small fortune just to acquire an alphabet. In this country, we get a printing press first, and then, if we have any money left, we invest it in type; but in China, the editor buys themselves an alphabet and views the press as just an addition. If you go to a Chinese type maker and ask them to show you their products, they'll ask if you want a two or three-story alphabet.
The Chinese compositor spends most of his time riding up and down the elevator, seeking for letters and dusting them off with a feather duster. In large and wealthy offices the compositor sits at his case with the copy before him, and has five or six boys running from one floor to another, bringing him the letters of this wild and peculiar alphabet.
The Chinese typesetter spends most of his time riding up and down the elevator, looking for letters and dusting them off with a feather duster. In large and wealthy offices, the typesetter sits at his desk with the copy in front of him, and has five or six boys running from one floor to another, bringing him the letters of this strange and unique alphabet.
Sometimes they have to stop in the middle of a long editorial and send down to Hong Kong and have a letter cast specially for that editorial.
Sometimes they have to pause in the middle of a long article and send down to Hong Kong to have a letter created specifically for that article.
Chinese compositors soon die from heart disease, because they have to run up stairs and down so much in order to get the different letters needed.
Chinese typesetters often suffer from heart disease because they have to constantly run up and down stairs to gather the different letters they need.
One large publisher tried to have his case arranged in a high building without floors, so that the compositor could reach each type by means of a long pole, but one day there was a slight earthquake shock that spilled the entire alphabet out of the case, all over the floor, and although that was ninety-seven years ago last April, there are still two bushels of pi on the floor of that office. The paper employs rat printers, and as they have been engaged in assorting and distributing this mass of pi, it is called rat pi in China, and the term is quite popular.
One big publisher tried to design his case in a tall building with no floors, so the typesetter could reach each letter with a long pole. But one day, there was a little earthquake that knocked the entire alphabet out of the case and onto the floor. Even though that happened ninety-seven years ago last April, there are still two bushels of random letters scattered on the floor of that office. The paper uses rat printers, and since they've been busy sorting and distributing this jumble of letters, it's referred to as rat pi in China, and that term has become quite popular.
When the editor underscores a word, the Chinese compositor charges $9 extra for italicizing it. This is nothing more than fair, for he may have to go all over the empire, and climb twenty-seven flights of stairs to find the necessary italics. So it is much more economical in China to use body type mostly in setting up a paper, and the old journalist will avoid caps and italics, unless he is very wealthy.
When the editor highlights a word, the Chinese typesetter charges an extra $9 for italicizing it. This is only fair because he might have to travel all over the country and climb twenty-seven flights of stairs to find the right italics. So, it's much more cost-effective in China to mainly use regular type when putting together a newspaper, and an experienced journalist will steer clear of capital letters and italics unless he’s quite wealthy.
Arabian literature is very rich, and more especially so in verse. How the Arabian poets succeeded so well in writing their verse in their own language, I can hardly understand. I find it very difficult to write poetry which will be greedily snapped up and paid for, even when written in the English language, but if I had to paw around for an hour to get a button-hook for the end of the fourth line, so that it would rhyme with the button-hook in the second line of the same verse, I believe it would drive me mad.
Arabian literature is incredibly rich, especially in poetry. I can hardly grasp how Arabian poets managed to create their verses in their own language so successfully. I struggle to write poetry that people will eagerly buy, even in English, but if I had to search for an hour just to find a button-hook to make the fourth line rhyme with the button-hook in the second line, I think it would drive me insane.
The Arabian writer is very successful in a tale of fiction. He loves to take a tale and re-write it for the press by carefully expunging the facts. It is in lyric and romantic writing that he seems to excel.
The Arabian writer is quite successful in crafting stories. He enjoys taking a story and reworking it for publication by thoughtfully removing the facts. It is in lyrical and romantic writing that he truly shines.
The Arabian Nights is the most popular work that has survived the harsh touch of time. Its age is not fully known, and as the author has been dead several hundred years, I feel safe in saying that a number of the incidents contained in this book are grossly inaccurate.
The Arabian Nights is the most popular work that has survived the harsh touch of time. Its age isn't fully known, and since the author has been dead for several hundred years, I feel comfortable saying that many of the events in this book are quite inaccurate.
It has been translated several times with more or less success by various writers, and some of the statements contained in the book are well worthy of the advanced civilization, and wild word painting incident to a heated presidential campaign.
It has been translated multiple times with varying degrees of success by different writers, and some of the claims in the book are truly deserving of our advanced civilization, as well as the dramatic language typical of a heated presidential campaign.
Verona.
We arrived in Verona day before yesterday. Most every one has heard of the Two Gentlemen of Verona. This is the place they came from. They have never returned. Verona is not noted for its gentlemen now. Perhaps that is the reason I was regarded as such a curiosity when I came here.
We got to Verona two days ago. Almost everyone has heard of the Two Gentlemen of Verona. This is where they were from. They’ve never come back. Verona isn’t known for its gentlemen anymore. Maybe that’s why I was seen as such a curiosity when I got here.
{Illustration: THE ODORS OF VERONA.}
{Illustration: THE SCENTS OF VERONA.}
Verona is a good deal older town than Chicago, but the two cities have points of resemblance after all. When the southern simoon from the stock yards is wafted across the vinegar orchards of Chicago, and a load of Mormon emigrants get out at the Rock Island depot and begin to move around and squirm and emit the fragrance of crushed Limburger cheese, it reminds one of Verona.
Verona is a much older town than Chicago, but the two cities actually have some similarities. When the warm breeze from the stockyards blows over the vinegar orchards of Chicago, and a group of Mormon immigrants arrives at the Rock Island depot and starts to move about, wriggling and giving off the smell of crushed Limburger cheese, it brings to mind Verona.
The sky is similar, too. At night, when it is raining hard, the sky of Chicago and Verona is not dissimilar. Chicago is the largest place, however, and my sympathies are with her. Verona has about 68,000 people now, aside from myself. This census includes foreigners and Indians not taxed.
The sky is similar as well. At night, when it's pouring, the sky in Chicago and Verona looks alike. However, Chicago is the bigger city, and I feel more connected to it. Verona has around 68,000 people now, not counting me. This count includes untaxed foreigners and Indians.
Verona has an ancient skating rink, known in history as the amphitheatre, It is 404-1/2 feet by 516 in size, and the wall is still 100 feet high in places. The people of Verona wanted me to lecture there, but I refrained. I was afraid that some late comers might elbow their way in and leave one end of the amphitheatre open and then there would be a draft. I will speak more fully on the subject of amphitheatres in another letter. There isn't room in this one.
Verona has an ancient skating rink, historically referred to as the amphitheater. It's 404.5 feet by 516 feet in size, and the wall still stands 100 feet high in some areas. The people of Verona wanted me to give a lecture there, but I declined. I was worried that some latecomers might push their way in and leave one end of the amphitheater open, causing a draft. I will discuss amphitheaters more in-depth in another letter. There's not enough space in this one.
Verona is noted for the Capitular library, as it is called. This is said to be the largest collection of rejected manuscripts in the world. I stood in with the librarian and he gave me an opportunity to examine this wonderful store of literary work. I found a Virgil that was certainly over 1,600 years old. I also found a well preserved copy of “Beautiful Snow.” I read it. It was very touching indeed. Experts said it was 1,700 years old, which is no doubt correct. I am no judge of the age of MSS. Some can look at the teeth of a literary production and tell within two weeks how old it is, but I can't. You can also fool me on the age of wine. My rule used to be to observe how old I felt the next day and to fix that as the age of the wine, but this rule I find is not infallible. One time I found myself feeling the next day as though I might be 138 years old, but on investigation we found that the wine was extremely new, having been made at a drug store in Cheyenne that same day.
Verona is known for the Capitular library, as it’s called. It's said to be the largest collection of rejected manuscripts in the world. I spent some time with the librarian, who let me check out this amazing treasure of literary works. I found a copy of Virgil that was definitely over 1,600 years old. I also came across a well-preserved copy of “Beautiful Snow.” I read it, and it was really moving. Experts claim it’s 1,700 years old, which seems accurate. I’m not an expert on manuscript ages. Some people can look at a piece of writing and determine its age within two weeks, but I can’t. You could also trick me about the age of wine. My previous method was to gauge how I felt the next day and use that as the wine's age, but I’ve learned that this method isn't foolproof. One time, I felt like I might be 138 years old the following day, but it turned out the wine was actually very fresh, having been made that same day at a drug store in Cheyenne.
{Illustration: THE NEXT MORNING.}
{Illustration: THE NEXT MORNING.}
Looking these venerable MSS. over, I noticed that the custom of writing with a violet pencil on both sides of the large foolscap sheet, and then folding it in sixteen directions and carrying it around in the pocket for two or three centuries, is not a late American invention, as I had been led to suppose. They did it in Italy fifteen centuries ago. I was permitted also to examine the celebrated institutes of Gaius. Gaius was a poor penman, and I am convinced from a close examination of his work that he was in the habit of carrying his manuscript around in his pocket with his smoking tobacco. The guide said that was impossible, for smoking tobacco was not introduced into Italy until a comparatively late day. That's all right, however. You can't fool me much on the odor of smoking tobacco.
Looking over these old manuscripts, I noticed that the habit of writing with a violet pencil on both sides of a large sheet of paper, then folding it in sixteen ways and carrying it around in your pocket for two or three centuries, isn’t a recent American invention as I had thought. They were doing this in Italy fifteen centuries ago. I also got to examine the famous works of Gaius. Gaius had poor handwriting, and I’m convinced from closely looking at his work that he often carried his manuscript in his pocket along with his smoking tobacco. The guide insisted this was impossible since smoking tobacco wasn't introduced in Italy until much later. That’s fine, but you can’t fool me about the smell of smoking tobacco.
The churches of Verona are numerous, and although they seem to me a little different from our own in many ways, they resemble ours in others. One thing that pleased me about the churches of Verona was the total absence of the church fair and festival as conducted in America. Salvation seems to be handed out in Verona without ice cream and cake, and the odor of sancity and stewed oysters do not go inevitably hand in hand. I have already been in the place more than two days and I have not yet been invited to help lift the old church debt on the cathedral. Perhaps they think I am not wealthy, however. In fact there is nothing about my dress or manner that would betray my wealth. I have been in Europe now six weeks and have kept my secret well. Even my most intimate traveling companions do not know that I am the Laramie City postmaster in disguise.
The churches in Verona are many, and while they seem a bit different from ours in several ways, they also share some similarities. One thing I liked about the churches in Verona is that there's no church fair or festival like we have in America. It feels like salvation is offered in Verona without the added distractions of ice cream and cake, and the smell of holiness doesn’t have to be mixed with stewed oysters. I've been here for over two days now, and I haven't been invited to help pay off the old debt on the cathedral. Maybe they think I’m not wealthy, though. Honestly, nothing about my clothing or demeanor gives away my wealth. I've been in Europe for six weeks now and have kept my secret well. Even my closest travel companions don’t realize that I’m the postmaster from Laramie City in disguise.
The cathedral is a most imposing and massive pile. I quote this from the guide book. This beautiful structure contains a baptismal font cut out of one solid block of stone and made for immersion, with an inside diameter of ten feet. A man nine feet high could be baptized there without injury. The Venetians have a great respect for water. They believe it ought not to be used for anything else but to wash away sins, and even then they are very economical about it.
The cathedral is an impressive and massive structure. I’m quoting this from the guidebook. This beautiful building features a baptismal font carved from a single block of stone, designed for immersion, with an inside diameter of ten feet. A man nine feet tall could be baptized there without harm. The Venetians have a deep respect for water. They believe it should only be used to wash away sins, and even then, they are quite frugal with it.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
There is a nice picture here by Titian. It looks as though it had been left in the smoke house 900 years and overlooked. Titian painted a great deal. You find his works here ever and anon. He must have had all he could do in Italy in an early day, when the country was new. I like his pictures first rate, but I haven't found one yet that I could secure at anything like a bed rock price.
There’s a nice painting here by Titian. It looks like it’s been left in a smoky room for 900 years and forgotten. Titian created a lot of art. You come across his works here from time to time. He must have had plenty to do in Italy back when the country was new. I really like his paintings, but I haven’t found one yet that I could buy for a reasonable price.
A Great Upheaval.
I have just received the following letter, which I take the liberty of publishing, in order that good may come out of it, and that the public generally may be on the watch:
I just received the following letter, and I’m sharing it so that something good can come from it and the public can stay alert:
William Nye, Esq.—
William Nye, Esq.
Dear Sir: There has been a great religious upheaval here, and great anxiety on the part of our entire congregation, and I write to you, hoping that you may have some suggestions to offer that we could use at this time beneficially.
Dear Sir: There has been a huge religious turmoil here, causing a lot of anxiety for our entire congregation. I'm writing to you, hoping you might have some suggestions that we could find useful during this time.
All the bitter and irreverent remarks of Bob Ingersoll have fallen harmlessly upon the minds of our people. The flippant sneers and wicked sarcasms of the modern infidel, wise in his own conceit, have alike passed over our heads without damage or disaster. These times that have tried men's souls have only rooted us more firmly in the faith, and united us more closely as brothers and sisters.
All the harsh and disrespectful comments from Bob Ingersoll have landed harmlessly on our people. The casual mocking and malicious sarcasm of the modern skeptic, full of his own self-importance, have also gone over our heads without causing harm or trouble. These challenging times have only made our faith stronger and brought us closer together as brothers and sisters.
We do not care whether the earth was made in two billion years or two minutes, so long as it was made and we are satisfied with it. We do not care whether Jonah swallowed the whale or the whale swallowed Jonah. None of these things worry us in the least. We do not pin our faith on such little matters as those, but we try to so live that when we pass on beyond the flood we may have a record to which we may point with pride.
We don't care if the earth was created in two billion years or two minutes, as long as it was created and we're okay with it. We don't care whether Jonah swallowed the whale or the whale swallowed Jonah. None of these things concern us at all. We don’t base our beliefs on such trivial matters, but we try to live in a way that, when we move on beyond this life, we can look back with pride on what we've done.
But last Sabbath our entire congregation was visibly moved. People who had grown gray in this church got right up during the service and went out, and did not come in again. Brothers who had heard all kinds of infidelity and scorned to be moved by it, got up, and kicked the pews, and slammed the doors, and created a young riot.
But last Sunday, our whole congregation was clearly affected. People who have been here for years stood up during the service and left, not returning. Brothers who had heard all sorts of disbelief and weren't fazed by it suddenly stood up, kicked the pews, slammed the doors, and caused a bit of a ruckus.
For many years we have sailed along in the most peaceful faith, and through joy or sorrow we came to the church together to worship. We have laughed and wept as one family for a quarter of a century, and an humble dignity and Christian style of etiquette have pervaded our incomings and our outgoings.
For many years, we have sailed along in the most peaceful faith, and through joy or sorrow, we came to church together to worship. We have laughed and cried as one family for twenty-five years, and a humble dignity and Christian sense of etiquette have surrounded our arrivals and departures.
That is the reason why a clear case of disorderly conduct in our church has attracted attention and newspaper comment. That is the reason why we want in some public way to have the church set right before we suffer from unjust criticism and worldly scorn.
That’s why a clear instance of disorderly conduct in our church has caught people’s attention and made the news. That’s why we want to publicly address the issue to protect the church’s reputation before we face unfair criticism and judgment from the outside world.
It has been reported that one of the brothers, who is sixty years of age, and a model Christian, and a good provider, rose during the first prayer, and, waving his plug hat in the air, gave a wild and blood-curdling whoop, jumped over the back of his pew, and lit out. While this is in a measure true, it is not accurate. He did do some wild and startling jumping, but he did not jump over the pew. He tried to, but failed. He was too old.
It’s been reported that one of the brothers, who is sixty years old, a devout Christian, and a good provider, got up during the first prayer, waved his top hat in the air, let out a loud and chilling whoop, jumped over the back of his pew, and took off. While this is somewhat true, it’s not entirely accurate. He did do some wild and surprising jumping, but he didn’t actually clear the pew. He tried to, but couldn’t. He was too old.
It has also been stated that another brother, who has done more to build up the church and society here than any other one man of his size, threw his hymn book across the church, and, with a loud wail that sounded like the word “Gosh!” hissed through clenched teeth, got out through the window and went away. This is overdrawn, though there is an element of truth in it, and I do not try to deny it.
It has also been said that another brother, who has contributed more to building up the church and community here than any other single person, threw his hymn book across the church and, with a loud wail that sounded like the word “Gosh!” hissed through clenched teeth, climbed out the window and left. This may be exaggerated, but there is some truth to it, and I won’t deny that.
There were other similar strong evidences of feeling throughout the congregation, none of which had ever been noticed before in this place. Our clergyman was amazed and horrified. He tried to ignore the action of the brethren, but when a sister who has grown old in our church, and been such a model and example of rectitude that all the girls in the county were perfectly discouraged about trying to be anywhere near equal to her; when she rose with a wild snort, got up on the pew with her feet, and swung her parasol in a way that indicated that she would not go home till morning, he paused and briefly wound up the services.
There was a lot of strong emotion from the congregation that had never been seen before in this place. Our pastor was both amazed and horrified. He tried to overlook the actions of the members, but when an elderly sister, who had been a paragon of virtue in our church and had discouraged all the girls in the county from even trying to match her, stood up with a wild snort, climbed onto the pew with her feet, and waved her parasol as if she intended to stay until morning, he halted the service and quickly wrapped things up.
Of course there were other little eccentricities on the part of the congregation, but these were the ones that people have talked about the most, and have done us the most damage abroad.
Of course, there were other small quirks from the congregation, but these were the ones that people talked about the most and caused us the most trouble abroad.
Now, my desire is that through the medium of the press you will state that this great trouble which has come upon us, by reason of which the ungodly have spoken lightly of us, was not the result of a general tendency to dissent from the statements made by our pastor, and therefore an exhibition of our disapproval of his doctrines, but that the janitor had started a light fire in the furnace, and that had revived a large nest of common, streaked, hot-nosed wasps in the warm air pipe, and when they came up through the register and united in the services, there was more or less of an ovation.
Now, I hope you will share through the press that this major trouble we've faced, which has led the unrighteous to speak poorly of us, was not due to any general disagreement with our pastor’s messages, nor was it an expression of our disapproval of his teachings. Instead, it was because the janitor had started a small fire in the furnace, which stirred up a large nest of common, striped, aggressive wasps in the warm air pipe. When they came through the vent and joined the service, it turned into quite a spectacle.
Sometimes Christianity gets sluggish and comatose, but not under the above circumstances. A man may slumber on softly with his bosom gently rising and falling, and his breath coming and going through one corner of his mouth like the death rattle of a bath-tub, while the pastor opens out a new box of theological thunders and fills the air full of the sullen roar of sulphurous waves, licking the shores of eternity and swallowing up the great multitudes of the eternally lost; but when one little wasp, with a red-hot revelation, goes gently up the leg of that same man's pantaloons, leaving large, hot tracks whenever he stopped and sat down to think it over, you will see a sudden awakening and a revival that will attract attention.
Sometimes Christianity feels sluggish and lifeless, but not in these situations. A man might doze peacefully, his chest rising and falling softly, his breath moving in and out through one corner of his mouth like the death rattle of a bathtub, while the pastor unleashes a new box of theological thunder and fills the air with the dull roar of sulfurous waves, lapping at the shores of eternity and consuming the vast crowds of the eternally lost; but when a little wasp, with a fiery revelation, crawls up that same man's leg, leaving hot marks whenever he stops to ponder, you'll witness a sudden awakening and a revival that grabs attention.
I wish that you would take this letter, Mr. Nye, and write something from it in your own way, for publication, showing how we happened to have more zeal than usual in the church last Sabbath, and that it was not directly the result of the sermon which was preached on that day.
I hope you'll take this letter, Mr. Nye, and write something from it in your own style for publication, explaining why we had more energy than usual in the church last Sunday, and that it wasn't just because of the sermon that was given that day.
Yours, with great respect,
With respect,
William Lemons.
William Lemons.
The Weeping Woman.
I have not written much for publication lately, because I did not feel well, I was fatigued. I took a ride on the cars last week and it shook me up a good deal.
I haven't written much for publication recently because I wasn't feeling well; I was tired. I took a ride on the train last week, and it really rattled me.
The train was crowded somewhat, and so I sat in a seat with a woman who got aboard at Minkin's Siding. I noticed as we pulled out of Minkin's Siding, that this woman raised the window so that she could bid adieu to a man in a dyed moustache. I do not know whether he was her dolce far niente, or her grandson by her second husband. I know that if he had been a relative of mine, however, I would have cheerfully concealed the fact.
The train was pretty crowded, so I sat next to a woman who got on at Minkin's Siding. I noticed as we left Minkin's Siding that she rolled down the window to say goodbye to a man with a dyed mustache. I'm not sure if he was her special someone or her grandson from her second husband. I do know that if he had been a relative of mine, I would have happily kept that a secret.
{Illustration: SHE SOBBED SEVERAL MORE TIMES.}
{Illustration: SHE CRIED A FEW MORE TIMES.}
She waved a little 2x6 handkerchief out of the window, said “good-bye,” allowed a fresh zephyr from Cape Sabine to come in and play a xylophone interlude on my spinal column, and then burst into a paroxysm of damp, hot tears.
She waved a small 2x6 handkerchief out of the window, said “goodbye,” let a fresh breeze from Cape Sabine come in and play a xylophone interlude on my spine, and then broke down in a fit of damp, hot tears.
I had to go into another car for a moment, and when I returned a pugilist from Chicago had my seat. When I travel I am uniformly courteous, especially to pugilists. A pugilist who has started out as an obscure boy with no money, no friends, and no one to practice on, except his wife or his mother, with no capital aside from his bare hands; a man who has had to fight his way through life, as it were, and yet who has come out of obscurity and attracted the attention of the authorities, and won the good will of those with whom he came in contact, will always find me cordial and pacific. So I allowed this self-made man with the broad, high, intellectual shoulder blades, to sit in my seat with his feet on my new and expensive traveling bag, while I sat with the tear-bedewed memento from Minkin's Siding.
I had to step into another car for a moment, and when I came back, a boxer from Chicago was in my seat. When I travel, I'm always polite, especially to boxers. A boxer who has started out as an unknown kid with no money, no friends, and no one to train with except his wife or his mom, with no resources other than his bare hands; a guy who has had to fight his way through life and yet has emerged from obscurity, caught the attention of the authorities, and earned the goodwill of those around him, will always find me friendly and peaceful. So I let this self-made man with broad, strong shoulders take my seat, even with his feet on my new and expensive travel bag, while I sat with the tear-stained keepsake from Minkin's Siding.
She sobbed several more times, then hove a sigh that rattled the windows in the car, and sat up. I asked her if I might sit by her side for a few miles and share her great sorrow. She looked at me askance. I did not resent it. She allowed me to take the seat, and I looked at a paper for a few moments so that she could look me over through the corners of her eyes. I also scrutinized her lineaments some.
She cried a few more times, then let out a sigh that shook the car windows and sat up. I asked her if I could sit next to her for a bit and share in her big sadness. She gave me a side-eye. I didn’t take it personally. She let me take the seat, and I looked at a newspaper for a few minutes so she could check me out from the corners of her eyes. I also examined her features a bit.
She was dressed up considerably, and, when a woman dresses up to ride in a railway train, she advertises the fact that her intellect is beginning to totter on its throne. People who have more than one suit of clothes should not pick out the fine raiment for traveling purposes. This person was not handsomely dressed, but she had the kind of clothes that look as though they had tried to present the appearance of affluence and had failed to do so.
She was really dressed up, and when a woman goes all out to ride on a train, it shows that her intellect is starting to slip. People with more than one outfit shouldn’t choose fancy clothes for traveling. This woman wasn’t dressed elegantly, but her clothes looked like they were trying to give off an air of wealth and completely missed the mark.
This leads me to say, in all seriousness, that there is nothing so sad as the sight of a man or woman who would scorn to tell a wrong story, but who will persist in wearing bogus clothes and bogus jewelry that wouldn't fool anybody.
This makes me seriously say that there's nothing sadder than seeing a man or woman who would never tell a false story, yet continues to wear fake clothes and fake jewelry that wouldn't fool anyone.
My seat-mate wore a cloak that had started out to bamboozle the American people with the idea that it was worth $100, but it wouldn't mislead anyone who might be nearer than half a mile. I also discovered, that it had an air about it that would indicate that she wore it while she cooked the pancakes and fried the doughnuts. It hardly seems possible that she would do this, but the garment, I say, had that air about it.
My seatmate was wearing a cloak that pretended to fool Americans into thinking it was worth $100, but it wouldn’t deceive anyone who was closer than half a mile away. I also noticed that it had a vibe suggesting she wore it while cooking pancakes and frying doughnuts. It’s hard to believe she would actually do that, but the cloak definitely gave off that impression.
She seemed to want to converse after awhile, and she began on the subject of literature, picking up a volume that had been left in her seat by the train boy, entitled: “Shadowed to Skowhegan and Back; or, The Child Fiend; price $2,” we drifted on pleasantly into the broad domain of letters.
She seemed to want to talk after a while, and she started discussing literature, picking up a book that had been left in her seat by the train attendant, titled: “Shadowed to Skowhegan and Back; or, The Child Fiend; price $2.” We smoothly moved into the wide world of writing.
Incidentally I asked her what authors she read mostly.
Incidentally, I asked her what authors she mostly read.
“O, I don't remember the authors so much as I do the books,” said she; “I am a great reader. If I should tell you how much I have read, you wouldn't believe it.”
“O, I don't remember the authors as well as I remember the books,” she said. “I'm a huge reader. If I told you how much I've read, you wouldn't believe it.”
I said I certainly would. I had frequently been called upon to believe things that would make the ordinary rooster quail.
I said I definitely would. I had often been asked to believe things that would make an ordinary rooster back down.
If she discovered the true inwardness of this Anglo-American “Jewdesprit,” she refrained from saying anything about it.
If she found out the real essence of this Anglo-American “Jewdesprit,” she held back from mentioning it.
“I read a good deal,” she continued, “and it keeps me all strung up. I weep, O so easily.” Just then she lightly laid her hand on my arm, and I could see that the tears were rising to her eyes. I felt like asking her if she had ever tried running herself through a clothes wringer every morning? I did feel that someone ought to chirk her up, so I asked her if she remembered the advice of the editor who received a letter from a young lady troubled the same way. She stated that she couldn't explain it, but every little while, without any apparent cause, she would shed tears, and the editor asked her why she didn't lock up the shed.
"I read a lot," she continued, "and it keeps me all tensed up. I cry, oh so easily." Just then, she lightly placed her hand on my arm, and I could see tears welling up in her eyes. I felt like asking her if she had ever considered running herself through a clothes wringer every morning. I thought someone should lift her spirits, so I asked if she remembered the advice from the editor who received a letter from a young woman who felt the same way. She said she couldn't explain it, but every so often, without any clear reason, she would burst into tears, and the editor asked her why she didn't just lock the shed.
We conversed for a long time about literature, but every little while she would get me into deep water by quoting some author or work that I had never read. I never realized what a hopeless ignoramus I was till I heard about the scores of books that had made her shed the scalding, and yet that I had never, never read. When she looked at me with that far-away expression in her eyes, and with her hand resting lightly on my arm in such a way as to give the gorgeous two karat Rhinestone from Pittsburg full play, and told me how such works as “The New Made Grave; or The Twin Murderers” had cost her many and many a copious tear, I told her I was glad of it. If it be a blessed boon for the student of such books to weep at home and work up their honest perspiration into scalding tears, far be it from me to grudge that poor boon.
We talked for a long time about literature, but every now and then she would catch me off guard by quoting some author or book I had never read. I never realized how clueless I was until I found out about the countless books that had made her cry, which I had never, ever read. When she looked at me with that distant look in her eyes and her hand resting lightly on my arm, showcasing that stunning two-carat rhinestone from Pittsburgh, and told me how books like “The New Made Grave; or The Twin Murderers” had brought her so many tears, I said I was happy for her. If crying at home and turning their honest sweat into scalding tears is a blessing for fans of those books, I wouldn't want to take away that little joy.
I hope that all who may read these lines, and who may feel that the pores of their skin are getting torpid and sluggish, owing to an inherited antipathy toward physical exertion, and who feel that they would rather work up their perspiration into woe and shed it in the shape of common red-eyed weep, will keep themselves to this poor boon. People have different ways of enjoying themselves, and I hope no one will hesitate about accepting this or any other poor boon that I do not happen to be using at the time.
I hope that everyone reading this, who feels like their skin is becoming dull and lazy because of a natural aversion to physical activity, and who would prefer to turn their sweat into sadness and let it out as tears, will take this small gift to heart. People have different ways of having a good time, and I hope no one will hesitate to accept this or any other small gift that I'm not currently using.
The Crops.
I have just been through Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin, on a tour of inspection. I rode for over ten days in these States in a sleeping-car, examining crops, so that I could write an intelligent report.
I just traveled through Iowa, Minnesota, and Wisconsin for an inspection tour. I spent over ten days riding in a sleeper car across these states, checking out the crops so I could write an informed report.
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Grain in Northern Wisconsin suffered severely in the latter part of the season from rust, chintz bug, Hessian fly and trichina. In the St. Croix valley wheat will not average a half crop. I do not know why farmers should insist upon leaving their grain out nights in July, when they know from the experience of former years that it will surely rust.
Grain in Northern Wisconsin took a big hit in the later part of the season due to rust, chintz bugs, Hessian flies, and trichina. In the St. Croix valley, wheat won’t even average half a crop. I don’t understand why farmers continue to leave their grain out overnight in July when they know from past years that it will definitely rust.
In Southern Wisconsin too much rain has almost destroyed many crops, and cattle have been unable to get enough to eat, unless they were fed, for several weeks. This is a sad outlook for the farmer at this season.
In Southern Wisconsin, too much rain has nearly ruined many crops, and cattle have struggled to find enough to eat unless they were fed for several weeks. This is a bleak situation for farmers at this time of year.
In the northern part of the State many fields of grain were not worth cutting, while others barely yielded the seed, and even that of a very inferior quality.
In the northern part of the state, many grain fields weren't worth harvesting, while others hardly produced any seeds, and even those were of very poor quality.
The ruta-baga is looking unusually well this fall, but we cannot subsist entirely upon the ruta-baga. It is juicy and rich if eaten in large quantities, but it is too bulky to be popular with the aristocracy.
The rutabaga is looking really good this fall, but we can't rely solely on the rutabaga. It's juicy and rich when eaten in large amounts, but it's too bulky to be favored by the aristocracy.
Cabbages in most places are looking well, though in some quarters I notice an epidemic of worms. To successfully raise the cabbage, it will be necessary at all times to be well supplied with vermifuge that can be readily administered at any hour of the day or night.
Cabbages are thriving in most areas, but I've noticed an outbreak of worms in some places. To successfully grow cabbage, you'll need to always have a good supply of worm medicine that can be easily given at any time, day or night.
The crook-neck squash in the Northwest is a great success this season. And what can be more beautiful, as it calmly lies in its bower of green vines in the crisp and golden haze of autumn, than the cute little crook-neck squash, with yellow, warty skin, all cuddled up together in the cool morning, like the discarded wife of an old Mormon elder—his first attempt in the matrimonial line, so to speak, ere he had gained wisdom by experience.
The crook-neck squash in the Northwest is doing really well this season. And what could be more beautiful, as it rests in its nest of green vines in the crisp, golden autumn light, than the adorable little crook-neck squash, with its yellow, lumpy skin, all gathered together in the cool morning, like the cast-off wife of an old Mormon elder—his first try at marriage, so to speak, before he learned from experience.
The full-dress, low-neck-and-short-sleeve summer squash will be worn as usual this fall, with trimmings of salt and pepper in front and revers of butter down the back.
The formal, low-neck and short-sleeve summer squash will be worn as usual this fall, featuring salt and pepper trimmings in the front and butter accents down the back.
N.B.—It will not be used much as an outside wrap, but will be worn mostly inside.
N.B.—It won’t be used much as an outer layer, but will mainly be worn indoors.
Hop-poles in some parts of Wisconsin are entirely killed. I suppose that continued dry weather in the early summer did it.
Hop poles in some areas of Wisconsin are completely dead. I think that the ongoing dry weather in early summer caused it.
Hop-lice, however, are looking well. Many of our best hop-breeders thought that when the hop-pole began to wither and die, the hop-louse could not survive the intense dry heat; but hop-lice have never looked better in this State than they do this fall.
Hop lice, however, are doing well. Many of our best hop breeders thought that when the hop pole started to wilt and die, the hop louse wouldn't be able to survive the extreme dry heat; but hop lice have never looked better in this state than they do this fall.
I can remember very well when Wisconsin had to send to Ohio for hop-lice. Now she could almost supply Ohio and still have enough to fill her own coffers.
I can clearly remember when Wisconsin had to send to Ohio for hop lice. Now she could almost supply Ohio and still have enough to fill her own coffers.
{Illustration: ENJOYING HIMSELF AT THE DANCE.}
{Illustration: HAVING A GREAT TIME AT THE DANCE.}
I do not know that hop-lice are kept in coffers, and I may be wrong in speaking thus freely of these two subjects, never having seen either a hop-louse or a coffer, but I feel that the public must certainly and naturally expect me to say something on these subjects. Fruit in the Northwest this season is not a great success. Aside from the cranberry and choke-cherry, the fruit yield in the northern district is light. The early dwarf crab, with or without, worms, as desired—but mostly with—is unusually poor this fall. They make good cider. This cider when put into a brandy flask that has not been drained too dry, and allowed to stand until Christmas, puts a great deal of expression into a country dance. I have tried it once myself, so that I could write it up for your valuable paper.
I’m not sure if hop lice are stored in chests, and I might be wrong to speak so openly about these two topics since I’ve never seen a hop louse or a chest. However, I feel that the public naturally expects me to say something about them. This season, fruit production in the Northwest has not been very good. Other than cranberries and chokecherries, the fruit yield in the northern area is quite low. The early dwarf crab apples, with or without worms—mostly with—are particularly disappointing this fall. They do make good cider, though. If you put this cider in a brandy flask that hasn’t been drained too thoroughly and let it sit until Christmas, it adds a lot of energy to a country dance. I’ve tried it myself once so I could write about it for your valuable paper.
People who were present at that dance, and who saw me frolic around there like a thing of life, say that it was well worth the price of admission. Stone fence always flies right to the weakest spot. So it goes right to my head and makes me eccentric.
People who were at that dance and saw me having a great time say it was totally worth the ticket price. A stone fence always targets the weak spot. So it goes straight to my head and makes me act a little odd.
The violin virtuoso who “fiddled,” “called off” and acted as justice of the peace that evening, said that I threw aside all reserve and entered with great zest into the dance, and seemed to enjoy it much better than those who danced in the same set with me. Since that, the very sight of a common crab apple makes my head reel. I learned afterward that this cider had frozen, so that the alleged cider which we drank that night was the clear, old-fashioned brandy, which of course would not freeze.
The violin expert who played, called out the steps, and acted as the local magistrate that evening said I let go of all inhibitions and really got into the dance, enjoying it way more than those dancing in the same group as me. Ever since then, just seeing a regular crab apple makes me feel dizzy. I found out later that this cider had frozen, so the so-called cider we drank that night was actually clear, old-school brandy, which obviously wouldn’t freeze.
We should strive, however, to lead such lives that we will never be ashamed to look a cider barrel square in the bung.
We should aim to live in a way that we will never be embarrassed to look a cider barrel straight in the opening.
{Illustration}
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Literary Freaks.
People who write for a livelihood get some queer propositions from those who have crude ideas about the operation of the literary machine. There is a prevailing idea among those who have never dabbled in literature very much, that the divine afflatus works a good deal like a corn sheller. This is erroneous.
People who write for a living get some strange requests from those who have a limited understanding of how the literary world works. There's a common belief among those who haven't really engaged with literature that inspiration operates a lot like a corn sheller. This is incorrect.
To put a bushel of words into the hopper and have them come out a poem or a sermon, is a more complicated process than it would seem to the casual observer.
To feed a bunch of words into the mix and have them come out as a poem or a sermon is a more complicated process than it might appear to an onlooker.
I can hardly be called literary, though I admit that my tastes lie in that direction, and yet I have had some singular experiences in that line. For instance, last year I received flattering overtures from three young men who wanted me to write speeches for them to deliver on the Fourth of July. They could do it themselves, but hadn't the time. If I would write the speeches they would be willing to revise them. They seemed to think it would be a good idea to write the speeches a little longer than necessary and then the poorer parts of the effort could be cut out. Various prices were set on these efforts, from a dollar to “the kindest regards.” People who have squeezed through one of our adult winters in this latitude, subsisting on kind regards, will please communicate with the writer, stating how they like it.
I can’t really say I’m literary, although I do admit I lean that way, and I’ve had some pretty unique experiences related to it. For example, last year, I got flattering offers from three young men who wanted me to write speeches for them to deliver on the Fourth of July. They could write them themselves, but they didn’t have the time. If I wrote the speeches, they were willing to revise them. They thought it would be smart to make the speeches a bit longer than necessary so they could cut out the weaker parts later. They suggested various payments for this work, ranging from a dollar to “the kindest regards.” Anyone who has managed to survive one of our adult winters in this region, living off kind regards, please get in touch with the writer and let them know how that worked out for you.
One gentleman, who was in the confectionery business, wanted a lot of “humorous notices wrote for to put into conversation candy.” It was a big temptation to write something that would be in every lady's mouth, but I refrained. Writing gum drop epitaphs may properly belong to the domain of literature, but I doubt it. Surely I do not want to be haughty and above my business, but it seems to me that this is irrelevant.
One guy who was in the candy business wanted a lot of “funny notices written to put on conversation candy.” It was a big temptation to write something that would be on every lady's lips, but I held back. Writing gum drop epitaphs might fit somewhere in literature, but I’m not so sure. I definitely don’t want to act superior to my work, but it feels to me like this is off-topic.
Another man wanted me to write a “piece for his boy to speak,” and if I would do so, I could come to his house some Saturday night and stay over Sunday. He said that the boy was “a perfect little case to carry on and folks didn't know whether he would develop into a condemb fool or a youmerist.” So he wanted a piece of one of them tomfoolery kind for the little cuss to speak the last day of school.
Another guy asked me to write a “piece for his son to recite,” and if I agreed, I could come to his house one Saturday night and stay through Sunday. He mentioned that the boy was “a perfect little handful and people didn’t know if he would end up being a complete idiot or a comedian.” So he wanted something silly for the kid to perform on the last day of school.
{Illustration: HIS MOTTO.}
{Illustration: HIS MOTTO.}
A coal dealer who had risen to affluence by selling coal to the poor by apothecaries' weight, wrote to ask me for a design to be used as a family crest and a motto to emblazon on his arms. I told him I had run out of crests, but that “weight for the wagon, we'll all take a ride,” would be a good motto; or he might use the following: “The fuel and his money are soon parted.” He might emblazon this on his arms, or tattoo it on any other part of his system where he thought it would be becoming to his complexion. I never heard from him again, and I do not know whether he was offended or not.
A coal dealer who had become wealthy by selling coal to the poor by apothecaries' weight wrote to ask me for a design for a family crest and a motto to display on his coat of arms. I told him I was out of ideas for crests, but suggested that “weight for the wagon, we'll all take a ride” would be a good motto; or he could use, “The fuel and his money are soon parted.” He could showcase this on his arms or get it tattooed on any other part of his body where he thought it would suit him. I never heard from him again and have no idea if he was offended or not.
Two young men in Massachusetts wrote me a letter in which they said they “had a good thing on mother.” They wanted it written up in a facetious vein. They said that their father had been on the coast a few weeks before, engaged in the eeling industry. Being a good man, but partially full, he had mingled himself in the flowing tide and got drowned. Finally, after several days' search, the neighbors came in sadly and told the old lady thai they had found all that was mortal of James, and there were two eels in the remains. They asked for further instructions as to deceased. The old lady swabbed out her weeping eyes, braced herself against the sink and told the men to “bring in the eels and set him again.”
Two young men in Massachusetts wrote me a letter saying they "had something good on their mom." They wanted it written in a humorous way. They mentioned that their dad had been on the coast a few weeks earlier, working in the eeling industry. He was a good man, but a bit tipsy, and he got swept away by the tide and drowned. After several days of searching, the neighbors came over sadly and told the old lady that they found all that was left of James, and there were two eels among the remains. They asked for further instructions about the deceased. The old lady wiped her tearful eyes, steadied herself against the sink, and told them to "bring in the eels and set him up again."
The boys thought that if this could be properly written up, “it would be a mighty good joke on mother.” I was greatly shocked when I received this letter. It seemed to me heartless for young men to speak lightly of their widowed mother's great woe. I wrote them how I felt about it, and rebuked them severely for treating their mother's grief so lightly. Also for trying to impose upon me with an old chestnut.
The boys figured that if they could write this up correctly, “it would be a really good joke on mom.” I was really shocked when I got this letter. It felt heartless to me for young men to make light of their widowed mother’s deep sorrow. I told them how I felt and criticized them harshly for treating their mother’s grief so casually. I also called them out for trying to pull a fast one on me with an old joke.
A Father's Advice to His Son.
My dear Henry.—Your pensive favor of the 20th inst., asking for more means with which to persecute your studies, and also a young man from Ohio, is at hand and carefully noted.
My dear Henry.—I received your thoughtful letter from the 20th, in which you asked for more resources to continue your studies, as well as a young man from Ohio. I've noted it carefully.
I would not be ashamed to have you show the foregoing sentence to your teacher, if it could be worked, in a quiet way, so as not to look egotistic on my part. I think myself that it is pretty fair for a man that never had any advantages.
I wouldn't be embarrassed if you showed the previous sentence to your teacher, as long as it could be done quietly and didn't seem like I was bragging. I honestly think it's pretty decent for someone who's never had any advantages.
But, Henry, why will you insist on fighting the young man from Ohio? It is not only rude and wrong, but you invariably get licked. There's where the enormity of the thing comes in.
But, Henry, why do you keep insisting on fighting that guy from Ohio? It's not just rude and wrong, but you always end up getting beaten. That's where the real problem lies.
It was this young man from Ohio, named Williams, that you hazed last year, or at least that's what I gether from a letter sent me by your warden. He maintains that you started in to mix Mr. Williams up with the campus in some way, and that in some way Mr. Williams resented it and got his fangs tangled up in the bridge of your nose.
It was this young guy from Ohio, named Williams, that you hazed last year, or at least that's what I gather from a letter sent to me by your warden. He insists that you began to get Mr. Williams involved with the campus somehow, and that in some way Mr. Williams didn’t take it well and ended up getting his teeth caught in the bridge of your nose.
You never wrote this to me or to your mother, but I know how busy you are with your studies, and I hope you won't ever neglect your books just to write to us.
You never said this to me or to your mom, but I know how busy you are with your studies, and I hope you won't ever ignore your schoolwork just to write to us.
Your warden, or whoever he is, said that Mr. Williams also hung a hand-painted marine view over your eye and put an extra eyelid on one of your ears.
Your warden, or whoever he is, said that Mr. Williams also hung a hand-painted seascape over your eye and added an extra eyelid to one of your ears.
I wish that, if you get time, you would write us about it, because, if there's anything I can do for you in the arnica line, I would be pleased to do so.
I hope that if you have a moment, you could write to us about it, because if there's anything I can do to help you with arnica, I'd be happy to assist.
The president also says that in the scuffle you and Mr. Williams swapped belts as follows, to-wit: That Williams snatched off the belt of your little Norfolk jacket, and then gave you one in the eye.
The president also says that during the fight, you and Mr. Williams exchanged belts as follows: Williams ripped off the belt from your little Norfolk jacket and then punched you in the eye.
From this I gether that the old prez, as you faseshusly call him, is an youmorist. He is not a very good penman, however; though, so far, his words have all been spelled correct.
From this, I gather that the old president, as you famously call him, is a humorist. He's not a very good writer, though; so far, all his words have been spelled correctly.
I would hate to see you permanently injured, Henry, but I hope that when you try to tramp on the toes of a good boy simply because you are a seanyour and he is a fresh, as you frequently state, that he will arise and rip your little pleated jacket up the back and make your spinal colyum look like a corderoy bridge in the spring tra la. (This is from a Japan show I was to last week.)
I would hate to see you seriously hurt, Henry, but I hope that when you try to step on the toes of a good guy just because you’re an experienced one and he’s a newbie, as you often say, he will stand up for himself and tear your little pleated jacket up the back, making your spine look like a corduroy bridge in the spring. (This is from a Japanese show I went to last week.)
Why should a seanyour in a colledge tromp onto the young chaps that come in there to learn? Have you forgot how I fatted up the old cow and beefed her so that you could go and monkey with youclid and algebray? Have you forgot how the other boys pulled you through a mill pond and made you tobogin down hill in a salt barrel with brads in it? Do you remember how your mother went down there to nuss you for two weeks and I stayed to home, and done my own work and the housework too and cooked my own vittles for the whole two weeks?
Why should a teacher in a college stomp on the young guys who come there to learn? Have you forgotten how I fattened up the old cow and prepared her so you could go and mess around with Euclid and algebra? Have you forgotten how the other boys dragged you through a pond and made you slide down a hill in a salt barrel filled with nails? Do you remember how your mom came down there to take care of you for two weeks while I stayed home, did my own work, handled the housework, and cooked my own meals for the entire two weeks?
And now, Henry, you call yourself a seanyour, and therefore, because you are simply older in crime, you want to muss up Mr. Williams's features so that his mother will have to come over and nuss him. I am glad that your little pleated coat is ripped up the back, Henry, under the circumstances, and I am also glad that you are wearing the belt—over your off eye. If there's anything I can do to add to the hilarity of the occasion, please let me know and I will tend to it.
And now, Henry, you call yourself a tough guy, and because you have more experience in wrongdoing, you want to mess up Mr. Williams's face so that his mom has to come over and take care of him. I'm actually glad that your little pleated coat is torn at the back, Henry, given the situation, and I’m also glad you’re wearing the belt—over your bad eye. If there's anything I can do to make this more entertaining, just let me know and I'll take care of it.
The lop-horned heifer is a parent once more, and I am trying in my poor, weak way to learn her wayward offspring how to drink out of a patent pail without pushing your old father over into the hay-mow. He is a cute little quadruped, with a wild desire to have fun at my expense. He loves to swaller a part of my coat-tail Sunday morning, when I am dressed up, and then return it to me in a moist condition. He seems to know that when I address the sabbath school the children will see the joke and enjoy it.
The lop-horned heifer is a mom again, and I’m doing my best to teach her mischievous calf how to drink from a fancy pail without toppling me into the hayloft. He’s a cute little guy, always looking to have fun at my expense. He loves to grab a part of my coat tail on Sunday morning when I’m all dressed up and then give it back to me all wet. He seems to get that when I speak at Sunday school, the kids will see the joke and get a kick out of it.
Your mother is about the same, trying in her meek way to adjust herself to a new set of teeth that are a size too large for her. She has one large bunion in the roof of her mouth already, but is still resolved to hold out faithful, and hopes these few lines will find you enjoying the same great blessing.
Your mom is somewhat the same, trying in her gentle way to get used to a new set of teeth that are a size too big for her. She already has one big bunion on the roof of her mouth, but she’s still determined to hang on and hopes these few lines find you enjoying the same wonderful blessing.
You will find inclosed a dark-blue money-order for four eighty-five. It is money that I had set aside to pay my taxes, but there is no novelty about paying taxes. I've done that before, so it don't thrill me as it used to.
You will find enclosed a dark-blue money order for four eighty-five. It's money that I had saved to pay my taxes, but there’s nothing exciting about paying taxes. I’ve done it before, so it doesn't thrill me like it used to.
Give my congratulations to Mr. Williams. He has got the elements of greatness to a wonderful degree. If I happened to be participating in that colledge of yours, I would gently but firmly decline to be tromped onto.
Give my congratulations to Mr. Williams. He has the qualities of greatness to an amazing extent. If I were involved in that college of yours, I would politely but firmly refuse to be looked down on.
So good-bye for this time.
So long for now.
Your Father.
Your Dad.
Eccentricity in Lunch.
Over at Kasota Junction, the other day, I found a living curiosity. He was a man of about medium height, perhaps 45 years of age, of a quiet disposition, and not noticeable or peculiar in his general manner. He runs the railroad eating-house at that point, and the one odd characteristic which he has, makes him well known all through three or four States. I could not illustrate his eccentricity any better than by relating a circumstance that occurred to me at the Junction last week. I had just eaten breakfast there and paid for it. I stepped up to the cigar case and asked this man if he had “a rattling good cigar.”
Over at Kasota Junction the other day, I came across a living curiosity. He was a guy of average height, maybe around 45 years old, with a quiet demeanor, not particularly striking or unusual in his overall behavior. He runs the railroad café at that spot, and the one quirky trait he has makes him well-known across three or four states. I could illustrate his oddity best by sharing something that happened to me at the Junction last week. I had just finished breakfast there and paid for it. I walked over to the cigar display and asked this guy if he had “a really good cigar.”
{Illustration: THE ANTIQUE LUNCH.}
{Illustration: THE VINTAGE LUNCH.}
Without knowing it I had struck the very point upon which this man seems to be a crank, if you will allow me that expression, though it doesn't fit very well in this place. He looked at me in a sad and subdued manner and said, “No, sir; I haven't a rattling good cigar in the house. I have some cigars there that I bought for Havana fillers, but they are mostly filled with pieces of Colorado Maduro overalls. There's a box over yonder that I bought for good, straight ten cent cigars, but they are only a chaos of hay and Flora, Fino and Damfino, all socked into a Wisconsin wrapper. Over in the other end of the case is a brand of cigars that were to knock the tar out of all other kinds of weeds, according to the urbane rustler who sold them to me, and then drew on me before I could light one of them. Well, instead of being a fine Colorado Claro with a high-priced wrapper, they are common Mexicano stinkaros in a Mother Hubbard wrapper. The commercial tourist who sold me those cigars and then drew on me at sight was a good deal better on the draw than his cigars are. If you will notice, you will see that each cigar has a spinal column to it, and this outer debris is wrapped around it. One man bought a cigar out of that box last week. I told him, though, just as I am telling you, that they were no good, and if he bought one he would regret it. But he took one and went out on the veranda to smoke it. Then he stepped on a melon rind and fell with great force on his side. When we picked him up he gasped once or twice and expired. We opened his vest hurriedly and found that, in falling, this bouquet de Gluefactoro cigar, with the spinal column, had been driven through his breast bone and had penetrated his heart. The wrapper of the cigar never so much as cracked.”
Without realizing it, I had hit on the exact point that makes this guy seem a bit eccentric, if you don’t mind me saying so, even if it doesn’t quite fit here. He looked at me with a sad and subdued expression and said, “No, sir; I don’t have a decent cigar in the house. I have some cigars I bought that were supposed to be for Havana fillers, but they’re mostly filled with bits of Colorado Maduro overalls. There’s a box over there that I bought for good, straight ten-cent cigars, but they’re just a mess of hay and Flora, Fino, and Damfino, all stuffed into a Wisconsin wrapper. On the other end of the case is a brand of cigars that were promised to outshine all other kinds of weeds, according to the slick salesman who sold them to me, and then took off before I could even light one. Instead of being a nice Colorado Claro with a premium wrapper, they’re just cheap Mexicano stinkaros in a Mother Hubbard wrapper. The traveling salesman who sold me those cigars and then bailed on me at first sight was a lot faster on the draw than his cigars are. If you look closely, you’ll see that each cigar has a spine to it, and this outer mess is wrapped around it. One guy bought a cigar from that box last week. I told him, just like I’m telling you now, that they were no good and he’d regret it if he bought one. But he took one and went out on the porch to smoke it. Then he stepped on a melon rind and fell hard on his side. When we picked him up, he gasped a couple of times and died. We quickly opened his vest and found that, in falling, this bouquet de Gluefactoro cigar, with the spinal column, had been forced through his breastbone and had pierced his heart. The wrapper of the cigar didn’t even crack.”
“But doesn't it impair your trade to run on in this wild, reckless way about your cigars?”
“But doesn't it hurt your business to go on in this wild, reckless way about your cigars?”
“It may at first, but not after awhile. I always tell people what my cigars are made of, and then they can't blame me; so, after awhile they get to believe what I say about them. I often wonder that no cigar man ever tried this way before. I do just the same way about my lunch counter. If a man steps up and wants a fresh ham sandwich I give it to him if I've got it, and if I haven't it I tell him so. If you turn my sandwiches over, you will find the date of its publication on every one. If they are not fresh, and I have no fresh ones, I tell the customer that they are not so blamed fresh as the young man with the gauze moustache, but that I can remember very well when they were fresh, and if his artificial teeth fit him pretty well he can try one.
“It might seem that way at first, but not for long. I always tell people what my cigars are made of, so they can't blame me; eventually, they start to believe what I say about them. I often wonder why no cigar seller has ever tried this approach before. I do the same thing at my lunch counter. If someone comes up and asks for a fresh ham sandwich, I give it to them if I have it, and if I don’t, I let them know. If you flip my sandwiches over, you’ll see the date they were made on every single one. If they aren’t fresh and I don’t have any fresh ones, I tell the customer they aren’t as fresh as the young guy with the gauze mustache, but I can clearly remember when they were fresh, and if his fake teeth fit him well enough, he can give one a try.”
“It's just the same with boiled eggs. I have a rubber dating stamp, and as soon as the eggs are turned over to me by the hen for inspection, I date them. Then they are boiled and another date in red is stamped on them. If one of my clerks should date an egg ahead, I would fire him too quick.
“It's just like with boiled eggs. I have a rubber dating stamp, and as soon as the eggs are handed over to me by the hen for inspection, I stamp the date on them. Then they get boiled, and another red date is stamped on them. If one of my clerks were to date an egg early, I would fire him on the spot.”
“On this account, people who know me will skip a meal at Missouri Junction, in order to come here and eat things that are not clouded with mystery. I do not keep any poor stuff when I can help it, but if I do, I don't conceal the horrible fact.
“Because of this, people who know me will skip a meal at Missouri Junction to come here and eat things that aren’t surrounded by mystery. I don’t serve anything low quality if I can avoid it, but if I do, I don’t hide the unpleasant truth.”
“Of course a new cook will sometimes smuggle a late date onto a mediaeval egg and sell it, but he has to change his name and flee.
“Of course, a new cook will sometimes sneak a bad date into a medieval egg and sell it, but he has to change his name and run away.”
“I suppose that if every eating-house should date everything, and be square with the public, it would be an old story and wouldn't pay; but as it is, no one trying to compete with me, I do well out of it, and people come here out of curiosity a good deal.
“I guess if every restaurant dated everything and was upfront with the public, it would be an old story and wouldn’t be profitable; but as things stand, since no one is trying to compete with me, I do pretty well, and a lot of people come here out of curiosity.”
“The reason I try to do right and win the public esteem is that the general public never did me any harm and the majority of people who travel are a kind that I may meet in a future state. I should hate to have a thousand traveling men holding nuggets of rancid ham sandwiches under my nose through all eternity, and know that I had lied about it. It's an honest fact, if I knew I'd got to stand up and apologize for my hand-made, all-around, seamless pies, and quarantine cigars, Heaven would be no object.”
“The reason I try to do the right thing and earn people's respect is that the general public has never wronged me, and most of the people I encounter while traveling are the kind I might meet in the afterlife. I would hate to have a thousand travelers waving moldy ham sandwiches in my face for all eternity, knowing that I had lied about it. Honestly, if I knew I had to stand up and apologize for my homemade, perfectly crafted pies and quarantined cigars, then Heaven wouldn't be worth it.”
Insomnia in Domestic Animals.
If there be one thing above another that I revel in, it is science. I have devoted much of my life to scientific research, and though it hasn't made much stir in the scientific world so far, I am positive that when I am gone the scientists of our day will miss me, and the red-nosed theorist will come and shed the scalding tear over my humble tomb.
If there's one thing I really enjoy, it's science. I've devoted a lot of my life to scientific research, and even though it hasn't made a big impact in the scientific community yet, I'm pretty sure that when I'm gone, today's scientists will miss me, and the red-nosed theorist will come and shed heartfelt tears over my simple grave.
My attention was first attracted to insomnia as the foe of the domestic animal, by the strange appearance of a favorite dog named Lucretia Borgia. I did not name this animal Lucretia Borgia. He was named when I purchased him. In his eccentric and abnormal thirst for blood he favored Lucretia, but in sex he did not. I got him partly because he loved children. The owner said Lucretia Borgia was an ardent lover of children, and I found that he was. He seemed to love them best in the spring of the year, when they were tender. He would have eaten up a favorite child of mine, if the youngster hadn't left a rubber ball in his pocket which clogged the glottis of Lucretia till I could get there and disengage what was left of the child.
My attention was first drawn to insomnia as a problem for pets by the strange behavior of a favorite dog named Lucretia Borgia. I didn’t choose the name; he came with it when I bought him. His odd and intense craving for blood made me think of Lucretia, but he didn’t share her sexual traits. I got him partly because he adored children. The previous owner mentioned that Lucretia Borgia was very affectionate towards kids, and I found that to be true. He seemed to like them the most in the spring when they were young and innocent. He would have devoured one of my favorite kids if the little one hadn’t left a rubber ball in his pocket, which got stuck in Lucretia's throat until I could rush in and free what was left of the child.
Lucretia soon after this began to be restless. He would come to my casement and lift up his voice, and howl into the bosom of the silent night. At first I thought that he had found some one in distress, or wanted to get me out of doors and save my life. I went out several nights in a weird costume that I had made up of garments belonging to different members of my family. I dressed carefully in the dark and stole out to kill the assassin referred to by Lucretia, but he was not there. Then the faithful animal would run up to me and with almost human, pleading eyes, bark and run away toward a distant alley. I immediately decided that some one was suffering there. I had read in books about dogs that led their masters away to the suffering and saved people's lives; so, when Lucretia came to me with his great, honest eyes and took little mementoes out of the calf of my leg, and then galloped off seven or eight blocks, I followed him in the chill air of night and my Mosaic clothes. I wandered away to where the dog stopped behind a livery stable, and there, lying in a shuddering heap on the frosty ground, lay the still, white features of a soup bone that had outlived its usefulness.
Lucretia soon started to become restless. He would come to my window, raise his voice, and howl into the quiet night. At first, I thought he had found someone in trouble or wanted to get me outside to save my life. I went out several nights in a strange outfit I had put together from clothes belonging to different family members. I dressed carefully in the dark and snuck out to confront the assassin Lucretia mentioned, but he wasn’t there. Then the loyal dog would run up to me, and with almost human, pleading eyes, bark and dash away toward a distant alley. I immediately figured someone must be in pain there. I had read in books about dogs leading their owners to those in need and saving lives; so, when Lucretia came to me with his big, honest eyes and took little mementos out of my leg, then sprinted off for several blocks, I followed him into the chilly night air in my patchwork clothes. I followed him to where the dog stopped behind a livery stable, and there, lying in a trembling heap on the frosty ground, was the still, white remains of a soup bone that had outlived its usefulness.
On the way back, I met a physician who had been up town to swear in an American citizen who would vote twenty-one years later, if he lived. The physician stopped me and was going to take me to the home of the friendless, when he discovered who I was.
On the way back, I ran into a doctor who had been downtown to swear in a new American citizen who would be able to vote in twenty-one years, if he lived that long. The doctor stopped me and was about to take me to the home for the friendless when he found out who I was.
{Illustration: EXCITING PUBLIC CURIOSITY.}
{Illustration: THRILLING PUBLIC CURIOSITY.}
You wrap a tall man, with a William H. Seward nose, in a flannel robe, cut plain, and then put a plug hat and a sealskin sacque and Arctic overshoes on him, and put him out in the street, under the gaslight, with his trim, purple ankles just revealing themselves as he madly gallops after a hydrophobia infested dog, and it is not, after all, surprising that people's curiosity should be a little bit excited.
You dress a tall guy, who has a nose like William H. Seward, in a simple flannel robe, then add a top hat, a fur coat, and some heavy boots, and you send him out into the street, under the gaslight, with his neat, purple ankles showing as he frantically chases after a rabid dog. It's not really surprising that people would be a bit curious about that.
After I had introduced myself to the physician and asked him for a cigar, explaining that I could not find any in the clothes I had on, I asked him about Lucretia Borgia. I told the doctor how Lucretia seemed restless nights and nervous and irritable days, and how he seemed to be almost a mental wreck, and asked him what the trouble was.
After I introduced myself to the doctor and asked him for a cigar, explaining that I couldn't find any in the clothes I was wearing, I asked him about Lucretia Borgia. I told the doctor how Lucretia seemed restless at night and nervous and irritable during the day, and how he seemed to be almost a mental wreck, and asked him what the problem was.
He said it was undoubtedly “insomnia.” He said that it was a bad case of it, too. I told him I thought so myself. I said I didn't mind the insomnia that Lucretia had so much as I did my own. I was getting more insomnia on my hands than I could use.
He said it was definitely "insomnia." He mentioned it was a pretty bad case, too. I told him I agreed. I said I didn't mind Lucretia's insomnia as much as my own. I was dealing with more insomnia than I could handle.
He gave me something to administer to Lucretia. He said I must put it in a link of sausage and leave the sausage where it would appear that I didn't want the dog to get it, and then Lucretia would eat it greedily.
He gave me something to give to Lucretia. He said I should put it in a piece of sausage and leave the sausage where it looked like I didn't want the dog to get it, and then Lucretia would eat it up eagerly.
I did so. It worked well so far as the administration of the remedy was concerned, but it was fatal to my little, high strung, yearnful dog. It must have contained something of a deleterious character, for the next morning a coarse man took Lucretia Borgia by the tail and laid him where the violets blow. Malignant insomnia is fast becoming the great foe to the modern American dog.
I did that. It worked well in terms of giving the treatment, but it was deadly for my little, high-strung, eager dog. It must have had something harmful in it because the next morning, a rough guy took Lucretia Borgia by the tail and laid him down where the violets grow. Bad insomnia is quickly becoming a major enemy for the modern American dog.
Along Lake Superior.
I have just returned from a brief visit to Duluth. After strolling along the Bay of Naples and watching old Vesuvius vomit red-hot mud, vapor and other campaign documents, Duluth is quite a change. The ice in the bay at Duluth was thirty-eight inches in depth when I left there the last week in March, and we rode across it with the utmost impunity. By the time these lines fall beneath the eye of the genial, courteous and urbane reader, the new railroad bridge across the bay, over a mile and a half long, will have been completed, so that you may ride from Chicago to Duluth over the Northwestern and Omaha railroads with great comfort. I would be glad to digress here and tell about the beauty of the summer scenery along the Omaha road, and the shy and beautiful troutlet, and the dark and silent Chippewa squawlet and her little bleached out pappooselet, were it not for the unkind and cruel thrusts that I would invoke from the scenery cynic who believes that a newspaper man's opinions may be largely warped with a pass.
I just got back from a quick trip to Duluth. After walking along the Bay of Naples and watching Mount Vesuvius spew red-hot mud, steam, and other stuff, Duluth feels like a whole different world. When I left Duluth at the end of March, the ice in the bay was thirty-eight inches thick, and we confidently rode right over it. By the time you read this, the new railroad bridge over the bay, which is over a mile and a half long, will be finished, so you’ll be able to travel from Chicago to Duluth on the Northwestern and Omaha railroads comfortably. I’d love to take a moment to talk about the gorgeous summer scenery along the Omaha route, the shy little trout, and the quiet, beautiful Chippewa woman with her pale little baby, but I’m afraid I’d just get harshly criticized by the scenery cynic who thinks a journalist’s views might be biased by the perks of their job.
Duluth has been joked a good deal, but she stands it first-rate and takes it good naturedly. She claims 16,000 people, some of whom I met at the opera house there. If the rest of the 16,000 are as pleasant as those I conversed with that evening, Duluth must be a pleasant place to live in. Duluth has a very pleasant and beautiful opera house that seats 1,000 people. A few more could have elbowed their way into the opera house the evening that I spoke there, but they preferred to suffer on at home.
Duluth has been the butt of many jokes, but she takes them in stride and handles it cheerfully. She claims a population of 16,000, some of whom I met at the opera house there. If the rest of the 16,000 are as friendly as those I chatted with that evening, Duluth must be a great place to live. Duluth has a lovely and beautiful opera house that seats 1,000 people. A few more could have squeezed into the opera house the night I spoke there, but they chose to stay home instead.
Lake Superior is one of the largest aggregations of fresh wetness in the world, if not the largest. When I stop to think that some day all this cold, cold water will have to be absorbed by mankind, it gives me a cramp in the geographical center.
Lake Superior is one of the largest collections of fresh water in the world, if not the largest. When I pause to think that someday all this cold, cold water will have to be absorbed by humanity, it gives me a cramp in the geographical center.
Around the west end of Lake Superior there is a string of towns which stretches along the shore for miles under one name or another, all waiting for the boom to strike and make the northern Chicago. You cannot visit Duluth or Superior without feeling that at any moment the tide of trade will rise and designate the point where the future metropolis of the northern lakes is to be. I firmly believe that this summer will decide it, and my guess is that what is now known as West Superior is to get the benefit. For many years destiny has been hovering over the west end of this mighty lake, and now the favored point is going to be designated. Duluth has past prosperity and expensive improvements in her favor, and in fact the whole locality is going to be benefited, but if I had a block in West Superior with a roller rink on it, I would wear my best clothes every day and claim to be a millionaire in disguise. Ex-President R. B. Hayes has a large brick block in Duluth, but he does not occupy it. Those who go to Duluth hoping to meet Mr. Hayes will be bitterly disappointed.
Around the west end of Lake Superior, there’s a line of towns that stretch along the shore for miles, all under different names, waiting for the boom to hit and turn it into the northern Chicago. You can’t visit Duluth or Superior without feeling that at any moment, the tide of trade will rise and determine where the future metropolis of the northern lakes is going to be. I genuinely believe this summer will reveal it, and my bet is that what we now call West Superior is going to reap the benefits. For many years, destiny has been lingering over the west end of this vast lake, and now the chosen spot is about to be identified. Duluth has past prosperity and costly developments in its favor, and indeed the whole area is going to benefit. But if I owned a block in West Superior with a roller rink on it, I would dress in my best every day and pretend to be a millionaire in disguise. Ex-President R. B. Hayes has a large brick building in Duluth, but he doesn’t actually use it. Those who come to Duluth hoping to meet Mr. Hayes will be sorely disappointed.
The streams that run into Lake Superior are alive with trout, and next summer I propose to go up there and roast until I have so thoroughly saturated my system with trout that the trout bones will stick out through my clothes in every direction and people will regard me as a beautiful toothpick holder.
The streams that flow into Lake Superior are full of trout, and next summer I plan to head up there and eat so much trout that the bones will stick out from my clothes in every direction, making people see me as a stylish toothpick holder.
Still there will be a few left for those who think of going up there. All I will need will be barely enough to feed Albert Victor and myself from day to day. People who have never seen a crowned head with a peeled nose on it are cordially invited to come over and see us during office hours. Albert is not at all haughty, and I intend to throw aside my usual reserve this summer also—for the time. P. Wales' son and I will be far from the cares that crowd so thick and fast on greatness. People who come to our cedar bark wigwam to show us their mosquito bites, will be received as cordially as though no great social chasm yawned between us.
There will still be a few spots left for anyone thinking about coming up here. All I need is just enough to get by and feed Albert Victor and myself from day to day. People who’ve never seen a crowned head with a bald spot are warmly invited to visit us during office hours. Albert is not at all snobby, and I plan to set aside my usual formality this summer too—for a while. P. Wales' son and I will be free from the worries that often come with being important. People who come to our cedar bark cabin to show us their mosquito bites will be welcomed just as warmly as if there weren’t a huge social divide between us.
Many will meet us in the depths of the forest and go away thinking that we are just common plugs of whom the world wots not; but there is where they will fool themselves.
Many will encounter us in the depths of the forest and leave believing that we are just ordinary people whom the world doesn't know; but that's where they will deceive themselves.
Then, when the season is over, we will come back into the great maelstrom of life, he to wait for his grandmother's overshoes and I to thrill waiting millions from the rostrum with my “Tale of the Broncho Cow.” And so it goes with us all. Adown life's rugged pathway some must toil on from daylight to dark to earn their meagre pittance as kings, while others are born to wear a swallow-tail coat every evening and wring tears of genuine anguish from their audiences.
Then, when the season is over, we'll return to the hectic reality of life—he will wait for his grandmother's overshoes while I will inspire countless fans from the stage with my “Tale of the Broncho Cow.” And that’s how it is for all of us. Along life's tough journey, some have to work from dawn to dusk just to make a modest living like kings, while others are born to wear a fancy coat every evening and evoke real tears of sorrow from their audiences.
They tell some rather wide stories about people who have gone up there total physical wrecks and returned strong and well. One man said that he knew a young college student, who was all run down and weak, go up there on the Brule and eat trout and fight mosquitoes a few months, and when he returned to his Boston home he was so stout and well and tanned up that his parents did not know him. There was a man in our car who weighed 300 pounds. He seemed to be boiling out through his clothes everywhere. He was the happiest looking man I ever saw. All he seemed to do in this life was to sit all day and whistle and laugh and trot his stomach, first on one knee and then on the other.
They share some pretty unbelievable stories about people who went up there as complete physical wrecks and came back strong and healthy. One guy mentioned knowing a young college student who was totally worn out and weak, went up there to the Brule, ate trout, and fought off mosquitoes for a few months. When he returned to his home in Boston, he was so fit and sun-kissed that his parents didn’t even recognize him. There was a man in our car who weighed 300 pounds. He looked like he was bursting out of his clothes everywhere. He was the happiest man I’ve ever seen. It seemed like all he did was sit around all day, whistling, laughing, and bouncing his stomach from one knee to the other.
He said that he went up into the pine forests of the Great Lake region a broken-down hypochondriac and confirmed consumptive. He had been measured for a funeral sermon three times, he said, and had never used either of them. He knew a clergyman named Brayley who went up into that region with Bright's justly celebrated disease. He was so emaciated that he couldn't carry a watch. The ticking of the watch rattled his bones so that it made him nervous, and at night they had to pack him in cotton so that he wouldn't break a leg when he turned over. He got to sleeping out nights on a bed of balsam and spruce boughs and eating venison and trout.
He said he went into the pine forests of the Great Lakes area as a worn-out hypochondriac and a confirmed consumptive. He had been measured for a funeral sermon three times, he claimed, but had never actually used any of them. He knew a clergyman named Brayley who went to that area suffering from Bright's disease, which is quite famous. He was so thin that he couldn't carry a watch. The ticking made his bones rattle, which made him anxious, and at night they had to pack him in cotton so he wouldn't break a leg when he turned over. He ended up sleeping outside on a bed of balsam and spruce branches and eating venison and trout.
When he came down in the spring, he passed through a car of lumbermen and one of them put a warm, wet quid of tobacco in his plug hat for a joke. There were a hundred of these lumbermen when the preacher began, and when the train got into Eau Claire there were only three of them well enough to go around to the office and draw their pay.
When he came down in the spring, he walked through a car full of lumbermen, and one of them playfully dropped a warm, wet wad of tobacco in his top hat. There were a hundred of these lumbermen when the preacher started, and by the time the train reached Eau Claire, only three of them were well enough to go to the office and collect their pay.
This is just as the story was given to me and I repeat it to show how bracing the climate near Superior is. Remember, if you please, that I do not want the story to be repeated as coming from me, for I have nothing left now but my reputation for veracity, and that has had a very hard winter of it.
This is exactly how the story was told to me, and I share it to highlight how refreshing the climate near Superior is. Please remember that I’d prefer the story not to be attributed to me, as all I have now is my reputation for honesty, and that’s been through a tough winter.
I Tried Milling.
I think I was about 18 years of age when I decided that I would be a miller, with flour on my clothes and a salary of $200 per month. This was not the first thing I had decided to be, and afterward changed my mind about.
I think I was around 18 when I decided I wanted to be a miller, with flour on my clothes and a salary of $200 a month. This wasn't the first career I chose and then changed my mind about.
I engaged to learn my profession of a man called Sam Newton, I believe; at least I will call him that for the sake of argument. My business was to weigh wheat, deduct as much as possible on account of cockle, pigeon grass and wild buckwheat, and to chisel the honest farmer out of all he would stand. This was the programme with Mr. Newton; but I am happy to say that it met with its reward, and the sheriff afterward operated the mill.
I started learning my trade from a guy named Sam Newton, or at least that’s what I’ll call him for the sake of this discussion. My job was to weigh wheat, take off as much as I could for cockle, pigeon grass, and wild buckwheat, and cheat the honest farmer out of as much as he would tolerate. That was the plan with Mr. Newton; but I’m glad to say it had consequences, and later the sheriff ended up running the mill.
On stormy days I did the book-keeping, with a scoop shovel behind my ear, in a pile of middlings on the fifth floor. Gradually I drifted into doing a good deal of this kind of brain work. I would chop the ice out of the turbine wheel at 5 o'clock A.M., and then frolic up six flights of stairs and shovel shorts till 9 o'clock P.M.
On stormy days, I handled the bookkeeping with a scoop shovel behind my ear, sitting in a pile of middlings on the fifth floor. Over time, I ended up doing quite a bit of this type of mental work. I would chip the ice off the turbine wheel at 5 A.M., then dash up six flights of stairs and shovel shorts until 9 P.M.
By shoveling bran and other vegetables 16 hours a day, a general knowledge of the milling business may be readily obtained. I used to scoop middlings till I could see stars, and then I would look out at the landscape and ponder.
By shoveling bran and other vegetables for 16 hours a day, you can easily learn about the milling business. I used to scoop out middlings until I saw stars, and then I would look at the landscape and think.
I got so that I piled up more ponder, after a while, than I did middlings.
I ended up thinking more than I did about the average stuff after a while.
One day the proprietor came up stairs and discovered me in a brown study, whereupon he cursed me in a subdued Presbyterian way, abbreviated my salary from $26 per month to $18 and reduced me to the ranks.
One day the owner came upstairs and found me deep in thought, so he cursed me in a quiet, polite way, cut my salary from $26 a month to $18, and demoted me.
Afterward I got together enough desultory information so that I could superintend the feed stone. The feed stone is used to grind hen feed and other luxuries. One day I noticed an odor that reminded me of a hot overshoe trying to smother a glue factory at the close of a tropical day. I spoke to the chief floor walker of the mill about it, and he said “dod gammit” or something that sounded like that, in a course and brutal manner. He then kicked my person in a rude and hurried tone of voice, and told me that the feed stone was burning up.
After that, I gathered enough scattered information to oversee the feed stone. The feed stone is used to grind chicken feed and other treats. One day, I noticed a smell that reminded me of a hot overshoe trying to choke out a glue factory on a sweltering day. I mentioned it to the head floor manager of the mill, and he said “dod gammit” or something like that, in a rough and harsh way. He then kicked me in a rude and hurried tone and told me that the feed stone was overheating.
He was a very fierce man, with a violent and ungovernable temper, and, finding that I was only increasing his brutal fury, I afterward resigned my position. I talked it over with the proprietor, and both agreed that it would be best. He agreed to it before I did, and rather hurried up my determination to go.
He was a very intense man, with a violent and uncontrollable temper, and realizing that I was just making his brutal anger worse, I eventually quit my position. I discussed it with the owner, and we both thought it was for the best. He was on board with it before I was and kind of pushed me to make my decision to leave.
{Illustration: HE MADE IT AN OBJECT FOR ME TO GO.}
{Illustration: HE MADE IT A GOAL FOR ME TO ATTEND.}
I rather hated to go so soon, but he made it an object for me to go, and I went. I started in with the idea that I would begin at the bottom of the ladder, as it were, and gradually climb to the bran bin by my own exertions, hoping by honesty, industry, and carrying two bushels of wheat up nine flights of stairs, to become a wealthy man, with corn meal in my hair and cracked wheat in my coat pocket, but I did not seem to accomplish it.
I really didn’t want to leave so soon, but he insisted that I should, so I went. I planned to start from the bottom and work my way up to the top, hoping that through hard work, honesty, and hauling two bushels of wheat up nine flights of stairs, I could become wealthy, with cornmeal in my hair and cracked wheat in my coat pocket, but it didn’t seem to happen.
Instead of having ink on my fingers and a chastened look of woe on my clear-cut Grecian features, I might have poured No. 1 hard wheat and buckwheat flour out of my long taper ears every night, if I had stuck to the profession. Still, as I say, it was for another man's best good that I resigned. The head miller had no control over himself and the proprietor had rather set his heart on my resignation, so it was better that way.
Instead of having ink on my fingers and a downcast expression on my distinct Grecian features, I could have been pouring No. 1 hard wheat and buckwheat flour out of my long, slim ears every night if I had stayed in the profession. Still, as I said, I resigned for the sake of someone else's best interests. The head miller couldn’t manage his own emotions, and the owner really wanted me to leave, so it was for the best.
Still I like to roll around in the bran pile, and monkey in the cracked wheat. I love also to go out in the kitchen and put corn meal down the back of the cook's neck while my wife is working a purple silk Kensington dog, with navy blue mane and tail, on a gothic lambrequin.
Still, I enjoy rolling around in the bran pile and playing in the cracked wheat. I also love going into the kitchen and pouring cornmeal down the cook's back while my wife is working on a purple silk Kensington dog with a navy blue mane and tail, on a fancy drapery.
I can never cease to hanker for the rumble and grumble of the busy mill, and the solemn murmur of the millstones and the machinery are music to me. More so than the solemn murmur of the proprietor used to be when he came in at an inopportune moment, and in that impromptu and extemporaneous manner of his, and found me admiring the wild and beautiful scenery. He may have been a good miller, but he had no love for the beautiful. Perhaps that is why he was always so cold and cruel toward me. My slender, willowy grace and mellow, bird-like voice never seemed to melt his stony heart.
I can’t help but long for the sounds of the busy mill, and the steady hum of the millstones and machinery is music to my ears. Even more so than the serious tone of the owner when he would come in at the worst times, catching me admiring the wild and beautiful scenery. He might have been a decent miller, but he lacked appreciation for beauty. Maybe that's why he was always so cold and cruel to me. My slender, graceful figure and soft, bird-like voice never seemed to touch his unyielding heart.
Our Forefathers.
Seattle, W.T., December 12.—I am up here on the Sound in two senses. I rode down to-day from Tacoma on the Sound, and to-night I shall lecture at Frye's Opera House.
Seattle, WA, December 12.—I’m up here on the Sound in two ways. I took a ride down today from Tacoma on the Sound, and tonight I’ll be giving a lecture at Frye’s Opera House.
Seattle is a good town. The name lacks poetic warmth, but some day the man who has invested in Seattle real estate will have reason to pat himself on the back and say “ha ha,” or words to that effect. The city is situated on the side of a large hill and commands a very fine view of that world's most calm and beautiful collection of water, Puget Sound.
Seattle is a great city. The name might not sound very poetic, but someday the person who invested in Seattle real estate will have a reason to feel proud and say “ha ha,” or something like that. The city is built on the side of a large hill and offers a stunning view of the world’s most peaceful and beautiful body of water, Puget Sound.
I cannot speak too highly of any sheet of water on which I can ride all day with no compunction of digestion. He who has tossed for days upon the briny deep, will understand this and appreciate it; even if he never tossed upon the angry deep, if it happened to be all he had, he will be glad to know that the Sound is a good piece of water to ride on. The gentle reader who has crossed the raging main and borrowed high-priced meals of the steamship company for days and days, will agree with me that when we can find a smooth piece of water to ride on we should lose no time in crossing it.
I can't praise any body of water enough that lets me ride all day without worrying about my digestion. Anyone who's spent days on rough seas will get this and appreciate it; even if they’ve never experienced those turbulent waters, if that’s the best they’ve had, they’ll be happy to know that the Sound is a great place to ride. The kind reader who has navigated the wild ocean and paid for expensive meals from the cruise line day after day will agree with me that when we find a calm stretch of water to ride on, we should take advantage of it right away.
In Washington Territory the women vote. That is no novelty to me, of course, for I lived in Wyoming for seven years where women vote, and I held office all the time. And still they say that female voters are poor judges of men, and that any pleasing $2 adonis who comes along and asks for their suffrages will get them.
In Washington Territory, women can vote. That's nothing new to me, of course, since I lived in Wyoming for seven years where women vote, and I held office the entire time. And yet, people still say that female voters aren’t good at judging men, claiming that any attractive guy who shows up and asks for their votes will win them over.
Not much!!!
Not a lot!!!
Woman is a keen and correct judge of mental and moral worth. Without stopping to give logical reasons for her course, perhaps, she still chooses with unerring judgment at the polls.
Woman is a sharp and accurate judge of mental and moral value. Without pausing to provide logical reasons for her decisions, she still chooses with flawless judgment at the polls.
Anyone who doubts this statement, will do well to go to the old poll books in Wyoming and examine my overwhelming majorities—with a powerful magnifier.
Anyone who doubts this statement should check out the old poll books in Wyoming and examine my overwhelming majorities—with a strong magnifying glass.
I have just received from Boston a warm invitation to be present in that city on Forefathers' day, to take part in the ceremonies and join in the festivities of that occasion.
I just got a friendly invitation from Boston to be there on Forefathers' Day, to participate in the ceremonies and join in the celebrations for that day.
Forefathers, I thank you! Though this reply will not reach you for a long time, perhaps, I desire to express to you my deep appreciation of your kindness, and, though I can hardly be regarded as a forefather myself, I assure you that I sympathize with you.
Forefathers, thank you! Even though this response may not reach you for quite a while, I want to express my heartfelt gratitude for your kindness. While I can't really be considered a forefather myself, I want you to know that I empathize with you.
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be with you on this day of your general jubilee and to talk over old times with you.
Nothing would make me happier than to be with you on this day of your big celebration and to reminisce about the good old days together.
One who has never experienced the thrill of genuine joy that wakens a man to a glad realization of the fact that he is a forefather, cannot understand its full significance. You alone know how it is yourself, you can speak from experience.
One who has never felt the excitement of true joy that makes a person realize they are a forefather can't fully grasp its importance. Only you understand what it's like; you can share from your own experience.
In fancy's dim corridors I see you stand, away back in the early dawn of our national day, with the tallow candle drooping and dying in its socket, as you waited for the physician to come and announce to you that you were a forefather.
In the dim hallways of my imagination, I see you standing there, way back in the early dawn of our national day, with the wax candle drooping and flickering in its holder, as you waited for the doctor to arrive and tell you that you were now a forefather.
Forefathers; you have done well. Others have sought to outdo you and wrest the laurels from your brow, but they did not succeed. As forefathers you have never been successfully scooped.
Forefathers, you've done great. Others have tried to surpass you and take the glory from you, but they didn't succeed. As forefathers, you have never been successfully overshadowed.
I hope that you will keep up your justly celebrated organization. If a forefather allows his dues to get in arrears, go to him kindly and ask him like a brother to put up. If he refuses to do so, fire him. There is no reason why a man should presume upon his long standing as a forefather to become insolent to other forefathers who are far his seniors. As a rule, I notice it is the young amateur forefather who has only been so a few days, in fact, who is arrogant and disobedient.
I hope you will continue to manage your well-respected organization. If a forefather falls behind on his payments, approach him kindly and ask him to contribute, just like a brother would. If he declines, let him go. There's no reason for anyone to take advantage of their status as a long-time forefather to be disrespectful to older forefathers. Typically, I've noticed that it's the newer forefathers, who have only held the title for a short time, that tend to be arrogant and defiant.
I have often wished that we could observe Forefathers' day more generally in the West. Why we should allow the Eastern cities to outdo us in this matter while we hold over them in other ways, I cannot understand. Our church sociables and homicides in the West will compare favorably with those of the effeter cities of the Atlantic slope. Our educational institutions and embezzlers are making rapid strides, especially our embezzlers. We are cultivating a certain air of refinement and haughty reserve which enables us at times to fool the best judges. Many of our Western people have been to the Atlantic seaboard and remained all summer without falling into the hands of the bunko artist. A cow gentleman friend of mine who bathed his plump limbs in the Atlantic last summer during the day, and mixed himself up in the mazy dance at night, told me on his return that he had enjoyed the summer immensely, but that he had returned financially depressed.
I’ve often wished we could celebrate Forefathers' Day more widely in the West. I don’t understand why we let the Eastern cities outshine us in this area when we excel in other ways. Our church gatherings and crime rates in the West are just as notable as those in the fancy cities on the East Coast. Our schools and embezzlers are making great progress, especially when it comes to the embezzlers. We’re cultivating a certain level of sophistication and aloofness that sometimes allows us to fool even the best critics. Many people from the West have spent the whole summer on the East Coast without falling prey to scams. A cowboy friend of mine who soaked his sturdy limbs in the Atlantic last summer during the day and joined in the lively dances at night told me when he got back that he had a fantastic summer but returned feeling financially drained.
“Ah,” said I, with an air of superiority which I often assume while talking to men who know more than I do, “you fell into the hands of the cultivated confidence man?”
“Ah,” I said, with a sense of superiority that I often adopt when talking to men who know more than I do, “you got caught by the smooth-talking con artist?”
“No, William,” he said sadly, “worse than that. I stopped at a seaside hotel. Had I gone to New York City and hunted up the gentlemanly bunko man and the Wall street dealer in lamb's pelts, as my better judgment prompted, I might have returned with funds. Now I am almost insolvent. I begin life again with great sorrow, and the same old Texas steer with which I went into the cattle industry five years ago.”
“No, William,” he said with sadness, “it's worse than that. I stayed at a seaside hotel. If I had gone to New York City and tracked down that smooth-talking con artist and the Wall Street dealer in lamb’s wool, as my better judgment suggested, I might have come back with some money. Now I’m nearly broke. I’m starting over with great sadness, and the same old Texas steer I had when I first got into the cattle business five years ago.”
But why should we, here in the West, take readily to all other institutions common to the cultured East and ignore the forefather industry? I now make this public announcement, and will stick to it, viz: I will be one of ten full-blooded American citizens to establish a branch forefather's lodge in the West, with a separate fund set aside for the benefit of forefathers who are no longer young. Forefathers are just as apt to become old and helpless as anyone else. Young men who contemplate becoming forefathers should remember this.
But why should we, here in the West, readily adopt all the institutions common in the cultured East while overlooking the importance of our forefather industry? I’m making this public announcement, and I’m committed to it: I will be one of ten full-blooded American citizens to establish a branch of the forefather's lodge in the West, with a dedicated fund for the benefit of elders who have aged. Forefathers can become old and vulnerable just like anyone else. Young men looking to become forefathers should keep this in mind.
In Acknowledgement.
To The Metropolitan Guide Publishing Co., New York.
To The Metropolitan Guide Publishing Co., New York.
Gentlemen.—I received the copy of your justly celebrated “Guide to rapid Affluence, or How to Acquire Wealth Without Mental Exertion,” price twenty-five cents. It is a great boon.
Gentlemen.—I got a copy of your famous “Guide to Quick Wealth, or How to Acquire Money Without Much Effort,” priced at twenty-five cents. It’s a real blessing.
I have now had this book sixteen weeks, and, as I am wealthy enough, I return it. It is not much worn, and if you will allow me fifteen cents for it, I would be very grateful. It is not the intrinsic value of the fifteen cents that I care for so much, but I would like it as a curiosity.
I’ve had this book for sixteen weeks now, and since I can afford it, I’m returning it. It’s not badly worn, and if you could give me fifteen cents for it, I’d really appreciate it. It’s not so much the actual fifteen cents that matters to me; I just think of it as a little keepsake.
The book is wonderfully graphic and thorough in all its details, and I was especially pleased with its careful and useful recipe for ointments. One style of ointment spoken of and recommended by your valuable book, is worthy of a place in history. I made some of it according to your formula. I tried it on a friend of mine. He wore it when he went away, and he has not as yet returned. I heard, incidentally, that it adhered to him. People who have examined it say that it retains its position on his person similar to a birthmark.
The book is incredibly detailed and well-illustrated, and I was particularly impressed with its thorough and helpful ointment recipe. One type of ointment mentioned and recommended by your valuable book deserves to be remembered. I made some using your formula. I tested it on a friend of mine. He took it with him when he left, and he hasn't come back yet. I heard, by the way, that it stuck to him. People who have checked it out say it stays on him like a birthmark.
Your cement does not have the same peculiarity. It does everything but adhere. Among other specialties it effects a singular odor. It has a fragrance that ought to be utilized in some way. Men have harnessed the lightning, and it seems to me that the day is not far distant when a man will be raised up who can control this latent power. Do you not think that possibly you have made a mistake and got your ointment and cement formula mixed? Your cement certainly smells like a corrupt administration in a warm room.
Your cement doesn't have the same quality. It does everything except stick. Among other things, it has a unique smell. Its scent should definitely be put to use. People have harnessed lightning, so I believe it won't be long before someone figures out how to control this hidden potential. Don’t you think you might have mixed up your ointment and cement formulas? Your cement definitely smells like a corrupt government in a stuffy room.
Your revelations in the liquor manufacture, and how to make any mixed drink with one hand tied, is well worth the price of the book. The chapter on bar etiquette is also excellent. Very few men know how to properly enter a bar-room and what to do after they arrive. How to get into a bar-room without attracting attention, and how to get out without police interference, are points upon which our American drunkards are lamentably ignorant. How to properly address a bar tender, is also a page that no student of good breeding could well omit.
Your insights on making liquor and how to mix drinks with one hand tied are definitely worth the price of the book. The chapter on bar etiquette is great too. Very few guys know how to enter a bar and what to do once they’re inside. Knowing how to slip into a bar without drawing attention, and how to leave without getting in trouble with the cops, are things that many American drinkers sadly don't understand. Properly addressing a bartender is also something every person who values good manners should pay attention to.
I was greatly surprised to read how simple the manufacture of drinks under your formula is. You construct a cocktail without liquor and then rob intemperance of its sting. You also make all kinds of liquor without the use of alcohol, that demon under whose iron heel thousands of our sons and brothers go down to death and delirium annually. Thus you are doing a good work.
I was really surprised to read how easy it is to make drinks using your formula. You create a cocktail without alcohol and then take away the negative effects of excessive drinking. You can also make all kinds of drinks without using alcohol, that destructive force that causes thousands of our sons and brothers to suffer and die every year. So, you're doing a great thing.
You also unite aloes, tobacco and Rough on Rats, and, by a happy combination, construct a style of beer that is non-intoxicating.
You also mix aloes, tobacco, and Rough on Rats, and, with a fortunate combination, create a type of beer that is non-alcoholic.
No one could, by any possible means, become intoxicated on your justly celebrated beer. He would not have time. Before he could get inebriated he would be in the New Jerusalem.
No one could possibly get drunk on your famously good beer. There wouldn't be enough time. Before they could become tipsy, they’d be in the New Jerusalem.
Those who drink your beer will not fill drunkards' graves. They will close their career and march out of this life with perforated stomachs and a look of intense anguish.
Those who drink your beer won't end up in drunkards' graves. They will finish their lives with damaged stomachs and expressions of deep pain.
Your method of making cider without apples is also frugal and ingenious. Thousands of innocent apple worms annually lose their lives in the manufacture of cider. They are also, in most instances, wholly unprepared to die. By your method, a style of wormless cider is constructed that would not fool anyone. It tastes a good deal like rain water that was rained about the first time that any raining was ever done, and was deprived of air ever since.
Your way of making cider without apples is smart and cost-effective. Every year, thousands of unsuspecting apple worms end up dying for cider. Most of them aren’t ready to go. With your method, you create a type of cider without worms that wouldn’t fool anyone. It tastes a lot like rainwater that fell during the very first rain ever and hasn’t seen air since.
{Illustration: HOW TO WIN AFFECTION.}
{Illustration: HOW TO GAIN LOVE.}
The closing chapter on the subject of “How to win the affections of the opposite sex at sixty yards,” is first-rate. It is wonderful what triumph science and inventions have wrenched from obdurate conditions! Only a few years ago, a young man had to work hard for weeks and months in order to win the love of a noble young woman. Now, with your valuable and scholarly work, price twenty-five cents, he studies over the closing chapter an hour or two, then goes out into society and gathers in his victim. And yet I do not grudge the long, long hours I squandered in those years when people were in heathenish darkness. I had no book like yours to tell me how to win the affections of the opposite sex. I could only blunder on, week after week and yet I do not regret it. It was just the school I needed. It did me good.
The final chapter on “How to win the affections of the opposite sex at sixty yards” is excellent. It’s amazing what progress science and technology have made against tough circumstances! Just a few years ago, a young man had to put in a lot of effort for weeks and months to win the love of a lovely young woman. Now, with your valuable, scholarly book priced at twenty-five cents, he studies the final chapter for an hour or two, then goes out into social settings and easily reels in his target. Yet, I don’t begrudge the long, tedious hours I spent during those times when people were in ignorance. I didn’t have a book like yours to guide me in winning the affections of the opposite sex. I could only stumble along week after week, and still, I don’t regret it. It was exactly the experience I needed. It benefited me.
Your book will, no doubt, be a good thing for those who now grope, but I have groped so long that I have formed the habit and prefer it. Let me go right on groping. Those who desire to win the affections of the opposite sex at one sitting, will do well to send two bits for your great work, but I am in no hurry. My time is not valuable.
Your book will definitely be helpful for those who are struggling, but I've been struggling for so long that I've gotten used to it and I actually prefer it. Let me keep figuring things out on my own. Those who want to win the affection of the opposite sex quickly should definitely pay two bucks for your amazing book, but I'm not in a rush. My time isn't that precious.
Preventing a Scandal.
Boys should never be afraid or ashamed to do little odd jobs by which to acquire money. Too many boys are afraid, or at least seem to be embarrassed when asked to do chores, and thus earn small sums of money. In order to appreciate wealth we must earn it ourselves. That is the reason I labor. I do not need to labor. My parents are still living, and they certainly would not see me suffer for the necessities of life. But life in that way would not have the keen relish that it would if I earned the money myself.
Boys should never feel scared or ashamed to take on small jobs to make some money. Too many boys seem embarrassed when asked to do chores, which means they miss out on earning a little cash. To truly value wealth, we need to earn it ourselves. That's why I work. I don’t have to work; my parents are still around, and they definitely wouldn’t let me struggle for basic needs. But living that way wouldn’t have the same excitement as if I earned the money myself.
Sawing wood used to be a favorite pastime with boys twenty years ago. I remember the first money I ever earned was by sawing wood. My brother and myself were to receive $5 for sawing five cords of wood. We allowed the job to stand, however, until the weather got quite warm, and then we decided to hire a foreigner who came along that way one glorious summer day when all nature seemed tickled and we knew that the fish would be apt to bite. So we hired the foreigner, and while he sawed, we would bet with him on various “dead sure things” until he got the wood sawed, when he went away owing us fifty cents.
Cutting wood used to be a favorite hobby for boys twenty years ago. I remember that the first money I ever made was from cutting wood. My brother and I were supposed to get $5 for sawing five cords of wood. However, we put off the job until the weather warmed up, and then we decided to hire a guy who came by one beautiful summer day when everything seemed lively and we knew the fish would probably be biting. So, we hired the guy, and while he sawed, we made bets with him on various "sure things" until he finished cutting the wood, and then he left owing us fifty cents.
We had a neighbor who was very wealthy. He noticed that we boys earned our own spending money, and he yearned to have his son try to ditto. So he told the boy that he was going away for a few weeks and that he would give him $2 per cord, or double price, to saw the wood. He wanted to teach the boy to earn and appreciate his money. So, when the old man went away, the boy secured a colored man to do the job at $1 per cord, by which process the youth made $10. This he judiciously invested in clothes, meeting his father at the train in a new summer suit and a speckled cane. The old man said he could see by the sparkle in the boy's clear, honest eyes, that healthful exercise was what boys needed.
We had a neighbor who was really wealthy. He noticed that we boys earned our own spending money, and he wanted his son to do the same. So, he told the boy that he would be away for a few weeks and that he’d pay him $2 per cord, which was double the usual rate, to saw the wood. He wanted to teach the boy how to earn and value his money. When the old man left, the boy hired a guy to do the job for $1 per cord, so he ended up making $10. He wisely spent that on clothes, meeting his dad at the train in a new summer suit and carrying a stylish cane. The old man said he could see in his son’s bright, honest eyes that healthy activity was what boys really needed.
When I was a boy I frequently acquired large sums of money by carrying coal up two flights of stairs for wealthy people who were too fat to do it themselves. This money I invested from time to time in side shows and other zoological attractions.
When I was a kid, I often made a lot of money by carrying coal up two flights of stairs for rich people who were too lazy to do it themselves. I sometimes used that money to invest in side shows and other animal attractions.
One day I saw a coal cart back up and unload itself on the walk in such a way as to indicate that the coal would have to be manually elevated inside the building. I waited till I nearly froze to death, for the owner to come along and solicit my aid. Finally he came. He smelled strong of carbolic acid, and I afterward learned that he was a physician and surgeon.
One day, I saw a coal cart back up and unload its cargo on the sidewalk in a way that showed the coal would have to be lifted into the building by hand. I waited until I was almost freezing to death for the owner to come by and ask for my help. Finally, he showed up. He had a strong smell of carbolic acid, and I later found out that he was a doctor and surgeon.
We haggled over the price for some time, as I had to carry the coal up two flights in an old waste paper basket and it was quite a task. Finally we agreed. I proceeded with the work. About dusk I went up the last flight of stairs with the last load. My feet seemed to weigh about nineteen pounds apiece and my face was very sombre.
We negotiated the price for a while since I had to carry the coal up two flights of stairs in an old waste paper basket, and it was definitely a challenge. Eventually, we came to an agreement. I got to work. Around dusk, I went up the last flight of stairs with the final load. My feet felt like they weighed about nineteen pounds each, and my face was quite serious.
In the gloaming I saw my employer. He was writing a prescription by the dim, uncertain light. He told me to put the last basketful in the little closet off the hall and then come and get my pay. I took the coal into the closet, but I do not know what I did with it. As I opened the door and stepped in, a tall skeleton got down off the nail and embraced me like a prodigal son. It fell on my neck and draped itself all over me. Its glittering phalanges entered the bosom of my gingham shirt and rested lightly on the pit of my stomach. I could feel the pelvis bone in the small of my back. The room was dark, but I did not light the gas. Whether it was the skeleton of a lady or gentleman, I never knew; but I thought, for the sake of my good name, I would not remain. My good name and a strong yearning for home were all that I had at that time.
In the twilight, I saw my boss. He was writing a prescription by the dim, uncertain light. He told me to put the last basket in the small closet off the hall and then come get my paycheck. I carried the coal into the closet, but I can't remember what I did with it. As I opened the door and stepped in, a tall skeleton climbed down from a nail and hugged me like a long-lost son. It fell against me and wrapped itself around me. Its shiny fingers slipped into the front of my checkered shirt and rested lightly on my stomach. I could feel its pelvic bone pressed into the small of my back. The room was dark, but I didn’t turn on the gas. I never knew whether it was the skeleton of a woman or a man, but I thought, for the sake of my reputation, that I shouldn’t stay. My reputation and a strong longing for home were all I had at that moment.
So I went home. Afterwards, I learned that this physician got all his coal carried up stairs for nothing in this way, and he had tried to get rooms two flights further up in the building, so that the boys would have further to fall when they made their egress.
So I went home. Later, I found out that this doctor had all his coal brought upstairs for free this way, and he had tried to get rooms two flights higher in the building, so that the kids would have a longer drop when they left.
About Portraits.
Hudson, Wis., August 25, 1885.
Hudson, WI, August 25, 1885.
Hon. William F. Vilas, Postmaster-General, Washington, D.C.
Hon. William F. Vilas, Postmaster General, Washington, D.C.
Dear Sir,—For some time I have been thinking of writing to you and asking you how you were getting along with your department since I left it. I did not wish to write you for the purpose of currying favor with an administration against which I squandered a ballot last fall. Neither do I desire to convey the impression that I would like to open a correspondence with you for the purpose of killing time. If you ever feel like sitting down and answering this letter in an off-hand way it would please me very much, but do not put yourself out to do so. I wanted to ask you, however, how you like the pictures of yourself recently published by the patent insides. That was my principal object in writing. Having seen you before this great calamity befell you, I wanted to inquire whether you had really changed so much. As I remember your face, it was rather unusually intellectual and attractive for a great man. Great men are very rarely pretty. I guess that, aside from yourself, myself, and Mr. Evarts, there is hardly an eminent man in the country who would be considered handsome. But the engraver has done you a great injustice, or else you have sadly changed since I saw you. It hardly seems possible that your nose has drifted around to leeward and swelled up at the end, as the engraver would have us believe. I do not believe that in a few short months the look of firmness and conscious rectitude that I noticed could have changed to that of indecision and vacuity which we see in some of your late portraits as printed.
Dear Sir, — I've been meaning to write to you and ask how you're doing in your department since I left. I don’t want to write just to curry favor with an administration I voted against last fall. Nor do I want to give the impression that I’m looking to start a correspondence just to pass the time. If you ever feel like casually responding to this letter, I’d really appreciate it, but please don’t go out of your way. I did want to ask how you feel about the pictures of yourself that were recently published by the patent office. That’s the main reason I’m writing. Having seen you before this big calamity hit, I wanted to know if you’ve really changed that much. As I recall, your face was quite intellectual and attractive for someone of your stature. Great men are rarely good-looking, I suppose. Other than you, me, and Mr. Evarts, I doubt there’s any prominent man in the country considered handsome. But the engraver has done you a great disservice, or perhaps you’ve sadly changed since I last saw you. It hardly seems possible that your nose has become misshapen and swollen at the tip, as the engraver suggests. I can’t believe that in just a few short months, the firmness and integrity I noticed could have transformed into the indecision and emptiness reflected in some of your recent portraits.
{Illustration: A NOSE ON THE BIAS.}
{Illustration: A NOSE ON THE BIAS.}
I saw one yesterday, with your name attached to it, and it made my heart ache for your family. As a resident in your State I felt humiliated. Two of Wisconsin's ablest men have been thus slaughtered by the rude broad-axe of the engraver. Last fall, Senator Spooner, who is also a man with a first-class head and face, was libeled in this same reckless way. It makes me mad, and in that way impairs my usefulness. I am not a good citizen, husband or father when I am mad. I am a perfect simoom of wrath at such times, and I am not responsible for what I do.
I saw one yesterday with your name on it, and it really hurt my heart for your family. As a resident of your state, I felt embarrassed. Two of Wisconsin's most capable men have been badly portrayed by the careless engraver's tool. Last fall, Senator Spooner, who also has a sharp mind and a great appearance, was slandered in the same reckless way. It makes me furious, and that affects my ability to be useful. I'm not a good citizen, husband, or father when I'm angry. I'm a complete storm of rage at those times, and I can't be held accountable for my actions.
Nothing can arouse the indignation of your friends, regardless of party, so much as the thought that while you are working so hard in the postoffice at Washington with your coat off, collecting box rent and making up the Western mail, the remorseless engraver and electrotyper are seeking to down you by making pictures of you in which you appear either as a dude or a tough.
Nothing can stir up your friends' anger, no matter their political views, quite like the idea that while you’re busting your tail at the post office in Washington with your shirt sleeves rolled up, collecting box rent and organizing the Western mail, the relentless engraver and electrotyper are trying to undermine you by creating images that make you look like either a poser or a thug.
While I have not the pleasure of being a member of your party, having belonged to what has been sneeringly alluded to as the g.o.p., I cannot refrain from expressing my sympathy at this time. Though we may have differed heretofore upon important questions of political economy, I cannot exult over these portraits. Others may gloat over these efforts to injure you, but I do not. I am not much of a gloater, anyhow.
While I don't have the pleasure of being part of your party, having belonged to what has been mockingly called the g.o.p., I can’t help but express my sympathy right now. Even though we've had our differences on important issues in political economy, I can't take joy in these portraits. Others might revel in these attempts to harm you, but I don't. I'm not really the type to gloat, anyway.
I leave those to gloat who are in the gloat business.
I leave the bragging to those who specialize in bragging.
Still, it is one of the drawbacks incident to greatness. We struggle hard through life that we may win the confidence of our fellow-men, only at last to have pictures of ourselves printed and distributed where they will injure us.
Still, it's one of the downsides that come with being great. We work really hard throughout our lives to earn the trust of others, only to eventually have images of ourselves shared and spread around that can harm our reputation.
{Illustration: ASSORTED PHYSIOGNOMY.}
{Illustration: VARIOUS FACES.}
I desire to add before closing this letter, Mr. Vilas, that with those who are acquainted with you and know your sterling worth, these portraits will make no difference. We will not allow them to influence us socially or politically. What the effect may be upon offensive partisans who are total strangers to you, I do not know.
I want to add before finishing this letter, Mr. Vilas, that for those who know you and recognize your true value, these portraits won’t matter at all. We won’t let them sway us socially or politically. As for how they might affect aggressive supporters who don’t know you at all, I can’t say.
My theory in relation to these cuts is, that they are combined and interchangeable, so that, with slight modifications, they are used for all great men. The cut, with the extras that go with it, consists of one head with hair (front view), one bald head (front view), one head with hair (side view), one bald head (side view), one pair eyes (with glasses), one pair eyes (plain), one Roman nose, one Grecian nose, one turn-up nose, one set whiskers (full), one moustache, one pair side-whiskers, one chin, one set large ears, one set medium ears, one set small ears, one set shoulders, with collar and necktie for above, one monkey-wrench, one set quoins, one galley, one oil can, one screwdriver. These different features are then arranged so that a great variety of clergymen, murderers, senators, embezzlers, artists, dynamiters, humorists, arsonists, larcenists, poets, statesmen, base ball players, rinkists, pianists, capitalists, bigamists and sluggists are easily represented. No newspaper office should be without them. They are very simple, and any child can easily learn to operate it. They are invaluable in all cases, for no one knows at what moment a revolting crime may be committed by a comparatively unknown man, whose portrait you wish to give, and in this age of rapid political transformations, presentations and combinations, no enterprising paper should delay the acquisition of a combined portrait for the use of its readers.
My theory about these cuts is that they can be combined and swapped out, so that with a few adjustments, they work for all notable figures. The cut includes one head with hair (front view), one bald head (front view), one head with hair (side view), one bald head (side view), one pair of eyes (with glasses), one pair of eyes (plain), one Roman nose, one Grecian nose, one upturned nose, one full set of whiskers, one mustache, one pair of sideburns, one chin, one set of large ears, one set of medium ears, one set of small ears, one set of shoulders with a collar and necktie for above, one monkey wrench, one set of quoins, one galley, one oil can, and one screwdriver. These different features can be arranged to easily represent a wide variety of clergymen, murderers, senators, embezzlers, artists, bombers, comics, arsonists, thieves, poets, politicians, baseball players, skaters, pianists, capitalists, bigamists, and fighters. No newspaper office should be without them. They are very straightforward, and any child can quickly learn to use them. They are essential in every situation because you never know when a shocking crime might be committed by someone relatively unknown, whose portrait you may need to provide. In this age of rapid political changes, presentations, and combinations, no forward-thinking paper should hesitate to get a combined portrait for the benefit of its readers.
Hoping that you are well, and that you will at once proceed to let no guilty man escape, I remain, yours truly,
Hoping you’re doing well and that you won’t let any guilty person get away, I remain, sincerely yours,
Bill Nye.
Bill Nye the Science Guy.
The Old South.
The Old South Meeting House, in Boston, is the most remarkable structure in many respects to be found in that remarkable city. Always eager wherever I go to search out at once the gospel privileges, it is not to be wondered at, that I should have gone to the Old South the first day after I landed in Boston.
The Old South Meeting House in Boston is one of the most notable buildings in many ways in that incredible city. Always eager to discover the best spiritual experiences wherever I travel, it’s no surprise that I visited the Old South the first day after I arrived in Boston.
It is hardly necessary to go over the history of the Old South, except, perhaps, to refresh the memory of those who live outside of Boston. The Old South Society was organized in 1669, and the ground on which the old meetinghouse now stands was given by Mrs. Norton, the widow of Rev. John Norton, since deceased. The first structure was of wood, and in 1729 the present brick building succeeded it. King's Handbook of Boston says: “It is one of the few historic buildings that have been allowed to remain in this iconoclastic age.”
It’s not really necessary to go over the history of the Old South, except maybe to remind those who live outside of Boston. The Old South Society was founded in 1669, and the land where the old meeting house stands now was donated by Mrs. Norton, the widow of Rev. John Norton, who has since passed away. The first building was made of wood, and in 1729, the current brick structure replaced it. King's Handbook of Boston notes: “It is one of the few historic buildings that have been allowed to remain in this iconoclastic age.”
So it seems that they are troubled with iconoclasts in Boston, too. I thought I saw one hanging around the Old South on the day I was there, and had a good notion to point him out to the authorities, but thought it was none of my business.
So it looks like they have iconoclasts in Boston as well. I thought I saw one loitering around the Old South the day I was there, and I almost pointed him out to the authorities, but I figured it wasn't my place to get involved.
I went into the building and registered, and then from force of habit or absent-mindedness handed my umbrella over the counter and asked how soon supper would be ready. Everybody registers, but very few, I am told, ask how soon supper will be ready. The Old South is now run on the European plan, however.
I went into the building and registered, and then out of habit or absent-mindedness, I handed my umbrella over the counter and asked how soon dinner would be ready. Everyone registers, but I’m told very few actually ask how soon dinner will be ready. The Old South is now run on a European model, though.
The old meeting-house is chiefly remarkable for the associations that cluster around it. Two centuries hover about the ancient weather-vane and look down upon the visitor when the weather is favorable.
The old meeting house is mainly notable for the memories that surround it. Two centuries linger around the ancient weather vane, watching over visitors when the weather is nice.
Benjamin Franklin was baptized and attended worship here, prior to his wonderful invention of lightning. Here on each succeeding Sabbath sat the man who afterwards snared the forked lightning with a string and put it in a jug for future generations. Here Whitefield preached and the rebels discussed the tyranny of the British king. Warren delivered his famous speech here upon the anniversary of the Boston massacre and the “tea party” organized in this same building. Two hundred years ago exactly, the British used the Old South as a military riding school, although a majority of the people of Boston were not in favor of it.
Benjamin Franklin was baptized and worshipped here before his amazing invention of lightning. Each subsequent Sunday, the man who later captured forked lightning with a string and bottled it for future generations sat here. This is where Whitefield preached and rebels talked about the tyranny of the British king. Warren delivered his famous speech here on the anniversary of the Boston Massacre and the "tea party" organized in this same building. Exactly two hundred years ago, the British used the Old South as a military riding school, even though most people in Boston opposed it.
It would be well to pause here and consider the trying situation in which our ancestors were placed at that time. Coming to Massachusetts as they did, at a time when the country was new and prices extremely high, they had hoped to escape from oppression and establish themselves so far away from the tyrant that he could not come over here and disturb them without suffering from the extreme nausea incident to a long sea voyage. Alas, however, when they landed at Plymouth rock there was not a decent hotel in the place. The same stern and rock-bound coast which may be discovered along the Atlantic sea-board to-day was there, and a cruel, relentless sky frowned upon their endeavors.
It’s worth taking a moment to think about the difficult situation our ancestors faced back then. Coming to Massachusetts during a time when the country was new and prices were incredibly high, they had hoped to escape oppression and settle far enough away from the tyrant so he couldn't come over and disturb them without suffering through a long, miserable sea voyage. Unfortunately, when they landed at Plymouth Rock, there was no decent hotel in sight. The same harsh and rugged coast that we can see along the Atlantic seaboard today was there, and an unforgiving sky looked down on their efforts.
Where prosperous cities now flaunt to the sky their proud domes and floating debts, the rank jimson weed nodded in the wind and the pumpkin pie of to-day still slumbered in the bosom of the future. What glorious facts have, under the benign influence of fostering centuries, been born of apparent impossibility. What giant certainties have grown through these years from the seeds of doubt and discouragement and uncertainty! (Big firecrackers and applause.)
Where thriving cities now show off their impressive domes and mounting debts, the rank jimson weed swayed in the breeze and today’s pumpkin pie still rested in the promise of the future. What amazing realities have emerged, under the supportive influence of nurturing centuries, from what seemed impossible. What colossal certainties have developed over these years from the seeds of doubt, discouragement, and uncertainty! (Big firecrackers and applause.)
{Illustration: MR. FRANKLIN EXPERIMENTS.}
{Illustration: MR. FRANKLIN EXPERIMENTS.}
At that time our ancestors had but timidly embarked in the forefather business. They did not know that future generations in four-button cutaways would rise up and call them blessed and pass resolutions of respect on their untimely death. If they stayed at home the king taxed them all out of shape, and if they went out of Boston a few rods to get enough huckleberries for breakfast, they would frequently come home so full of Indian arrows that they could not get through a common door without great pain.
At that time, our ancestors had just timidly started the family business. They didn't realize that future generations in stylish suits would praise them and honor them with resolutions of respect after their untimely deaths. If they stayed home, the king would tax them heavily, and if they ventured a short distance outside of Boston to gather enough huckleberries for breakfast, they often returned home so filled with Indian arrows that they could barely get through a regular door without great discomfort.
Such was the early history of the country where now cultivation and education and refinement run rampant and people sit up all night to print newspapers so that we can have them in the morning.
Such was the early history of the country where cultivation, education, and refinement are now widespread, and people stay up all night printing newspapers so we can have them in the morning.
The land on which the Old South stands is very valuable for business purposes, and $400,000 will have to be raised in order to preserve the old landmark to future generations. I earnestly hope that it will be secured, and that the old meeting-house—dear not alone to the people of Boston, but to the millions of Americans scattered from sea to sea, who cannot forget where first universal freedom plumed its wings—will be spared to entertain within its hospitable walls, enthusiastic and reverential visitors for ages without end.
The land where the Old South stands is extremely valuable for business, and $400,000 needs to be raised to preserve this historic site for future generations. I sincerely hope it will be secured, and that the old meeting house—cherished not just by the people of Boston, but by millions of Americans across the country who remember where universal freedom first took flight—will continue to welcome enthusiastic and respectful visitors for generations to come.
Knights of the Pen.
When you come to think of it, it is surprising that so many newspaper men write so that any one but an expert can read it. The rapid and voluminous work, especially of daily journalism, knocks the beautiful business college penman, as a rule, higher than a kite. I still have specimens of my own handwriting that a total stranger could read.
When you think about it, it's surprising that so many journalists write in a way that anyone but an expert can understand. The fast-paced and extensive work of daily journalism usually surpasses the skills of a typical business college student. I still have samples of my handwriting that anyone could read.
I do not remember a newspaper acquaintance whose penmanship is so characteristic of the exacting neatness and sharp, clear cut style of the man, as is that of Eugene Field, of the Chicago News. As the “Nonpareil Writer” of the Denver Tribune, it was a mystery to me when he did the work which the paper showed each day as his own. You would sometimes find him at his desk, writing on large sheets of “print paper” with a pen and violet ink, in a hand that was as delicate as the steel plate of a bank note and the kind of work that printers would skirmish for. He would ask you to sit down in the chair opposite his desk, which had two or three old exchanges thrown on it. He would probably say, “Never mind those papers. I've read them. Just sit down on them if you want to.” Encouraged by his hearty manner, you would sit down, and you would continue to sit down till you had protruded about three-fourths of your system through that hollow mockery of a chair. Then he would run to help you out and curse the chair, and feel pained because he had erroneously given you the ruin with no seat to it. He always felt pained over such things. He always suffered keenly and felt shocked over the accident until you had gone away, and then he would sigh heavily and “set” the chair again.
I can’t recall any journalist whose handwriting reflects such meticulous neatness and a sharp, clear style as Eugene Field from the Chicago News. As the “Nonpareil Writer” of the Denver Tribune, it baffled me how he produced the content credited to him each day. You might see him at his desk, writing on large sheets of “print paper” with a pen and violet ink, in a handwriting as refined as a bank note, the kind of work that printers would compete for. He’d invite you to take a seat in the chair across from his desk, which had a few old newspapers tossed on it. He’d likely say, “Don’t worry about those papers. I’ve read them. Just sit on them if you want to.” Feeling encouraged by his warm demeanor, you’d sit down, only to find yourself sinking into that hollow imitation of a chair. He’d rush over to help you out, cursing the chair, feeling upset because he had mistakenly offered you a seat that was ruined. He always felt bad about such things. He’d be genuinely concerned and shocked about the mishap until you left, at which point he’d let out a heavy sigh and “set” the chair back up again.
{Illustration: THE RUIN.}
{Illustration: THE RUIN.}
Frank Pixley, the editor of the San Francisco Argonaut, is not beautiful, though the Argonaut is. He is grim and rather on the Moses Montefiore style of countenance, but his hand-writing does not convey the idea of the man personally, or his style of dealing with the Chinese question. It is rather young looking, and has the uncertain manner of an eighteen-year-old boy.
Frank Pixley, the editor of the San Francisco Argonaut, isn't exactly handsome, even though the Argonaut itself is. He has a serious expression, reminiscent of Moses Montefiore, but his handwriting doesn't reflect his personality or his approach to the Chinese issue. It's quite youthful and has the shaky quality of an eighteen-year-old.
Robert J. Burdette writes a small but plain hand, though he sometimes suffers from the savage typographical error that steals forth at such a moment as ye think not, and disfigures and tears and mangles the bright eyed children of the brain.
Robert J. Burdette writes in a clear but basic handwriting, although he sometimes encounters those brutal typos that appear when you least expect it, ruining and distorting the bright ideas that come to mind.
Very often we read a man's work and imagine we shall find him like it, cheery, bright and entertaining; but we know him and find that personally he is a refrigerator, or an egotist, or a man with a torpid liver and a nose like a rose geranium. You will not be disappointed in Bob Burdette, however, You think you will like him, and you always do. He will never be too famous to be a gentleman.
Very often, we read someone’s work and expect them to be just like it—cheerful, engaging, and entertaining. But when we meet them, we discover they’re actually cold, self-centered, or lacking energy, like a person with a sluggish liver and a nose resembling a rose geranium. However, you won’t be let down by Bob Burdette. You think you'll like him, and you always do. He will never become too famous to lose his manners.
George W. Peck's hand is of the free and independent order of chirography. It is easy and natural, but not handsome. He writes very voluminously, doing his editorial writing in two days of the week, generally Friday and Saturday. Then he takes a rapid horse, a zealous bird dog and an improved double barrel duck destroyer and communes with nature.
George W. Peck has a free and independent style of handwriting. It's easy and natural, but not very attractive. He writes a lot, handling his editorial work on two days a week, usually Friday and Saturday. After that, he hops on a fast horse, takes along an eager bird dog, and carries an upgraded double-barrel shotgun to connect with nature.
Sam Davis, an old time Californian, and now in Nevada, writes the freest of any penman I know. When he is deliberate, he may be betrayed into making a deformed letter and a crooked mark attached to it, which he characterizes as a word. He puts a lot of these together and actually pays postage on the collection under the delusion that it is a letter, that it will reach its destination, and that it will accomplish its object.
Sam Davis, an old-school Californian currently in Nevada, writes more freely than anyone else I know. When he takes his time, he sometimes ends up creating a messy letter and a crooked mark he calls a word. He puts a bunch of these together and even pays for postage on the whole thing, believing it’s a letter, that it will get where it’s supposed to go, and that it will achieve its purpose.
He makes up for his bad writing, however, by being an unpublished volume of old time anecdotes and funny experiences.
He compensates for his poor writing by being an unpublished collection of old anecdotes and hilarious experiences.
Goodwin, of the old Territorial Enterprise, and Mark Twain's old employer, writes with a pencil in a methodical manner and very plainly. The way he sharpens a “hard medium” lead pencil and skins the apostle of the so-called Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, makes my heart glad. Hardly a day passes that his life is not threatened by the low browed thumpers of Mormondom, and yet the old war horse raises the standard of monogamy and under the motto, “One country, one flag and one wife at a time,” he smokes his old meerschaum pipe and writes a column of razor blades every day. He is the buzz saw upon which polygamy has tried to sit. Fighting these rotten institutions hand to hand and fighting a religious eccentricity through an annual message, or a feeble act of congress, are two separate and distinct things.
Goodwin, from the old Territorial Enterprise, who was Mark Twain's former boss, writes with a pencil in a careful and clear way. The way he sharpens a “hard medium” lead pencil and critiques the leader of the so-called Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints makes me quite happy. Hardly a day goes by without him being threatened by the ignorant followers of Mormonism, yet this old warrior stands up for monogamy. Under the motto, “One country, one flag, and one wife at a time,” he smokes his old meerschaum pipe and writes a sharp commentary every day. He is the powerhouse that polygamy has tried to take on. Battling these corrupt institutions directly and addressing a strange religious practice through an annual message or a weak act of Congress are two completely different things.
If I had a little more confidence in my longevity than I now have, I would go down there to the Valley of the Jordan, and I would gird up my loins, and I would write with that lonely warrior at Salt Lake, and with the aid and encouragement of our brethren of the press who do not favor the right of one man to marry an old woman's home, we would rotten egg the bogus Temple of Zion till the civilized world, with a patent clothes pin on its nose, would come and see what was the matter.
If I had a bit more faith in my longevity than I do now, I would head down to the Valley of the Jordan, prepare myself, and team up with that lone warrior at Salt Lake. With the support and encouragement of our press colleagues who oppose the idea of one man taking over an elderly woman’s home, we would protest the fake Temple of Zion until the civilized world, holding their noses, would come to see what was going on.
I see that my zeal has led me away from my original subject, but I haven't time to regret it now.
I realize that my enthusiasm has taken me off-topic, but I don’t have time to dwell on that now.
The Wild Cow.
When I was young and used to roam around over the country, gathering water-melons in the light of the moon, I used to think I could milk anybody's cow, but I do not think so now. I do not milk a cow now unless the sign is right, and it hasn't been right for a good many years. The last cow I tried to milk was a common cow, born in obscurity; kind of a self-made cow. I remember her brow was low, but she wore her tail high and she was haughty, oh, so haughty.
When I was young and would wander around the countryside, picking watermelons under the moonlight, I used to believe I could milk any cow. But I don’t think that anymore. I won’t milk a cow unless the conditions are right, and they haven't been right for quite a while. The last cow I attempted to milk was an ordinary cow, born without any special background; a sort of self-made cow. I remember her forehead was low, but she held her tail high and was so proud, oh, so proud.
I made a common-place remark to her, one that is used in the very best of society, one that need not have given offence anywhere. I said “So”—and she “soed.” Then I told her to “hist” and she histed. But I thought she overdid it. She put too much expression in it.
I made a typical comment to her, one that's common in the best of social circles, something that shouldn't have offended anyone. I said "So"—and she replied with "so." Then I told her to "hush," and she hushed. But I felt she exaggerated it. She added too much expression to it.
Just then I heard something crash through the window of the barn and fall with a dull, sickening thud on the outside. The neighbors came to see what it was that caused the noise. They found that I had done it in getting through the window.
Just then, I heard something crash through the barn window and fall with a heavy, sickening thud outside. The neighbors came over to see what had caused the noise. They found out that I was responsible for it when I got through the window.
I asked the neighbors if the barn was still standing. They said it was. Then I asked if the cow was injured much. They said she seemed to be quite robust. Then I requested them to go in and calm the cow a little, and see if they could get my plug hat off her horns.
I asked the neighbors if the barn was still there. They said it was. Then I asked if the cow was hurt badly. They said she looked pretty strong. Then I asked them to go in and calm the cow down a bit, and see if they could get my plug hat off her horns.
I am buying all my milk now of a milkman. I select a gentle milkman who will not kick, and feel as though I could trust him. Then, if he feels as though he could trust me, it is all right.
I buy all my milk now from a milkman. I choose a kind milkman who won't kick, and I feel like I can trust him. Then, if he feels like he can trust me, everything's good.
{Illustration: THE WILD COW.}
{Illustration: THE WILD COW.}
Spinal Meningitis.
So many people have shown a pardonable curiosity about the above named disease, and so few have a very clear idea of the thrill of pleasure it affords the patient, unless they have enjoyed it themselves, that I have decided to briefly say something in answer to the innumerable inquiries I have received.
So many people have expressed understandable curiosity about the disease mentioned above, and so few have a clear understanding of the pleasure it brings to the patient, unless they've experienced it themselves, that I've decided to say a little something in response to the countless questions I've received.
Up to the moment I had a notion of getting some meningitis, I had never employed a physician. Since then I have been thrown in their society a great deal. Most of them were very pleasant and scholarly gentlemen, who will not soon be forgotten; but one of them doctored me first for pneumonia, then for inflammatory rheumatism, and finally, when death was contiguous, advised me that I must have change of scene and rest.
Up until the time I thought I might have meningitis, I had never seen a doctor. Since then, I’ve spent a lot of time around them. Most were really nice and knowledgeable guys, and I won’t forget them easily; but one doctor treated me first for pneumonia, then for inflammatory rheumatism, and finally, when I was close to death, he suggested I needed a change of scenery and some rest.
I told him that if he kept on prescribing for me, I thought I might depend on both. Change of physicians, however, saved my life. This horse doctor, a few weeks afterward, administered a subcutaneous morphine squirt in the arm of a healthy servant girl because she had the headache, and she is now with the rest of this veterinarian's patients in a land that is fairer than this.
I told him that if he continued to prescribe for me, I thought I might become reliant on both. However, switching doctors saved my life. A few weeks later, this veterinarian gave a healthy maid a morphine injection in her arm just because she had a headache, and now she's among the veterinarian's other patients in a place that's better than this one.
She lived six hours after she was prescribed for. He gave her change of scene and rest. He has quite a thriving little cemetery filled with people who have succeeded in cording up enough of his change of scene and rest to last them through all eternity. He was called once to prescribe for a man whose head had been caved in by a stone match-box, and, after treating the man for asthma and blind staggers, he prescribed rest and change of scene for him, too. The poor asthmatic is now breathing the extremely rarified air of the New Jerusalem.
She lived six hours after her prescription. He provided her with a change of scenery and rest. He has a small, successful cemetery filled with people who've managed to get enough of his change of scenery and rest to last them forever. He was once called to treat a man whose head had been crushed by a stone matchbox, and after treating him for asthma and dizziness, he also recommended rest and a change of scenery. The poor asthmatic is now enjoying the very thin air of the New Jerusalem.
Meningitis is derived from the Latin Meninges, membrane, and—itis, an affix denoting inflammation, so that, strictly speaking, meningitis is the inflammation of a membrane, and when applied to the spine, or cerebrum, is called spinal meningitis, or cerebro-spinal meningitis, etc., according to the part of the spine or brain involved in the inflammation. Meningitis is a characteristic and result of so-called spotted fever, and by many it is deemed identical with it.
Meningitis comes from the Latin word Meninges, meaning membrane, and the suffix itis, which indicates inflammation. So, basically, meningitis is the inflammation of a membrane. When referring to the spine or brain, it is called spinal meningitis or cerebro-spinal meningitis, depending on which part is affected by the inflammation. Meningitis is a key feature and consequence of what is often called spotted fever, and many people consider them to be the same condition.
When we come to consider that the spinal cord, or marrow, runs down through the long, bony shaft made by the vertebrae, and that the brain and spine, though connected, are bound up in one continuous bony wall and covered with this inflamed membrane, it is not difficult to understand that the thing is very hard to get at. If your throat gets inflamed, a doctor asks you to run your tongue out into society about a yard and a half, and he pries your mouth open with one of Rogers Brothers' spoon handles. Then he is able to examine your throat as he would a page of the Congressional Record, and to treat it with some local application. When you have spinal meningitis, however, the doctor tackles you with bromides, ergots, ammonia, iodine, chloral hydrate, codi, bromide of ammonia, hasheesh, bismuth, valerianate of ammonia, morphine sulph., nux vomica, turpentine emulsion, vox humana, rex magnus, opium, cantharides, Dover's powders, and other bric-a-brac. These remedies are masticated and acted upon by the salivary glands, passed down the esophagus, thrown into the society of old gastric, submitted to the peculiar motion of the stomach and thoroughly chymified, then forwarded through the pyloric orifice into the smaller intestines, where they are touched up with bile, and later on handed over through the lacteals, thoracic duct, etc., to the vast circulatory system. Here it is yanked back and forth through the heart, lungs and capillaries, and if anything is left to fork over to the disease, it has to squeeze into the long, bony, air-tight socket that holds the spinal cord. All this is done without seeing the patient's spinal cord before or after taking. If it could be taken out, and hung over a clothes line and cleansed with benzine, and then treated with insect powder, or rolled in corn meal, or preserved in alcohol, and then put back, it would be all right; but you can't. You pull a man's spine out of his system and he is bound to miss it, no matter how careful you have been about it. It is difficult to keep house without the spine. You need it every time you cook a meal. If the spinal cord could be pulled by a dentist and put away in pounded ice every time it gets a hot-box, spinal meningitis would lose its stinger.
When we think about how the spinal cord, or marrow, runs down through the long, bony shaft formed by the vertebrae, and that the brain and spine, although connected, are encased in one continuous bony wall covered by this inflamed membrane, it’s easy to see why it’s so hard to access. If your throat gets inflamed, a doctor asks you to stick your tongue out as far as possible and forces your mouth open with a spoon handle. Then he can examine your throat like it’s a page of the Congressional Record and treat it with some local medication. However, when you have spinal meningitis, the doctor tackles you with bromides, ergots, ammonia, iodine, chloral hydrate, codi, ammonium bromide, hasheesh, bismuth, valerianate of ammonia, morphine sulfate, nux vomica, turpentine emulsion, vox humana, rex magnus, opium, cantharides, Dover’s powders, and other assorted remedies. These treatments are chewed up and processed by the salivary glands, swallowed down the esophagus, mixed with gastric juices, subjected to the unique motion of the stomach and thoroughly digested, then pushed through the pyloric opening into the small intestines, where they get mixed with bile before being passed through the lacteals, thoracic duct, and so forth into the vast circulatory system. Here, it’s pumped back and forth through the heart, lungs, and capillaries, and if anything is left to combat the disease, it has to squeeze into the long, bony, airtight cavity that encloses the spinal cord. All of this happens without ever seeing the patient’s spinal cord before or after treatment. If it could be removed, hung on a clothesline, cleaned with benzine, treated with insect powder, rolled in cornmeal, or preserved in alcohol and then put back, it would be fine; but you can’t do that. You pull a person’s spine out of their body, and they’re bound to notice, no matter how careful you are. It’s tough to maintain your life without the spine. You need it every time you cook a meal. If a dentist could extract the spinal cord and keep it on ice every time it gets inflamed, spinal meningitis would lose its sting.
I was treated by thirteen physicians, whose names I may give in a future article. They were, as I said, men I shall long remember. One of them said very sensibly that meningitis was generally over-doctored. I told him that I agreed with him. I said that if I should have another year of meningitis and thirteen more doctors, I would have to postpone my trip to Europe, where I had hoped to go and cultivate my voice. I've got a perfectly lovely voice, if I would take it to Europe and have it sand-papered and varnished, and mellowed down with beer and bologna.
I was treated by thirteen doctors, and I might share their names in a future article. They were, as I mentioned, guys I’ll remember for a long time. One of them wisely noted that meningitis is often over-treated. I told him I agreed. I said that if I had to go through another year of meningitis with thirteen more doctors, I would have to put off my trip to Europe, where I had hoped to go and work on my singing. I've got a really beautiful voice, and if I took it to Europe, I could refine it and polish it up, mellowing it out with some beer and bologna.
But I was speaking of my physicians. Some time I'm going to give their biographies and portraits, as they did those of Dr. Bliss, Dr. Barnes and others. Next year, if I can get railroad rates, I am going to hold a reunion of my physicians in Chicago. It will be a pleasant relaxation for them, and will save the lives of a large percentage of their patients.
But I was talking about my doctors. At some point, I plan to share their biographies and pictures, just like they did for Dr. Bliss, Dr. Barnes, and others. Next year, if I can get train rates, I'm going to organize a reunion for my doctors in Chicago. It will be a nice break for them and will improve the health of many of their patients.
Skimming the Milky Way.
THE COMET.
THE COMET.
The comet is a kind of astronomical parody on the planet. Comets look some like planets, but they are thinner and do not hurt so hard when they hit anybody as a planet does. The comet was so called because it had hair on it, I believe, but late years the bald-headed comet is giving just as good satisfaction everywhere.
The comet is like an astronomical joke about the planet. Comets resemble planets somewhat, but they’re slimmer and don't pack as much of a punch when they collide with something as a planet does. I think the comet got its name because it seemed to have hair, but in recent years, the bald comet is providing just as much satisfaction everywhere.
The characteristic features of a comet are: A nucleus, a nebulous light or coma, and usually a luminous train or tail worn high. Sometimes several tails are observed on one comet, but this occurs only in flush times.
The main features of a comet are: a nucleus, a fuzzy light or coma, and usually a bright tail. Sometimes multiple tails can be seen on one comet, but this only happens during active periods.
When I was young I used to think I would like to be a comet in the sky, up above the world so high, with nothing to do but loaf around and play with the little new-laid planets and have a good time, but now I can see where I was wrong. Comets also have their troubles, their perihilions, their hyperbolas and their parabolas. A little over 300 years ago Tycho Brahe discovered that comets were extraneous to our atmosphere, and since then times have improved. I can see that trade is steadier and potatoes run less to tows than they did before.
When I was younger, I used to think it would be great to be a comet in the sky, way up high above the world, with nothing to do but hang out and play with the newly formed planets and have fun. But now I realize I was mistaken. Comets have their own issues, like their perihelium, hyperbolas, and parabolas. About 300 years ago, Tycho Brahe discovered that comets are outside our atmosphere, and since then, things have gotten better. I can see that trade has become more stable and potatoes are less prone to spoilage than they were before.
Soon after that they discovered that comets all had more or less periodicity. Nobody knows how they got it. All the astronomers had been watching them day and night and didn't know when they were exposed, but there was no time to talk and argue over the question. There were two or three hundred comets all down with it at once. It was an exciting time.
Soon after that, they found out that comets all had roughly the same periodicity. No one knows how they got it. All the astronomers had been watching them day and night and didn’t know when they would show up, but there was no time to discuss and debate the issue. There were two or three hundred comets all happening at once. It was an exciting time.
Comets sometimes live to a great age. This shows that the night air is not so injurious to the health as many people would have us believe. The great comet of 1780 is supposed to have been the one that was noticed about the time of Caesar's death, 44 B.C., and still, when it appeared in Newton's time, seventeen hundred years after its first grand farewell tour, Ike said that it was very well preserved, indeed, and seemed to have retained all its faculties in good shape.
Comets can sometimes live for a long time. This suggests that the night air isn’t as harmful to our health as many people claim. The great comet of 1780 is believed to be the same one that was observed around the time of Caesar's death in 44 B.C., and when it reappeared during Newton's era, seventeen hundred years after its first grand farewell, he noted that it was still very well preserved and seemed to have retained all its original qualities.
Astronomers say that the tails of all comets are turned from the sun. I do not know why they do this, whether it is etiquette among them or just a mere habit.
Astronomers say that the tails of all comets point away from the sun. I don’t know why they do this, whether it's some sort of etiquette among them or just a habit.
A later writer on astronomy said that the substance of the nebulosity and the tail is of almost inconceivable tenuity. He said this and then death came to his relief. Another writer says of the comet and its tail that “the curvature of the latter and the acceleration of the periodic time in the case of Encke's comet indicate their being affected by a resisting medium which has never been observed to have the slightest influence on the planetary periods.”
A later writer on astronomy noted that the material of the nebula and the tail is incredibly thin. He made this observation just before he passed away. Another writer mentions the comet and its tail, saying that "the curve of the tail and the acceleration of the periodic time in the case of Encke's comet suggest they are impacted by a resisting medium that has never been seen to influence planetary periods in any way."
I do not fully agree with the eminent authority, though he may be right. Much fear has been the result of the comet's appearance ever since the world began, and it is as good a thing to worry about as anything I know of. If we could get close to a comet without frightening it away, we would find that we could walk through it anywhere as we could through the glare of a torchlight procession. We should so live that we will not be ashamed to look a comet in the eye, however. Let us pay up our newspaper subscription and lead such lives that when the comet strikes we will be ready.
I don’t completely agree with the expert, even if he might be right. A lot of fear has come from the comet’s appearance since the beginning of time, and it’s as valid a worry as anything else I can think of. If we could get close to a comet without scaring it away, we’d discover we could walk right through it like we could through the light of a torchlit parade. We should live in a way that we won’t be ashamed to look a comet in the eye, though. Let’s make sure to pay our newspaper subscription and live our lives so that when the comet hits, we’ll be ready.
{Illustration: TYCHO BRAHE AT WORK.}
{Illustration: TYCHO BRAHE IN ACTION.}
Some worry a good deal about the chances for a big comet to plow into the sun some dark, rainy night, and thus bust up the whole universe. I wish that was all I had to worry about. If any respectable man will agree to pay my taxes and funeral expenses, I will agree to do his worrying about the comet's crashing into the bosom of the sun and knocking its daylights out.
Some folks really stress about the possibility of a massive comet hitting the sun on some dark, rainy night, potentially messing up the entire universe. I wish that was my only concern. If any decent person wants to cover my taxes and funeral costs, I’ll be happy to take on their worries about the comet smashing into the sun and causing chaos.
THE SUN.
THE SUN.
This luminous body is 92,000,000 miles from the earth, though there have been mornings this winter when it seemed to me that it was further than that. A railway train going at the rate of 40 miles per hour would be 263 years going there, to say nothing of stopping for fuel or water, or stopping on side tracks to wait for freight trains to pass. Several years ago it was discovered that a slight error had been made in the calculations of the sun's distance from the earth, and, owing to a misplaced logarithm, or something of that kind, a mistake of 3,000,000 miles was made in the result. People cannot be too careful in such matters. Supposing that, on the strength of the information contained in the old time-table, a man should start out with only provisions sufficient to take him 89,000,000 miles and should then find that 3,0000,000 miles still stretched out ahead of him. He would then have to buy fresh figs of the train boy in order to sustain life. Think of buying nice fresh figs on a train that had been en route 250 years!
This bright object is 92,000,000 miles away from Earth, although there have been mornings this winter when it felt even further. A train traveling at 40 miles per hour would take 263 years to get there, not to mention needing to stop for fuel or water, or waiting on sidetracks for freight trains to pass. A few years ago, they found out that there was a small mistake in calculating the sun's distance from Earth, and due to a misplaced logarithm or something like that, they got the result wrong by 3,000,000 miles. People really need to be careful with these things. Imagine if, based on the old timetable, someone set out with enough supplies for just 89,000,000 miles and then realized there were still 3,000,000 miles ahead. They’d have to buy fresh figs from the train attendant to survive. Just picture buying nice fresh figs on a train that’s been traveling for 250 years!
Imagine a train boy starting out at ten years of age, and perishing at the age of 60 years with only one-fifth of his journey accomplished. Think of five train boys, one after the other, dying of old age on the way, and the train at last pulling slowly into the depot with not a living thing on board except the worms in the “nice eating apples!”
Imagine a train boy beginning his job at ten years old and dying at sixty, having completed only one-fifth of his journey. Picture five train boys, one after another, aging and dying along the way, with the train finally crawling into the depot, leaving nothing alive on board except for the worms in the "nice eating apples!"
The sun cannot be examined through an ordinary telescope with impunity. Only one man every tried that, and he is now wearing a glass eye that cost him $9.
The sun can't be viewed through a regular telescope without consequences. Only one person ever tried that, and now he's got a glass eye that set him back $9.
If you examine the sun through an ordinary solar microscope, you discover that it has a curdled or mottled appearance, as though suffering from biliousness. It is also marked here and there by long streaks of light, called faculae, which look like foam flecks below a cataract. The spots on the sun vary from minute pores the size of an ordinary school district to spots 100,000 miles in diameter, visible to the nude eye. The center of these spots is as black as a brunette cat, and is called the umbra, so called because it resembles an umbrella. The next circle is less dark, and called the penumbra, because it so closely resembles the penumbra.
If you look at the sun through a regular solar microscope, you'll find it has a curdled or mottled look, almost as if it's unwell. You'll also see long streaks of light, known as faculae, that resemble flecks of foam under a waterfall. The spots on the sun range from tiny pores the size of an average school district to spots that are 100,000 miles wide, which can be seen with the naked eye. The center of these spots is as dark as a black cat, called the umbra, because it looks like the shade of an umbrella. The next layer is lighter and is called the penumbra, because it closely resembles the penumbra.
There are many theories regarding these spots, but, to be perfectly candid with the gentle reader, neither Prof. Proctor nor myself can tell exactly what they are. If we could get a little closer, we flatter ourselves that we could speak more definitely. My own theory is they are either, first, open air caucuses held by the colored people of the sun; or, second, they may be the dark horses in the campaign; or, third, they may be the spots knocked off the defeated candidate by the opposition.
There are many theories about these spots, but honestly, neither Prof. Proctor nor I can say for sure what they are. If we could get a bit closer, we believe we could give a clearer explanation. My theory is that they’re either, first, open-air meetings held by the sun's colored people; second, they might be the dark horses in the race; or third, they could be the spots that were knocked off the loser by the opposition.
Frankly, however, I do not believe either of these theories to be tenable. Prof. Proctor sneers at these theories also on the ground that these spots do not appear to revolve so fast as the sun. This, however, I am prepared to explain upon the theory that this might be the result of delays in the returns However, I am free to confess that speculative science is filled with the intangible.
Honestly, though, I don't think either of these theories holds up. Prof. Proctor dismisses these theories too, arguing that these spots don't seem to rotate as quickly as the sun. However, I’m ready to explain this based on the idea that it could be due to delays in the observations. Still, I have to admit that speculative science is full of uncertainty.
The sun revolves upon his or her axletree, as the case may be, once in 25 to 28 of our days, so that a man living there would have almost two years to pay a 30-day note. We should so live that when we come to die we may go at once to the sun.
The sun rotates on its axis, depending on whether you're talking about him or her, once every 25 to 28 of our days, so a person living there would have nearly two years to repay a 30-day loan. We should live in such a way that when we die, we can head straight to the sun.
Regarding the sun's temperature, Sir John Herschel says that it is sufficient to melt a shell of ice covering its entire surface to a depth of 40 feet. I do not know whether he made this experiment personally or hired a man to do it for him.
Regarding the sun's temperature, Sir John Herschel states that it's enough to melt a layer of ice covering its entire surface to a depth of 40 feet. I’m not sure if he did this experiment himself or if he had someone else do it for him.
The sun is like the star spangled banner—as it is “still there.” You get up to-morrow morning just before sunrise and look away toward the east, and keep on looking in that direction, and at last you will see a fine sight, if what I have been told is true. If the sunrise is as grand as the sunset, it indeed must be one of nature's most sublime phenomena.
The sun is like the stars and stripes—it's “still there.” You get up tomorrow morning just before sunrise, look toward the east, and keep staring that way, and eventually, you'll see something beautiful, if what I’ve heard is right. If the sunrise is as magnificent as the sunset, it truly must be one of nature's most amazing sights.
The sun is the great source of light and heat for our earth. If the sun were to go somewhere for a few weeks for relaxation and rest, it would be a cold day for us. The moon, too, would be useless, for she is largely dependent on the sun. Animal life would soon cease and real estate would become depressed in price. We owe very much of our enjoyment to the sun, and not many years ago there were a large number of people who worshiped the sun. When a man showed signs of emotional insanity, they took him up on the observatory of the temple and sacrificed him to the sun. They were a very prosperous and happy people. If the conqueror had not come among them with civilization and guns and grand juries they would have been very happy, indeed.
The sun is the main source of light and heat for our planet. If the sun decided to take a break for a few weeks, it would be freezing for us. The moon would also be pretty much useless, since it relies heavily on the sun. Animal life would quickly die off, and property values would plummet. We owe a lot of our enjoyment to the sun, and not too long ago, many people worshiped it. When someone showed signs of emotional instability, they would take him up to the temple's observatory and offer him as a sacrifice to the sun. They were a very prosperous and happy people. If the conqueror hadn’t come among them with civilization, weapons, and legal systems, they would have been truly content.
{Illustration: A COLD DAY.}
{Illustration: A CHILLY DAY.}
THE STARS.
THE STARS.
There is much in the great field of astronomy that is discouraging to the savant who hasn't the time nor means to rummage around through the heavens. At times I am almost hopeless, and feel like saying to the great yearnful, hungry world: “Grope on forever. Do not ask me for another scientific fact. Find it out yourself. Hunt up your own new-laid planets, and let me have a rest. Never ask me again to sit up all night and take care of a newborn world, while you lie in bed and reck not.”
There’s a lot in the vast field of astronomy that can be discouraging for a scholar who doesn’t have the time or resources to explore the universe. Sometimes I feel completely hopeless, and I want to tell the eager, hungry world: “Keep searching endlessly. Don’t ask me for another scientific fact. Figure it out yourself. Discover your own new planets, and let me take a break. Don’t ask me again to stay up all night caring for a newborn world while you lie in bed without a care.”
I get no salary for examining the trackless void night after night when I ought to be in bed. I sacrifice my health in order that the public may know at once of the presence of a red-hot comet, fresh from the factory. And yet, what thanks do I get?
I don’t get paid for watching the empty sky night after night when I should be sleeping. I risk my health so the public can be informed right away about a blazing comet, straight from the source. And yet, what gratitude do I receive?
Is it surprising that every little while I contemplate withdrawing from scientific research, to go and skin an eight-mule team down through the dim vista of relentless years?
Is it surprising that every now and then I think about quitting scientific research to go and work with an eight-mule team through the endless stretch of time?
Then, again, you take a certain style of star, which you learn from Professor Simon Newcomb is such a distance that it takes 50,000 years for its light to reach Boston. Now, we will suppose that after looking over the large stock of new and second-hand stars, and after examining the spring catalogue and price list, I decide that one of the smaller size will do me, and I buy it. How do I know that it was there when I bought it? Its cold and silent rays may have ceased 49,000 years before I was born and the intelligence be still on the way. There is too much margin between sale and delivery. Every now and then another astronomer comes to me and says: “Professor, I have discovered another new star and intend to file it. Found it last night about a mile and a half south of the zenith, running loose. Haven't heard of anybody who has lost a star of the fifteenth magnitude, about thirteen hands high, with light mane and tail, have you?” Now, how do I know that he has discovered a brand new star? How can I discover whether he is or is not playing an old, threadbare star on me for a new one?
Then again, you take a certain type of star, which you learn from Professor Simon Newcomb is so far away that it takes 50,000 years for its light to reach Boston. Now, let’s assume that after browsing through the large selection of new and used stars, and looking over the spring catalog and price list, I decide that a smaller one will work for me, and I buy it. How do I know it was actually there when I bought it? Its cold and silent light might have stopped shining 49,000 years before I was born, and the information could still be on its way. There’s too much time between the sale and delivery. From time to time, another astronomer comes to me and says, “Professor, I’ve discovered a new star and plan to register it. Found it last night about a mile and a half south of the zenith, just floating around. Haven’t heard of anyone losing a star of the fifteenth magnitude, about thirteen hands high, with a light mane and tail, have you?” Now, how do I know he’s really found a brand new star? How can I tell whether he’s trying to pass off an old, worn-out star as a new one?
We are told that there has been no perceptible growth or decay in the star business since man began to roam around through space, in his mind, and make figures on the barn door with red chalk showing the celestial time table.
We are told that there has been no noticeable growth or decline in the star business since humans started to explore space in their minds and drew charts on the barn door with red chalk to illustrate the celestial schedule.
No serious accidents have occurred in the starry heavens since I began to observe and study their habits. Not a star has waxed, not a star has waned to my knowledge. Not a planet has season-cracked or shown any of the injurious effects of our rigorous climate. Not a star has ripened prematurely or fallen off the trees. The varnish on the very oldest stars I find on close and critical examination to be in splendid condition. They will all no doubt wear as long as we need them, and wink on long after we have ceased to wink back.
No serious accidents have happened in the sky since I started watching and studying the stars. Not a single star has grown brighter or dimmer, as far as I know. No planet has cracked or shown any negative effects from our harsh climate. Not a star has matured too quickly or fallen from its place. Upon close inspection, I find that the surface of even the oldest stars is in excellent condition. They will no doubt last as long as we need them and continue to shine long after we've stopped looking back.
In 1866 there appeared suddenly in the northern crown a star of about the third magnitude and worth at least $250. It was generally conceded by astronomers that this was a brand new star that had never been used, but upon consulting Argelander's star catalogue and price list it was found that this was not a new star at all, but an old, faded star of the ninth magnitude, with the front breadths turned wrong side out and trimmed with moonlight along the seams. After a few days of phenomenal brightness, it gently ceased to draw a salary as a star of the third magnitude, and walked home with an Uncle Tom's Cabin company.
In 1866, a star of about the third magnitude suddenly appeared in the northern sky, valued at least $250. Astronomers generally agreed that this was a brand-new star that had never been seen before, but after checking Argelander's star catalog and price list, it turned out this was not a new star at all. Instead, it was an old, faded star of the ninth magnitude, with its front edges showing the wrong side and illuminated by moonlight along the seams. After a few days of extraordinary brightness, it slowly stopped shining as a third-magnitude star and left with a group from Uncle Tom's Cabin.
{Illustration: A NIGHTLY VIGIL.}
{Illustration: A NIGHT VIGIL.}
It is such things as this that make the life of the astronomer one of constant and discouraging toil. I have long contemplated, as I say, the advisability of retiring from this field of science and allowing others to light the northern lights, skim the milky way and do other celestial chores. I would do it myself cheerfully if my health would permit, but for years I have realized, and so has my wife, that my duties as an astronomer kept me up too much at night, and my wife is certainly right about it when she says if I insist on scanning the heavens night after night, coming home late with the cork out of my telescope and my eyes red and swollen with these exhausting night vigils, I will be cut down in my prime. So I am liable to abandon the great labor to which I had intended to devote my life, my dazzling genius and my princely income. I hope that other savants will spare me the pain of another refusal, for my mind is fully made up that unless another skimmist is at once secured, the milky way will henceforth remain unskum.
It’s moments like this that make being an astronomer a constant struggle. I've been thinking for a while now about stepping back from this field of science and letting others study the northern lights, explore the Milky Way, and handle other celestial tasks. I’d gladly take it on myself if my health allowed, but for years now, both my wife and I have noticed that my work as an astronomer keeps me awake too late at night. She’s definitely right when she says that if I keep observing the night sky over and over, coming home late with my telescope cap off and my eyes red and puffy from these exhausting nights, I’ll be taken out in my prime. So, I'm likely to give up the grand pursuit I had planned for my life, my brilliant ideas, and my great income. I hope other scientists will save me the pain of yet another rejection, as I’m completely decided that unless someone else steps in right away, the Milky Way will remain unexamined.
A Thrilling Experience.
I had a very thrilling experience the other evening. I had just filled an engagement in a strange city, and retired to my cozy room at the hotel.
I had a really exciting experience the other evening. I had just finished a gig in an unfamiliar city and went back to my comfy hotel room.
The thunders of applause had died away, and the opera house had been locked up to await the arrival of an Uncle Tom's Cabin Company. The last loiterer had returned to his home, and the lights in the palace of the pork packer were extinguished.
The applause had faded, and the opera house was closed up, waiting for the arrival of an Uncle Tom's Cabin Company. The last straggler had gone home, and the lights in the meatpacking mogul's palace were turned off.
No sound was heard, save the low, tremulous swash of the sleet outside, or the death-rattle in the throat of the bath-tub. Then all was still as the bosom of a fried chicken when the spirit has departed.
No sounds were heard, except for the soft, trembling swish of the sleet outside, or the death rattle in the throat of the bathtub. Then everything was as quiet as a fried chicken after its spirit has left.
The swallow-tail coat hung limp and weary in the wardrobe, and the gross receipts of the evening were under my pillow. I needed sleep, for I was worn out with travel and anxiety, but the fear of being robbed kept me from repose. I know how desperate a man becomes when he yearns for another's gold. I know how cupidity drives a wicked man to mangle his victim, that he may win precarious prosperity, and how he will often take a short cut to wealth by means of murder, when, if he would enter politics, he might accomplish his purpose as surely and much more safely.
The swallow-tail coat hung tired and lifeless in the wardrobe, and the evening's earnings were under my pillow. I needed sleep because I was exhausted from traveling and worrying, but the fear of being robbed kept me awake. I understand how desperate a person can become when they long for someone else's money. I know how greed can push a wicked person to harm their victim in hopes of gaining unreliable wealth, and how they might choose a quick and dangerous path to riches through murder, even though they could achieve their goals much more safely by entering politics.
Anon, however, tired nature succumbed. I know I had succumbed, for the bell-boy afterward testified that he heard me do so.
Anon, however, tired nature gave in. I know I gave in because the bellboy later testified that he heard me do so.
The gentle warmth of the steam-heated room, and the comforting assurance of duty well done and the approval of friends, at last lulled me into a gentle repose.
The cozy warmth of the steam-heated room and the reassuring feeling of a job well done, along with the approval of friends, finally helped me drift into a peaceful rest.
Anyone who might have looked upon me, as I lay there in that innocent slumber, with the winsome mouth slightly ajar and the playful limbs cast wildly about, while a merry smile now and then flitted across the regular features, would have said that no heart could be so hard as to harbor ill for one so guileless and so simple.
Anyone who saw me lying there in that innocent sleep, with my charming mouth slightly open and my playful limbs thrown all around, while a happy smile occasionally appeared on my regular features, would have said that no one could be so cruel as to wish harm on someone so naive and straightforward.
I do not know what it was that caused me to wake. Some slight sound or other, no doubt, broke my slumber, and I opened my eyes wildly. The room was in semi-darkness.
I don’t know what made me wake up. Some small sound or something definitely interrupted my sleep, and I opened my eyes in a panic. The room was dimly lit.
Hark!
Listen!
A slight movement in the corner, and the low, regular breathing of a human being! I was now wide awake. Possibly I could have opened my eyes wider, but not without spilling them out of their sockets.
A small movement in the corner and the soft, steady breathing of a person! I was now fully awake. I might have opened my eyes wider, but not without them popping out of their sockets.
Regularly came that soft, low breathing. Each time it seemed like a sigh of relief, but it did not relieve me. Evidently it was not done for that purpose. It sounded like a sigh of blessed relief, such as a woman might heave after she has returned from church and transferred herself from the embrace of her new Russia iron, black silk dress into a friendly wrapper.
Regularly, I heard that soft, low breathing. Each time, it felt like a sigh of relief, but it didn’t actually relieve me. Clearly, it wasn’t meant for that purpose. It sounded like a sigh of pure relief, similar to what a woman might let out after coming home from church and slipping off her new black silk dress into a comfortable wrap.
Regularly, like the rise and fall of a wave on the summer sea, it rose and fell, while my pale lambrequin of hair rose and fell fitfully with it.
Regularly, like the rise and fall of a wave on a summer sea, it went up and down, while my light curtain of hair moved up and down erratically with it.
I know that people who read this will laugh at it, but there was nothing to laugh at. At first I feared that the sigh might be that of a woman who had entered the room through a transom in order to see me, as I lay wrapt in slumber, and then carry the picture away to gladden her whole life.
I know that people reading this will find it funny, but there was nothing amusing about it. At first, I was worried that the sigh might belong to a woman who had come into the room through a transom just to look at me while I was asleep, and then take the memory with her to brighten her entire life.
But no. That was hardly possible. It was cupidity that had driven some cruel villain to enter my apartments and to crouch in the gloom till the proper moment should come in which to spring upon me, throttle me, crowd a hotel pillow into each lung, and, while I did the Desdemona act, rob me of my hard-earned wealth.
But no. That was barely possible. It was greed that had led some cruel villain to sneak into my apartment and hide in the shadows until the right moment to jump on me, choke me, stuff a hotel pillow into each lung, and, while I played the part of Desdemona, rob me of my hard-earned money.
Regularly still rose the soft breathing, as though the robber might be trying to suppress it. I reached gently under the pillow, and securing the money I put it in the pocket of my robe de nuit. Then, with great care, I pulled out a copy of Smith & Wesson's great work on “How to Ventilate the Human Form.” I said to myself that I would sell my life as dearly as possible, so that whoever bought it would always regret the trade.
Regularly, the soft breathing continued, as if the robber was trying to hold it back. I carefully reached under the pillow, grabbed the money, and tucked it into the pocket of my nightgown. Then, with great care, I pulled out a copy of Smith & Wesson's famous book on “How to Ventilate the Human Body.” I told myself that I would sell my life as dearly as possible, so that whoever took it would always regret the deal.
Then I opened the volume at the first chapter and addressed a thirty-eight calibre remark in the direction of the breath in the corner.
Then I opened the book to the first chapter and made a pointed comment towards the breath in the corner.
When the echoes had died away a sigh of relief welled up from the dark corner. Also another sigh of relief later on.
When the echoes faded, a sigh of relief came from the dark corner. Then, a little later, another sigh of relief followed.
I then decided to light the gas and fight it out. You have no doubt seen a man scratch a match on the leg of his pantaloons. Perhaps you have also seen an absent-minded man undertake to do so, forgetting that his pantaloons were hanging on a chair at the other end of the room.
I then decided to turn on the gas and deal with it. You’ve probably seen a guy strike a match on the leg of his pants. Maybe you’ve also seen a distracted guy try to do that, only to forget that his pants were hanging on a chair on the other side of the room.
However, I lit the gas with my left hand and kept my revolver pointed toward the dark corner where the breath was still rising and falling.
However, I lit the gas with my left hand and kept my gun aimed at the dark corner where the breath was still rising and falling.
People who had heard my lecture came rushing in, hoping to find that I had suicided, but they found that, instead of humoring the public in that way, I had shot the valve off the steam radiator.
People who had heard my lecture came rushing in, expecting to find that I had committed suicide, but instead of giving the public what they wanted, I had shot the valve off the steam radiator.
It is humiliating to write the foregoing myself, but I would rather do so than have the affair garbled by careless hands.
It’s embarrassing to write the above myself, but I’d rather do that than have the situation messed up by careless people.
Catching a Buffalo.
A pleasing anecdote is being told through the press columns recently, of an encounter on the South Platte, which occurred some years ago between a Texan and a buffalo. The recital sets forth the fact that the Texans went out to hunt buffalo, hoping to get enough for a mess during the day. Toward evening they saw two gentlemen buffalo on a neighboring hill near the Platte, and at once pursued their game, each selecting an animal. They separated at once, Jack going one way galloping after his beast, while Sam went in the other direction. Jack soon got a shot at his game, but the bullet only tore a large hole in the fleshy shoulder of the bull and buried itself in the neck, maddening the animal to such a degree that he turned at once and charged upon horse and rider.
A funny story has been circulating in the news lately about an encounter on the South Platte that happened a few years back between a Texan and a buffalo. The story recounts that the Texans went out to hunt buffalo, hoping to gather enough for a meal during the day. By evening, they spotted two buffalo on a nearby hill close to the Platte, and they quickly went after them, each choosing an animal. They split up right away, with Jack going one way to chase his buffalo while Sam went in the opposite direction. Jack soon took a shot at his buffalo, but the bullet only made a large hole in the animal's shoulder and got lodged in its neck, making the buffalo furious and causing it to charge at both the horse and the rider.
The astonished horse, with the wonderful courage, sagacity and sang froid peculiar to the broncho, whirled around two consecutive times, tangled his feet in the tall grass and fell, throwing his rider about fifty feet. He then rose and walked away to a quiet place, where he could consider the matter and give the buffalo an opportunity to recover.
The amazed horse, with the unique bravery, intelligence, and calmness typical of a broncho, spun around twice, got his legs caught in the tall grass, and fell, tossing his rider about fifty feet away. He then got up and walked to a quiet spot, where he could think things over and let the buffalo have a chance to recover.
The infuriated bull then gave chase to Jack, who kept out of the way for a few yards only, when, getting his legs entangled in the grass, he fell so suddenly that his pursuer dashed over him without doing him any bodily injury. However, as the animal went over his prostrate form, Jack felt the buffalo's tail brush across his face, and, rising suddenly, he caught it with a terrific grip and hung to it, thus keeping out of the reach of his enemy's horns, till his strength was just giving out, when Sam hove in sight and put a large bullet through the bull's heart.
The angry bull chased after Jack, who managed to evade it for a few yards, but then tripped in the grass and fell so quickly that the bull rushed over him without causing any harm. As the animal passed over him, Jack felt the buffalo's tail swipe across his face. Suddenly, he grabbed it tightly and held on, staying out of reach of the bull's horns, until he was almost out of strength, when Sam appeared and shot the bull in the heart.
This tale is told, apparently, by an old plainsman and scout, who reels it off as though he might be telling his own experience.
This story is apparently told by an old plainsman and scout, who shares it as if he’s recounting his own experiences.
Now, I do not wish to seem captious and always sticking my nose into what is none of my business, but as a logical and zoological fact, I desire, in my cursory way, to coolly take up the subject of the buffalo tail. Those who have been in the habit of killing buffaloes, instead of running an account at the butcher shop, will remember that this noble animal has a genuine camel's hair tail about eight inches long, with a chenille tassel at the end, which he throws up into the rarified atmosphere of the far west, whenever he is surprised or agitated.
Now, I don't want to come off as picky or nosy, but I’d like to casually discuss the buffalo tail as a logical and biological fact. Those who have been used to hunting buffalo instead of just buying meat at the butcher shop will remember that this majestic animal has a real camel's hair tail about eight inches long, with a chenille tassel at the end, which it raises into the thin air of the far west whenever it gets startled or excited.
In passing over a prostrate man, therefore, I apprehend that in order to brush his face with the average buffalo tail, it would be necessary for him to sit down on the bosom of the prostrate scout and fan his features with the miniature caudal bud.
In passing over a man lying down, it seems to me that to brush his face with the average buffalo tail, he would need to sit on the chest of the man lying down and fan his face with the small tail.
The buffalo does not gallop an hundred miles a day, dragging his tail across the bunch grass and alkali of the boundless plains.
The buffalo doesn’t run a hundred miles a day, dragging its tail across the bunchgrass and alkali of the endless plains.
{Illustration: AN UNEQUAL MATCH.}
{Illustration: AN UNFAIR MATCH.}
He snorts a little, turns his bloodshot eyes toward the enemy a moment and then, throwing his cunning little taillet over the dash-boardlet, he wings away in an opposite direction.
He snorts a bit, glances at the enemy for a moment with his bloodshot eyes, and then, tossing his sly little tail over the dashboard, he quickly takes off in the opposite direction.
The man who could lie on his back and grab that vision by the tail would have to be moderately active. If he succeeded, however, it would be a question of the sixteenth part of a second only, whether he had his arms jerked out by the roots and scattered through space or whether he had strength of will sufficient to yank out the withered little frizz and told the quivering ornament in his hands. Few people have the moral courage to follow a buffalo around over half a day holding on by the tail. It is said that a Sioux brave once tried it, and they say his tracks were thirteen miles apart. After merrily sauntering around with the buffalo one hour, during which time he crossed the territories of Wyoming and Dakota twice and surrounded the regular army three times, he became discouraged and died fiom the injuries he had received. Perhaps, however, it may have been fatigue.
The guy who could lie on his back and grab that vision by the tail would need to be pretty active. If he managed to pull it off, though, it would only take a sixteenth of a second to find out if his arms would be ripped out and flung across space or if he had enough willpower to pull out the withered little frizz and hold the trembling ornament in his hands. Not many people have the guts to follow a buffalo around all day while holding on by the tail. They say a Sioux warrior once tried it, and his footprints were thirteen miles apart. After wandering around with the buffalo for an hour, during which he crossed the territories of Wyoming and Dakota twice and circled the regular army three times, he got discouraged and died from his injuries. But maybe it was just fatigue.
It might be possible for a man to catch hold of the meager tail of a meteor and let it snatch him through the coming years.
It might be possible for a man to grab the tiny tail of a meteor and let it pull him through the years to come.
It might be, that a man with a strong constitution could catch a cyclone and ride it bareback across the United States and then have a fresh one ready to ride back again, but to catch a buffalo bull in the full flush of manhood, as it were, and retain his tail while he crossed three reservations and two mountain ranges, requires great tenacity of purpose and unusual mental equipoise.
It’s possible that a man with a strong build could catch a cyclone and ride it bareback across the United States, then have another one ready to ride back again. However, catching a mature buffalo bull and keeping its tail while crossing three reservations and two mountain ranges takes a lot of determination and a rare level of mental balance.
Remember, I do not regard the story I refer to as false, at least I do not wish to be so understood. I simply say that it recounts an incident that is rather out of the ordinary. Let the gentle reader lie down and have a Jackrabbit driven across his face, for instance. The J. Rabbit is as likely to brush your face with his brief and erect tail as the buffalo would be. Then carefully note how rapidly and promptly instantaneous you must be. Then closely attend to the manner in which you abruptly and almost simultaneously, have not retained the tail in your memory.
Remember, I don't think the story I'm talking about is a lie, at least I don't want to be understood that way. I just mean to say that it tells about something rather unusual. Let the reader imagine lying down and having a jackrabbit run across their face, for example. The jackrabbit is just as likely to swish your face with its short, upright tail as a buffalo would be. Then, pay attention to how fast and promptly you need to react. Notice how you suddenly and almost at the same moment, fail to remember the tail.
A few people may have successfully seized the grieved and startled buffalo by the tail, but they are not here to testify to the circumstances. They are dead, abnormally and extremely dead.
A few people might have managed to grab the upset and shocked buffalo by the tail, but they're not around to share what happened. They are dead, very, very dead.
John Adams.
After viewing the birthplace of the Adamses out at Quincy I felt more reconciled to my own birthplace. Comparing the house in which I was born with those in which other eminent philanthropists and high-priced statesmen originated, I find that I have no reason to complain. Neither of the Adamses were born in a larger house than I was, and for general tone and eclat of front yard and cook-room on behind, I am led to believe that I have the advantage.
After visiting the birthplace of the Adams family in Quincy, I felt more at peace with my own birthplace. When I compare the house where I was born to those of other prominent philanthropists and well-known politicians, I realize I have no reason to complain. Neither of the Adamses was born in a bigger house than mine, and when it comes to the overall vibe and appeal of the front yard and kitchen in the back, I think I actually have the upper hand.
John Adams was born before John Quincy Adams. A popular idea seems to prevail in some sections of the Union that inasmuch as John Q. was bald-headed, he was the eider of the two; but I inquired about that while on the ground where they were both born, and ascertained from people who were familiar with the circumstances, that John was born first.
John Adams was born before John Quincy Adams. There's a common belief in some parts of the country that since John Q. was bald, he must be the older of the two. However, I looked into this while visiting the place where they were both born and learned from people who knew the details that John was actually born first.
{Illustration: PRESIDENTIAL SIMPLICITY.}
{Illustration: PRESIDENTIAL SIMPLICITY.}
John Adams was the second president of the United States. He was a lawyer by profession, but his attention was called to politics by the passage of the stamp act in 1765. He was one of the delegates who represented Massachusetts in the first Continental Congress, and about that time he wrote a letter in which he said: “The die is now cast; I have passed the rubicon. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish with my country is my unalterable determination.” Some have expressed the opinion that “the rubicon” alluded to by Mr. Adams in this letter was a law which he had succeeded in getting passed; but this is not true. The idea of passing the rubicon first originated with Julius Caesar, a foreigner of some note who flourished a good deal B.C.
John Adams was the second president of the United States. He was a lawyer by profession, but he became interested in politics after the Stamp Act was passed in 1765. He was one of the delegates representing Massachusetts in the first Continental Congress, and around that time, he wrote a letter stating: “The die is now cast; I have crossed the Rubicon. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish with my country is my unchangeable determination.” Some people have suggested that “the Rubicon” mentioned by Adams in this letter referred to a law he managed to get passed; however, that’s not true. The concept of crossing the Rubicon originally came from Julius Caesar, a notable foreigner who lived long ago in B.C.
In June, 1776, Mr. Adams seconded a resolution, moved by Richard Henry Lee, that the United States “are, and of right ought to be, free and independent.” Whenever Mr. Adams could get a chance to whoop for liberty now and forever, one and inseparable, he invariably did so.
In June 1776, Mr. Adams supported a resolution put forward by Richard Henry Lee, declaring that the United States “are, and of right ought to be, free and independent.” Whenever Mr. Adams had the opportunity to shout for liberty, now and forever, united and indivisible, he always took it.
In 1796, Mr. Adams ran for president. In the convention it was nip and tuck between Thomas Jefferson and himself, but Jefferson was understood to be a Universalist, or an Universalist, whichever would look the best in print, and so he only got 68 votes out of a possible 139. In 1800, however, Jefferson turned the tables on him, and Mr. Adams only received 65 to Jefferson's 73 votes.
In 1796, Mr. Adams ran for president. During the convention, it was a close race between Thomas Jefferson and him, but Jefferson was thought to be a Universalist, or an Universalist, whichever looked better in print, so he only received 68 votes out of a possible 139. However, in 1800, Jefferson flipped the script on him, and Mr. Adams only got 65 votes compared to Jefferson's 73.
Mr. Adams made a good president and earned his salary, though it wasn't so much of a job as it is now. When there was no Indian war in those days the president could put on an old blue flannel shirt and such other clothes as he might feel disposed to adopt, and fish for bull heads in the Potomac till his nose peeled in the full glare of the fervid sun.
Mr. Adams was an effective president and justified his paycheck, even though it wasn’t as demanding as the role is today. When there wasn’t an Indian war going on, the president could wear an old blue flannel shirt and whatever else he felt like, and fish for catfish in the Potomac until his nose burned in the bright heat of the sun.
Now it is far different. By the time we get through with a president nowadays he isn't good for much. Mr. Hayes stood the fatigue of being president better, perhaps, than any other man since the republic became so large a machine. Mr. Hayes went home to Fremont with his mind just as fresh and his brain as cool as when he pulled up his coat tails to sit down in the presidential chair. The reason why Mr. Hayes saved his mind, his brain and his salary, was plain enough when we stop to consider that he did not use them much during his administration.
Now it's very different. By the time a president finishes their term nowadays, they’re not good for much anymore. Mr. Hayes handled the stress of being president better than perhaps anyone else since the republic turned into such a big operation. Mr. Hayes returned to Fremont with his mind just as fresh and his brain as cool as when he adjusted his coat tails to sit in the presidential chair. The reason Mr. Hayes preserved his mind, his brain, and his salary is clear when we think about how little he actually used them during his administration.
John Quincy Adams was the sixth president of the United States and the eldest son of John Adams. He was one of the most eloquent of orators, and shines in history as one of the most polished of our eminent and bald-headed Americans. When he began to speak, his round, smooth head, to look down upon it from the gallery, resembled a nice new billiard ball, but as he warmed up and became more thoroughly stirred, his intellectual dome changed to a delicate pink. Then, when he rose to the full height of his eloquent flight, and prepared to swoop down upon his adversaries and carry them into camp, it is said that his smooth intellectual rink was as red as the flush of rosy dawn on the 5th day of July.
John Quincy Adams was the sixth president of the United States and the oldest son of John Adams. He was one of the most talented speakers and stands out in history as one of our most refined and bald-headed leaders. When he started to speak, his round, smooth head, seen from above in the gallery, looked like a shiny new billiard ball. But as he got into it and became more animated, his intellectual dome took on a gentle pink hue. Then, when he reached the peak of his eloquent delivery and prepared to take on his opponents, it’s said that his smooth intellectual surface was as red as the early morning light on the 5th of July.
He was educated both at home and abroad. That is the reason he was so polished. After he got so that he could readily spell and pronounce the most difficult words to be found in the large stores of Boston, he was sent to Europe, where he acquired several foreign tongues, and got so that he could converse with the people of Europe very fluently, if they were familiar with English as she is spoke.
He was educated both at home and abroad, which is why he was so refined. Once he was able to easily spell and pronounce the toughest words in the big stores of Boston, he was sent to Europe, where he learned several foreign languages and became fluent enough to converse with Europeans, as long as they were familiar with English as it's spoken.
John Quincy Adams was chosen president by the House of Representatives, there being no choice in the electoral contest, Adams receiving 84 votes, Andrew Jackson 99, William H. Crawford 41, and Henry Clay 37. Clay stood in with Mr. Adams in the House of Representatives deal, it was said, and was appointed secretary of state under Mr. Adams as a result. This may not be true, but a party told me about it who got it straight from Washington, and he also told me in confidence that he made it a rule never to prevaricate.
John Quincy Adams was elected president by the House of Representatives since no candidate won a majority in the electoral election. Adams received 84 votes, Andrew Jackson got 99, William H. Crawford had 41, and Henry Clay had 37. It was rumored that Clay collaborated with Adams in the House of Representatives deal and was appointed Secretary of State as a result. This might not be accurate, but someone I know heard it directly from Washington and assured me that he always adheres to the truth.
Mr. Adams was opposed to American slavery, and on several occasions in Congress alluded to his convictions.
Mr. Adams was against American slavery and referenced his beliefs on several occasions in Congress.
He was in Congress seventeen years, and during that time he was frequently on his feet attending to little matters in which he felt an interest, and when he began to make allusions, and blush all over the top of his head, and kick the desk, and throw ink-bottles at the presiding officer, they say that John Q. made them pay attention. Seward says, “with unwavering firmness, against a bitter and unscrupulous opposition, exasperated to the highest pitch by his pertinacity—amidst a perfect tempest of vituperation and abuse—he persevered in presenting his anti-slavery petitions, one by one, to the amount sometimes of 200 in one day.” As one of his eminent biographers has truly said: “John Quincy Adams was indeed no slouch.”
He was in Congress for seventeen years, and during that time, he often stood up to address small issues that he cared about. When he started making pointed comments, blushing all over, kicking the desk, and throwing ink bottles at the presiding officer, they say John Q. got their attention. Seward states, “with unwavering determination, against a fierce and ruthless opposition, driven to the brink by his stubbornness—amidst a total storm of insults and slander—he kept on presenting his anti-slavery petitions, sometimes delivering as many as 200 in a single day.” As one of his notable biographers aptly noted: “John Quincy Adams was indeed no slouch.”
The Wail Of A Wife.
“Ethel” has written a letter to me and asked for a printed reply. Leaving off the opening sentences, which I would not care to have fall into the hands of my wife, her note is about as follows:
“Ethel” has written me a letter and requested a printed reply. Skipping the opening sentences, which I wouldn’t want my wife to see, her note is about as follows:
“—— Vt., Feb. 28, 1885.
“—— Vt., Feb. 28, 1885.”
My Dear Sir:
Dear Sir,
{Tender part of letter omitted for obvious reasons.} Would it be asking too much for me to request a brief reply to one or two questions which many other married women as well as myself would like to have answered?
{Tender part of letter omitted for obvious reasons.} Would it be too much to ask for a quick response to one or two questions that many other married women, as well as I, would like answered?
I have been married now for five years. To-day is the anniversary of my marriage. When I was single I was a teacher and supported myself in comfort. I had more pocket-money and dressed fully as well if not better than I do now. Why should girls who are abundantly able to earn their own livelihood struggle to become the slave of a husband and children, and tie themselves to a man when they might be free and happy?
I’ve been married for five years now. Today is my wedding anniversary. When I was single, I was a teacher and supported myself comfortably. I had more spending money and dressed just as well, if not better, than I do now. Why should women who can easily earn their own living struggle to become dependent on a husband and kids, tying themselves to a man when they could be free and happy?
I think too much is said by the men in a light and flippant manner about the anxiety of young ladies to secure a home and a husband, and still they do deserve a part of it, as I feel that I do now for assuming a great burden when I was comparatively independent and comfortable.
I believe that men often talk too casually about young women's worries over finding a home and a husband, yet they do deserve some acknowledgment, just as I feel I do now for taking on a significant responsibility when I was relatively independent and content.
Now, will you suggest any advice that you think would benefit the yet unmarried and self-supporting girls who are liable to make the same mistake that I did, and thus warn them in a manner that would be so much more universal in its range, and reach so many more people than I could if I should raise my voice? Do this and you will be gratefully remembered by
Now, could you share any advice you believe would help unmarried and self-supporting girls who might make the same mistake I did? This would warn them in a way that could reach many more people than if I raised my voice. If you do this, you will be remembered with gratitude by
Ethel.”
Ethel.
It would indeed be a tough, tough man who could ignore thy gentle plea, Ethel; tougher far than the pale, intellectual hired man who now addresses you in this private and underhanded manner, unknown to your husband. Please destroy this letter, Ethel, as soon as you see it in print, so that it will not fall into the hands of Mr. Ethel, for if it should, I am gone. If your husband were to run across this letter in the public press I could never look him in the eye again.
It would really take a very tough guy to ignore your gentle plea, Ethel; much tougher than the pale, smart guy who’s writing to you in this secret and sneaky way, without your husband knowing. Please destroy this letter as soon as you see it in print, so it doesn't end up in Mr. Ethel's hands, because if it does, I’m finished. If your husband were to find this letter in the newspaper, I could never face him again.
You say that you had more pocket-money before you were married than you have since, Ethel, and you regret your rash step. I am sorry to hear it. You also say that you wore better clothes when you were single than you do now. You are also pained over that. It seems that marriage with you has not paid any cash dividends. So that if you married Mr. Ethel as a financial venture, it was a mistake. You do not state how it has affected your husband. Perhaps he had more pocket-money and better clothes before he married than he has since. Sometimes two people do well in business by themselves, but when they go into partnership they bust higher than a kite, if you will allow me the free, English translation of a Roman expression which you might not fully understand if I should give it to you in the original Roman.
You say that you had more pocket money before you got married than you do now, Ethel, and you regret your hasty decision. I’m sorry to hear that. You also mention that you wore nicer clothes when you were single compared to now, and that’s weighing on you too. It seems marriage hasn’t paid off financially for you. So if you married Mr. Ethel as a financial move, it was a mistake. You don’t mention how it has impacted your husband. Maybe he had more pocket money and nicer clothes before you both tied the knot, too. Sometimes two people thrive on their own, but when they join forces, they can crash and burn, if you allow me to use a candid, modern way of saying something derived from a Roman phrase that might not fully make sense to you in its original form.
Lots of self-supporting young ladies have married and had to go very light on pin-money after that, and still they did not squeal, as you, dear Ethel. They did not marry for revenue only. They married for protection. (This is a little political bon mot which I thought of myself. Some of my best jokes this spring are jokes that I thought of myself.)
Lots of self-sufficient young women have married and had to cut back on spending money after that, and still they didn’t complain like you, dear Ethel. They didn’t marry just for money. They married for security. (This is a little political quip I came up with myself. Some of my best jokes this spring are ones I thought of myself.)
No, Ethel, if you married expecting to be a dormant partner during the day and then to go through Mr. Ethel's pantaloons pocket at night and declare a dividend, of course life is full of bitter, bitter regret and disappointment. Perhaps it is also for Mr. Ethel. Anyhow, I can't help feeling a pang of sympathy for him. You do not say that he is unkind or that he so far forgets himself as to wake you up in the morning with a harsh tone of voice and a yearling club. You do not say that he asks you for pocket-money, or, if so, whether you give it to him or not.
No, Ethel, if you got married thinking you could just be a passive partner during the day and then sift through Mr. Ethel's pants pockets at night to hand out allowances, then of course life is full of deep regret and disappointment. Maybe it's the same for Mr. Ethel. Still, I can't help but feel a bit sorry for him. You don’t say that he’s unkind or that he wakes you up in the morning with a harsh tone and a club. You also don’t mention whether he asks you for pocket money, or if he does, whether you give it to him or not.
{Illustration: FOR REVENUE ONLY.}
{Illustration: FOR REVENUE ONLY.}
Of course I want to do what is right in the solemn warning business, so I will give notice to all simple young women who are now self-supporting and happy, that there is no statute requiring them to assume the burdens of wifehood and motherhood unless they prefer to do so. If they now have abundance of pin-money and new clothes, they may remain single if they wish without violating the laws of the land. This rule is also good when applied to young and self-supporting young men who wear good clothes and have funds in their pockets. No young man who is free, happy and independent, need invest his money in a family or carry a colicky child twenty-seven miles and two laps in one night unless he prefers it. But those who go into it with the right spirit, Ethel, do not regret it.
Of course, I want to do what’s right in the serious warning business, so I’ll let all the young women who are self-supporting and happy know that there’s no law requiring them to take on the responsibilities of being a wife and mother unless they want to. If they’re enjoying enough spending money and new clothes, they can stay single if they choose without breaking any laws. This also applies to young, self-supporting men who wear nice clothes and have cash in their pockets. No free, happy, and independent young man needs to spend his money on a family or deal with a fussy child for miles in one night unless he chooses to. But those who enter into it with the right mindset, Ethel, don’t regret it.
I would just as soon tell you, Ethel, if you will promise that it shall go no farther, that I do not wear as good clothes as I did before I was married. I don't have to. My good clothes have accomplished what I got them for. I played them for all they were worth, and since I got married the idea of wearing clothes as a vocation has not occurred to me.
I’d be happy to tell you, Ethel, if you promise not to share it, that I don’t wear as nice clothes as I did before I got married. I don’t need to. My nice clothes served their purpose. I used them as best as I could, and since getting married, the idea of wearing nice clothes regularly hasn’t crossed my mind.
Please give my kind regards to Mr. Ethel, and tell him that although I do not know him personally, I cannot help feeling sorry for him.
Please send my best regards to Mr. Ethel, and let him know that even though I don't know him personally, I can't help but feel sorry for him.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
Bunker Hill.
Last week for the first time I visited the granite obelisk known all over the civilized world as Bunker Hill monument. Sixty years ago, if my memory serves me correctly. General La Fayette, since deceased, laid the corner-stone, and Daniel Webster made a few desultory remarks which I cannot now recall. Eighteen years later it was formally dedicated, and Daniel spoke a good piece, composed mostly of things that he had thought up himself. There has never been a feature of the early history and unceasing struggle for American freedom which has so roused my admiration as this custom, quite prevalent among congressmen in those days, of writing their own speeches.
Last week, I visited the granite obelisk widely known as the Bunker Hill Monument for the first time. If I remember correctly, General La Fayette, who has since passed away, laid the cornerstone sixty years ago, and Daniel Webster gave a few casual remarks that I can't recall now. Eighteen years later, it was formally dedicated, and Daniel delivered a strong speech, mostly made up of his own ideas. There's nothing in the early history and ongoing fight for American freedom that has impressed me as much as the custom, common among congressmen back then, of writing their own speeches.
Many of Webster's most powerful speeches were written by himself or at his suggestion. He was a plain, unassuming man, and did not feel above writing his speeches. I have always had the greatest respect and admiration for Mr. Webster as a citizen, as a scholar and as an extemporaneous speaker, and had he not allowed his portrait to appear last year in the Century, wearing an air of intense gloom and a plug hat entirely out of style, my respect and admiration would have continued indefinitely.
Many of Webster's most impactful speeches were either written by him or at his request. He was a straightforward, humble man and didn’t think he was above crafting his own speeches. I've always had immense respect and admiration for Mr. Webster as a citizen, a scholar, and an impromptu speaker, and if he hadn’t let his portrait be published last year in the Century, looking incredibly gloomy and wearing a hat that was totally out of style, my respect and admiration would have lasted forever.
Bunker Hill monument is a great success as a monument, and the view from its summit is said to be well worth the price of admission. I did not ascend the obelisk, because the inner staircase was closed to visitors on the day of my visit and the lightning rod on the outside looked to me as though it had been recently oiled.
Bunker Hill Monument is a great success as a monument, and the view from its top is said to be well worth the price of admission. I didn’t go up the obelisk because the inner staircase was closed to visitors on the day I visited, and the lightning rod on the outside looked to me like it had just been oiled.
On the following day, however, I engaged a man to ascend the monument and tell me his sensations. He assured me that they were first-rate. At the feet of the spectator Boston and its environments are spread out in the glad sunshine. Every day Boston spreads out her environments just that way.
On the next day, I hired a guy to climb the monument and share his feelings with me. He confirmed that they were amazing. At the feet of the observer, Boston and its surroundings are laid out in the bright sunlight. Every day, Boston showcases its surroundings just like that.
Bunker Hill monument is 221 feet in height, and has been entirely paid for. The spectator may look at the monument with perfect impunity, without being solicited to buy some of its mortgage bonds. This adds much to the genuine thrill of pleasure while gazing at it.
The Bunker Hill monument stands 221 feet tall and has been fully paid off. Visitors can admire the monument without being pressured to purchase any of its mortgage bonds. This significantly enhances the genuine enjoyment of looking at it.
There is a Bunker Hill in Macoupin County, Illinois, also in Ingham County, Michigan, and in Russell County, Kansas, but General Warren was not killed at either of these points.
There is a Bunker Hill in Macoupin County, Illinois, also in Ingham County, Michigan, and in Russell County, Kansas, but General Warren wasn't killed at any of these locations.
One hundred and ten years ago, on the 17th day of the present month, one of America's most noted battles with the British was fought near where Bunker Hill monument now stands. In that battle the British lost 1,050 in killed and wounded, while the American loss numbered but 450. While the people of this country are showing such an interest in our war history, I am surprised that something has not been said about Bunker Hill. The Federal forces from Roxbury to Cambridge were under command of General Artemus Ward, the great American humorist. When the American humorist really puts on his war paint and sounds the tocsin, he can organize a great deal of mourning.
One hundred and ten years ago, on the 17th of this month, one of America's most famous battles with the British took place near where the Bunker Hill monument now stands. In that battle, the British suffered 1,050 casualties, while the American losses were only 450. While people in this country are showing such a strong interest in our war history, I'm surprised that there hasn’t been more discussion about Bunker Hill. The Federal forces from Roxbury to Cambridge were led by General Artemus Ward, the renowned American humorist. When the American humorist really gets into the spirit of things and sounds the alarm, he can create a wave of sorrow.
General Ward was assisted by Putnam, Starke, Prescott, Gridley and Pomeroy. Colonel William Prescott was sent over from Cambridge to Charlestown for the purpose of fortifying Bunker Hill. At a council of war it was decided to fortify Breeds Hill, not so high but nearer to Boston than Bunker Hill. So a redoubt was thrown up during the night on the ground where the monument now stands.
General Ward was helped by Putnam, Starke, Prescott, Gridley, and Pomeroy. Colonel William Prescott was sent from Cambridge to Charlestown to help fortify Bunker Hill. During a meeting of military leaders, they decided to fortify Breed's Hill, which wasn't as high but was closer to Boston than Bunker Hill. So, they built a redoubt overnight on the spot where the monument now stands.
The British landed a large force under Generals Howe and Pigot, and at 2 P.M. the Americans were reinforced by Generals Warren and Pomeroy. General Warren was of a literary turn of mind and during the battle took his hat off and recited a little poem beginning:
The British landed a large force led by Generals Howe and Pigot, and at 2 P.M., the Americans were strengthened by Generals Warren and Pomeroy. General Warren had a literary bent and during the battle, he took off his hat and recited a small poem starting with:
“Stand, the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves?”
“Stand your ground, it's yours, my brave ones! Will you give it up to slaves?”
A man who could deliver an impromptu and extemporaneous address like that in public, and while there was such a bitter feeling of hostility on the part of the audience, must have been a good scholar. In our great fratricidal strife twenty years ago, the inferiority of our generals in this respect was painfully noticeable. We did not have a commander who could address his troops in rhyme to save his neck. Several of them were pretty good in blank verse, but it was so blank that it was not just the thing to fork over to posterity and speak in school afterward.
A man who could give an impromptu and spontaneous speech like that in front of an audience that was so hostile must have been a good scholar. In our devastating civil war twenty years ago, the lack of skill among our generals in this area was painfully obvious. We didn't have a commander who could motivate his troops in verse to save himself. Some of them were decent at writing blank verse, but it was so uninspired that it wasn't worth passing down to future generations or discussing in school later.
Colonel Prescott's statue now stands where he is supposed to have stood when he told his men to reserve their fire till they saw the whites of the enemy's eyes. Those who have examined the cast-iron flint-lock weapon used in those days will admit that this order was wise. Those guns were in union to health, of course, when used to excess, but not necessarily or immediately fatal.
Colonel Prescott's statue now stands where he is believed to have been when he instructed his men to hold their fire until they could see the whites of the enemy's eyes. Anyone who has looked at the cast-iron flintlock weapons from that time will agree that this command was sensible. While those guns could be dangerous when used excessively, they weren't always immediately deadly.
At the time of the third attack by the British, the Americans were out of ammunition, but they met the enemy with clubbed muskets, and it was found that one end of the rebel flint-lock was about as fatal as the other, if not more so.
At the time of the third attack by the British, the Americans had run out of ammunition, but they faced the enemy with muskets used as clubs, and it turned out that one end of the rebel flintlock was just as deadly as the other, if not more so.
Boston still meets the invader with its club. The mayor says to the citizens of Boston: “Wait till you can see the whites of the visitor's eyes, and then go for him with your clubs.” Then the visitor surrenders.
Boston still confronts the invader with its clubs. The mayor tells the citizens of Boston: “Wait until you can see the whites of the visitor's eyes, and then go at him with your clubs.” Then the visitor gives up.
I hope that many years may pass before it will again be necessary for us to soak this fair land in British blood. The boundaries of our land are now more extended, and so it would take more blood to soak it.
I hope that many years go by before we have to soak this beautiful land in British blood again. Our land's boundaries are now larger, so it would take more blood to cover it.
Boston has just reason to be proud of Bunker Hill, and it was certainly a great stroke of enterprise to have the battle located there. Bunker Hill is dear to every American heart, and there are none of us who would not have cheerfully gone into the battle then if we had known about it in time.
Boston has every reason to be proud of Bunker Hill, and it was undoubtedly a brilliant move to have the battle take place there. Bunker Hill holds a special place in every American's heart, and none of us would have hesitated to join the fight back then if we had known about it in time.
A Lumber Camp.
I have just returned from a little impromptu farewell tour in the lumber camps toward Lake Superior. It was my idea to wade around in the snow for a few weeks and swallow baked beans and ozone on the 1/2 shell. The affair was a success. I put up at Bootjack camp on the raging Willow River, where the gay-plumaged chipmunk and the spruce gum have their home.
I just got back from a spontaneous farewell tour in the lumber camps near Lake Superior. I thought it would be fun to trek through the snow for a few weeks and enjoy baked beans and the fresh air. The trip was a success. I stayed at Bootjack camp on the wild Willow River, where the colorful chipmunks and spruce gum thrive.
Winter in the pine woods is fraught with fun and frolic. It is more fraught with fatigue than funds, however. This winter a man in the Michigan and Wisconsin lumber camps could arise at 4:30 A.M., eat a patent pail full of dried apples soaked with Young Hyson and sweetened with Persian glucose, go out to the timber with a lantern, hew down the giants of the forest, with the snow up to the pit of his stomach, till the gray owl in the gathering gloom whooped and hooted in derision, and all for $12 per month and stewed prunes.
Winter in the pine woods is full of fun and games. However, it's more about exhaustion than extra cash. This winter, a guy in the lumber camps of Michigan and Wisconsin could get up at 4:30 A.M., eat a bucket full of dried apples soaked in Young Hyson tea and sweetened with Persian glucose, head out to the woods with a lantern, chop down the huge trees with the snow up to his stomach, while the gray owl in the dim light hooted mockingly, all for $12 a month and some stewed prunes.
I did not try to accumulate wealth while I was in camp. I just allowed others to enter into the mad rush and wrench a fortune from the hand of fate while I studied human nature and the cook. I had a good many pleasant days there, too. I read such literary works as I could find around the camp, and smoked the royal Havana smoking tobacco of the cookee. Those who have not lumbered much do not know much of true joy and sylvan smoking tobacco.
I didn't try to gather wealth while I was in camp. I just let others dive into the frantic chase for fortune while I observed human nature and the cook. I also had quite a few enjoyable days there. I read whatever literature I could find around the camp and smoked the premium Havana tobacco from the cook. Those who haven’t spent much time in nature don’t really understand true joy or the experience of smoking good tobacco.
They are not using a very good grade of the weed in the lumber regions this winter. When I say lumber regions I do not refer entirely to the circumstances of a weak back. (Monkey-wrench, oil can and screwdriver sent with this joke; also rules for working it in all kinds of goods.) The tobacco used by the pine choppers of the northern forest is called the Scandihoovian. I do not know why they call it that, unless it is because you can smoke it in Wisconsin and smell it in Scandihoovia.
They aren’t using a very high quality of weed in the lumber areas this winter. When I say lumber areas, I’m not just talking about the issues that come with a sore back. (Monkey-wrench, oil can, and screwdriver included with this joke; also guidelines for using it on all kinds of stuff.) The tobacco used by the pine workers in the northern forest is called Scandihoovian. I’m not sure why it’s called that, unless it’s because you can smoke it in Wisconsin and smell it in Scandihoovia.
When night came we would gather around the blazing fire and talk over old times and smoke this tobacco. I smoked it till last week, then I bought a new mouth and resolved to lead a different life.
When night fell, we would gather around the crackling fire, reminiscing about the past and smoking this tobacco. I smoked it until last week, then I got a new mouth and decided to live a different life.
I shall never forget the evenings we spent together in that log shack in the heart of the forest. They are graven on my memory where time's effacing fingers can not monkey with them. We would most always converse. The crew talked the Norwegian language and I am using the English language mostly this winter. So each enjoyed himself in his own quiet way. This seemed to throw the Norwegians a good deal together. It also threw me a good deal together. The Scandinavians soon learn our ways and our language, but prior to that they are quite clannish.
I will never forget the evenings we spent together in that log cabin deep in the forest. They're etched in my memory where time can't erase them. We mostly talked. The crew spoke Norwegian, and I've been using English mostly this winter. So everyone enjoyed themselves in their own quiet way. This seemed to bring the Norwegians together a lot. It also brought me closer to them. The Scandinavians quickly pick up our ways and language, but before that, they tend to stick to themselves.
{Illustration: I TOOK A PIE.}
{Illustration: I ATE A PIE.}
The cook, however, was an Ohio man. He spoke the Sandusky dialect with a rich, nut brown flavor that did me much good, so that after I talked with the crew a few hours in English, and received their harsh, corduroy replies in Norske, I gladly fled to the cook shanty. There I could rapidly change to the smoothly flowing sentences peculiar to the Ohio tongue, and while I ate the common twisted doughnut of commerce, we would talk on and on of the pleasant days we had spent in our native land. I don't know how many hours I have thus spent, bringing the glad light into the eye of the cook as I spoke to him of Mrs. Hayes, an estimable lady, partially married, and now living at Fremont, Ohio.
The cook, however, was from Ohio. He spoke with a rich, nut-brown accent that was comforting to me. After spending a few hours talking with the crew in English and getting their rough, curt responses in Norwegian, I happily retreated to the cook’s cabin. There, I could quickly switch to the smooth-flowing phrases unique to the Ohio dialect, and while eating the usual twisted doughnut from the store, we would chat for hours about the pleasant days we had spent in our home state. I can't count how many hours I spent bringing a smile to the cook's face as I talked about Mrs. Hayes, a remarkable woman who is partly married and now living in Fremont, Ohio.
I talked to him of his old home till the tears would unbidden start, as he rolled out the dough with a common Budweiser beer bottle, and shed the scalding into the flour barrel. Tears are always unavailing, but sometimes I think they are more so when they are shed into a barrel of flour. He was an easy weeper. He would shed tears on the slightest provocation, or anything else. Once I told him something so touchful that his eyes were blinded with tears for the nonce. Then I took a pie, and stole away so that he could be alone with his sorrow.
I talked to him about his old home until tears started flowing uncontrollably, as he rolled out the dough with a regular Budweiser beer bottle and cried into the flour barrel. Tears are always pointless, but sometimes I think they feel even more futile when they’re dropped into a barrel of flour. He was an easy crier. He would tear up at the slightest thing. Once, I told him something so touching that his eyes filled with tears for a moment. Then I took a pie and slipped away so he could be alone with his sadness.
He used to grind the coffee at 2 A.M. The coffee mill was nailed up against a partition on the opposite side from my bed. That is one reason I did not stay any longer at the camp. It takes about an hour to grind coffee enough for thirty men, and as my ear was generally against the pine boards when the cook began, it ruffled my slumbers and made me a morose man.
He used to grind the coffee at 2 A.M. The coffee grinder was fixed to a wall right across from my bed. That’s one reason I didn’t stay at the camp any longer. It takes about an hour to grind coffee for thirty men, and since my ear was usually pressed against the wooden boards when the cook started, it disturbed my sleep and made me a grumpy guy.
We had three men at the camp who snored. If they had snored in my own language I could have endured it, but it was entirely unintelligible to me as it was. Still, it wasn't bad either. They snored on different keys, and still there was harmony in it—a kind of chime of imported snore as it were. I used to lie and listen to it for hours. Then the cook would begin his coffee mill overture and I would arise.
We had three guys at the camp who snored. If they had snored in my own language, I could have dealt with it, but it was completely unintelligible to me as it was. Still, it wasn’t too bad. They snored in different pitches, and somehow there was a harmony to it—a kind of chime of strange snores, so to speak. I would lie there and listen to it for hours. Then the cook would start his coffee grinder overture, and I would get up.
When I got home I slept from Monday morning till Washington's Birthday, without food or water.
When I got home, I slept from Monday morning until Washington's Birthday, without food or water.
My Lecture Abroad.
Having at last yielded to the entreaties of Great Britain, I have decided to make a professional farewell tour of England with my new and thrilling lecture, entitled “Jerked Across the Jordan, or the Sudden and Deserved Elevation of an American Citizen.”
Having finally given in to Great Britain's requests, I've decided to take a farewell tour of England with my exciting new lecture called “Jerked Across the Jordan, or the Sudden and Deserved Elevation of an American Citizen.”
I have, therefore, already written some of the cablegrams which will be sent to the Associated Press, in order to open the campaign in good shape in America on my return.
I have already written a few of the cablegrams that will be sent to the Associated Press to kick off the campaign effectively in America when I get back.
Though I have been supplicated for some time by the people of England to come over there and thrill them with my eloquence, my thriller has been out of order lately, so that I did not dare venture abroad.
Though I've been asked for some time by the people of England to come over and impress them with my speaking, my skills haven’t been up to par lately, so I didn’t feel brave enough to travel.
This lecture treats incidentally of the ease with which an American citizen may rise in the Territories, when he has a string tied around his neck, with a few personal friends at the other end of the string. It also treats of the various styles of oratory peculiar to America, with specimens of American oratory that have been pressed and dried especially for this lecture. It is a good lecture, and the few straggling facts scattered along through it don't interfere with the lecture itself in any way.
This lecture casually discusses how easily an American citizen can rise in the Territories when they have a few personal friends helping them out. It also covers the different styles of speech that are unique to America, complete with examples of American oratory that have been collected specifically for this lecture. It’s a solid lecture, and the few random facts sprinkled throughout don’t detract from the content at all.
I shall appear in costume during the lecture.
I will be dressed up during the lecture.
At each lecture a different costume will be worn, and the costume worn at the previous lecture will be promptly returned to the owner.
At each lecture, a different costume will be worn, and the costume from the last lecture will be promptly returned to its owner.
Persons attending the lecture need not be identified.
People attending the lecture do not need to be identified.
Polite American dude ushers will go through the audience to keep the flies away from those who wish to sleep during the lecture.
Polite American ushers will walk through the audience to keep the flies away from those who want to sleep during the lecture.
Should the lecture be encored at its close, it will be repeated only once. This encore business is being overdone lately, I think.
Should the lecture be repeated at the end, it will only be done once. I think this encore thing is getting a bit excessive lately.
Following are some of the cablegrams I have already written. If any one has any suggestions as to change, or other additional favorable criticisms, they will be gratefully received; but I wish to reserve the right, however, to do as I please about using them:
Following are some of the cablegrams I've already written. If anyone has suggestions for changes or other positive feedback, I would really appreciate it; but I want to keep the right to decide whether to use them as I see fit:
LONDON, —-, —-, —Bill Nye opened his foreign lecture engagement here last evening with a can-opener. It was found to be in good order. As soon as the doors were opened there was a mad rush for seats, during which three men were fatally injured. They insisted on remaining through the lecture, however, and adding to its horrors. Before 8 o'clock 500 people had been turned away. Mr. Nye announced that he would deliver a matinee this afternoon, but he has been petitioned by tradesmen to refrain from doing so, as it will paralyze the business interests of the city to such a degree that they offer to “buy the house,” and allow the lecturer to cancel his engagement.
LONDON, —-, —-, —Bill Nye kicked off his foreign lecture series here last night with a can-opener. It was in good working condition. As soon as the doors opened, there was a wild scramble for seats, which resulted in three men being fatally injured. They insisted on staying for the lecture, though, adding to its drama. Before 8 o'clock, 500 people had been turned away. Mr. Nye announced he would hold a matinee this afternoon, but local business owners have urged him not to, claiming it would seriously disrupt the city’s economy to the point where they’re offering to “buy out” the venue so he can cancel his engagement.
LONDON, —-, —-. —The great lecturer and contortionist, Bill Nye, last night closed his six weeks' engagement here with his famous lecture on “The Rise and Fall of the American Horse Thief,” with a grand benefit and ovation. The elite of London was present, many of whom have attended every evening for six weeks to hear this same lecture. Those who can afford it will follow the lecturer back to America, in order to be where they can hear this lecture almost constantly.
LONDON, —-, —-. —The renowned lecturer and contortionist, Bill Nye, wrapped up his six-week engagement here last night with his acclaimed lecture on “The Rise and Fall of the American Horse Thief,” receiving a grand benefit and standing ovation. The elite of London were in attendance, many of whom have come every night for six weeks to hear this same talk. Those who can afford it will follow the lecturer back to America to be able to hear this lecture nearly nonstop.
Mr. Nye, at the beginning of the season, offered a prize to anyone who should neither be absent nor tardy through the entire six weeks. After some hot discussion last evening, the prize was awarded to the janitor of the hall.
Mr. Nye, at the start of the season, offered a prize to anyone who could be neither absent nor late for the whole six weeks. After some heated discussion last night, the prize was given to the janitor of the hall.
{Associated Press Cablegram}
{Associated Press News Update}
LONDON, —-, —-. —Bill Nye will sail for America to-morrow in the steamship Senegambia. On his arrival in America he will at once pay off the national debt and found a large asylum for American dudes whose mothers are too old to take in washing and support their sons in affluence.
LONDON, —-, —-. —Bill Nye is set to sail for America tomorrow on the steamship Senegambia. Upon arriving in America, he will immediately pay off the national debt and establish a large shelter for American guys whose mothers are too old to do laundry and support their sons in luxury.
The Miner at Home.
Receiving another notice of assessment on my stock in the Aladdin mine the other day, reminded me that I was still interested in a bottomless hole that was supposed at one time to yield funds instead of absorbing them. The Aladdin claim was located in the spring of '76 by a syndicate of journalists, none of whom had ever been openly accused of wealth. If we had been, we could have proved an alibi.
Receiving another notice of assessment on my stock in the Aladdin mine the other day reminded me that I was still interested in a bottomless pit that was supposed to generate money instead of just taking it. The Aladdin claim was discovered in the spring of '76 by a group of journalists, none of whom had ever been openly accused of having money. If we had been, we could have provided an alibi.
We secured a gang of miners to sink on the discovery, consisting of a Chinaman named How Long. How Long spoke the Chinese language with great fluency. Being perfectly familiar with that language, and a little musty in the trans-Missouri English, he would converse with us in his own language, sometimes by the hour, courteously overlooking the fact that we did not reply to him in the same tongue. He would converse in this way till he ran down, generally, and then he would refrain for a while.
We hired a group of miners to work on the discovery, which included a Chinese man named How Long. How Long spoke Chinese very fluently. Since he was completely comfortable with that language and not as fluent in trans-Missouri English, he would talk to us in Chinese for sometimes an hour, politely ignoring the fact that we didn’t respond in the same language. He would go on like this until he ran out of things to say, and then he would pause for a bit.
Finally, How Long signified that he would like to draw his salary. Of course he was ignorant of our ways, and as innocent of any knowledge of the intricate details peculiar to a mining syndicate as the child unborn. So he had gone to the president of our syndicate and had been referred to the superintendent, and he had sent How Long to the auditor, and the auditor had told him to go to the gang boss and get his time, and then proceed in the proper manner, after which, if his claim turned out to be all right, we would call a meeting of the syndicate and take early action in relation to it. By this, the reader will readily see that, although we were not wealthy, we knew how to do business just the same as though we had been a wealthy corporation.
Finally, How Long indicated that he wanted to collect his salary. Of course, he was clueless about our procedures and as unaware of the complex details unique to a mining syndicate as an unborn child. So he had approached the president of our syndicate, who directed him to the superintendent, who then sent How Long to the auditor. The auditor told him to go to the gang boss to get his time and then proceed properly. If his claim turned out to be valid, we would hold a syndicate meeting and take action on it. This shows that, although we weren't wealthy, we knew how to conduct business just like a big corporation.
How Long attended one of our meetings and at the close of the session made a few remarks. As near as I am able to recall his language, it was very much as follows:
How Long attended one of our meetings and at the end of the session made a few comments. As best as I can remember his words, they were pretty much like this:
“China boy no sabbe you dam slyndicate. You allee same foolee me too muchee. How Long no chopee big hole in the glound allee day for health. You Melican boy Laddee silver mine all same funny business. Me no likee slyndicate. Slyndicate heap gone all same woodbine. You sabbe me? How Long make em slyndicate pay tention. You April foolee me. You makee me tlired. You putee me too much on em slate. Slyndicate no good. Allee time stanemoff China boy. You allee time chin chin. Dlividend allee time heap gone.”
“Hey there, Chinese guy, you don't understand this shady corporation. You're just as foolish as I am. How long do you have to dig a big hole in the ground every day for your health? You American guys treat the silver mine like it's some kind of joke. I don't like this corporation. It's all gone just like weeds. Do you get what I’m saying? How long before this corporation pays attention? You’re messing with me. You’re making me tired. You put too much pressure on me. This corporation isn't good. All the time, it's just a hassle for me. You always act so innocent. Dividends are always disappearing.”
Owing to a strike which then took place in our mine, we found that, in order to complete our assessment work, we must get in another crew or do the job ourselves. Owing to scarcity of help and a feeling of antagonism on the part of the laboring classes toward our giant enterprise, a feeling of hostility which naturally exists between labor and capital, we had to go out to the mine ourselves. We had heard of other men who had shoveled in their own mines and were afterward worth millions of dollars, so we took some bacon and other delicacies and hied us to the Aladdin.
Due to a strike that happened in our mine, we realized that to finish our assessment work, we either had to bring in another crew or do the job ourselves. Because of the lack of workers and the resentment from the labor force towards our large enterprise, which naturally creates tension between labor and capital, we decided to head out to the mine ourselves. We had heard of other people who had shoveled in their own mines and later became millionaires, so we packed some bacon and other treats and made our way to the Aladdin.
Buck, our mining expert, went down first. Then he requested us to hoist him out again. We did so. I have forgotten what his first remark was when he got out of the bucket, but that don't make any difference, for I wouldn't care to use it here anyway.
Buck, our mining expert, went down first. Then he asked us to hoist him back up again. We did. I can't remember what his first comment was when he got out of the bucket, but it doesn't matter, because I wouldn't want to use it here anyway.
{Illustration: I HAVE FORGOTTEN HIS FIRST REMARK.}
{Illustration: I HAVE FORGOTTEN HIS FIRST REMARK.}
It seems that How Long, owing to his heathenish ignorance of our customs and the unavoidable delay in adjusting his claim for work, labor and services, had allowed his temper to get the better of him, and he had planted a colony of American skunks in the shaft of the Aladdin.
It seems that How Long, due to his lack of understanding of our customs and the unavoidable delay in processing his claim for work, labor, and services, let his anger take over, and he had introduced a colony of American skunks into the shaft of the Aladdin.
That is the reason we left the Aladdin mine and no one jumped it. We had not done the necessary work in order to hold it, but when we went out there the following spring we found that no one had jumped it.
That’s why we left the Aladdin mine and no one took it over. We hadn't done the necessary work to keep it, but when we went back the next spring, we discovered that no one had claimed it.
Even the rough, coarse miner, far from civilizing influences and beyond the reach of social advantages, recognizes the fact that this Little, unostentatious animal plodding along through life in its own modest way, yet wields a wonderful influence over the destinies of man. So the Aladdin mine was not disturbed that summer.
Even the tough, unrefined miner, far from civilized influences and without social advantages, understands that this small, unpretentious animal, going through life in its own humble way, has a remarkable impact on the fate of mankind. So, the Aladdin mine was left undisturbed that summer.
We paid How Long, and in the following spring had a flattering offer for the claim if it assayed as well as we said it would, so Buck, our expert, went out to the Aladdin with an assayer and the purchaser. The assay of the Aladdin showed up very rich indeed, far above anything that I had ever hoped for, and so we made a sale. But we never got the money, for when the assayer got home he casually assayed his apparatus and found that his whole outfit had been salted prior to the Aladdin assay.
We paid How Long, and the next spring we received an enticing offer for the claim if it tested as well as we claimed it would. So Buck, our expert, went out to the Aladdin with an assayer and the buyer. The assay of the Aladdin turned out to be extremely promising, far beyond anything I had ever hoped for, so we went ahead with the sale. But we never received the money because when the assayer got home, he casually checked his equipment and discovered that his entire setup had been tampered with before the Aladdin assay.
I do not think our expert, Buck, would salt an assayer's kit, but he was charged with it at this time, and he said he would rather lose his trade than have trouble over it. He would rather suffer wrong than to do wrong, he said, and so the Aladdin came back on our hands.
I don’t think our expert, Buck, would mess with an assayer's kit, but he was accused of it this time, and he said he’d rather lose his job than deal with the hassle. He said he’d prefer to take the blame than to do something wrong, so the Aladdin came back to us.
It is not a very good mine if a man wants it as a source of revenue, but it makes a mighty good well. The water is cold and clear as crystal. If it stood in Boston, instead of out there in northern Colorado, where you can't get at it more than three months in the year, it would be worth $150. The great fault of the Aladdin mine is its poverty as a mine, and its isolation as a well.
It’s not a great mine if someone wants to make money from it, but it’s an excellent well. The water is cold and crystal clear. If it were located in Boston instead of out in northern Colorado, where you can only access it for about three months a year, it would be worth $150. The main issue with the Aladdin mine is that it’s lacking as a mine and is isolated as a well.
An Operatic Entertainment.
Last week we went up to the Coliseum, at Minneapolis, to hear Theodore Thomas' orchestra, the Wagner trio and Christine Nilsson. The Coliseum is a large rink just out of Minneapolis, on the road between that city and St. Paul. It can seat 4,000 people comfortably, but the management like to wedge 4,500 people in there on a warm day, and then watch the perspiration trickle out through the clapboards on the outside. On the closing afternoon, during the matinee performance, the building was struck by lightning and a hole knocked out of the Corinthian duplex that surmounts the oblique portcullis on the off side. The reader will see at once the location of the bolt.
Last week, we went to the Coliseum in Minneapolis to see Theodore Thomas' orchestra, the Wagner trio, and Christine Nilsson. The Coliseum is a large rink just outside of Minneapolis, on the road between the city and St. Paul. It can comfortably seat 4,000 people, but the management likes to cram in 4,500 on a warm day and watch the sweat pour out through the clapboards on the outside. On the last day, during the matinee performance, the building was struck by lightning, creating a hole in the Corinthian duplex above the oblique portcullis on the side. You'll easily spot where the bolt hit.
The lightning struck the flag-staff, ran down the leg of a man who was repairing the electric light, took a chew of his tobacco, turned his boot wrong side out and induced him to change his sock, toyed with a chilblain, wrenched out a soft corn and roguishly put it in his ear, then ran down the electric light wire, a part of it filling an engagement in the Coliseum and the balance following the wire to the depot, where it made double-pointed toothpicks of a pole fifty feet high. All this was done very briefly. Those who have seen lightning toy with a cottonwood tree, know that this fluid makes a specialty of it at once and in a brief manner. The lightning in this case, broke the glass in the skylight and deposited the broken fragments on a half dozen parquette chairs, that were empty because the speculators who owned them couldn't get but $50 apiece, and were waiting for a man to mortgage his residence and sell a team. He couldn't make the transfer in time for the matinee, so the seats were vacant when the lightning struck. The immediate and previous fluid then shot athwart the auditorium in the direction of the platform, where it nearly frightened to death a large chorus of children. Women fainted, ticket speculators fell $2 on desirable seats, and strong men coughed up a clove. The scene beggared description. I intended to have said that before, but forgot it. Theodore Thomas drew in a full breath, and Christine Nilsson drew her salary. Two thousand strong men thought of their wasted lives, and two thousand women felt for their back hair to see if it was still there. I say, therefore, without successful contradiction, that the scene beggared description. Chestnuts!
The lightning hit the flagpole, ran down the leg of a guy who was fixing the electric light, made him chew his tobacco, turned his boot inside out, and caused him to change his sock. It played with a chilblain, pulled out a soft corn, and cheekily put it in his ear, then traveled down the electric light wire. One part filled a spot in the Coliseum while the rest followed the wire to the depot, where it turned a fifty-foot pole into double-pointed toothpicks. All this happened very quickly. Anyone who has seen lightning mess with a cottonwood tree knows that this force likes to get right to it in a flash. In this instance, the lightning broke the glass in the skylight and scattered the shards onto a half-dozen parquette chairs that were empty because the speculators who owned them couldn't sell them for more than $50 each and were waiting for someone to mortgage their home and sell a team. He couldn't finalize the deal in time for the matinee, so the seats were empty when the lightning struck. The immediate and previous energy then shot across the auditorium toward the stage, nearly scaring a large group of children to death. Women fainted, ticket scalpers lost $2 on prime seats, and strong men coughed up a clove. The scene defied description. I meant to say that earlier, but I forgot. Theodore Thomas took a deep breath, and Christine Nilsson collected her paycheck. Two thousand strong men thought about their wasted lives, and two thousand women checked their hair to see if it was still there. So I say, without any real argument, that the scene defied description. Nuts!
In the evening several people sang, “The Creation.” Nilsson was Gabriel. Gabriel has a beautiful voice cut low in the neck, and sings like a joyous bobolink in the dew-saturated mead. How's that? Nilsson is proud and haughty in her demeanor, and I had a good notion to send a note up to her, stating that she needn't feel so lofty, and if she could sit up in the peanut gallery where I was and look at herself, with her dress kind of sawed off at the top, she would not be so vain. She wore a diamond necklace and silk skirt The skirt was cut princesse, I think, to harmonize with her salary. As an old neighbor of mine said when he painted the top board of his fence green, he wanted it “to kind of corroborate with his blinds.” He's the same man who went to Washington about the time of the Guiteau trial, and said he was present at the “post mortise” examination. But the funniest thing of all, he said, was to see Dr. Mary Walker riding one of these “philosophers” around on the streets.
In the evening, several people sang “The Creation.” Nilsson was Gabriel. Gabriel has a beautiful voice that's low in pitch and sings like a happy bobolink in the dew-soaked meadow. How about that? Nilsson carries herself with pride and arrogance, and I was tempted to send her a note saying she shouldn't act so superior. If she could sit in the peanut gallery where I was and see herself, with her dress kind of cut low at the top, she wouldn’t be so full of herself. She wore a diamond necklace and a silk skirt. The skirt was designed in a princess style, I think, to match her salary. As an old neighbor of mine said when he painted the top board of his fence green, he wanted it “to kind of go with his shutters.” He’s the same guy who went to Washington around the time of the Guiteau trial and claimed he was present at the “post mortem” examination. But the funniest part was seeing Dr. Mary Walker riding one of those “philosophers” around the streets.
{Illustration: MAKING HIMSELF USEFUL.}
{Illustration: BEING HELPFUL.}
But I am wandering. We were speaking of the Festival. Theodore Thomas is certainly a great leader. What a pity he is out of politics. He pounded the air all up fine there, Thursday. I think he has 25 small-size fiddles, 10 medium-size, and 5 of those big, fat ones that a bald-headed man generally annoys. Then there were a lot of wind instruments, drums, et cetera. There were 600 performers on the stage, counting the chorus, with 4,500 people in the house and 3,000 outside yelling it the ticket office—also at the top of their voices—and swearing because they couldn't mortgage their immortal souls and hear Nilsson's coin silver notes. It was frightful. The building settled twelve inches in those two hours and a half, the electric lights went out nine times for refreshments, and, on the whole, the entertainment was a grand success. The first time the lights adjourned, an usher came in on the stage through a side entrance with a kerosene lamp. I guess he would have stood there and held it for Nilsson to sing by, if 4,500 people hadn't with one voice laughed him out into the starless night. You might as well have tried to light benighted Africa with a white bean. I shall never forget how proud and buoyant he looked as he sailed in with that kerosene lamp with a soiled chimney on it, and how hurt and grieved he seemed when he took it and groped his way out, while the Coliseum trembled with ill-concealed merriment. I use the term “ill-concealed merriment” with permission of the proprietors, for this season only.
But I’m getting sidetracked. We were talking about the Festival. Theodore Thomas is definitely a great leader. It’s a shame he’s out of politics. He really brought the energy last Thursday. I think he had 25 small violins, 10 medium ones, and 5 of those big, bulky ones that a bald guy usually plays. Plus, there were a lot of wind instruments, drums, and so on. There were 600 performers on stage, including the chorus, with 4,500 people in the audience and another 3,000 outside yelling at the ticket office—also at the top of their lungs—swearing because they couldn’t mortgage their souls just to hear Nilsson’s beautiful notes. It was insane. The building settled twelve inches during those two and a half hours, the electric lights went out nine times for breaks, and overall, the show was a huge success. The first time the lights went out, an usher came onto the stage through a side entrance with a kerosene lamp. I guess he would have stood there holding it for Nilsson to sing by if 4,500 people hadn’t laughed him off the stage and into the starless night. You might as well have tried to light up dark Africa with a white bean. I’ll never forget how proud and cheerful he looked as he walked in with that kerosene lamp with a dirty chimney, and how hurt and disappointed he seemed when he took it and fumbled his way out, while the Coliseum shook with barely concealed laughter. I use the term “barely concealed laughter” with the permission of the owners, just for this season.
Dogs and Dog Days.
I take occasion at this time to ask the American people as one man, what are we to do to prevent the spread of the most insidious and disagreeable disease known as hydrophobia? When a fellow-being has to be smothered, as was the case the other day right here in our fair land, a land where tyrant foot hath never trod nor bigot forged a chain, we look anxiously into each other's faces and inquire, what shall we do?
I want to take this moment to ask all Americans as one: what can we do to stop the spread of the most harmful and unpleasant disease known as rabies? When someone has to be suffocated, like happened the other day right here in our beautiful country—a place where no tyrant has stepped foot and no bigot has forged chains—we look at each other with concern and ask, what can we do?
Shall we go to France at a great expense and fill our systems full of dog virus and then return to our glorious land, where we may fork over that virus to posterity and thus mix up French hydrophobia with the navy-blue blood of free-born American citizens?
Shall we travel to France at a high cost and expose ourselves to dog diseases, only to come back to our great country, where we might pass that disease on to future generations and mix French rabies with the navy-blue blood of free-born American citizens?
I wot not.
I don't know.
If I knew that would be my last wot I would not change it. That is just wot it would be.
If I knew that would be my last one, I wouldn't change it. That's just what it would be.
But again.
But again.
What shall we do to avoid getting impregnated with the American dog and then saturating our systems with the alien dog of Paris?
What should we do to avoid getting pregnant with the American dog and then filling our systems with the foreign dog from Paris?
It is a serious matter, and if we do not want to play the Desdemona act we must take some timely precautions. What must those precautions be?
It’s a serious issue, and if we don’t want to play the Desdemona role, we need to take some timely precautions. What should those precautions be?
Did it ever occur to the average thinking mind that we might squeeze along for weeks without a dog? Whole families have existed for years after being deprived of dogs. Look at the wealthy of our land. They go on comfortably through life and die at last with the unanimous consent of their heirs dogless.
Did it ever cross the mind of an average thinker that we could get by for weeks without a dog? Entire families have lived for years without dogs. Just look at the rich people in our country. They continue on comfortably through life and end up dying without a dog, with everyone in their family agreeing.
Then why cannot the poor gradually taper off on dogs? They ought not to stop all of a sudden, but they could leave off a dog at a time until at last they overcame the pernicious habit.
Then why can't the poor gradually cut back on dogs? They shouldn't stop all at once, but they could give one dog up at a time until they finally break the harmful habit.
I saw a man in St. Paul last week who was once poor, and so owned seven variegated dogs. He was confirmed in that habit. But he summoned all his will-power at last and said he would shake off these dogs and become a man. He did so, and to-day he owns a city lot in St. Paul, and seems to be the picture of health.
I saw a guy in St. Paul last week who used to be poor and had seven mixed-breed dogs. He was stuck in that routine. But he finally gathered all his willpower and decided to get rid of those dogs and become a man. He did it, and now he owns a piece of land in St. Paul and looks really healthy.
The trouble about maintaining a dog is that he may go on for years in a quiet, gentlemanly way, winning the regard of all who know him, and then all of a sudden he may hydrophobe in the most violent manner. Not only that, but he may do so while we have company. He may also bite our twins or the twins of our warmest friends. He may bite us now and we may laugh at it, but in five years from now, while we are delivering a humorous lecture, we may burst forth into the audience and bite a beautiful young lady in the parquet or on the ear.
The issue with having a dog is that he can behave calmly and like a gentleman for years, earning the affection of everyone around him, and then suddenly become incredibly aggressive. Not only that, but this might happen while we have guests over. He could also bite our kids or our closest friends' kids. He might bite us now and we might find it funny, but in five years, while we’re giving a funny talk, we could unexpectedly lash out and bite a beautiful young woman in the audience or on the ear.
It is a solemn thing to think of, fellow-citizens, and I appeal to those who may read this, as a man who may not live to see a satisfactory political reform—I appeal to you to refrain from the dog. He is purely ornamental. We may love a good dog, but we ought to love our children more. It would be a very, very noble and expensive dog that I would agree to feed with my only son.
It’s a serious thing to consider, fellow citizens, and I urge those who read this, as someone who might not live to see meaningful political change—I ask you to avoid the dog. He’s just for show. We might love a good dog, but we should love our children even more. It would take an incredibly noble and costly dog for me to agree to feed him with my only son.
I know that we gradually become attached to a good dog, but some day he may become attached to us, and what can be sadder than the sight of a leading citizen drawing a reluctant mad dog down the street by main strength and the seat of his pantaloons? (I mean his own, not the dog's pants. This joke will appear in book form in April. The book will be very readable, and there will be another joke in it also. eod tf.)
I know that we slowly get attached to a good dog, but one day he might get attached to us, and what could be sadder than seeing a respected member of the community struggling to drag a stubborn, crazy dog down the street by sheer force and the seat of his pants? (I mean his own, not the dog's. This joke will be published in book form in April. The book will be very easy to read, and there will be another joke in it too. eod tf.)
I have said a good deal about the dog, pro and con, and I am not a rabid dog abolitionist, for no one loves to have his clear-cut features licked by the warm, wet tongue of a noble dog any more than I do, but rather than see hydrophobia become a national characteristic or a leading industry here, I would forego the dog.
I’ve talked a lot about dogs, both the good and the bad, and I’m not extreme when it comes to getting rid of them, because no one enjoys having their face licked by a loving dog more than I do. However, I’d rather give up dogs than see rabies turn into something that defines our nation or becomes a major industry here.
Perhaps all men are that way, however. When they get a little forehanded they forget that they were once poor, and owned dogs. If so, I do not wish to be unfair. I want to be just, and I believe I am. Let us yield up our dogs and take the affection that we would otherwise bestow on them on some human being. I have tried it and it works well. There are thousands of people in the world, of both sexes, who are pining and starving for the love and money that we daily shower on the dog.
Maybe all men are like that. When they get a little ahead in life, they forget they were once poor and had dogs. If that’s the case, I don’t want to be unfair. I want to be fair, and I think I am. Let’s give up our dogs and direct the love we would normally give them to some human being instead. I’ve tried it, and it works well. There are thousands of people in the world, both men and women, who are yearning and struggling for the love and resources we constantly give to our dogs.
If the dog would be kind enough to refrain from introducing his justly celebrated virus into the person of those only who kiss him on the cold, moist nose, it would be all right; but when a dog goes mad he is very impulsive, and he may bestow himself on an obscure man. So I feel a little nervous myself.
If the dog could just hold off on sharing his well-known virus with those who only kiss him on the cold, wet nose, everything would be fine; but when a dog goes crazy, he acts on impulse, and he might choose to approach a random person. So, I’m feeling a bit uneasy myself.
Christopher Columbus.
Probably few people have been more successful in the discovering line than Christopher Columbus. Living as he did in a day when a great many things were still in an undiscovered state, the horizon was filled with golden opportunities for a man possessed of Mr. C.'s pluck and ambition. His life at first was filled with rebuffs and disappointments, but at last he grew to be a man of importance in his own profession, and the people who wanted anything discovered would always bring it to him rather than take it elsewhere.
Probably few people have been as successful in exploration as Christopher Columbus. Living in a time when many things were still unknown, the horizon was full of golden opportunities for someone with Columbus's courage and ambition. Initially, his life was filled with setbacks and disappointments, but eventually he became an important figure in his field, and those looking to discover anything would always come to him instead of going elsewhere.
And yet the life of Columbus was a stormy one. Though he discovered a continent wherein a millionaire attracts no attention, he himself was very poor.
And yet, Columbus's life was tumultuous. Although he discovered a continent where millionaires go unnoticed, he was quite poor himself.
Though he rescued from barbarism a broad and beautiful land in whose metropolis the theft of less than half a million of dollars is regarded as petty larceny, Chris himself often went to bed hungry. Is it not singular that the gray-eyed and gentle Columbus should have added a hemisphere to the history of our globe, a hemisphere, too, where pie is a common thing, not only on Sunday, but throughout the week, and yet that he should have gone down to his grave pieless!
Though he saved a vast and beautiful land where stealing less than half a million dollars is seen as a minor crime, Chris himself often went to bed hungry. Isn’t it strange that the kind and gentle Columbus added an entire hemisphere to the history of our world, a hemisphere where pie is a regular treat, not just on Sundays but all week long, and yet he died without ever having a slice?
Such is the history of progress in all ages and in all lines of thought and investigation. Such is the meagre reward of the pioneer in new fields of action.
Such is the history of progress throughout all times and in every area of thought and research. Such is the slim reward for pioneers in new fields of exploration.
I presume that America to-day has a larger pie area than any other land in which the Cockney English language is spoken. Right here where millions of native born Americans dwell, many of whom are ashamed of the fact that they were born here and which shame is entirely mutual between the Goddess of Liberty and themselves, we have a style of pie that no other land can boast of.
I believe that America today has a bigger pie area than any other place where Cockney English is spoken. Right here, where millions of native-born Americans live, many of whom are embarrassed about being born here— a sentiment that is completely shared between the Goddess of Liberty and themselves—we have a style of pie that no other country can claim.
From the bleak and acid dried apple pie of Maine to the irrigated mince pie of the blue Pacific, all along down the long line of igneous, volcanic and stratified pie, America, the land of the freedom bird with the high instep to his nose, leads the world.
From the dry and tart apple pie of Maine to the moist mince pie of the blue Pacific, all along the long line of different types of pie, America, the land of the freedom bird with its high arch to its beak, leads the world.
Other lands may point with undissembled pride to their polygamy and their cholera, but we reck not. Our polygamy here is still in its infancy and our leprosy has had the disadvantage of a cold, backward spring, but look at our pie.
Other countries might boast openly about their polygamy and their cholera, but we don't care. Our polygamy here is still just starting out and our leprosy has suffered from a chilly, late spring, but just look at our pie.
Throughout a long and disastrous war, sometimes referred to as a fratricidal war, during which this fair land was drenched in blood, and also during which aforesaid war numerous frightful blunders were made which are fast coming to the surface—through the courtesy of participants in said war who have patiently waited for those who blundered to die off, and now admit that said participants who are dead did blunder exceedingly throughout all this long and deadly struggle for the supremacy of liberty and right—as I was about to say when my mind began to wobble, the American pie has shown forth resplendent in the full glare of a noonday sun or beneath the pale-green of the electric light, and she stands forth proudly to-day with her undying loyalty to dyspepsia untrammeled and her deep and deadly gastric antipathy still fiercely burning in her breast.
Throughout a long and disastrous war, sometimes called a fratricidal war, where this beautiful land was soaked in blood, and during which many terrible mistakes were made—now coming to light thanks to those involved in the war who patiently waited for the ones who messed up to pass away, and are now admitting that those who are dead did indeed make significant blunders throughout this long and deadly fight for liberty and justice—as I was saying before I lost my train of thought, the American pie has shone brightly in the full glare of the midday sun or under the soft glow of electric light, and it stands proud today with its unwavering loyalty to heartburn unrestrained and its deep-seated hatred for indigestion still fiercely burning in its core.
That is the proud history of American pie. Powers, principalities, kingdoms and hand-made dynasties may crumble, but the republican form of pie does not crumble. Tyranny may totter on its throne, but the American pie does not totter. Not a tot. No foreign threat has ever been able to make our common chicken pie quail. I do not say this because it is smart; I simply say it to fill up.
That’s the proud history of American pie. Powers, authorities, kingdoms, and homemade dynasties may fall apart, but the democratic style of pie never falls apart. Tyranny may wobble on its throne, but the American pie stands strong. Not even a bit. No foreign threat has ever made our beloved chicken pie back down. I don't say this because it’s clever; I just say it to fill space.
But would it not do Columbus good to come among us to-day and look over our free institutions? Would it not please him to ride over this continent which has been rescued by his presence of mind from the thraldom of barbarism and forked over to the genial and refining influences of prohibition and pie?
But wouldn’t it be good for Columbus to come among us today and see our free institutions? Wouldn’t it make him happy to travel across this continent that his presence of mind saved from the grip of barbarism and handed over to the friendly and uplifting influences of prohibition and pie?
America fills no mean niche in the great history of nations, and if you listen carefully for a few moments you will hear some American, with his mouth full of pie, make that remark. The American is always frank and perfectly free to state that no other country can approach this one. We allow no little two-for-a-quarter monarchy to excel us in the size of our failures or in the calm and self-poised deliberation with which we erect a monument to the glory of a worthy citizen who is dead, and therefore politically useless.
America plays a significant role in the grand history of nations, and if you listen closely for a moment, you'll likely hear some American, with his mouth full of pie, say just that. Americans are always straightforward and openly declare that no other country can compare to theirs. We won't let some tiny, cheap monarchy outshine us in the magnitude of our failures or in the calm, collected way we build a monument to honor a worthy citizen who has passed away and is, therefore, politically irrelevant.
The careless student of the career of Columbus will find much in these lines that he has not yet seen. He will realize when he comes to read this little sketch the pains and the trouble and the research necessary before such an article on the life and work of Columbus could be written, and he will thank me for it; but it is not for that that I have done it. It is a pleasure for me to hunt up and arrange historical and biographical data in a pleasing form for the student and savant. I am only too glad to please and gratify the student and the savant. I was that way myself once and I know how to sympathize with them,
The careless student studying Columbus's career will discover a lot in these lines that he hasn't encountered before. He will understand, upon reading this brief overview, the effort, challenges, and research required to write an article about Columbus's life and work, and he will appreciate it; but that's not my main goal. I enjoy gathering and organizing historical and biographical information into an engaging format for both students and scholars. I'm more than happy to satisfy and please students and scholars. I used to be one of them, and I know how to relate to their experiences.
P.S.—I neglected to state that Columbus was a married man. Still, he did not murmur or repine.
P.S.—I forgot to mention that Columbus was married. Nevertheless, he didn't complain or dwell on it.
Accepting the Laramie Postoffice.
Office of Daily Boomerang, Laramie City, Wy., Aug. 9, 1882.
Office of Daily Boomerang, Laramie City, WY, Aug. 9, 1882.
My Dear General.—I have received by telegraph the news of my nomination by the President and my confirmation by the Senate, as postmaster at Laramie, and wish, to extend my thanks for the same.
My Dear General.—I got the news through a telegram that the President has nominated me and the Senate has confirmed me as the postmaster in Laramie, and I want to express my thanks for it.
I have ordered an entirely new set of boxes and postoffice outfit, including new corrugated cuspidors for the lady clerks.
I have ordered a whole new set of boxes and a post office outfit, including new corrugated spittoons for the female clerks.
I look upon the appointment, myself, as a great triumph of eternal truth over error and wrong. It is one of the epochs, I may say, in the Nation's onward march toward political purity and perfection. I do not know when I have noticed any stride in the affairs of state, which so thoroughly impressed me with its wisdom.
I see this appointment as a significant victory of timeless truth over falsehood and injustice. It marks a key moment in our nation's journey towards political integrity and excellence. I can't recall any event in our government that has struck me with such wisdom.
Now that we are co-workers in the same department, I trust that you will not feel shy or backward in consulting me at any time relative to matters concerning postoffice affairs. Be perfectly frank with me, and feel perfectly free to just bring anything of that kind right to me. Do not feel reluctant because I may at times appear haughty and indifferent, cold or reserved. Perhaps you do not think I know the difference between a general delivery window and a three-m quad, but that is a mistake.
Now that we're coworkers in the same department, I hope you won't hesitate to reach out to me about anything related to post office matters. Be completely open with me and feel free to bring anything like that directly to me. Don't hold back just because I might sometimes seem haughty, indifferent, cold, or reserved. You might think I don’t know the difference between a general delivery window and a three-m quad, but that's not true.
{Illustration: A NEW OFFICE OUTFIT.}
{Illustration: A NEW OFFICE LOOK.}
My general information is far beyond my years.
My overall knowledge is well beyond my age.
With profoundest regard, and a hearty endorsement of the policy of the President and the Senate, whatever it may be,
With the deepest respect and strong support for the President's and Senate's policy, whatever it may be,
I remain, sincerely yours,
Sincerely yours,
Bill Nye, P.M.
Bill Nye, PM
Gen. Frank Hatton, Washington, D.C.
Gen. Frank Hatton, Washington, DC
A Journalistic Tenderfoot.
Most everyone who has tried the publication of a newspaper will call to mind as he reads this item, a similar experience, though, perhaps, not so pronounced and protuberant.
Most people who have attempted to publish a newspaper will recall a similar experience while reading this, though it may not have been as intense or obvious.
Early one summer morning a gawky young tenderfoot, both as to the West and the details of journalism, came into the office and asked me for a job as correspondent to write up the mines in North Park. He wore his hair longish and tried to make it curl. The result was a greasy coat collar and the general tout ensemble of the genus “smart Aleck.” He had also clothed himself in the extravagant clothes of the dime novel scout and beautiful girl-rescuer of the Indian country. He had been driven west by a wild desire to hunt the flagrant Sioux warrior, and do a general Wild Bill business; hoping, no doubt, before the season closed, to rescue enough beautiful captive maidens to get up a young Vassar College in Wyoming or Montana.
Early one summer morning, a clumsy young newcomer, inexperienced with both the West and journalism, walked into the office and asked me for a job as a correspondent to cover the mines in North Park. He had longish hair and tried to make it curl. The result was a greasy coat collar and the overall vibe of a “smart Aleck.” He also dressed in the flashy clothes of a dime novel scout and heroic girl-rescuer from the Indian territories. He had come west driven by a wild urge to hunt down the bold Sioux warrior and live out a general Wild Bill lifestyle, hoping, no doubt, that by the end of the season, he would rescue enough beautiful captive maidens to start a young Vassar College in Wyoming or Montana.
I told him that we did not care for a mining correspondent who did not know a piece of blossom rock from a geranium. I knew it took a man a good many years to gain knowledge enough to know where to sink a prospect shaft even, and as to passing opinions on a vein, it would seem almost wicked and sacriligious to send a man out there among those old grizzly miners who had spent their lives in bitter experience, unless the young man could readily distinguish the points of difference between a chunk of free milling quartz and a fragment of bologna sausage.
I told him that we didn't want a mining reporter who couldn't tell the difference between a piece of blossom rock and a geranium. I knew it took a guy many years to learn enough to know where to drill a prospect shaft, and as for sharing opinions on a vein, it seemed almost wrong and disrespectful to send a guy out to those seasoned miners who had spent their lives in tough experience, unless he could easily tell the difference between a piece of free-milling quartz and a slice of bologna.
He still thought he could write us letters that would do the paper some eternal good, and though I told him, as he wrung my hand and left, to refrain from writing or doing any work for us, he wrote a letter before he had reached the home station on the stage road, or at least sent us a long letter from there. It might have been written before he started, however.
He still believed he could write us letters that would really benefit the paper, and even though I told him, while shaking my hand goodbye, to avoid writing or doing any work for us, he sent a letter before he even got to the home station on the stage road, or at least sent us a long letter from there. It’s possible he had written it before he left, though.
The letter was of the “we-have-went” and “I-have-never-saw” variety, and he spelt curiosity “qrossity.” He worked hard to get the word into his alleged letter, and then assassinated it.
The letter was of the “we-have-gone” and “I-have-never-seen” type, and he spelled curiosity “qrossity.” He worked hard to include the word in his so-called letter, and then butchered it.
Well, we paid no attention whatever to the letter, but meantime he got into the mines, and the way he dead-headed feed and sour mash, on the strength of his relations with the press, made the older miners weep.
Well, we completely ignored the letter, but in the meantime, he got into the mines, and the way he got free food and sour mash, thanks to his connections with the press, made the older miners cry.
Buck Bramel got a little worried and wrote to me about it. He said that our soft-eyed mining savant was getting us a good many subscribers, and writing up every little gopher hole in North Park, and living on Cincinnati quail, as we miners call bacon; but he said that none of these fine, blooming letters, regarding the assays on “The Weasel Asleep,” “The Pauper's Dream,” “The Mary Ellen” and “The Over Draft,” ever seemed to crop out in the paper.
Buck Bramel got a bit worried and wrote to me about it. He said that our soft-eyed mining expert was bringing in a lot of subscribers and covering every little gopher hole in North Park, living on Cincinnati quail, as we miners call bacon; but he mentioned that none of these nice, detailed letters about the assays on “The Weasel Asleep,” “The Pauper's Dream,” “The Mary Ellen,” and “The Over Draft” ever seemed to appear in the paper.
Why was it?
Why was that?
I wrote back that the white-eyed pelican from the buckwheat-enamelled plains of Arkansas had not remitted, was not employed by us, and that I would write and publish a little card of introduction for the bilious litterateur that would make people take in their domestic animals, and lock up their front fences and garden fountains.
I responded that the white-eyed pelican from the buckwheat-colored plains of Arkansas hadn't sent anything, was not working with us, and that I would write and publish a little introduction for the grumpy writer that would make people put away their pets and lock their gates and garden fountains.
In the meantime they sent him up the gulch to find some “float.” He had wandered away from camp thirty miles before he remembered that he didn't know what float looked like. Then he thought he would go back and inquire. He got lost while in a dark brown study and drifted into the bosom of the unknowable. He didn't miss the trail until a perpendicular wall of the Rocky Mountains, about 900 feet high, rose up and hit him athwart the nose.
In the meantime, they sent him up the canyon to find some “float.” He had wandered thirty miles away from camp before he realized he didn’t know what float looked like. Then he figured he would go back and ask. He got lost while deep in thought and ended up in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t notice he’d lost the trail until a steep wall of the Rocky Mountains, about 900 feet high, rose up and hit him in the face.
{Illustration: COMMUNING WITH NATURE.}
{Illustration: CONNECTING WITH NATURE.}
He communed with nature and the coyotes one night and had a pretty tough time of it. He froze his nose partially off, and the coyotes came and gnawed his little dimpled toes. He passed a wretched night, and was greatly annoyed by the cold, which at that elevation sends the mercury toward zero all through the summer nights.
He spent a night in nature with the coyotes and had a rough time. He nearly froze his nose off, and the coyotes came and nibbled on his little dimpled toes. He endured a miserable night and was really bothered by the cold, which at that height drops the temperature close to freezing all through the summer nights.
Of course he pulled the zodiac partially over him, and tried to button his alapaca duster a little closer, but his sleep was troubled by the sociability of the coyotes and the midnight twitter of the mountain lion. He ate moss agates rare and spruce gum for breakfast. When he got to the camp he looked like a forty-day starvationist hunting for a job.
Of course, he pulled the zodiac partly over him and tried to button his alpaca duster a bit tighter, but his sleep was disrupted by the yapping of the coyotes and the midnight calls of the mountain lion. He had moss agates and spruce gum for breakfast. When he arrived at the camp, he looked like someone who had been starving for forty days and was looking for work.
They asked him if he found any float, and he said he didn't find a blamed drop of water, say nothing about float, and then they all laughed a merry laugh, and said that if he showed up at daylight the next morning within the limits of the park, the orders were to burn him at the stake.
They asked him if he found any float, and he said he didn't find a single drop of water, let alone any float. Then they all laughed heartily and said that if he showed up at dawn the next morning anywhere inside the park boundaries, the orders were to burn him at the stake.
The next morning neither he nor the best bay mule on the Troublesome was to be seen with naked eye. After that we heard of him in the San Juan country.
The next morning, neither he nor the finest bay mule on the Troublesome could be seen with the naked eye. After that, we heard about him in the San Juan area.
He had lacerated the finer feelings of the miners down there, and had violated the etiquette of San Juan, so they kicked a flour barrel out from under him one day when he was looking the other way, and being a poor tight-rope performer, he got tangled up with a piece of inch rope in such a way that he died of his injuries.
He had hurt the miners' feelings down there and broke the social rules of San Juan, so one day, when he wasn't paying attention, they kicked a flour barrel out from under him. Since he wasn't a very good tightrope walker, he got tangled in a piece of inch rope and ended up dying from his injuries.
The Amateur Carpenter.
In my opinion every professional man should keep a chest of carpenters' tools in his barn or shop, and busy himself at odd hours with them in constructing the varied articles that are always needed about the house. There is a great deal of pleasure in feeling your own independence of other trades, and more especially of the carpenter. Every now and then your wife will want a bracket put up in some corner or other, and with your new, bright saw and glittering hammer you can put up one upon which she can hang a cast-iron horse-blanket lambrequin, with inflexible water lilies sewed in it.
In my opinion, every professional should have a set of carpentry tools in their garage or workshop and spend some spare time using them to build the various things needed around the house. There's a lot of satisfaction in being independent from other trades, especially carpentry. Every now and then, your partner will want a shelf installed in some corner or another, and with your shiny new saw and sparkling hammer, you can put one up for her to hang a cast-iron horse-blanket valance with stiff water lilies sewn into it.
A man will, if he tries, readily learn to do a great many such little things and his wife will brag on him to other ladies, and they will make invidious comparisons between their husbands who can't do anything of that kind whatever, and you who are “so handy.”
A man can easily learn to do a lot of these little things if he puts in the effort, and his wife will proudly tell other women about it. They’ll make unfair comparisons between their husbands, who can't do anything like that, and you, who's “so handy.”
Firstly, you buy a set of amateur carpenter tools. You do not need to say that you are an amateur. The dealer will find that out when you ask him for an easy-running broad-ax or a green-gage plumb line. He will sell you a set of amateur's tools that will be made of old sheet-iron with basswood handles, and the saws will double up like a piece of stovepipe.
Firstly, you buy a set of beginner carpenter tools. You don’t have to mention that you’re a beginner. The dealer will figure that out when you ask him for a lightweight broad-axe or a basic plumb line. He will sell you a set of tools designed for beginners, made from old sheet metal with softwood handles, and the saws will bend like a piece of ductwork.
After you have nailed a board on the fence successfully, you will very naturally desire to do something much better, more difficult. You will probable try to erect a parlor table or rustic settee.
After you've successfully nailed a board on the fence, you'll probably want to take on something better and more challenging. You might try to build a coffee table or a rustic bench.
I made a very handsome bracket last week, and I was naturally proud of it. In fastening it together, if I hadn't inadvertently nailed it to the barn floor, I guess I could have used it very well, but in tearing it loose from the barn, so that the two could be used separately, I ruined a bracket that was intended to serve as the base, as it were, of a lambrequin which cost nine dollars, aside from the time expended on it.
I made a really nice bracket last week, and I was naturally proud of it. When I was putting it together, if I hadn't accidentally nailed it to the barn floor, I guess I could have used it just fine. But when I tried to pull it loose from the barn to use the two pieces separately, I ruined a bracket that was meant to be the base of a lambrequin that cost nine dollars, not to mention the time I put into it.
During the month of March I built an ice-chest for this summer. It was not handsome, but it was roomy, and would be very nice for the season of 1886, I thought. It worked pretty well through March and April, but as the weather begins to warm up that ice-chest is about the warmest place around the house. There is actually a glow of heat around that ice-chest that I don't notice elsewhere. I've shown it to several personal friends. They seem to think it is not built tightly enough for an ice-chest. My brother looked at it yesterday, and said that his idea of an ice-chest was that it ought to be tight enough at least to hold the larger chunks of ice so that they would not escape through the pores of the ice-box. He says he never built one, but that it stood to reason that a refrigerator like that ought to be constructed so that it would keep the cows out of it. You don't want to have a refrigerator that the cattle can get through the cracks of and eat up your strawberries on ice, he says.
During March, I built an ice chest for this summer. It wasn’t pretty, but it was spacious, and I thought it would be great for the season of 1886. It worked pretty well throughout March and April, but as the weather started to warm up, that ice chest became one of the warmest spots in the house. There’s actually a noticeable heat radiating from that ice chest that I don’t see anywhere else. I’ve shown it to a few friends, and they think it’s not sealed well enough for an ice chest. My brother took a look at it yesterday and said his idea of an ice chest is that it should at least be tight enough to hold the bigger chunks of ice so they wouldn’t escape through the gaps. He mentioned he never built one himself, but it seems obvious that a refrigerator like that should be built to keep cows out. You don’t want a refrigerator that cattle can squeeze through and eat your strawberries on ice, he says.
A neighbor of mine who once built a hen resort of laths, and now wears a thick thumb-nail that looks like a Brazil nut as a memento of that pullet corral, says my ice-chest is all right enough, only that it is not suited to this climate. He thinks that along Behring's Strait, during the holidays, my ice-chest would work like a charm. And even here, he thought, if I could keep the fever out of my chest there would be less pain.
A neighbor of mine who once built a chicken coop out of slats, and now has a thick thumbnail that looks like a Brazil nut as a reminder of that chicken pen, says my fridge works fine, but isn’t suited for this climate. He believes that along the Bering Strait, during the holidays, my fridge would be perfect. Even here, he thought, if I could keep the heat out of my fridge, there would be less discomfort.
I have made several other little articles of vertu this spring, to the construction of which I have contributed a good deal of time and two finger nails. I have also sawed into my leg two or three times. The leg, of course, will get well, but the pantaloons will not. Parties wishing to meet me in my studio during the morning hour will turn into the alley between Eighth and Ninth streets, enter the third stable door on the left, pass around behind my Gothic horse, and give the countersign and three kicks on the door in an ordinary tone of voice.
I’ve made several other small pieces of art this spring, which I’ve invested a lot of time in and even lost a couple of fingernails over. I’ve also accidentally sawed into my leg a few times. The leg will heal, but my pants won’t. Anyone who wants to meet me in my studio during the morning should go down the alley between Eighth and Ninth streets, enter the third stable door on the left, walk around behind my Gothic horse, and give the secret code along with three kicks on the door in a regular voice.
The Average Hen.
I am convinced that there is great economy in keeping hens if we have sufficient room for them and a thorough knowledge of how to manage the fowl property. But to the professional man, who is not familiar with the habits of the hen, and whose mind does not naturally and instinctively turn henward, I would say: Shun her as you would the deadly upas tree of Piscataquis county, Me.
I believe that raising chickens can be very economical if you have enough space and know how to take care of them properly. However, for someone who isn’t familiar with chickens and doesn’t have a natural inclination towards them, I would advise: Avoid them like you would the poisonous upas tree in Piscataquis County, Maine.
Nature has endowed the hen with but a limited amount of brain-force. Any one will notice that if he will compare the skull of the average self-made hen with that of Daniel Webster, taking careful measurements directly over the top from one ear to the other, the well-informed brain student will at once notice a great falling-off in the region of reverence and an abnormal bulging out in the location of alimentiveness.
Nature has given the hen only a small amount of brainpower. Anyone can see that if they compare the skull of an average self-made hen to that of Daniel Webster, measuring directly across from one ear to the other, a knowledgeable brain researcher will quickly observe a significant decrease in the area related to reverence and an unusual bulge in the area related to appetite.
Now take your tape-measure and, beginning at memory, pass carefully over the occiputal bone to the base of the brain in the region of love of home and offspring and you will see that, while the hen suffers much in comparison with the statement in the relative size of sublimity, reflection, spirituality, time, tune, etc., when it comes to love of home and offspring she shines forth with great splendor.
Now grab your tape measure and, starting at memory, carefully measure over the occipital bone to the base of the brain in the area associated with love for home and family. You’ll notice that, while the hen struggles a lot compared to the details about the relative size of greatness, thoughtfulness, spirituality, time, music, and so on, when it comes to love for home and family, she truly stands out with great brilliance.
The hen does not care for the sublime in nature. Neither does she care for music. Music hath no charms to soften her tough old breast. But she loves her home and her country. I have sought to promote the interests of the hen to some extent, but I have not been a marked success in that line.
The hen isn’t interested in the beauty of nature. She also doesn’t care about music. Music doesn’t have any magic to soften her hardened heart. But she loves her home and her country. I’ve tried to support the interests of hens to some degree, but I haven’t been very successful at it.
I can write a poem in fifteen minutes. I always could dash off a poem whenever I wanted to, and a very good poem, too, for a dashed poem. I could write a speech for a friend in congress—a speech that would be printed in the Congressional Record and go all over the United States and be read by no one. I could enter the field of letters anywhere and attract attention, but when it comes to setting a hen I feel that I am not worthy. I never feel my utter unworthiness as I do in the presence of a setting hen.
I can write a poem in fifteen minutes. I've always been able to whip up a poem whenever I wanted, and a really good one, too, for something I dashed off. I could write a speech for a friend in Congress—a speech that would be printed in the Congressional Record and circulate throughout the United States but would end up being read by no one. I could step into the world of writing anywhere and get noticed, but when it comes to sitting on eggs, I feel completely unworthy. I’ve never felt my total unworthiness as much as I do in front of a hen that’s brooding.
When the adult hen in my presence expresses a desire to set I excuse myself and go away. That is the supreme moment when a hen desires to be alone. That is no time for me to introduce my shallow levity, I never do it is after death that I most fully appreciate the hen. When she has been cut down early in life and fried I respect her. No one can look upon the still features of a young hen overtaken by death in life's young morning, snuffed out as it were, like an old tin lantern in a gale of wind, without being visibly affected.
When the adult hen in front of me wants to nest, I quietly excuse myself and leave. That’s the key moment when a hen wants to be alone. It’s not the time for my silly antics; I never do. It's only after she's gone that I truly appreciate the hen. When she’s taken too soon in life and ends up fried, I respect her. No one can look at the lifeless face of a young hen, snuffed out early like an old tin lantern in a strong wind, without feeling something.
But it is not the hen who desires to set for the purpose of getting out an early edition of spring chickens that I am averse to. It is the aged hen, who is in her dotage, and whose eggs, also, are in their second childhood. Upon this hen I shower my anathemas. Overlooked by the pruning hook of time, shallow in her remarks, and a wall-flower in society, she deposits her quota of eggs in the catnip conservatory, far from the haunts of men, and then in August, when eggs are extremely low and her collection of no value to any one but the antiquarian, she proudly calls attention to her summer's work.
But it's not the hen that wants to lay eggs early for a fresh batch of spring chicks that I have a problem with. It's the old hen, who has lost her edge, and whose eggs are practically past their prime. That’s the hen I criticize. Ignored by the passage of time, shallow in her comments, and a wallflower in social settings, she lays her share of eggs in the catnip garden, far away from people, and then in August, when eggs are rare and her collection is only valuable to collectors, she proudly shows off her summer’s work.
This hen does not win the general confidence. Shunned by good society during life, her death is only regretted by those who are called upon to assist at her obsequies. Selfish through life, her death is regarded as a calamity by those alone who are expected to eat her.
This hen doesn't earn anyone's trust. Avoided by polite society while she was alive, her death is only mourned by those who have to attend her funeral. Selfish in life, her passing is seen as a tragedy only by those who are expected to eat her.
And what has such a hen to look back upon in her closing hours? A long life, perhaps, for longevity is one of the characteristics of this class of hens; but of what has that life been productive? How many golden hours has she frittered away hovering over a porcelain door-knob trying to hatch out a litter of Queen Anne cottages. How many nights has she passed in solitude on her lonely nest, with a heart filled with bitterness toward all mankind, hoping on against hope that in the fall she would come off the nest with a cunning little brick block, perhaps.
And what does such a hen have to reflect on in her final moments? A long life, maybe, since living a long time is one of the traits of this type of hen; but what has that life achieved? How many precious hours has she wasted hovering over a porcelain doorknob trying to hatch out a bunch of Queen Anne cottages? How many nights has she spent alone on her empty nest, filled with resentment toward everyone, hoping against all odds that in autumn she would finally get a cute little brick block, perhaps.
{Illustration: THE RESULT OF PATIENCE.}
{Illustration: THE OUTCOME OF PATIENCE.}
Such is the history of the aimless hen. While others were at work she stood around with her hands in her pockets and criticised the policy of those who labored, and when the summer waned she came forth with nothing but regret to wander listlessly about and freeze off some more of her feet during the winter. For such a hen death can have no terrors.
Such is the story of the aimless hen. While others were busy, she just stood around with her hands in her pockets, criticizing the efforts of those who worked. When summer came to an end, she was left with nothing but regret, wandering aimlessly and freezing off more of her feet during the winter. For such a hen, death holds no fears.
Woodtick William's Story.
We had about as ornery and triflin' a crop of kids in Calaveras county, thirty years ago, as you could gather in with a fine-tooth comb and a brass band in fourteen States. For ways that was kittensome they were moderately active and abnormally protuberant. That was the prevailing style of Calaveras kid, when Mr. George W. Mulqueen come there and wanted to engage the school at the old camp, where I hung up in the days when the country was new and the murmur of the six-shooter was heard in the land.
We had a pretty rowdy and lazy bunch of kids in Calaveras County, thirty years ago, that you could round up with a fine-tooth comb and a brass band from fourteen states. In terms of being playful, they were somewhat energetic and unusually noticeable. That was the typical style of Calaveras kids when Mr. George W. Mulqueen came to town and wanted to take over the school at the old camp, where I spent time back when the country was new and the sound of gunfire could be heard all around.
{Illustration: WINNING THEIR YOUNG LOVE.}
{Illustration: WINNING THEIR YOUNG LOVE.}
“George W. Mulqueen was a slender young party from the effete East, with conscientious scruples and a hectic flush. Both of these was agin him for a promoter of school discipline and square root. He had a heap of information and big sorrowful eyes.
“George W. Mulqueen was a thin young man from the privileged East, with strong moral principles and a nervous energy. Both of these worked against him as a promoter of school discipline and math. He had a lot of knowledge and large, sorrowful eyes.”
“So fur as I was concerned, I didn't feel like swearing around George or using any language that would sound irrelevant in a ladies' boodore; but as for the kids of the school, they didn't care a blamed cent. They just hollered and whooped like a passle of Sioux.
“So far as I was concerned, I didn’t feel like swearing around George or using any language that would sound out of place in a ladies’ boudoir; but as for the kids at school, they didn’t care at all. They just shouted and whooped like a bunch of Sioux."
“They didn't seem to respect literary attainments or expensive knowledge. They just simply seemed to respect the genius that come to that country to win their young love with a long-handled shovel and a blood-shot tone of voice. That's what seemed to catch the Calaveras kids in the early days.
"They didn't seem to value literary accomplishments or fancy education. They just seemed to admire the talent that came to their country to win over their young love with a long-handled shovel and a bloodshot voice. That's what seemed to captivate the Calaveras kids in the early days."
“George had weak lungs, and they kept to work at him till they drove him into a mountain fever, and finally into a metallic sarcophagus.
“George had weak lungs, and they kept working on him until they pushed him into a mountain fever, and finally into a metal coffin.
“Along about the holidays the sun went down on George W. Mulqueen's life, just as the eternal sunlight lit up the dewy eyes. You will pardon my manner, Nye, but it seemed to me just as if George had climbed up to the top of Mount Cavalry, or wherever it was, with that whole school on his back, and had to give up at last.
“During the holidays, the sun set on George W. Mulqueen's life, just as the everlasting sunlight illuminated the dewy eyes. You’ll excuse my way of speaking, Nye, but it felt to me like George had climbed to the top of Mount Cavalry, or wherever that was, with the whole school on his back, and he finally had to give up.”
“It seemed kind of tough to me, and I couldn't help blamin' it onto the school some, for there was a half a dozen big snoozers that didn't go to school to learn, but just to raise Ned and turn up Jack.
“It seemed pretty tough to me, and I couldn't help but blame the school a bit, because there were half a dozen big troublemakers who didn't go to school to learn, but just to cause chaos and stir things up.”
“Well, they killed him, anyhow, and that settled it.”
“Well, they killed him anyway, and that was that.”
“The school run kind of wild till Feboowary, and then a husky young tenderfoot, with a fist like a mule's foot in full bloom, made an application for the place, and allowed he thought he could maintain discipline if they'd give him a chance. Well, they ast him when he wanted to take his place as tutor, and he reckoned he could begin to tute about Monday follering.
“The school operated a bit chaotically until February, and then a strong young newcomer, with a fist like a mule's foot in full bloom, applied for the position and said he thought he could keep order if they gave him a chance. Well, they asked him when he wanted to start as the teacher, and he figured he could begin tutoring about the following Monday.”
“Sunday afternoon he went up to the school-house to look over the ground, and to arrange a plan for an active Injin campaign agin the hostile hoodlums of Calaveras.
“Sunday afternoon he went up to the schoolhouse to check out the area and to set up a plan for an active Indian campaign against the hostile troublemakers of Calaveras.
“Monday he sailed in about 9 A.M. with his grip-sack, and begun the discharge of his juties.
“On Monday, he set sail around 9 A.M. with his bag and started his duties.”
“He brought in a bunch of mountain-willers, and, after driving a big railroad-spike into the door-casing, over the latch, he said the senate and house would sit with closed doors during the morning session. Several large, white-eyed holy terrors gazed at him in a kind of dumb, inquiring tone of voice, but he didn't say much. He seemed considerably reserved as to the plan of the campaign. The new teacher then unlocked his alligator-skin grip, and took out a Bible and a new self-cocking weepon that had an automatic dingus for throwing out the empty shells. It was one of the bull-dog variety, and had the laugh of a joyous child.
“He brought in a bunch of mountain folks, and after hammering a big railroad spike into the doorframe, over the latch, he said the senate and house would meet with closed doors during the morning session. A few large, wide-eyed onlookers stared at him with a sort of confused expression, but he didn’t say much. He seemed pretty tight-lipped about the campaign plan. The new teacher then unlocked his alligator-skin bag and pulled out a Bible and a new self-loading weapon that had a mechanism for ejecting the empty shells. It was a bulldog type and had the sound of a happy child's laughter.”
“He read a short passage from the Scriptures, and then pulled off his coat and hung it on a nail. Then he made a few extemporaneous remarks, after which he salivated the palm of his right hand, took the self-cocking songster in his left, and proceeded to wear out the gads over the varied protuberances of his pupils.
“He read a brief passage from the Bible, then took off his coat and hung it on a hook. Next, he made a few off-the-cuff comments, after which he moistened the palm of his right hand, took the self-cocking toy in his left, and began to entertain his students with it.”
“People passing by thought they must be beating carpets in the school-house. He pointed the gun at his charge with his left and manipulated the gad with his right duke. One large, overgrown Missourian tried to crawl out of the winder, but, after he had looked down the barrel of the shooter a moment, he changed his mind. He seemed to realize that it would be a violation of the rules of the school, so he came back and sat down.
“People walking by thought they must be beating carpets in the schoolhouse. He aimed the gun at his charge with his left hand and handled the gadget with his right hand. One big, overgrown guy from Missouri tried to crawl out of the window, but after taking a look down the barrel of the gun for a moment, he changed his mind. He seemed to realize that it would break the rules of the school, so he came back and sat down.”
“After he wore out the foliage, Bill, he pulled the spike out of that door, put on his coat and went away. He never was seen there again. He didn't ask for any salary, but just walked off quietly, and that summer we accidently heard that he was George W. Mulqueen's brother.”
“After he exhausted the leaves, Bill pulled the spike out of that door, put on his coat, and left. He was never seen there again. He didn’t ask for any pay; he just walked away quietly, and that summer we accidentally learned that he was George W. Mulqueen's brother.”
In Washington.
I have just returned from a polite and recherche party here. Washington is the hot-bed of gayety, and general headquarters for the recherche business. It would be hard to find a bontonger aggregation than the one I was just at, to use the words of a gentleman who was there, and who asked me if I wrote “The Heathen Chinee.”
I just got back from a nice and fancy party here. Washington is the center of fun and the main hub for the elite scene. It would be hard to find a more stylish crowd than the one I just attended, to use the words of a guy who was there and who asked me if I wrote “The Heathen Chinee.”
He was a very talented man, with a broad sweep of skull and a vague yearning for something more tangible—to drink. He was in Washington, he said, in the interests of Mingo county. I forgot to ask him where Mingo county might be. He took a great interest in me, and talked with me long after he really had anything to say. He was one of those fluent conversationalists frequently met with in society. He used one of these web-perfecting talkers—the kind that can be fed with raw Roman punch, and that will turn out punctuated talk in links, like varnished sausages. Being a poor talker myself, and rather more fluent as a listener, I did not interrupt him.
He was a really talented guy, with a broad head and an unclear desire for something more substantial—like a drink. He mentioned he was in Washington for the sake of Mingo County. I forgot to ask him where Mingo County actually is. He was very interested in me and chatted with me long after he had anything important to say. He was one of those smooth talkers you often find in social situations. He used one of those people who can keep talking effortlessly—like those who can down raw Roman punch and still come up with polished conversation, all neatly packaged. Since I'm not great at talking myself and am more comfortable listening, I didn’t interrupt him.
He said that he was sorry to notice how young girls and their parents came to Washington as they would to a matrimonial market.
He said he was sorry to see how young girls and their parents came to Washington as if it were a marriage market.
I was sorry also to hear it. It pained me to know that young ladies should allow themselves to be bamboozled into matrimony. Why was it, I asked, that matrimony should ever single out the young and fair?
I was also sad to hear that. It hurt me to think that young women would let themselves be tricked into marriage. Why, I wondered, does marriage always seem to target the young and beautiful?
“Ah,” said he, “it is indeed rough!”
“Ah,” he said, “it really is rough!”
He then breathed a sigh that shook the foilage of the speckled geranium near by, and killed an artificial caterpillar that hung on its branches.
He then let out a sigh that rustled the leaves of the spotted geranium nearby and knocked off a fake caterpillar that was hanging from its branches.
“Matrimony is all right,” said he, “if properly brought about. It breaks my heart, though, to notice how Washington is used as a matrimonial market. It seems to me almost as if these here young ladies were brought here like slaves and exposed for sale.” I had noticed that they were somewhat exposed, but I did not know that they were for sale. I asked him if the waists of party dresses had always been so sadly in the minority, and he said they had.
“Matrimony is fine,” he said, “if it's done the right way. It really breaks my heart to see how Washington is treated like a dating market. It feels almost like these young women are displayed here like commodities for sale.” I had noticed they were somewhat on display, but I didn't realize they were for sale. I asked him if the waists on party dresses had always been so rarely seen, and he replied that they had.
I danced with a beautiful young lady whose trail had evidently caught in a doorway. She hadn't noticed it till she had walked out partially through her costume.
I danced with a beautiful young woman whose dress had clearly gotten caught in a doorway. She hadn’t noticed it until she had walked out partway in her outfit.
I do not think a lady ought to give too much thought to her apparel; neither should she feel too much above her clothes. I say this in the kindest spirit, because I believe that man should be a friend to woman. No family circle is complete without a woman. She is like a glad landscape to the weary eye. Individually and collectively, woman is a great adjunct of civilization and progress. The electric light is a good thing, but how pale and feeble it looks by the light of a good woman's eyes. The telephone is a great invention. It is a good thing to talk at, and murmur into and deposit profanity in; but to take up a conversation, and keep it up, and follow a man out through the front door with it, the telephone has still much to learn from woman.
I don't think a woman should worry too much about her outfit; she shouldn't feel overly defined by her clothing either. I say this with kindness because I believe men should be allies to women. No family is complete without a woman. She's like a beautiful landscape to tired eyes. Both individually and collectively, women are an essential part of civilization and progress. The electric light is nice, but it looks dull and weak next to the light in a good woman's eyes. The telephone is a fantastic invention. It’s great for talking and venting, but when it comes to carrying on a conversation, following someone out the front door with it, the telephone still has a lot to learn from women.
It is said that our government officials are not sufficiently paid; and I presume that is the case, so it became necessary to economize in every way; but, why should wives concentrate all their economy on the waist of a dress? When chest protectors are so cheap as they now are. I hate to see people suffer, and there is more real suffering, more privation and more destitution, pervading the Washington scapula and clavicle this winter than I ever saw before.
It’s said that our government officials don’t get paid enough, and I guess that’s true, so it became essential to cut back in every way. But why do wives focus all their savings on the waist of a dress? Considering how cheap chest protectors are now. I can’t stand to see people in pain, and there’s more real suffering, more hardship, and more poverty affecting the Washington shoulders and collarbones this winter than I’ve ever seen before.
But I do not hope to change this custom, though I spoke to several ladies about it, and asked them to think it over. I do not think they will. It seems almost wicked to cut off the best part of a dress and put it at the other end of the skirt, to be trodden under feet of men, as I may say. They smiled good humoredly at me as I tried to impress my views upon them, but should I go there again next season and mingle in the mad whirl of Washington, where these fair women are also mingling in said mad whirl, I presume that I will find them clothed in the same gaslight waist, with trimmings of real vertebrae down the back.
But I don’t expect to change this tradition, even though I talked to several ladies about it and asked them to reconsider. I don’t think they will. It seems almost wrong to cut off the best part of a dress and move it to the other end of the skirt, just to be stepped on by men, so to speak. They smiled good-naturedly at me while I tried to share my thoughts with them, but if I go back there next season and get caught up in the crazy scene of Washington, where these lovely women are also caught up in that chaos, I assume I’ll find them wearing the same gaslight waist with real vertebrae trimmings down the back.
Still, what does a man know about the proper costume of a woman? He knows nothing whatever. He is in many ways a little inconsistent. Why does a man frown on a certain costume for his wife, and admire it on the first woman he meets? Why does he fight shy of religion and Christianity and talk very freely about the church, but get mad if his wife is an infidel?
Still, what does a man really know about the right outfit for a woman? He doesn't know anything at all. In many ways, he's a bit inconsistent. Why does he dislike a certain outfit on his wife but admire it on the first woman he sees? Why does he avoid discussing religion and Christianity but get upset if his wife doesn't believe?
Crops around Washington are looking well. Winter wheat, crocusses and indefinite postponements were never in a more thrifty condition. Quite a number of people are here who are waiting to be confirmed. Judging from their habits, they are lingering around here in order to become confirmed drunkards.
Crops around Washington are looking great. Winter wheat, crocuses, and endless delays have never been in better shape. A lot of people are here waiting to get confirmed. From what I can see, they seem to be hanging around to become confirmed alcoholics.
I leave here to-morrow with a large, wet towel in my plug hat. Perhaps I should have said nothing on this dress reform question while my hat is fitting me so immediately. It is seldom that I step aside from the beaten path of rectitude, but last evening, on the way home, it seemed to me that I didn't do much else but step aside. At these parties no charge is made for punch. It is perfectly free. I asked a colored man who was standing near the punch bowl, and who replenished it ever and anon, what the damage was, and he drew himself up to his full height.
I’m leaving tomorrow with a big, wet towel in my top hat. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about the dress code while my hat fits me so perfectly. I rarely wander off the straight and narrow, but last night, on my way home, it felt like that’s all I did. At these parties, the punch is free; there's no charge. I asked a Black man standing near the punch bowl, who kept refilling it, what the cost was, and he straightened up to his full height.
Possibly I did wrong, but I hate to be a burden on anyone. It seemed odd to me to go to a first-class dance and find the supper and the band and the rum all paid for. It must cost a good deal of money to run this government.
Possibly I was wrong, but I really don’t want to be a burden on anyone. It felt strange to go to a fancy dance and see that the dinner, the band, and the drinks were all covered. Running this government must cost a lot of money.
My Experience as an Agriculturist.
During the past season I was considerably interested in agriculture. I met with some success, but not enough to madden me with joy. It takes a good deal of success to unscrew my reason and make it totter on its throne. I've had trouble with my liver, and various other abnormal conditions of the vital organs, but old reason sits there on his or her throne, as the case may be, through it all.
During the past season, I was quite interested in farming. I achieved some success, but not enough to drive me wild with happiness. It takes a lot of success to shake my sense of reason and make it unstable. I've dealt with liver issues and various other health problems, but through it all, my sense of reason remains steady on its throne.
Agriculture has a charm about it which I can not adequately describe. Every product of the farm is furnished by nature with something that loves it, so that it will never be neglected. The grain crop is loved by the weevil, the Hessian fly, and the chinch bug; the watermelon, the squash and the cucumber are loved by the squash bug; the potato is loved by the potato bug; the sweet corn is loved by the ant, thou sluggard; the tomato is loved by the cut-worm; the plum is loved by the curculio, and so forth, and so forth, so that no plant that grows need be a wall-flower. {Early blooming and extremely dwarf joke for the table. Plant as soon as there is no danger of frosts, in drills four inches apart. When ripe, pull it, and eat raw with vinegar. The red ants may be added to taste.}
Agriculture has a unique charm that I can't quite put into words. Every product from the farm comes with its own set of admirers in nature, ensuring it never goes unappreciated. The grain crop attracts the weevil, the Hessian fly, and the chinch bug; watermelons, squash, and cucumbers draw in the squash bug; the potato is loved by the potato bug; even sweet corn has the ant, so sluggish, to keep it company; tomatoes are favored by the cutworm; plums are cherished by the curculio, and so on, meaning no plant that grows has to go unnoticed. {Early blooming and extremely dwarf joke for the table. Plant as soon as the risk of frost has passed, in rows four inches apart. When ripe, pick it and enjoy raw with vinegar. Red ants can be added for flavor.}
Well, I began early to spade up my angle-worms and other pets, to see if they had withstood the severe winter. I found they had. They were unusually bright and cheerful. The potato bugs were a little sluggish at first, but as the spring opened and the ground warmed up they pitched right in, and did first-rate. Every one of my bugs in May looked splendidly. I was most worried about my cut-worms. Away along in April I had not seen a cutworm, and I began to fear they had suffered, and perhaps perished, in the extreme cold of the previous winter.
Well, I started early to dig up my angle-worms and other pets to check if they had survived the harsh winter. They did. They seemed unusually lively and happy. The potato bugs were a bit sluggish at first, but as spring progressed and the ground warmed up, they got right to work and thrived. Every single one of my bugs looked great in May. I was most concerned about my cut-worms. By mid-April, I hadn’t seen a single cutworm, and I began to worry they had suffered and possibly died in the extreme cold of the last winter.
One morning late in the month, however, I saw a cut-worm come out from behind a cabbage stump and take off his ear muff. He was a little stiff in the joints, but he had not lost hope. I saw at once now was the time to assist him if I had a spark of humanity left. I searched every work I could find on agriculture to find out what it was that farmers fed their blamed cut-worms, but all scientists seemed to be silent. I read the agricultural reports, the dictionary, and the encyclopedia, but they didn't throw any light on the subject. I got wild. I feared that I had brought but one cut-worm through the winter, and I was liable to lose him unless I could find out what to feed him. I asked some of my neighbors, but they spoke jeeringly and sarcastically. I know now how it was. All their cut-worms had frozen down last winter, and they couldn't bear to see me get ahead.
One morning, late in the month, I noticed a cutworm emerge from behind a cabbage stump and take off his earmuff. He seemed a bit stiff in the joints, but he hadn’t lost hope. I realized this was the moment to help him if I still had any humanity left. I searched every book I could find on agriculture to figure out what farmers fed their pesky cutworms, but all the scientists seemed to have nothing to say. I read agricultural reports, the dictionary, and the encyclopedia, but none of them provided any answers. I got frustrated. I was worried that I had only managed to bring one cutworm through the winter, and I might lose him unless I could figure out what to feed him. I asked some of my neighbors, but they responded with mockery and sarcasm. I understand now; all their cutworms had died in the winter, and they couldn’t stand to see me succeed.
{Illustration: THEY SPOKE JEERINGLY.}
{Illustration: THEY SPOKE MOCKINGLY.}
All at once, an idea struck me. I haven't recovered from the concussion yet. It was this: the worm had wintered under a cabbage stalk; no doubt he was fond of the beverage. I acted upon this thought and bought him two dozen red cabbage plants, at fifty cents a dozen. I had hit it the first pop. He was passionately fond of these plants, and would eat three in one night. He also had several matinees and sauerkraut lawn festivals for his friends, and in a week I bought three dozen more cabbage plants. By this time I had collected a large group of common scrub cut-worms, early Swedish cut-worms, dwarf Hubbard cut-worms, and short-horn cut-worms, all doing well, but still, I thought, a little hide-bound and bilious. They acted languid and listless. As my squash bugs, currant worms, potato bugs, etc., were all doing well without care, I devoted myself almost exclusively to my cut-worms. They were all strong and well, but they seemed melancholy with nothing to eat, day after day, but cabbages.
Suddenly, an idea came to me. I still hadn’t fully recovered from the concussion. It was this: the worm had spent the winter under a cabbage stalk; he must really like the stuff. I went with this thought and bought him two dozen red cabbage plants, at fifty cents each dozen. I struck gold right away. He absolutely loved these plants and would eat three in one night. He also hosted several casual get-togethers and sauerkraut lawn parties for his friends, and within a week, I bought three dozen more cabbage plants. By that time, I had gathered a large number of common scrub cut-worms, early Swedish cut-worms, dwarf Hubbard cut-worms, and short-horn cut-worms, all thriving, but still, I felt they were a bit stiff and unwell. They seemed sluggish and uninspired. Since my squash bugs, currant worms, potato bugs, etc., were all doing well without much attention, I focused almost entirely on my cut-worms. They were strong and healthy, but they looked pretty down, eating nothing but cabbages day after day.
I therefore bought five dozen tomato plants that were tender and large. These I fed to the cut-worms at the rate of eight or ten in one night. In a week the cut-worms had thrown off that air of ennui and languor that I had I formerly noticed, and were gay and light-hearted. I got them some more tomato plants, and then some more cabbage for change. On the whole I was as proud as any young farmer who has made a success of anything.
I bought five dozen big, healthy tomato plants. I was feeding them to the cutworms at a rate of eight or ten a night. Within a week, the cutworms had shed the boredom and lethargy I had noticed before and were lively and cheerful. I got them more tomato plants, and then some cabbage for variety. Overall, I felt just as proud as any young farmer who has achieved success in something.
One morning I noticed that a cabbage plant was left standing unchanged. The next day it was still there. I was thunderstruck. I dug into the ground. My cut-worms were gone. I spaded up the whole patch, but there wasn't one. Just as I had become attached to them, and they had learned to look forward each day to my coming, when they would almost come up and eat a tomato-plant out of my hand, some one had robbed me of them. I was almost wild with despair and grief. Suddenly something tumbled over my foot. It was mostly stomach, but it had feet on each corner. A neighbor said it was a warty toad. He had eaten up my summer's work! He had swallowed my cunning little cut-worms. I tell you, gentle reader, unless some way is provided, whereby this warty toad scourge can be wiped out, I for one shall relinquish the joys of agricultural pursuits. When a common toad, with a sallow complexion and no intellect, can swallow up my summer's work, it is time to pause.
One morning I noticed that a cabbage plant was still standing unchanged. The next day it was still there. I was stunned. I dug into the ground. My cutworms were gone. I dug up the whole patch, but there wasn’t a single one. Just as I had grown attached to them, and they had started to look forward to my visits each day, when they would almost come up and eat a tomato plant out of my hand, someone had taken them away from me. I was almost beside myself with despair and grief. Suddenly, something bumped into my foot. It was mostly stomach, but it had feet at each corner. A neighbor said it was a warty toad. He had eaten up all my hard work for the summer! He had swallowed my clever little cutworms. I tell you, dear reader, unless there’s a way to wipe out this warty toad plague, I, for one, will give up on the joys of farming. When a common toad, with a sickly color and no brains, can ruin all my hard work for the summer, it’s time to rethink things.
A New Autograph Album.
This autograph business is getting to be a little bit tedious. It is all one-sided. I want to get even some how, on some one. If I can't come back at the autograph fiend himself, perhaps I might make some other fellow creature unhappy. That would take my mind off the woes that are inflicted by the man who is making a collection of the autographs of “prominent men,” and who sends a printed circular formally demanding your autograph, as the tax collector would demand your tax.
This autograph thing is starting to get a little boring. It's all one-sided. I want to get back at someone. If I can't get back at the autograph fanatic himself, maybe I can make some other person unhappy. That would distract me from the troubles caused by the guy who’s collecting autographs from “important people” and sends a printed letter demanding your autograph, just like a tax collector would insist on your taxes.
John Comstock, the President of the First National Bank, of Hudson, the other day suggested an idea. I gave him an autograph copy of my last great work, and he said: “Now, I'm a man of business. You gave me your autograph, I give you mine in return. That's what we call business.” He then signed a brand new $5 national bank note, the cashier did ditto, and the two autographs were turned over to me.
John Comstock, the President of the First National Bank in Hudson, suggested an idea the other day. I gave him a signed copy of my latest book, and he said, “Now, I'm a business guy. You gave me your autograph, so I’ll give you mine in return. That’s what we call business.” He then signed a brand new $5 national bank note, the cashier did the same, and I got both autographs.
Now, how would it do to make a collection of the signatures of the presidents and cashiers of national banks of the United States in the above manner? An album containing the autographs of these bank officials would not only be a handsome heirloom to fork over to posterity, but it would possess intrinsic value. In pursuance of this idea, I have been considering the advisability of issuing the following letter:
Now, how about creating a collection of the signatures of the presidents and cashiers of national banks in the United States in this way? An album featuring the autographs of these bank officials would not only be a beautiful keepsake to pass on to future generations, but it would also have intrinsic value. To pursue this idea, I’ve been thinking about sending out the following letter:
To the Presidents and Cashiers of the National Banks of the United States.
To the Presidents and Cashiers of the National Banks in the United States.
Gentlemen—I am now engaged in making a collection of the autographs of the presidents and cashiers of national banks throughout the Union, and to make the collection uniform, I have decided to ask for autographs written at the foot of the national currency bank note of the denomination of $5. I am not sectarian in my religious views, and I only suggest this denomination for the sake of uniformity throughout the album.
Gentlemen—I am currently collecting the autographs of the presidents and cashiers of national banks across the country, and to keep the collection consistent, I've decided to request autographs written at the bottom of the $5 national currency banknote. I am not biased in my religious beliefs, and I am suggesting this denomination solely for the sake of uniformity in the album.
Card collections, cat albums and so forth, may please others, but I prefer to make a collection that shall show future ages who it was that built up our finances, and furnished the sinews of war. Some may look upon this move as a mercenary one, but with me it is a passion. It is not simply a freak, it is a desire of my heart.
Card collections, cat albums, and the like might interest others, but I prefer to create a collection that will show future generations who laid the foundation for our finances and supported the war effort. Some may see this as a selfish act, but for me, it’s a passion. It’s not just a whim; it’s something I truly care about.
In return I would be glad to give my own autograph, either by itself or attached to some little gem of thought which might occur to my mind at the time.
In return, I’d be happy to give my autograph, either on its own or along with a little gem of thought that might come to me at the moment.
I have always taken a great interest in the currency of the country. So far as possible I have made it a study. I have watched its growth, and noted with some regret its natural reserve. I may say that, considering meagre opportunities and isolated advantages afforded me, no one is more familiar with the habits of our national currency than I am. Yet, at times my laboratory has not been so abundantly supplied with specimens as I could have wished. This has been my chief drawback.
I have always been really interested in the country's currency. As much as I could, I've made it a subject of study. I've observed its development and, with some disappointment, its natural caution. I can say that, given the limited opportunities and few advantages I've had, no one knows the behaviors of our national currency better than I do. However, there have been times when my lab hasn't had as many samples as I would have liked. This has been my main limitation.
I began a collection of railroad passes some time ago, intending to file them away and pass the collection down through the dim vista of coming years, but in a rash moment I took a trip of several thousand miles, and those passes were taken up.
I started collecting railroad passes a while back, planning to store them away and pass the collection down through the years to come, but in a spontaneous moment, I went on a trip of several thousand miles, and those passes were used.
I desire, in conclusion, gentlemen, to call your attention to the fact that I have always been your friend and champion. I have never robbed the bank of a personal friend, and if I held your autographs I should deem you my personal friends, and feel in honor bound to discourage any movement looking toward an unjust appropriation of the funds of your bank. The autographs of yourselves in my possession, and my own in your hands, would be regarded as a tacit agreement on my part never to rob your bank. I would even be willing to enter into a contract with you not to break into your vaults, if you insist upon it. I would thus be compelled to confine myself to the stage coaches and railroad trains in a great measure, but I am getting now so I like to spend my evenings at home, anyhow, and if I do well this year, I shall sell my burglars' tools and give myself up to the authorities.
I want to wrap up, gentlemen, by reminding you that I’ve always been your friend and supporter. I’ve never stolen from a personal friend, and if I had your signatures, I would see you as my personal friends and feel obligated to prevent any unfair take of your bank's funds. Having your signatures in my possession and my own in yours would be seen as a silent agreement on my part not to rob your bank. I’d even be open to signing a contract with you promising not to break into your vaults if that’s what you want. This would mean I’d have to stick to robbing stagecoaches and trains for the most part, but honestly, I’ve started to enjoy spending my evenings at home more. If I do well this year, I plan to sell my burglary tools and turn myself in to the authorities.
You will understand, gentlemen, the delicate nature of this request, I trust, and not misconstrue my motives. My intentions are perfectly honorable, and my idea in doing this is, I may say, to supply a long felt want.
You understand, gentlemen, the sensitive nature of this request, I hope, and won't misinterpret my intentions. My goals are completely honorable, and my purpose in making this request is, I would say, to fulfill a long-standing need.
Hoping that what I have said will meet with your approval and hearty cooperation, and that our very friendly business relations, as they have existed in the past, may continue through the years to come, and that your bank may wallow in success till the cows come home, or words to that effect, I beg leave to subscribe myself, yours in favor of one country, one flag and one bank account.
Hoping that what I've said will get your approval and support, and that our friendly business relationship, as it has been in the past, will continue for many years to come, and that your bank thrives until the end of time, or something like that, I respectfully sign off as yours in support of one country, one flag, and one bank account.
A Resign.
Postoffice Divan, Laramie City, W.T., Oct. 1, 1883.
Post Office Divan, Laramie City, W.T., Oct. 1, 1883.
To the President of the United States:
To the President of the United States:
Sir.—I beg leave at this time to officially tender my resignation as postmaster at this place, and in due form to deliver the great seal and the key to the front door of the office. The safe combination is set on the numbers 33, 66 and 99, though I do not remember at this moment which comes first, or how many times you revolve the knob, or which direction you should turn it at first in order to make it operate.
Sir—I'm writing to formally resign from my position as postmaster here, and I’m ready to hand over the great seal and the key to the front door of the office. The safe combination is 33, 66, and 99, but I can’t recall which number comes first, how many times you need to turn the knob, or which direction to start turning it to get it to work.
There is some mining stock in my private drawer in the safe, which I have not yet removed. This stock you may have, if you desire it. It is a luxury, but you may have it. I have decided to keep a horse instead of this mining stock. The horse may not be so pretty, but it will cost less to keep him.
There are some mining stocks in my private drawer in the safe that I haven't taken out yet. You can have this stock if you want it. It’s a luxury, but you can have it. I've decided to keep a horse instead of this mining stock. The horse might not be as nice, but it will be cheaper to take care of.
You will find the postal cards that have not been used under the distributing table, and the coal down in the cellar. If the stove draws too hard, close the damper in the pipe and shut the general delivery window.
You’ll find the unused postcards under the distributing table and the coal in the cellar. If the stove is drawing too much air, close the damper in the pipe and shut the general delivery window.
Looking over my stormy and eventful administration as postmaster here, I find abundant cause for thanksgiving. At the time I entered upon the duties of my office the department was not yet on a paying basis. It was not even self-sustaining. Since that time, with the active co-operation of the chief executive and the heads of the department, I have been able to make our postal system a paying one, and on top of that I am now able to reduce the tariff on average-sized letters from three cents to two. I might add that this is rather too too, but I will not say anything that might seem undignified in an official resignation which is to become a matter of history.
Looking back on my tumultuous and eventful time as postmaster here, I see plenty of reasons to be thankful. When I started my role, the department wasn't operating at a profit. It wasn't even breaking even. Since then, with the strong support of the chief executive and the heads of the department, I've managed to make our postal system profitable, and on top of that, I can now lower the cost of sending a standard letter from three cents to two. I should mention that this change is rather impressive, but I won't say anything that might seem unprofessional in an official resignation that will be recorded in history.
Through all the vicissitudes of a tempestuous term of office I have safely passed. I am able to turn over the office to-day in a highly improved condition, and to present a purified and renovated institution to my successor.
Through all the ups and downs of a turbulent time in office, I've managed to make it through. Today, I'm able to pass on the office in much better shape and hand over a cleaned-up and revitalized institution to my successor.
Acting under the advice of Gen. Hatton, a year ago, I removed the feather bed with which my predecessor, Deacon Hayford, had bolstered up his administration by stuffing the window, and substituted glass. Finding nothing in the book of instructions to postmasters which made the feather bed a part of my official duties, I filed it away in an obscure place and burned it in effigy, also in the gloaming. This act maddened my predecessor to such a degree, that he then and there became a candidate for justice of the peace on the Democratic ticket. The Democratic party was able, however, with what aid it secured from the Republicans, to plow the old man under to a great degree.
Following the advice of Gen. Hatton, a year ago, I got rid of the feather bed that my predecessor, Deacon Hayford, had used to prop up his administration by stuffing the window, and replaced it with glass. Since I found nothing in the postmasters' instruction manual that made the feather bed part of my official duties, I stored it away in an obscure place and burned it in effigy, also in the evening. This drove my predecessor so crazy that he decided to run for justice of the peace on the Democratic ticket. However, the Democratic party, with some help from the Republicans, was able to largely bury the old man’s chances.
{Illustration: STRICT ATTENTION TO BUSINESS.}
{Illustration: FOCUSED ON BUSINESS.}
It was not long after I had taken my official oath before an era of unexampled prosperity opened for the American people. The price of beef rose to a remarkable altitude, and other vegetables commanded a good figure and a ready market. We then began to make active preparations for the introduction of the strawberry-roan two-cent stamps and the black-and-tan postal note. One reform has crowded upon the heels of another, until the country is to-day upon the foam-crested wave of permanent prosperity.
It wasn't long after I had taken my official oath that a time of unprecedented prosperity began for the American people. The price of beef soared to incredible heights, and other crops brought in good prices and had a ready market. We then started making active preparations for the release of the strawberry-roan two-cent stamps and the black-and-tan postal note. One reform has followed another so rapidly that today the country is riding the crest of a wave of lasting prosperity.
Mr. President, I cannot close this letter without thanking yourself and the heads of departments at Washington for your active, cheery and prompt cooperation in these matters. You can do as you see fit, of course, about incorporating this idea into your Thanksgiving proclamation, but rest assured it would not be ill-timed or inopportune. It is not alone a credit to myself, It reflects credit upon the administration also.
Mr. President, I can't finish this letter without thanking you and the department heads in Washington for your active, friendly, and quick cooperation on these matters. You can decide how to incorporate this idea into your Thanksgiving proclamation, but I assure you, it wouldn't be out of place or inappropriate. It's not just a point of pride for me; it also reflects well on the administration.
I need not say that I herewith transmit my resignation with great sorrow and genuine regret. We have toiled on together month after month, asking for no reward except the innate consciousness of rectitude and the salary as fixed by law. Now we are to separate. Here the roads seem to fork, as it were, and you and I, and the cabinet, must leave each other at this point.
I don’t need to say that I’m submitting my resignation with a heavy heart and true regret. We’ve worked together month after month, asking for no reward other than the knowledge that we did what was right and the salary set by law. Now it’s time for us to part ways. It feels like we’ve reached a crossroads, and you, me, and the cabinet must go our separate ways from here.
You will find the key under the door-mat, and you had better turn the cat out at night when you close the office. If she does not go readily, you can make it clearer to her mind by throwing the cancelling stamp at her.
You’ll find the key under the doormat, and you should let the cat out at night when you close the office. If she doesn’t go easily, you can help her understand by tossing the cancellation stamp at her.
If Deacon Hayford does not pay up his box-rent, you might as well put his mail in the general delivery, and when Bob Head gets drunk and insists on a letter from one of his wives every day in the week, you can salute him through the box delivery with an old Queen Anne tomahawk, which you will find near the Etruscan water-pail. This will not in any manner surprise either of these parties.
If Deacon Hayford doesn’t pay his box rent, you might as well put his mail in general delivery. And when Bob Head gets drunk and demands a letter from one of his wives every day of the week, you can greet him through the box delivery with an old Queen Anne tomahawk, which you’ll find next to the Etruscan water pail. This won’t surprise either of them at all.
Tears are unavailing. I once more become a private citizen, clothed only with the right to read such postal cards as may be addressed to me personally, and to curse the inefficiency of the postoffice department. I believe the voting class to be divided into two parties, viz: Those who are in the postal service, and those who are mad because they cannot receive a registered letter every fifteen minutes of each day, including Sunday.
Tears don’t help. I’m just a regular person again, with the only right to read any postcards sent directly to me and to complain about the post office's inefficiency. I think the voting public is split into two groups: those who work for the postal service and those who are frustrated because they can’t get a registered letter every fifteen minutes of every day, even on Sunday.
Mr. President, as an official of this Government I now retire. My term of office would not expire until 1886. I must, therefore, beg pardon for my eccentricity in resigning. It will be best, perhaps, to keep the heart-breaking news from the ears of European powers until the dangers of a financial panic are fully past. Then hurl it broadcast with a sickening thud.
Mr. President, as a representative of this government, I am now stepping down. My term wouldn’t end until 1886. So, I must apologize for my unusual decision to resign. It might be best to keep this heartbreaking news away from European powers until the threat of a financial panic is completely over. Then, announce it widely with a heavy impact.
My Mine.
I have decided to sacrifice another valuable piece of mining property this spring. It would not be sold if I had the necessary capital to develop it. It is a good mine, for I located it myself. I remember well the day I climbed up on the ridge-pole of the universe and nailed my location notice to the eaves of the sky.
I’ve decided to give up another valuable piece of mining land this spring. I wouldn’t sell it if I had the funds to develop it. It’s a good mine because I found it myself. I vividly remember the day I climbed up on the ridge of the world and nailed my claim notice to the edge of the sky.
It was in August that I discovered the Vanderbilt claim in a snow-storm. It cropped out apparently a little southeast of a point where the arc of the orbit of Venus bisects the milky way, and ran due east eighty chains, three links and a swivel, thence south fifteen paces and a half to a blue spot in the sky, thence proceeding west eighty chains, three links of sausage and a half to a fixed star, thence north across the lead to place of beginning.
It was in August when I found the Vanderbilt claim during a snowstorm. It seemed to come out a little southeast of where Venus’s orbit crosses the Milky Way and ran straight east for eighty chains, three links, and a swivel, then south for fifteen paces and half to a blue spot in the sky, then west for eighty chains, three links of sausage, and a half to a fixed star, then north across the lead back to the starting point.
The Vanderbilt set out to be a carbonate deposit, but changed its mind. I sent a piece of the cropping to a man over in Salt Lake, who is a good assayer and quite a scientist, if he would brace up and avoid humor. His assay read as follows to-wit:
The Vanderbilt aimed to be a carbonate deposit but had a change of heart. I sent a sample of the outcrop to a guy over in Salt Lake, who is a skilled assayer and pretty much a scientist, if he could just keep it serious and not make jokes. His assay came back like this:
Salt Lake City, U.T., August 25, 1877.
Salt Lake City, UT, August 25, 1877.
Mr. Bill Nye:—Your specimen of ore No. 35832, current series, has been submitted to assay and shows the following result:
Mr. Bill Nye:—Your sample of ore No. 35832, current series, has been tested and shows the following result:
Metal. Ounces. Value per ton. Gold — — Silver — — Railroad iron 1 — Pyrites of poverty 9 — Parasites of disappointment 90 —
Metal. Ounces. Value per ton. Gold — — Silver — — Railroad iron 1 — Pyrites of poverty 9 — Parasites of disappointment 90 —
McVicker, Assayer.
McVicker, Assayer.
Note.—I also find that the formation is igneous, prehistoric and erroneous. If I were you I would sink a prospect shaft below the vertical slide where the old red brimstone and preadamite slag cross-cut the malachite and intersect the schist. I think that would be schist about as good as anything you could do. Then send me specimens with $2 for assay and we shall see what we shall see.
Note.—I also find that the formation is volcanic, prehistoric, and flawed. If I were you, I would dig a prospect shaft below the vertical slide where the old red sulfur and preadamite slag cut across the malachite and intersect the schist. I think that would be about the best thing you could do. Then send me samples along with $2 for testing, and we’ll see what we find.
Well, I didn't know he was “an humorist,” you see, so I went to work on the Vanderbilt to try and do what Mac. said. I sank a shaft and everything else I could get hold of on that claim. It was so high that we had to carry water up there to drink when we began and before fall we had struck a vein of the richest water you ever saw. We had more water in that mine than the regular army could use.
Well, I didn't realize he was “a comedian,” you see, so I got to work on the Vanderbilt to try and do what Mac said. I dug a shaft and anything else I could grab on that claim. It was so elevated that we had to haul water up there to drink when we started, and before autumn, we had found a vein of the richest water you could imagine. We had more water in that mine than the regular army could use.
When we got down sixty feet I sent some pieces of the pay streak to the assayer again. This time he wrote me quite a letter, and at the same time inclosed the certificate of assay.
When we got down sixty feet, I sent some pieces of the pay streak to the assayer again. This time, he wrote me a longer letter and also enclosed the assay certificate.
Salt Lake City, U.T., October 3, 1877.
Salt Lake City, UT, October 3, 1877.
Mr. Bill Nye:—Your specimen of ore No. 36132, current series, has been submitted to assay and shows the following result:
Mr. Bill Nye:—Your ore sample No. 36132, current series, has been tested and shows the following result:
Metal. Ounces. Value per ton. Gold — — Silver — — Railroad iron 1 — Pyrites of poverty 9 — Parasites of disappointment 90 —
Metal. Ounces. Value per ton. Gold — — Silver — — Railroad iron 1 — Pyrites of poverty 9 — Parasites of disappointment 90 —
McVicker, Assayer.
McVicker, Assayer.
In the letter he said there was, no doubt, something in the claim if I could get the true contact with calcimine walls denoting a true fissure. He thought I ought to run a drift. I told him I had already run adrift.
In the letter, he mentioned that there was definitely something to the claim if I could make direct contact with the calcimine walls indicating a real fissure. He suggested that I should dig a drift. I told him I had already gone adrift.
Then he said to stope out my stove polish ore and sell it for enough to go on with the development. I tried that, but capital seemed coy. Others had been there before me and capital bade me soak my head and said other things which grated harshly on my sensitive nature.
Then he told me to take out my stove polish and sell it for enough to continue the project. I tried that, but investors were hard to reach. Others had already tried, and investors told me to get lost and said other things that rubbed me the wrong way.
The Vanderbilt mine, with all its dips, spurs, angles, variations, veins, sinuosities, rights, titles, franchises, prerogatives and assessments is now for sale. I sell it in order to raise the necessary funds for the development of the Governor of North Carolina. I had so much trouble with water in the Vanderbilt, that I named the new claim the Governor of North Carolina, because he was always dry.
The Vanderbilt mine, with all its dips, spurs, angles, variations, veins, twists, rights, titles, franchises, privileges, and assessments is now up for sale. I'm selling it to raise the necessary funds for the Governor of North Carolina's development. I had so much trouble with water in the Vanderbilt that I named the new claim the Governor of North Carolina because he was always dry.
Mush and Melody.
Lately I have been giving a good deal of attention to hygiene—in other people. The gentle reader will notice that, as a rule, the man who gives the most time and thought to this subject is an invalid himself; just as the young theological student devotes his first sermon to the care of children, and the ward politician talks the smoothest on the subject of how and when to plant ruta-bagas or wean a calf from the parent stem.
Lately, I've been paying a lot of attention to hygiene—in other people. The reader will notice that, usually, the person who focuses the most on this topic is someone who's sick themselves; just like the young theology student who dedicates their first sermon to taking care of children, and the local politician who speaks the most smoothly about how and when to plant rutabagas or wean a calf from its mother.
Having been thrown into the society of physicians a great deal the past two years, mostly in the role of patient, I have given some study to the human form; its structure and idiosyncracies, as it were. Perhaps few men in the same length of time have successfully acquired a larger or more select repertoire of choice diseases than I have. I do not say this boastfully. I simply desire to call the attention of our growing youth to the glorious possibilities that await the ambitious and enterprising in this line.
Having spent a lot of time around doctors over the past two years, mostly as a patient, I've taken a closer look at the human body—its structure and quirks, so to speak. I might have learned about more unique diseases in this time than many others. I'm not saying this to brag; I just want to highlight the amazing opportunities that await those who are ambitious and proactive in this field.
Starting out as a poor boy, with few advantages in the way of disease, I have resolutely carved my way up to the dizzy heights of fame as a chronic invalid and drug-soaked relic of other days. I inherited no disease whatever. My ancestors were poor and healthy. They bequeathed me no snug little nucleus of fashionable malaria such as other boys had. I was obliged to acquire it myself. Yet I was not discouraged. The results have shown that disease is not alone the heritage of the wealthy and the great. The poorest of us may become eminent invalids if we will only go at it in the right way. But I started out to say something on the subject of health, for there are still many common people who would rather be healthy and unknown than obtain distinction with some dazzling new disease.
Starting out as a poor kid, with few advantages when it came to illness, I have worked my way up to the lofty heights of fame as a chronic sick person and a drug-addled relic of the past. I didn’t inherit any illness at all. My ancestors were poor and healthy. They didn’t leave me any comfy little share of trendy diseases like other kids had. I had to pick it up on my own. But I didn’t let that get me down. The results have shown that health issues aren't just for the wealthy and powerful. Even the poorest among us can become famous invalids if we just go about it the right way. But I meant to say something about health, because there are still many ordinary people who would rather be healthy and unknown than gain fame with some flashy new illness.
Noticing many years ago that imperfect mastication and dyspepsia walked hand in hand, so to speak, Mr. Gladstone adopted in his family a regular mastication scale; for instance, thirty-two bites for steak, twenty-two for fish, and so forth. Now I take this idea and improve upon it. Two statesmen can always act better in concert if they will do so.
Noticing many years ago that poor chewing and indigestion often go together, Mr. Gladstone established a chewing routine in his family; for example, thirty-two chews for steak, twenty-two for fish, and so on. Now I take this idea and enhance it. Two politicians can always work better together if they choose to do so.
With Mr. Gladstone's knowledge of the laws of health and my own musical genius, I have hit on a way to make eating not only a duty, but a pleasure. Eating is too frequently irksome. There is nothing about it to make it attractive.
With Mr. Gladstone's understanding of health principles and my own musical talent, I've found a way to make eating not just a responsibility, but enjoyable. Eating often feels tedious. There's nothing about it that makes it appealing.
What we need is a union of mush and melody, if I may be allowed that expression. Mr. Gladstone has given us the graduated scale, so that we know just what metre a bill of fare goes in as quick as we look at it. In this way the day is not far distant when music and mastication will march down through the dim vista of years together.
What we need is a blend of softness and song, if I can put it that way. Mr. Gladstone has given us the graduated scale, so we can quickly see what rhythm a menu follows as soon as we look at it. This way, it won’t be long before music and eating go hand in hand through the years to come.
The Baked Bean Chant, the Vermicelli Waltz, the Mush and Milk March, the sad and touchful Pumpkin Pie Refrain, the gay and rollicking Oxtail Soup Gallop, and the melting Ice Cream Serenade will yet be common musical names.
The Baked Bean Chant, the Vermicelli Waltz, the Mush and Milk March, the sad and heartfelt Pumpkin Pie Refrain, the lively and fun Oxtail Soup Gallop, and the delightful Ice Cream Serenade will eventually be popular song titles.
Taking different classes of food, I have set them to music in such a way that the meal, for instance, may open with a Soup Overture, to be followed by a Roast Beef March in C, and so on, closing with a kind of Mince Pie La Somnambula pianissimo in G. Space, of course, forbids an extended description of this idea as I propose to carry it out, but the conception is certainly grand. Let us picture the jaws of a whole family moving in exact time to a Strauss waltz on the silent remains of the late lamented hen, and we see at once how much real pleasure may be added to the process of mastication.
Taking different types of food, I've set them to music in a way that the meal, for example, could start with a Soup Overture, followed by a Roast Beef March in C, and so on, finishing with a kind of Mince Pie La Somnambula pianissimo in G. Of course, space doesn't allow for a detailed description of this idea as I plan to execute it, but the concept is certainly grand. Imagine the jaws of an entire family moving in perfect time to a Strauss waltz over the silent remains of the dearly departed hen, and it's clear how much real enjoyment can be added to the act of eating.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
The Blase Young Man.
I have just formed the acquaintance of a blase young man. I have been on an extended trip with him. He is about twenty-two years old, but he is already weary of life. He was very careful all the time never to be exuberant. No matter how beautiful the landscape, he never allowed himself to exube.
I just met a blase young man. I've been on a long trip with him. He's about twenty-two years old, but he's already tired of life. He was always very careful not to be overly enthusiastic. No matter how beautiful the scenery was, he never let himself get excited.
Several times I succeeded in startling him enough to say “Ah!” but that was all. He had the air all the time of a man who had been reared in luxury and fondled so much in the lap of wealth that he was weary of life, and yearned for a bright immortality. I have often wished that the pruning-hook of time would use a little more discretion. The blase young man seemed to be tired all the time. He was weary of life because life was hollow.
Several times I managed to surprise him enough to make him say “Ah!” but that was about it. He always gave off the vibe of someone who had been raised in luxury and spoiled so much by wealth that he was exhausted by life and longed for a vibrant afterlife. I’ve often wished that time would be a bit more careful with its choices. The blase young man seemed to be constantly tired. He was worn out by life because it felt so empty.
He seemed to hanker for the cool and quiet grave. I wished at times that the hankering might have been more mutual. But what does a cool, quiet grave want of a young man who never did anything but breathe the nice pure air into his froggy lungs and spoil it for everybody else?
He seemed to long for the cool and quiet grave. Sometimes I wished that longing was more mutual. But what does a cool, quiet grave want with a young man who only took in the nice, clean air and spoiled it for everyone else?
This young man had a large grip-sack with him which he frequently consulted. I glanced into it once while he left it open. It was not right, but I did it. I saw the following articles in it:
This young man had a big duffel bag with him that he checked often. I took a look inside once while he left it open. It wasn't polite, but I did it anyway. I saw these items in it:
31 Assorted Neckties.
1 pair Socks (whole).
1 pair do. (not so whole).
17 Collars.
1 Shirt
1 quart Cuff-Buttons.
1 suit discouraged Gauze Underwear.
1 box Speckled Handkerchiefs.
1 box Condition Powders.
1 Toothbrush (prematurely bald).
1 copy Martin F. Tupper's Works.
1 box Prepared Chalk.
1 Pair Tweezers for encouraging Moustache to come out to breakfast.
1 Powder Rag.
1 Gob ecru-colored Taffy.
1 Hair-brush, with Ginger Hair in it.
1 Pencil to pencil Moustache at night.
1 Bread and Milk Poultice to put on Moustache on retiring, so that it will
not forget to come out again the next day.
1 Box Trix for the breath.
1 Box Chloride of Lime to use in case breath becomes unmanageable.
1 Ear-spoon (large size).
1 Plain Mourning Head for Cane.
1 Vulcanized Rubber Head for Cane (to bite on).
1 Shoe-horn to use in working Ears into Ear-Muffs.
1 Pair Corsets.
1 Dark-brown Wash for Mouth, to be used in the morning.
1 Large Box Ennui, to be used in Society.
1 Box Spruce Gum, made in Chicago and warranted pure.
1 Gallon Assorted Shirt Studs.
1 Polka-dot Handkerchief to pin in side pocket, but not for nose.
1 Plain Handkerchief for nose.
1 Fancy Head for Cane (morning).
1 Fancy Head for Cane (evening).
1 Picnic Head for Cane.
1 Bottle Peppermint.
1 do. Catnip.
1 Waterbury Watch.
7 Chains for same.
1 Box Letter Paper.
1 Stick Sealing Wax (baby blue).
1 do “ (Bismarck brindle).
1 do “ (mashed gooseberry).
1 Seal for same.
1 Family Crest (wash-tub rampant on a field calico).
31 Assorted Neckties. 1 Pair of Socks (whole). 1 Pair of Socks (not so whole). 17 Collars. 1 Shirt. 1 Quart of Cuff Buttons. 1 Suit of discouraged Gauze Underwear. 1 Box of Speckled Handkerchiefs. 1 Box of Condition Powders. 1 Toothbrush (prematurely bald). 1 Copy of Martin F. Tupper's Works. 1 Box of Prepared Chalk. 1 Pair of Tweezers to help Moustache grow. 1 Powder Rag. 1 Gob of ecru-colored Taffy. 1 Hairbrush, with Ginger Hair in it. 1 Pencil for touching up Moustache at night. 1 Bread and Milk Poultice for Moustache at bedtime, so it won't forget to show up the next day. 1 Box of Trix for breath. 1 Box of Chloride of Lime for when breath gets out of hand. 1 Large Ear Spoon. 1 Plain Mourning Head for Cane. 1 Vulcanized Rubber Head for Cane (to bite on). 1 Shoe Horn for getting Ears into Ear Muffs. 1 Pair of Corsets. 1 Dark Brown Mouthwash for morning use. 1 Large Box of Ennui for use in Society. 1 Box of Spruce Gum, made in Chicago and guaranteed pure. 1 Gallon of Assorted Shirt Studs. 1 Polka-Dot Handkerchief to pin in side pocket, but not for nose. 1 Plain Handkerchief for nose. 1 Fancy Head for Cane (morning). 1 Fancy Head for Cane (evening). 1 Picnic Head for Cane. 1 Bottle of Peppermint. 1 Bottle of Catnip. 1 Waterbury Watch. 7 Chains for it. 1 Box of Letter Paper. 1 Stick of Sealing Wax (baby blue). 1 Stick of Sealing Wax (Bismarck brindle). 1 Stick of Sealing Wax (mashed gooseberry). 1 Seal for the same. 1 Family Crest (wash-tub rampant on a calico field).
{Illustration: HE IS NIX BONUM.}
{Illustration: HE IS NIX BONUM.}
There were other little articles of virtu and bric-a-brac till you couldn't rest, but these were all that I could see thoroughly before he returned from the wash-room.
There were other small items of art and knick-knacks that were overwhelming, but these were all I could fully see before he came back from the bathroom.
I do not like the blase young man as a traveling companion. He is nix bonum. He is too E pluribus for me. He is not de trop or sciatica enough to suit my style.
I don't like the blase young man as a travel buddy. He is nix bonum. He is too E pluribus for my taste. He is not de trop or sciatica enough to match my style.
If he belonged to me I would picket him out somewhere in a hostile Indian country, and then try to nerve myself up for the result.
If he were mine, I would stake him out somewhere in dangerous Indian territory and then try to prepare myself for what would happen next.
It is better to go through life reading the signs on the ten-story buildings and acquiring knowledge, than to dawdle and “Ah!” adown our pathway to the tomb and leave no record for posterity except that we had a good neck to pin a necktie upon. It is not pleasant to be called green, but I would rather be green and aspiring than blase and hide-bound at nineteen.
It’s better to navigate life by noticing the signs on ten-story buildings and gaining knowledge than to waste time and just “ah!” our way to the grave, leaving nothing for future generations except that we had a nice neck to wear a tie on. It’s not great to be called naive, but I’d rather be naive and striving than indifferent and stuck in my ways at nineteen.
Let us so live that when at last we pass away our friends will not be immediately and uproariously reconciled to our death.
Let’s live in a way that when we finally pass away, our friends won’t be quickly and cheerfully okay with our death.
History of Babylon.
The history of Babylon is fraught with sadness. It illustrates, only too painfully, that the people of a town make or mar its success rather than the natural resources and advantages it may possess on the start.
The history of Babylon is filled with sorrow. It clearly shows that the people of a town are more responsible for its success or failure than the natural resources and advantages it might have from the beginning.
Thus Babylon, with 3,000 years the start of Minneapolis, is to-day a hole in the ground, while Minneapolis socks her XXXX flour into every corner of the globe, and the price of real estate would make a common dynasty totter on its throne.
Thus Babylon, with 3,000 years being older than Minneapolis, is now just a hole in the ground, while Minneapolis sends its XXXX flour to every corner of the globe, and the price of real estate would make a typical dynasty wobble on its throne.
Babylon is a good illustration of the decay of a town that does not keep up with the procession. Compare her to-day with Kansas City. While Babylon was the capital of Chaldea, 1,270 years before the birth of Christ, and Kansas City was organized so many years after that event that many of the people there have forgotten all about it, Kansas City has doubled her population in ten years, while Babylon is simply a gothic hole in the ground.
Babylon is a perfect example of a city that has fallen behind. When you compare it to Kansas City today, it's striking. Babylon was the capital of Chaldea, 1,270 years before Christ was born, while Kansas City was established long after that, to the point that many people there may not even remember it. Kansas City has doubled its population in just ten years, whereas Babylon is now nothing but a gothic pit in the ground.
Why did trade and emigration turn their backs upon Babylon and seek out Minneapolis, St. Paul, Kansas City and Omaha? Was it because they were blest with a bluer sky or a more genial sun? Not by any means. While Babylon lived upon what she had been and neglected to advertise, other towns with no history extending back into the mouldy past, whooped with an exceeding great whoop and tore up the ground and shed printers' ink and showed marked signs of vitality. That is the reason that Babylon is no more.
Why did trade and people move away from Babylon to places like Minneapolis, St. Paul, Kansas City, and Omaha? Was it because these places had a nicer sky or better weather? Definitely not. While Babylon relied on its past glory and failed to promote itself, other cities without a long history were busy drawing attention to themselves, making noise, investing in advertising, and showing clear signs of growth. That’s why Babylon is no longer thriving.
This life of ours is one of intense activity. We cannot rest long in idleness without inviting forgetfulness, death and oblivion. “Babylon was probably the largest and most magnificent city of the ancient world.” Isaiah, who lived about 300 years before Herodotus, and whose remarks are unusually free from local or political prejudice, refers to Babylon as “the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldic's excellency,” and, yet, while Cheyenne has the electric light and two daily papers, Babylon hasn't got so much as a skating rink.
This life of ours is one of constant activity. We can't stay idle for long without risking forgetfulness, death, and being forgotten. “Babylon was probably the largest and most magnificent city of the ancient world.” Isaiah, who lived around 300 years before Herodotus, and whose comments are notably unbiased by local or political views, refers to Babylon as “the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldeans' excellence,” and yet, while Cheyenne has electric lights and two daily newspapers, Babylon doesn't even have a skating rink.
A city fourteen miles square with a brick wall around it 355 feet high, she has quietly forgotten to advertise, and in turn she, also, is forgotten.
A city that’s fourteen miles square with a brick wall around it that's 355 feet high, she has quietly stopped promoting, and as a result, she is also forgotten.
Babylon was remarkable for the two beautiful palaces, one on each side of the river, and the great temple of Belus. Connected with one of these palaces was the hanging garden, regarded by the Greeks as one of the seven wonders of the world, but that was prior to the erection of the Washington monument and civil service reform.
Babylon was impressive for its two stunning palaces, one on each side of the river, and the grand temple of Belus. One of these palaces was connected to the hanging garden, which the Greeks considered one of the seven wonders of the world, but that was before the construction of the Washington monument and civil service reform.
This was a square of 400 Greek feet on each side. The Greek foot was not so long as the modern foot introduced by Miss Mills, of Ohio. This garden was supported on several tiers of open arches, built one over the other, like the walls of a classic theatre, and sustaining at each stage, or story, a solid platform from which the arches of the next story sprung. This structure was also supported by the common council of Babylon, who came forward with the city funds, and helped to sustain the immense weight.
This was a square measuring 400 Greek feet on each side. The Greek foot wasn't as long as the modern foot introduced by Miss Mills from Ohio. This garden was held up by several levels of open arches, stacked on top of each other like the walls of a classic theater, and supporting a solid platform at each level where the arches of the next level emerged. This structure was also backed by the common council of Babylon, who provided city funds to help support the immense weight.
It is presumed that Nebuchadnezzar erected this garden before his mind became affected. The tower of Belus, supposed by historians with a good memory to have been 600 feet high, as there is still a red chalk mark in the sky where the top came, was a great thing in its way. I am glad I was not contiguous to it when it fell, and also that I had omitted being born prior to that time.
It’s believed that Nebuchadnezzar built this garden before he lost his sanity. The Tower of Belus, which historians with good memories estimate to have been 600 feet tall, still has a red chalk mark in the sky where its top used to be. It was quite an impressive structure. I'm glad I wasn’t nearby when it collapsed, and I’m also thankful I wasn’t born before that time.
“When we turn from this picture of the past,” says the historian, Rawlinson, referring to the beauties of Babylon, “to contemplate the present condition of these localities, we are at first struck with astonishment at the small traces which remain of so vast and wonderful a metropolis. The broad walls of Babylon are utterly broken down. God has swept it with the besom of destruction.”
“When we look away from this image of the past,” says the historian Rawlinson, referring to the beauty of Babylon, “and consider the current state of these places, we are initially amazed by how little remains of such a vast and incredible city. The massive walls of Babylon are completely fallen. God has wiped it out as if with a broom of destruction.”
One cannot help wondering why the use of the besom should have been abandoned. As we gaze upon the former site of Babylon we are forced to admit that the new besom sweeps clean. On its old site no crumbling arches or broken columns are found to indicate her former beauty. Here and there huge heaps of debris alone indicate that here Godless wealth and wicked, selfish, indolent, enervating, ephemeral pomp, rose and defied the supreme laws to which the bloated, selfish millionaire and the hard-handed, hungry laborer alike must bow, and they are dust to-day.
One can't help but wonder why the broom has been abandoned. As we look at the former site of Babylon, we have to admit that the new broom sweeps clean. In its old location, there are no crumbling arches or broken columns to show its former beauty. Here and there, huge piles of rubble indicate that in this place, godless wealth and wicked, selfish, lazy indulgence once flourished and challenged the ultimate laws that both the greedy millionaire and the hard-working laborer must respect, and now they are just dust.
Babylon has fallen. I do not say this in a sensational way or to depreciate the value of real estate there, but from actual observation, and after a full investigation, I assent without fear of successful contradiction, that Babylon has seen her best days. Her boomlet is busted, and, to use a political phrase, her oriental hide is on the Chaldean fence.
Babylon has fallen. I don't say this to be dramatic or to undermine the value of real estate there, but based on actual observation, and after a thorough investigation, I confidently assert that Babylon has seen its best days. Its short-lived boom is over, and, to use a political phrase, its eastern appeal is out to dry on the Chaldean fence.
Such is life. We enter upon it reluctantly; we wade through it doubtfully, and die at last timidly. How we Americans do blow about what we can do before breakfast, and, yet, even in our own brief history, how we have demonstrated what a little thing the common two-legged man is. He rises up rapidly to acquire much wealth, and if he delays about going to Canada he goes to Sing Sing, and we forget about him. There are lots of modern Babylonians in New York City to-day, and if it were my business I would call their attention to it. The assertion that gold will procure all things has been so common and so popular that too many consider first the bank account, and after that honor, home, religion, humanity and common decency. Even some of the churches have fallen into the notion that first comes the tall church, then the debt and mortgage, the ice cream sociable and the kingdom of Heaven. Cash and Christianity go hand in hand sometimes, but Christianity ought not to confer respectability on anybody who comes into the church to purchase it.
Such is life. We step into it hesitantly; we navigate through it uncertainly, and ultimately die with apprehension. We Americans make a lot of noise about what we can accomplish before breakfast, yet even in our short history, we’ve shown how insignificant the average person is. He rises quickly to amass great wealth, and if he hesitates about going to Canada, he ends up in Sing Sing, and we forget about him. There are many modern-day Babylonians in New York City today, and if I were in charge, I would point this out. The idea that money can buy everything has become so prevalent that too many people think first about their bank account and then about honor, home, religion, humanity, and basic decency. Even some churches have embraced the notion that first comes the big building, then the debt and mortgage, social events, and the kingdom of Heaven. Cash and Christianity sometimes go together, but Christianity shouldn’t lend respectability to anyone who comes to the church just to buy it.
I often think of the closing appeal of the old preacher, who was more earnest than refined, perhaps, and in winding up his brief sermon on the Christian life, said: “A man may lose all his wealth and get poor and hungry and still recover, he may lose his health and come down close to the dark stream and still git well again, but, when he loses his immortal soul it is good-bye John.”
I often think of the final plea from the old preacher, who was more passionate than polished, perhaps, and as he wrapped up his short sermon on Christian living, he said: “A man can lose all his wealth and end up poor and hungry, and still bounce back. He can lose his health and get really close to death, and still get better again. But when he loses his immortal soul, it’s goodbye, John.”
Lovely Horrors.
I dropped in the other day to see New York's great congress of wax figures and soft statuary carnival. It is quite a success. The first thing you do on entering is to contribute to the pedestal fund. New York this spring is mostly a large rectangular box with a hole in the top, through which the genial public is cordially requested to slide a dollar to give the goddess of liberty a boom.
I stopped by the other day to check out New York's amazing congress of wax figures and the carnival of soft sculptures. It's quite a hit. The first thing you do when you walk in is contribute to the pedestal fund. New York this spring is mostly a big rectangular box with a hole in the top, through which the friendly public is warmly invited to slide in a dollar to give the goddess of liberty some support.
I was astonished and appalled at the wealth of apertures in Gotham through which I was expected to slide a dime to assist some deserving object. Every little while you run into a free-lunch room where there is a model ship that will start up and operate if you feed it with a nickle. I never visited a town that offered so many inducements for early and judicious investments as New York.
I was amazed and shocked by the number of ways in Gotham that I was expected to drop a dime to help some worthy cause. Every now and then, you come across a free-lunch place that has a model ship that will start and run if you give it a nickel. I have never been to a city that offered so many tempting opportunities for smart investments as New York.
But we were speaking of the wax works. I did not tarry long to notice the presidents of the United States embalmed in wax, or to listen to the band of lutists who furnished music in the winter garden. I ascertained where the chamber of horrors was located, and went there at once. It is lovely. I have never seen a more successful aggregation of horrors under one roof and at one price of admission.
But we were talking about the wax figures. I didn’t stick around to check out the wax presidents of the United States or to listen to the band of lute players providing music in the winter garden. I found out where the chamber of horrors was and went there right away. It's amazing. I've never seen such a successful collection of horrors all under one roof and for just one ticket price.
If you want to be shocked at cost, or have your pores opened for a merely nominal price, and see a show that you will never forget as long as you live, that is the place to find it. I never invested my money so as to get so large a return for it, because I frequently see the whole show yet in the middle of the night, and the cold perspiration ripples down my spinal column just as it did the first time I saw it.
If you want to be blown away by the price, or have a real experience for just a small fee, and see a show that you’ll remember for the rest of your life, that’s the place to go. I’ve never spent my money and gotten such a huge return on it because I often find myself replaying the entire show in the middle of the night, and the chills run down my spine just like they did the first time I watched it.
The chamber of horrors certainly furnishes a very durable show. I don't think I was ever more successfully or economically horrified.
The chamber of horrors definitely provides a long-lasting experience. I don’t think I’ve ever been frightened so effectively and affordably.
I got quite nervous after a while, standing in the dim religious light watching the lovely horrors. But it is the saving of money that I look at most. I have known men to pay out thousands of dollars for a collection of delirium tremens and new-laid horrors no better than these that you get on week days for fifty cents and on Sundays for two bits. Certainly New York is the place where you get your money's worth.
I started to feel pretty anxious after a while, standing in the dim, sacred light watching the beautiful nightmares. But what I pay attention to the most is saving money. I've seen guys spend thousands of dollars on a collection of delirium tremens and fresh nightmares that aren't any better than the ones you can get on weekdays for fifty cents and on Sundays for two bits. New York is definitely the place where you get your money's worth.
There are horrors there in that crypt that are well worth double the price of admission. One peculiarity of the chamber of horrors is that you finally get nervous when anyone touches you, and you immediately suspect that he is a horror who has come out of his crypt to get a breath of fresh air and stretch his legs.
There are terrifying things in that crypt that are worth way more than the ticket price. One strange thing about the chamber of horrors is that you start to feel anxious whenever someone touches you, and you instantly think that they might be one of the horrors that has come out of their crypt for some fresh air and a little exercise.
{Illustration: HE WAS GREATLY ANNOYED.}
{Illustration: HE WAS REALLY ANNOYED.}
That is the reason I shuddered a little when I felt a man's hand in my pocket. It was so unexpected, and the surroundings were such that I must have appeared startled. The man was a stranger to me, though I could see that he was a perfect gentleman. His clothes were superior to mine in every way, and he had a certain refinement of manners which betrayed his ill-concealed Knickerbocker lineage high.
That’s why I flinched slightly when I felt a man’s hand in my pocket. It was so unexpected, and the situation was such that I must have looked taken aback. The man was a stranger to me, but I could tell he was a complete gentleman. His clothes were way nicer than mine, and he had a certain refined way of carrying himself that revealed his obvious upper-class background.
I said, “Sir, you will find my fine cut tobacco in the other pocket.” This startled him so that he wheeled about and wildly dashed into the arms of a wax policeman near the door. When he discovered that he was in the clutches of a suit of second-hand clothes filled with wax, he seemed to be greatly annoyed and strode rapidly away.
I said, “Sir, you’ll find my good cut tobacco in the other pocket.” This caught him off guard, and he spun around, almost crashing into a wax policeman by the door. When he realized he was stuck in the grip of a suit of used clothes filled with wax, he looked really annoyed and quickly walked away.
I returned to view a chaste and truthful scene where one man had successfully killed another with a club. I leaned pensively against a column with my own spinal column, wrapped in thought.
I went back to see a pure and honest scene where one man had managed to kill another with a club. I leaned thoughtfully against a column, deep in my own thoughts.
Pretty soon a young gentleman from New Jersey with an Adam's apple on him like a full-grown yam, and accompanied by a young lady also from the mosquito jungles of Jersey, touched me on the bosom with his umbrella and began to explain me to his companion.
Pretty soon, a young guy from New Jersey with an Adam's apple as big as a full-grown yam, and accompanied by a young lady also from the mosquito-infested swamps of Jersey, poked me in the chest with his umbrella and started to explain me to his companion.
{Illustration: THIS IS JESSE JAMES.}
{Illustration: THIS IS JESSE JAMES.}
“This,” said the Adam's apple with the young man attached to it, “is Jesse James, the great outlaw chief from Missouri. How life-like he is. Little would you think, Emeline, that he would as soon disembowel a bank, kill the entire board of directors of a railroad company and ride off the rolling stock, as you would wrap yourself around a doughnut. How tender and kind he looks. He not only looks gentle and peaceful, but he looks to me as if he wasn't real bright.”
“This,” said the Adam's apple with the young man attached to it, “is Jesse James, the famous outlaw leader from Missouri. He looks so lifelike. You wouldn't believe, Emeline, that he would just as easily rob a bank, take out the whole board of directors of a railroad company, and ride off with their trains as you would wrap yourself around a doughnut. He looks so gentle and kind. Not only does he seem peaceful, but to me, he also looks a bit dim.”
I then uttered a piercing shriek and the young man from New Jersey went away. Nothing is so embarrassing to an eminent man as to stand quietly near and hear people discuss him.
I then let out a loud scream, and the young man from New Jersey left. There's nothing more embarrassing for a prominent person than to stand nearby and hear others talk about him.
But it is remarkable to see people get fooled at a wax show. Every day a wax figure is taken for a live man, and live people are mistaken for wax. I took hold of a waxen hand in one corner of the winter garden to see if the ring was a real diamond, and it flew up and took me across the ear in such a life-like manner that my ear is still hot and there is a roaring in my head that sounds very disagreeable, indeed.
But it's amazing to see how easily people get tricked at a wax exhibit. Every day, a wax figure is thought to be a real person, and real people are mistaken for wax. I grabbed a wax hand in one corner of the winter garden to check if the ring was a real diamond, and it flew up and slapped me across the face in such a lifelike way that my ear is still hot and there’s a loud ringing in my head that sounds quite unpleasant.
The Bite of a Mad Dog.
A “Family Physician,” published in 1883, says, for the bite of a mad dog: “Take ash-colored ground liverwort, cleaned, dried, and powdered, half an ounce; of black pepper, powdered, a quarter of an ounce. Mix these well together, and divide the powder into four doses, one of which must be taken every morning, fasting, for four mornings successively in half an English pint of cow's milk, warm. After these four doses are taken, the patient must go into the cold bath, or a cold spring or river, every morning, fasting, for a month. He must be dipped all over, but not stay in (with his head above water) longer than half a minute if the water is very cold. After this he must go in three times a week for a fortnight longer. He must be bled before he begins to take the medicine.”
A “Family Physician,” published in 1883, states for the bite of a rabid dog: “Take half an ounce of ash-colored ground liverwort, cleaned, dried, and powdered; and a quarter of an ounce of powdered black pepper. Mix these thoroughly and divide the powder into four doses, one of which should be taken every morning on an empty stomach for four consecutive mornings, mixed with half a pint of warm cow's milk. After taking these four doses, the patient must have a cold bath, or go to a cold spring or river, every morning on an empty stomach for a month. He should be fully immersed, but not stay in (with his head above water) for more than half a minute if the water is very cold. After this, he should go in three times a week for an additional two weeks. He must be bled before he starts taking the medicine.”
It is very difficult to know just what is best to do when a person is bitten by a mad dog, but my own advice would be to kill the dog. After that feel of the leg where bitten, and ascertain how serious the injury has been. Then go home and put on another pair of pantaloons, throwing away those that have been lacerated. Parties having but one pair of pantaloons will have to sequester themselves or excite remarks. Then take a cold bath, as suggested above, but do not remain in the bath (with the head above water) more than half an hour. If the head is under water, you may remain in the bath until the funeral, if you think best.
It’s really tough to know the best course of action when someone gets bitten by a rabid dog, but I’d say the best move is to put the dog down. After that, check the bite on your leg to see how serious the injury is. Then go home and change into another pair of pants, throwing away the ones that got torn. If you only have one pair of pants, you’ll need to stay in or deal with people asking questions. Next, take a cold bath as mentioned earlier, but don’t stay in the bath (with your head above water) for more than half an hour. If your head goes underwater, you can stay in the bath until the funeral, if you think that’s the right choice.
When going into the bath it would be well to take something in your pocket to bite, in case the desire to bite something should overcome you. Some use a common shingle-nail for this purpose, while others prefer a personal friend. In any event, do not bite a total stranger on an empty stomach. It might make you ill.
When you get into the bath, it's a good idea to bring something to bite on, just in case you feel the urge to chew on something. Some people carry a regular shingle nail for this, while others prefer to have a close friend on hand. Either way, avoid biting a complete stranger on an empty stomach; it could make you sick.
Never catch a dog by the tail if he has hydrophobia. Although that end of the dog is considered the most safe, you never know when a mad dog may reverse himself.
Never grab a dog by the tail if it has rabies. Even though that part of the dog is thought to be the safest, you never know when a crazed dog might turn around.
If you meet a mad dog on the street, do not stop and try to quell him with a glance of the eye. Many have tried to do that, and it took several days to separate the two and tell which was mad dog and which was queller.
If you come across a crazy dog on the street, don’t stop and try to calm it down with just a look. Many have attempted that, and it took several days to figure out which one was the crazy dog and which one was the one trying to calm it.
The real hydrophobia dog generally ignores kindness, and devotes himself mostly to the introduction of his justly celebrated virus. A good thing to do on observing the approach of a mad dog is to flee, and remain fled until he has disappeared.
The real rabid dog usually ignores kindness and focuses primarily on spreading his well-known virus. When you see a rabid dog coming, the best thing to do is run away and stay away until he’s gone.
Hunting mad dogs in a crowded street is great sport. A young man with a new revolver shooting at a mad dog is a fine sight. He may not kill the dog, but he might shoot into a covey of little children and possibly get one.
Hunting rabid dogs in a busy street is quite the thrill. A young guy with a new revolver taking shots at a rabid dog looks impressive. He might not take down the dog, but he could end up shooting into a group of little kids and maybe hit one.
It would be a good plan to have a balloon inflated and tied in the back yard during the season in which mad dogs mature, and get into it on the approach of the infuriated animal (get into the balloon, I mean, not the dog).
It would be a smart idea to have a balloon inflated and tied up in the backyard during the time when rabid dogs are around, and to climb into it when the angry dog comes close (I mean getting into the balloon, not the dog).
This plan would not work well, however, in case a cyclone should come at the same time. When we consider all the uncertainties of life, and the danger from hydrophobia, cyclones and breach of promise, it seems sometimes as though the penitentiary was the only place where a man could be absolutely free from anxiety.
This plan wouldn't go well if a cyclone hit at the same time. When we think about all the uncertainties in life, along with the risks of hydrophobia, cyclones, and broken promises, it feels like the only place a person could be completely free from worry is in prison.
If you discover that your dog has hydrophobia, it is absolutely foolish to try to cure him of the disease. The best plan is to trade him off at once for anything you can get. Do not stop to haggle over the price, but close him right out below cost.
If you find out that your dog has rabies, it's completely pointless to try to treat him for the illness. The best move is to get rid of him immediately for whatever you can. Don't waste time negotiating the price, just sell him off quickly even if it’s at a loss.
Do not tie a tin can to the tail of a mad dog. It only irritates him, and he might resent it before you get the can tied on. A friend of mine, who was a practical joker, once sought to tie a tin can to the tail of a mad dog on an empty stomach. His widow still points with pride to the marks of his teeth on the piano. If mad dogs would confine themselves exclusively to practical jokers, I would be glad to endow a home for indigent mad dogs out of my own private funds.
Don't tie a tin can to the tail of a crazy dog. It just annoys him, and he might be upset before you even get the can attached. A friend of mine, who loved playing pranks, once tried to tie a tin can to the tail of a crazy dog on an empty stomach. His widow still proudly shows off the bite marks he left on the piano. If crazy dogs only went after pranksters, I’d be happy to fund a shelter for poor crazy dogs with my own money.
Arnold Winkelreid.
This great man lived in the old romantic days when it was a common thing for a patriot to lay down his life that his country might live. He knew not fear, and in his noble heart his country was always on top. Not alone at election did Arnold sacrifice himself, but on the tented field, where the buffalo grass was soaked in gore, did he win for himself a deathless name. He was as gritty as a piece of liver rolled in the sand. Where glory waited, there you would always find Arnold Winkelreid at the bat, with William Tell on deck.
This remarkable man lived in the old romantic era when it was common for a patriot to give up his life for the sake of his country. He didn’t know fear, and in his noble heart, his country always came first. Arnold didn’t just sacrifice himself during elections; on the battlefield, where the grass was soaked in blood, he earned himself a name that would never be forgotten. He was as tough as a piece of liver rolled in sand. Wherever glory awaited, you could always find Arnold Winkelreid stepping up to the plate, with William Tell waiting to follow.
{Illustration: CLEAR THE TRACK.}
{Illustration: CLEAR THE TRACK.}
One day the army of the tyrant got a scoop on the rebel mountaineers and it looked bad for the struggling band of chamois shooters. While Arnold's detachment didn't seem to amount to a hill of beans, the hosts of the tyrannical Austrian loomed up like six bits and things looked forbidding. It occurred to Colonel Winkelreid that the correct thing would be to break through the war front of the enemy, and then, while in his rear, crash in his cranium with a cross gun while he was looking the other way. Acting on this thought, he asked several of his most trusted men to break through the Austrian line, so that the balance of the command could pass through and slaughter enough of the enemy for a mess, but these men seemed a little reticent about doing so, owing to the inclemency of the weather and the threatening aspect of the enemy. The armed foe swarmed on every hillside and their burnished spears glittered below in the canon. You couldn't throw a stone in any direction without hitting a phalanx. It was a good year for the phalanx business.
One day, the tyrant's army got a tip about the rebel mountaineers, and things looked grim for the struggling group of chamois shooters. While Arnold's team didn't seem very strong, the force of the oppressive Austrian army appeared overwhelming, and the situation felt dire. Colonel Winkelreid thought that the right move would be to break through the enemy's front lines and then, from behind, take them out with a crossbow while they weren’t paying attention. Acting on this idea, he asked several of his most trusted men to break through the Austrian line so that the rest of their group could follow and take out enough of the enemy to make a difference, but these men hesitated due to the bad weather and the intimidating presence of the enemy. The armed foes were spread out on every hillside, their shiny spears glinting in the valley below. You couldn't throw a stone in any direction without hitting a phalanx. It was a good year for the phalanx business.
Then Arnold took off his suspenders, and, putting a fresh chew of tobacco in among his back teeth, he told his men to follow him and he would show them his little racket. Marching up to the solid line of lances, he gathered an armful and put them in the pit of his stomach, and, as he sank to the earth, he spoke in a shrill tone of voice to posterity, saying, “Clear the track for Liberty.” He then died.
Then Arnold took off his suspenders, and, putting a fresh chew of tobacco in his back teeth, he told his men to follow him, promising to show them his little scheme. Marching up to the solid line of lances, he grabbed a bunch and stuffed them down, and as he fell to the ground, he shouted in a high-pitched voice for future generations, "Clear the way for Liberty." He then died.
His remains looked like a toothpick holder.
His remains looked like a toothpick holder.
But he made way for Liberty, and his troops were victorious.
But he paved the way for Liberty, and his troops won.
At the inquest it was shown that he might have recovered, had not the spears sat so hard on his stomach.
At the inquest, it was revealed that he could have recovered if the spears hadn't pressed so hard on his stomach.
Probably A. Winkelreid will be remembered with gratitude long after the name of the Sweet Singer of Michigan shall have rotted in oblivion. He recognized and stuck to his proper spear. (This is a little mirthful deviation of my own.)
Probably A. Winkelreid will be remembered with gratitude long after the name of the Sweet Singer of Michigan has faded into obscurity. He recognized and held on to his true calling. (This is a slight humorous aside of my own.)
I can think of some men now, even in this $ age of the world, who could win glory by doing as A.W. did. They could offer themselves up. They could suffer for the right and have their names passed down to posterity, and it would be perfectly splendid.
I can think of some men today, even in this modern age, who could win glory by doing what A.W. did. They could sacrifice themselves. They could suffer for what’s right and have their names remembered by future generations, and it would be truly amazing.
But the heroes of to-day are different. They are just as courageous, but they take a wheelbarrow and push it from New York to San Francisco, or they starve forty days and forty nights and then eat watermelon and lecture, or they eat 800 snipe in 800 years, or get an inspiration and kill somebody with it.
But today's heroes are different. They are just as brave, but they push a wheelbarrow from New York to San Francisco, or they fast for forty days and nights and then eat watermelon and give lectures, or they eat 800 snipe over 800 years, or they get an idea and use it to harm someone.
The heroes of our day do not wear peaked hats and shoot chamois, and sass tyrants and knock the worm out of an apple at fifty-nine yards rise with a cross gun, as Tell did, but they know how to be loved by the people and get half of the gate money. They are brave, but not mortally. The heroes of our day all die of old age or political malaria.
The heroes of today don’t wear pointy hats and hunt chamois, challenge tyrants, or shoot worms out of apples from fifty-nine yards like Tell did. Instead, they know how to earn the people's love and get a cut of the ticket sales. They are courageous, but not in a life-threatening way. The heroes of our day all die from old age or political issues.
Murray and the Mormons.
Gov. Murray, the gritty Gentile governor of Utah, would be noticed in a crowd. He is very tall, yet well proportioned, square-built and handsome. He was called fine looking in Kentucky, but the narrow-chested apostle of the abnormally connubial creed does not see anything pretty about him. Murray moves about through Salt Lake City in a cool, self-possessed kind of way that is very annoying to the church. Full-bearded, with brown moustache and dark hair parted a little to leeward of center; clothed in a diagonal Prince Albert coat, a silk hat and other clothes, he strolls through Zion like a man who hasn't got a yelping majority of ignorant lepers, led by a remorseless gang of nickel-plated apostles, thirsting for his young blood. I really believe he don't care a continental. The days of the avenging angel and the meek-eyed Danite, carrying a large sock loaded with buckshot, are over, perhaps; but only those who try to be Gentiles in a land of polygamous wives and anonymous white-eyed children, know how very unpopular it is. Judge Goodwin, of the Tribune, feels lonesome if he gets through the day without a poorly spelled, spattered, daubed and profane valentine threatening his life. The last time I saw him he showed me a few of them. They generally referred to him as a blankety blank “skunk,” and a “hound of hell.” He said he hoped I wound pardon him for the apparent egotism, but he felt as though the Tribune was attracting attention almost everyday. Some of these little billet-doux invited him to call at a trysting place on Tribune avenue and get his alleged brains scattered over a vacant lot. Most all of them threatened him with a rectangular head, a tin ear, or a watch pocket under the eye He didn't seem to care much. He felt pleased and proud. Goodwin was always pleased with things that other men didn't like much. In the old days, when he and Mark Twain and Dan DeQuille were together, this was noticed in him. Gov. Murray is the same way. He feels the public pulse, and says to himself: “Sometime there's going to be music here by the entire band, and I desire to be where I shan't miss a note.”
Gov. Murray, the tough Gentile governor of Utah, stands out in a crowd. He’s tall but well-built, square-shouldered and attractive. While he was considered good-looking back in Kentucky, the narrow-chested church member of the unusually marital belief doesn’t think much of his looks. Murray walks through Salt Lake City in a calm, confident way that annoys the church. With a full beard, brown mustache, and dark hair parted slightly to the side; dressed in a diagonal Prince Albert coat and a silk hat, he strolls through Zion like a man who isn’t bothered by a loud majority of clueless followers led by a relentless group of self-serving leaders, eager for his downfall. Honestly, he seems unfazed. The days of vengeful angels and mild-mannered enforcers, armed with a barrel full of buckshot, may be over; but only those who try to be outsiders in a place filled with polygamous families and nameless wide-eyed children know how unpopular that can be. Judge Goodwin, of the Tribune, feels lonely if he gets through the day without receiving a poorly written, splattered, insult-filled letter threatening his life. The last time I saw him, he showed me a few of them. They typically called him a “skunk” and a “hound of hell.” He asked me to forgive him for sounding egotistical, but he felt the Tribune was getting attention nearly every day. Some of those little notes invited him to meet at a certain spot on Tribune Avenue and get his so-called brains splattered across a vacant lot. Most of them threatened him with a flat head, a tin ear, or having a watch pocket under his eye. He didn’t seem to mind much. He actually felt pleased and proud. Goodwin always liked things that didn’t appeal to most people. Even back in the day when he was with Mark Twain and Dan DeQuille, people noticed this about him. Gov. Murray is similar. He senses public sentiment and thinks to himself: “One day, there’s going to be a full band playing here, and I want to be where I won’t miss a single note.”
There are people who think the Mormons will not fight. Perhaps not. They won't if they are let alone, and allowed to fill the sage brush and line the banks of the Jordan with juvenile nom de plumes. They are peaceful while they may populate Utah and invade adjoining territories with their herds of ostensible wives and prattling progeny; while they can bring in every year via Castle Garden and the stock yards palace emigrant car, thousands of proselyted paupers from every pest house of Europe, and the free-love idiots of America. But when Murray gets an act of congress at his back and a squad of nervy, gamy, law-abiding monogamous assistants appointed by the president under that act of congress to knock crosswise and crooked the Jim Crow revelations of Utah and Mormondom, you will see the fur fly, and the fragrant follower of a false prophet will rise up William Riley and the regular army will feel lonesome. I asked a staff officer in one of the territories last summer what would be the result if the Mormons, with their home drill and their arms and their devotion to home and their fraudulent religion, should awake Nicodemas and begin to massacre the Gentiles, and the regular army should be sent over the Wasatch range to quell the trouble.
There are people who think Mormons won't fight. Maybe they won't, as long as they are left alone and allowed to spread across the sagebrush and line the banks of the Jordan with fake names. They are peaceful while they populate Utah and expand into neighboring areas with their many wives and chatty kids; while they bring in thousands of converted poor people each year from every corner of Europe and the free-love advocates of America via Castle Garden and the stockyards. But when Murray gets a congressional act backing him and a team of bold, law-abiding monogamous assistants appointed by the president to tackle the Jim Crow issues in Utah and within Mormonism, you're going to see some serious trouble, and the followers of a false prophet will rise up. I asked a staff officer in one of the territories last summer what would happen if the Mormons, with their own military drills, weapons, strong sense of home, and their questionable religion, decided to rise up and start attacking the non-Mormons, and the regular army had to come over the Wasatch Range to deal with it.
“Why,” said he, “the white-eyed followers of Mormonism would kill the regular army with clubs. You can wear out a tribe of hostile Indians when the grass gives out and the antelope hunts the foothills, but the Mormons make everything they eat, drink and wear. They don't care whether there's tariff or free trade. They can make everything from gunpowder to a knit undershirt, from a $250 revelation to a hand-made cocktail. When a church gets where it can make such cooking whisky as the Mormons do, it is time to call for volunteers and put down the hydra-headed monster.”
“Why,” he said, “the white-eyed followers of Mormonism would take down the regular army with clubs. You can wear out a tribe of hostile Indians when the grass runs out and the antelope moves to the foothills, but the Mormons produce everything they eat, drink, and wear. They don’t care whether there are tariffs or free trade. They can make everything from gunpowder to a knit undershirt, from a $250 revelation to a handcrafted cocktail. When a church reaches the point where it can produce the kind of cooking whisky the Mormons make, it’s time to call for volunteers and tackle that multi-headed monster.”
If congress don't step on a technicality and fall down, it looks like amusement ahead, and if a District of Columbia rule, or martial law, or tocsin of war is the result, Gov. Murray is a good style of war governor. He isn't the kind of a man to put on his wife's gossamer cloak and meander over into Montana. He would give the matter his attention, and you would find him in the neighborhood when the national government decided to sit down on disorderly conduct in Utah. The first lever to be used will be the great wealth of which the Mormon church and its members privately are possessed. Then the oleaginous prophet will get a revelation to gird up his loins and to load the double-barrel shotgun, and fire the culverin, and to knock monogamy into a cocked hat. Money first and massacre second. They can draw on their revelation supply house at three days, any time, for authority to fill the irrigation ditches of Zion with the blood of the Gentile and feed his vital organs to the coyote.
If Congress doesn't trip over a technicality and fall apart, it looks like there’s entertainment ahead. If a rule from the District of Columbia, martial law, or the call to arms results from this, Gov. Murray is a solid choice for a war governor. He’s not the type to throw on his wife’s sheer cloak and wander into Montana. He would handle the situation properly, and you’d see him around when the national government decided to clamp down on disorderly conduct in Utah. The first strategy will be to leverage the immense wealth possessed by the Mormon Church and its members. Then, the oily prophet will receive a revelation to get ready, load up the double-barrel shotgun, fire the cannon, and take down monogamy. Money comes first, and violence follows. They can draw on their revelation supply any day to justify drowning Zion’s irrigation ditches with the blood of outsiders and feeding their remains to the coyotes.
About Geology.
Geology is that branch of natural science which treats of the structure of the earth's crust and the mode of formation of its rocks. It is a pleasant and profitable study, and to the man who has married rich and does not need to work, the amusement of busting geology with the Bible, or busting the Bible with geology is indeed a great boon.
Geology is the branch of natural science that focuses on the structure of the earth's crust and how its rocks are formed. It’s an enjoyable and worthwhile field of study, and for someone who has married into wealth and doesn’t need to work, mixing geology with the Bible, or challenging the Bible with geology is truly a great benefit.
Geology goes hand in hand with zoology, botany, physical geography and other kindred sciences. Taxidermy, chiropody and theology are not kindred sciences.
Geology is closely related to zoology, botany, physical geography, and other similar sciences. Taxidermy, podiatry, and theology are not related sciences.
Geologists ascertain the age of the earth by looking at its teeth and counting the wrinkles on its horns. They have learned that the earth is not only of great age, but that it is still adding to its age from year to year.
Geologists determine the age of the Earth by examining its layers and counting the rings on its features. They've discovered that the Earth is not only very old, but it's also continuing to grow older each year.
It is hard to say very much of a great science in so short an article, and that is one great obstacle which I am constantly running against as a scientist.
It’s challenging to cover a significant science in such a brief article, and that’s one major hurdle I continually face as a scientist.
I once prepared a paper in astronomy entitled “The Chronological History and Habits of the Spheres.” It was very exhaustive and weighed four pounds. I sent it to a scientific publication that was supposed to be working for the advancement of our race. The editor did not print it, but he wrote me a crisp and saucy postal card, requesting me to call with a dray and remove my stuff before the board of health got after it. In five short years from that time he was a corpse. As I write these lines, I learn with ill-concealed pleasure that he is still a corpse. An awful dispensation of Providence, in the shape of a large, wilted cucumber, laid hold upon his vitals and cursed him with an inward pain. He has since had the opportunity, by actual personal observation, to see whether the statements by me relating to astronomy were true. His last words were: “Friends, Romans and countrymen, beware of the q-cumber. It will w up.” It was not original, but it was good.
I once wrote a paper in astronomy titled “The Chronological History and Habits of the Spheres.” It was very detailed and weighed four pounds. I submitted it to a scientific journal that was supposed to be promoting the progress of our species. The editor didn’t publish it, but he sent me a snippy postcard asking me to come pick it up with a cart before the health department got involved. Just five short years later, he was dead. As I write this, I hear with poorly hidden satisfaction that he’s still dead. A terrible twist of fate, in the form of a large, wilted cucumber, struck him and caused him great internal pain. He eventually had the chance, through actual personal experience, to find out whether my claims about astronomy were true. His last words were: “Friends, Romans, and countrymen, beware of the cucumber. It will mess you up.” It wasn’t original, but it was clever.
The four great primary periods of the earth's history are as follows, viz, to-wit:
The four major periods in Earth's history are as follows:
1. The Eozoic or dawn of life.
1. The Eozoic or the beginning of life.
2. The Palaeozoic or period of ancient life.
2. The Paleozoic, or the era of ancient life.
3. The Mesozoic or middle period of life.
3. The Mesozoic, or the middle period of life.
4. The Neozoic or recent period of life.
4. The Neozoic or recent period of life.
These are all subdivided again, and other words more difficult to spell are introduced into science, thus crowding out the vulgar herd who cannot afford to use the high priced terms in constant conversation.
These are all broken down further, and more complicated words are added to science, pushing out the average people who can't afford to use the expensive terms in everyday conversation.
Old timers state that the primitive condition of the earth was extremely damp. With the onward march of time, and after the lapse of millions of years, men found that they could get along with less and less water, until at last we see the pleasant, blissful state of things. Aside from the use of water at our summer resorts, that fluid is getting to be less and less popular. And even here at these resorts it is generally flavored with some foreign substance.
Old timers say that the earth was originally very wet. Over millions of years, people discovered they could manage with less and less water, leading to the nice, happy state we have now. Besides using water at our summer spots, it's becoming less popular overall. Even at these resorts, it's often mixed with some kind of additive.
{Illustration: THE MASTODON.}
{Illustration: THE MASTODON.}
The earth's crust is variously estimated in the matter of thickness. Some think it is 2,500 miles thick, which would make it safe to run heavy trains across the earth anywhere on top of a second mortgage, while other scientists say that if we go down one-tenth of that distance we will reach a place where the worm dieth not. I do not wish to express an opinion as to the actual depth or thickness of the earth's crust, but I believe that it is none too thick to suit me.
The Earth's crust is estimated to be different thicknesses. Some believe it's 2,500 miles thick, which would make it safe to run heavy trains anywhere on top of a second mortgage, while other scientists argue that if we dig down one-tenth of that distance, we'll reach a place where the worm never dies. I don’t want to share my opinion on the true depth or thickness of the Earth's crust, but I think it’s thick enough for my liking.
Thickness in the earth's crust is a mighty good fault. We estimate the age of certain strata of the earth's formation by means of a union of our knowledge of plant and animal life, coupled with our geological research and a good memory. The older scientists in the field of geology do not rely solely upon the tracks of the hadrasaurus or the cornucopia for their data. They simply use these things to refresh their memory.
Thickness in the earth's crust is a significant feature. We estimate the age of certain layers of the earth's formation by combining our understanding of plant and animal life with our geological research and a solid memory. Older scientists in the field of geology don't rely only on the tracks of the hadrasaurus or the cornucopia for their information. They use these details to jog their memory.
I wish that I had time and space to describe some of the beautiful bacteria and gigantic worms that formerly inhabited the earth. Such an aggregation of actual, living Silurian monsters, any one of which would make a man a fortune to-day, if it could be kept on ice and exhibited for one season only. You could take a full grown mastodon to-day, and with no calliope, no lithographs, no bearded lady, no clown with four pillows in his pantaloons and no iron-jawed woman, you could go across this continent and successfully compete with the skating rink.
I wish I had time and space to describe some of the amazing bacteria and huge worms that used to live on Earth. Just think of a collection of real, living Silurian monsters; any one of them would make a person a fortune today if it could be kept on ice and shown for just one season. You could take a fully grown mastodon today, and without any calliope, no lithographs, no bearded lady, no clown with four pillows in his pants, and no iron-jawed woman, you could travel across the continent and successfully compete with the skating rink.
There would be but one difficulty. Tour expenses would not be heavy. The mastodon would be willing to board around, and no one would feel like turning a mastodon out of doors if he seemed to be hungry; but he might get away from you and frolic away so far in one night that you couldn't get him for a day or two, even if you sent a detective for him.
There would be just one challenge. The tour costs wouldn't be high. The mastodon would be open to hanging around, and no one would want to kick a mastodon out if it looked hungry; but it might wander off and have so much fun in one night that you wouldn't be able to find it for a day or two, even if you sent a detective after it.
If I had a mastodon I would rather take him when he was young, and then I could make a pet of him, so that he could come and eat out of my hand without taking the hand off at the same time. A large mastodon weighing a hundred tons or so is awkward, too. I suppose that nothing is more painful than to be stepped on by an adult mastodon.
If I had a mastodon, I would prefer to have him when he was young, so I could make a pet out of him, allowing him to come and eat from my hand without biting it off. Plus, a huge mastodon weighing around a hundred tons is pretty clumsy. I guess nothing would be more painful than being stepped on by an adult mastodon.
I hope at some future time to write a paper for the Academy of Science on the subject of “Deceased Fauna, Fossiliferous Debris and Extinct Jokes,” showing how, when and why these early forms of animal life came to be extinct.
I hope to write a paper for the Academy of Science in the future on the topic of “Deceased Animals, Fossil Remains, and Extinct Jokes,” explaining how, when, and why these early forms of animal life became extinct.
A Wallula Night.
I have just returned after a short tour in the far West. I made the tour with my new lecture, which I am delivering this winter for the benefit, and under the auspices, of a young man who was a sufferer in the great rise-up-William-Biley-and-come-along-with-me cyclone, which occurred at Clear Lake, in this State, a year ago last September.
I just got back from a brief trip out West. I traveled with my new lecture, which I’m giving this winter to support a young man who was affected by the big rise-up-William-Biley-and-come-along-with-me cyclone that hit Clear Lake in our state last September.
In said cyclone, said young man was severely caressed by the elements, and tipped over in such a way as to shatter the right leg, just below the gambrel joint. I therefore started out to deliver a few lectures for his benefit, and in so doing have made a 4,000 mile trip over the Northern Pacific railway, and the Oregon River and Navigation company's road. On the former line the passenger is fed by means of the dining-car, a very good style of entertainment, indeed, and well worthy of the age in which we live; but at Wallula Junction I stopped over to catch a west-bound Oregon Railway and Navigation train.
In that cyclone, the young man was harshly tossed around by the elements and ended up injuring his right leg just below the knee joint. So, I set out to give a few lectures to help him, which led me to take a 4,000-mile trip on the Northern Pacific railway and the Oregon River and Navigation company's route. On the former, passengers are served meals in a dining car, which is a really nice way to travel, definitely fitting for today's world; however, I stopped at Wallula Junction to catch a west-bound Oregon Railway and Navigation train.
That was where I fooled myself. I should have taken my valise and a rubber door mat from the sleeping-car, and crawled into the lee of a snow fence for the night. I did not give the matter enough thought. I just simply went into the hotel and registered my name as a man would in other hotels. This house was kept, or retained, I should say, by a relative of the late Mr. Shylock. You have heard, no doubt, how some of the American hotels have frowned on Mr. Shylock's relatives. Well, Mr. Shylock's family got even with the whole American people the night I stopped in No. 2, second floor of the Abomination of Desolation. As a representative of the American people, I received for my nation, vicariously, the stripes intended for many generations.
That’s where I deceived myself. I should have grabbed my suitcase and a rubber door mat from the sleeper car and found a sheltered spot by a snow fence for the night. I didn’t think it through enough. I just walked into the hotel and signed in like any other man would at any other hotel. This place was run by a relative of the late Mr. Shylock. You’ve probably heard how some American hotels have looked down on Mr. Shylock's relatives. Well, Mr. Shylock's family got back at the entire American public the night I stayed in room No. 2 on the second floor of the Abomination of Desolation. As a representative of the American people, I took on the punishment meant for many generations.
No. 2 is regarded as a room by people who have not been in it. By those who have, it is looked upon as a morgue.
No. 2 is seen as a room by those who haven't been inside. For those who have, it feels more like a morgue.
When I stepped into it, I noticed an odor of the dead past. It made me shudder my overshoes off. The first thing that attracted my attention after I was left alone, was the fact that other people had occupied this room before I had, and, although they were gone, they had left a kind of an air of inferiority that clung to the alleged apartment, an air of plug tobacco and perspiration, if you will pardon the expression.
When I walked in, I noticed a smell of a dead past. It made me pull off my overshoes. The first thing that caught my attention after I was left alone was the fact that other people had lived in this room before me, and even though they were gone, they left behind a sense of inferiority that hung around the so-called apartment, a scent of chewing tobacco and sweat, if you don’t mind me saying.
They had also left a pair of Venetian pantaloons. From this clue, my active brain at once worked out the problem and settled the fact that the party who had immediately preceded me was a man. Long and close study of the habits and characteristics of humanity has taught me to reason out these matters, and to reach accurate conclusions with astonishing rapidity.
They had also left behind a pair of Venetian pants. From this clue, my quick mind immediately figured out the situation and confirmed that the person who had just been there before me was a man. Long and thorough study of human behavior and traits has taught me to think through these things and arrive at accurate conclusions surprisingly fast.
He was not only a man, but he was a short man, with parenthetical legs and a thoughtful droop to the seat of his pants. I also discovered that more of this man's life had been expended in sitting on a pitch pine log than in prayer.
He wasn’t just a man; he was a short man, with crooked legs and a thoughtful droop to the seat of his pants. I also found out that this man had spent more of his life sitting on a pitch pine log than in prayer.
One of his front teeth was gone, also. This I learned from a large cast of his mouth, shown on the end of a plug of tobacco still left in the pocket.
One of his front teeth was missing, too. I found this out from a big mold of his mouth, displayed on a chunk of tobacco still in the pocket.
{Illustration: IN SUSPENSE.}
{Illustration: IN SUSPENSE.}
In Wallula there is a marked feeling of childlike trust and confidence between people. It is a feature of Wallula society, I may say. The people of the junction trust strangers to a remarkable extent. In what other town in this whole republic would a pair of pantaloons be thus left in the complete power of a total stranger, a stranger, too, to whom pantaloons were a great boon? I could easily have caught those pantaloons off the nail, thrust them into my bosom, and fled past the drowsy night clerk, out into the great, sheltering arms of the silent night, but I did not.
In Wallula, there's a strong sense of childlike trust and confidence among the people. It's a defining characteristic of Wallula society, I can say. The locals trust strangers to an impressive degree. In what other town in this entire country would someone leave a pair of pants completely in the hands of a total stranger, someone who would really appreciate those pants? I could easily have snatched those pants off the hook, stuffed them under my coat, and slipped past the sleepy night clerk, out into the comforting embrace of the quiet night, but I didn't.
Anon through the long hours I would awake and listen fitfully to the wail of damned souls, as it seemed to me, the wail of those who tried to stay there a week, and had starved to death. Here was their favorite wailing place. Here was the place where damned souls seemed to throw aside all restraint and have a good time. I tried to keep out the sound by stuffing the pillow in my ear, but what is a cheap hotel pillow in a man's ear, if he wants to keep the noise out.
Soon, throughout the long hours, I would wake up and listen restlessly to the cries of lost souls, or at least that’s how it felt to me—like the cries of those who had tried to stick it out for a week and ended up starving to death. This was their favorite spot to wail. This was where the lost souls seemed to throw all caution to the wind and have a blast. I tried to block out the sound by stuffing the pillow in my ear, but what good is a cheap hotel pillow in a man's ear if he really wants to keep the noise out?
So I lay there and listened to the soft sigh of the bath tub, the loud, defiant challenge of the athletic butler down stairs, the last weak death rattle in the throat of the coffee pot in the dining room, and the wail of the damned souls who had formerly stopped at this hotel, but who had been rescued at last, and had hilariously gone to perdition, only to come back at night and torment the poor guest by bragging over the superiority of hell as a refuge from the Wallula hotel.
So I lay there and listened to the gentle sigh of the bathtub, the loud, defiant challenge of the athletic butler downstairs, the last weak rattle of the coffee pot in the dining room, and the wails of the damned souls who once stayed at this hotel. They had finally been rescued and had joyfully gone to hell, only to come back at night and torment the poor guest by bragging about how much better hell was as a refuge from the Wallula hotel.
Now and then in the night I would almost yield to a wild impulse and catch those pantaloons off the hook, to rush out and go to Canada with them, and then I would softly go through the pockets and hang them back again.
Now and then at night, I would nearly give in to a crazy urge to grab those pants off the hook, rush out, and head to Canada with them. Then, I would quietly check the pockets and hang them back up again.
It was an awful night. When morning dawned at last, and I took the pillow out of my ear and looked in the delirious and soap-spattered mirror, I saw that my beautiful hair, which had been such a source of pride to me ten years ago, had disappeared in places. I paid my bill, called the attention of the landlord to the fact that I had not taken those pantaloons and 'betrayed' his trust, and then I went away.
It was a terrible night. When morning finally came, I pulled the pillow away from my ear and looked in the blurry, soap-covered mirror. I saw that my beautiful hair, which I had been so proud of ten years ago, was gone in some spots. I settled my bill, pointed out to the landlord that I hadn't taken those pants and 'betrayed' his trust, and then I left.
Flying Machines.
A long and exhaustive examination of the history of flying machines enables me to give briefly some of the main points of a few, for the benefit of those who may be interested in this science. I give what I do in order to prepare the public to take advantage of the different methods, and be ready at once to fly as soon as the weather gets pleasant.
A thorough and detailed look at the history of flying machines allows me to briefly share some key points about a few of them, for the benefit of those interested in this field. I'm sharing this to help the public take advantage of the various methods, and to be ready to fly as soon as the weather improves.
A Frenchman invented a flying-machine, or dofunny, as we scientists would term it, in 1600 and something, whereby he could sail down from the woodshed and not break his neck. He could not rise from the ground like a lark and trill a few notes as he skimmed through the sky, but he could fall off an ordinary hay stack like a setting hen, with the aid of his wings. His name was Besnier.
A Frenchman invented a flying machine, or doohickey, as we scientists would call it, in the early 1600s, allowing him to glide down from the woodshed without breaking his neck. He couldn't take off from the ground like a lark and sing a few notes while soaring through the sky, but he could drop off a regular haystack like a settling hen, with the help of his wings. His name was Besnier.
One hundred and twenty-five years after that a prisoner at Vienna, named Jacob Dagen, told the jailer that he could fly. The jailer seemed incredulous, and so Jake constructed a pair of double barrel umbrellas, that worked by hand, and fluttered with his machine into the air fifty feet. He came down in a direct line, and in doing so ran one of the umbrellas through his thorax. I am glad it is not the custom now to wear an umbrella in the thorax.
One hundred and twenty-five years later, a prisoner in Vienna named Jacob Dagen told the jailer that he could fly. The jailer looked skeptical, so Jake built a pair of double-barreled umbrellas that worked manually and lifted him into the air for about fifty feet. He came down directly, and while doing that, one of the umbrellas went through his chest. I’m glad it’s not common these days to wear an umbrella in your chest.
In England, during the present century, several inventors produced flying machines, but in an evil hour agreed to rise on them themselves, and so they died from their injuries. Some came down on top of the machines, while others preceded their inventions by a few feet, but the result was the same. The invention of flying machines has always been handicapped, as it were, by this fact Men invent a flying machine and then try to ride it and show it off, and thus they are prevented by death from perfecting their rolling stock and securing their right of way.
In England, in this century, several inventors created flying machines, but unfortunately decided to test them out themselves, resulting in fatal injuries. Some crashed with the machines, while others jumped off moments before, but the outcome was the same. The development of flying machines has always faced challenges because of this. People invent a flying machine and then try to fly it and show it off, which often leads to their deaths, preventing them from improving their designs and establishing safe flight.
In 1842, Mr. William Henderson got out a “two-propeller” machine, and tried to incorporate a company to utilize it for the purpose of carrying letters, running errands, driving home the cows, lighting the Northern Lights and skimming the cream off the Milky Way, but it didn't seem to compete very successfully with other modes of travel, and so Mr. Henderson wrapped it up in an old tent and put it away in the hay-mow.
In 1842, Mr. William Henderson developed a “two-propeller” machine and attempted to start a company to use it for carrying letters, running errands, bringing home the cows, lighting the Northern Lights, and skimming the cream off the Milky Way. However, it didn’t really compete well with other types of transportation, so Mr. Henderson packed it up in an old tent and stored it in the hayloft.
In 1853, Mr. J.H. Johnson patented a balloon and parachute dingus which worked on the principle of a duck's foot in the mud. I use scientific terms because I am unable to express myself in the common language of the vulgar herd. This machine had a tail which, under great excitement, it would throw over the dash board as it bounded through the air.
In 1853, Mr. J.H. Johnson patented a device that combined a balloon and parachute, which functioned like a duck's foot in mud. I use scientific terms because I can't express myself in the everyday language of the masses. This machine had a tail that, under intense excitement, would flip over the dashboard as it soared through the sky.
Probably the biggest thing in its way under this head was the revival of flying under the presidency of the Duke of Argyle, the society being called the Aeronautical Society of Great Britain. This society made some valuable calculations and experiments in the interest of aerostation, adding much to our scientific knowledge, and filling London with cripples.
Probably the biggest obstacle under this heading was the resurgence of flying led by the Duke of Argyle, with the organization being called the Aeronautical Society of Great Britain. This society conducted valuable calculations and experiments in the field of aerostation, greatly enhancing our scientific knowledge, and leaving London filled with injured individuals.
In 1869, Mr. Joseph T. Kaufman invented and turned loose upon the people of Glasgow an infernal machine intended to soar considerably in a quiet kind of way and to be propelled by steam. It looked like the bird known to ornithology as the flyupithecrick, and had an air brake, patent coupler, buffer and platform. It was intended to hold two men on ice and a rosewood casket with silver handles. It was mounted on wheels, and, as it did not seem to skim through the air very much, the people of Glasgow hitched a clothes line to it and used it for a band wagon.
In 1869, Mr. Joseph T. Kaufman invented and unleashed upon the people of Glasgow a bizarre machine designed to quietly soar and be powered by steam. It resembled a bird known to birdwatchers as the flyupithecrick, and featured an air brake, patent coupler, buffer, and platform. It was meant to carry two men on ice along with a rosewood casket with silver handles. It was mounted on wheels, and since it didn’t seem to glide through the air much, the people of Glasgow hitched a clothesline to it and used it as a bandwagon.
Rufus Porter invented an aerial dewdad ten years ago in Connecticut, where so many crimes have been committed since Mark Twain moved there. This was called the “aeraport,” and looked like a seed wart floating through space. This engine was worked by springs connected with propellers. A saloon was suspended beneath it, I presume on the principle that when a man is intoxicated he weighs a pound less. This machine flew around the rotunda of the Merchants' Exchange, in New York City, eleven times, like a hen with her head cut off, but has not been on the wing much since then.
Rufus Porter invented a flying gadget ten years ago in Connecticut, where so many crimes have taken place since Mark Twain moved there. It was called the “aeraport,” and looked like a seed wart floating in space. This device operated with springs connected to propellers. A bar was suspended underneath it, probably based on the idea that when a person is drunk, they weigh a pound less. This machine flew around the rotunda of the Merchants' Exchange in New York City eleven times, like a chicken with its head cut off, but hasn’t been seen in the air much since then.
Other flying machines have been invented, but the air is not peopled with them as I write. Most of them have folded their pinions and sought the seclusion of a hen-house. It is to be hoped that very soon some such machine will be perfected, whereby a man may flit from the fifth story window of the Grand Pacific Hotel, in Chicago, to Montreal before breakfast, leaving nothing in his room but the furniture and his kind regards.
Other flying machines have been invented, but the skies aren't filled with them as I write. Most have tucked away their wings and found refuge in a barn. Hopefully, it won't be long before one of these machines is perfected, allowing a person to fly from the fifth-floor window of the Grand Pacific Hotel in Chicago to Montreal before breakfast, leaving nothing in their room but the furniture and their warm wishes.
Such an invention would be hailed with much joy, and the sale would be enormous. Now, however, the matter is still in its infancy. The mechanical birds invented for the purpose of skimming through the ether blue, have not skum. The machines were built with high hopes and a throbbing heart, but the aforesaid ether remains unskum as we go to press. The Milky Way is in the same condition, awaiting the arrival of the fearless skimmer. Will men ever be permitted to pierce the utmost details of the sky and ramble around among the stars with a gum overcoat on? Sometimes I trow he will, and then again I ween not.
Such an invention would be celebrated with great excitement, and the sales would be huge. However, the idea is still very much in its early stages. The mechanical birds designed to glide through the clear sky have not taken flight. The machines were created with high hopes and great passion, but the previously mentioned sky remains untouched as we go to press. The Milky Way is in the same situation, waiting for the brave explorer. Will humans ever be allowed to delve into the depths of the sky and wander among the stars in a stylish coat? Sometimes I think they will, and other times I doubt it.
Asking for a Pass.
The general passenger agent of a prominent road leading out of Chicago toward the south, tells me that he is getting a good many letters lately asking for passes, and he complains bitterly over the awkward and unsatisfactory style of the correspondence. Acting on this suggestion and though a little late in the day, perhaps, I have erected the following as a guide to those who contemplate writing under similar circumstances:
The main passenger agent of a major train line heading south out of Chicago tells me that he has been receiving a lot of requests for passes lately, and he expresses frustration about the clumsy and unsatisfactory way people are writing these letters. Taking this feedback into account, even if it's a bit late, I've put together the following guide for anyone who plans to write in similar situations:
Office of The Evening Squeal, January 14, 1886.
Office of The Evening Squeal, January 14, 1886.
General Passenger Agent, Great North American Gitthere R.R., Chicago, Ill.
General Passenger Agent, Great North American Gitthere R.R., Chicago, IL.
Dear Sir.—I desire to know by return mail whether or no you would be pleased to swap transportation for kind words. I am the editor of “The Squeal,” published at this place. It is a paper pure in tone, world wide in its scope and irresistible in the broad sweep of its mighty arm.
Dear Sir, I would like to know by return mail whether you would be interested in exchanging transportation for kind words. I am the editor of “The Squeal,” published here. It’s a publication that maintains a pure tone, has a global reach, and is powerful in its influence.
{Illustration: THE PRESS.}
{Illustration: THE MEDIA.}
I desire to visit the great exposition at New Orleans this winter, and would be willing to yield you a few words of editorial opinion, set in long primer type next to pure reading matter, and without advertising marks.
I want to visit the big expo in New Orleans this winter, and I’d be happy to offer you some editorial opinions, printed in long primer type next to the actual content, and without any advertising.
My object in thus addressing you is two-fold. I have always wanted to do your road a kind act that would put it on its feet, but I have never before had the opportunity. This winter I feel just like it, and am not willing, but anxious. Another object, though trivial, perhaps, to you, is vital to me. If I do not get the pass, I am afraid I shall not reach there till the exposition is over. You can see for yourself how important it is that I should have transportation. Day after day the president on to the grounds and ask if I am there. Some official will salute him and answer sadly, “No, your highness, he has not yet arrived, but we look for him soon. He is said to be stuck in a mud hole somewhere in Egypt.” Then the exposition will drag on again.
My reason for reaching out to you is twofold. I've always wanted to help your road with a kind act that would get it back on its feet, but I've never had the chance before. This winter, I really feel like doing it, and I'm not just willing; I'm eager. Another reason, though it may seem trivial to you, is crucial for me. If I don’t get the pass, I’m worried I won’t make it there until the exposition is over. You can see how important it is for me to have transportation. Day after day, the president comes to the grounds and asks if I’m there. An official will greet him and reply sadly, “No, your highness, he has not yet arrived, but we expect him soon. He’s reportedly stuck in a mud hole somewhere in Egypt.” Then the exposition will drag on again.
{Illustration: STUCK IN A MUD HOLE.}
{Illustration: STUCK IN A MUD HOLE.}
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Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
You may make the pass read, “For self, Chicago to New Orleans and return,” and I will write the editorial, or you may make it read, “Self and wife” and I will let you write it yourself. Nothing is too good for my friends. When a man does me a kind act or shows signs of affection, I just allow him to walk all over me and make himself perfectly free with the policy of my paper.
You can make the pass say, “For me, Chicago to New Orleans and back,” and I’ll write the editorial, or you can make it say, “Me and my wife,” and I'll let you write it yourself. Nothing is too good for my friends. When someone does something nice for me or shows me kindness, I just let them take advantage of it and feel totally free to use my paper however they want.
The “Evening Squeal” has been heard everywhere. We send it to the four winds of Heaven, and its influence is felt wherever the English language is respected. And yet, if you want to belong to my coterie of friends, you can make yourself just as free with its editorial columns as you would if you owned it.
The "Evening Squeal" is known everywhere. We spread it to the four corners of the Earth, and its impact is felt wherever English is valued. Still, if you want to join my group of friends, you can be as open with its editorial sections as if you were the owner.
And yet “The Squeal” is a bad one to stir up. I shudder to think what the result would be if you should incur the hatred of “The Squeal.” Let us avoid such a subject or the possibility of such a calamity.
And yet “The Squeal” is not a good topic to bring up. I shudder to think what would happen if you were to provoke the anger of “The Squeal.” Let’s steer clear of this subject or the chance of such a disaster.
“The Squeal” once opposed the candidacy of a certain man for the office of school district clerk, and in less than four years he was a corpse! Struck down in all his wanton pride by one of the popular diseases of the day.
“The Squeal” once opposed a certain man's candidacy for the position of school district clerk, and in less than four years, he was dead! Taken down in all his reckless pride by one of the common illnesses of the time.
My paper at one time became the foe of a certain road which tapped the great cranberry vineyards of northern Minnesota, and that very fall the berries soured on the vines!
My paper once became the enemy of a certain road that connected to the big cranberry farms in northern Minnesota, and that very autumn, the berries spoiled on the vines!
I might go on for pages to show how the pathway of “The Squeal” has been strewn with the ruins of railroads, all prosperous and happy till they antagonized us and sought to injure us.
I could write for pages about how the journey of “The Squeal” has been littered with the wreckage of railroads, all thriving and content until they turned against us and tried to harm us.
I believe that the great journals and trunk lines of the land should stand in with one another. If you have the support and moral encouragement of the press you will feel perfectly free to run over any one who gets on your track. Besides, if I held a pass over your road I should feel very much reserved about printing the details of any accident, delay or washout along your line. I aim to mould public opinion, but a man can subsidize and corrupt me if he goes at it right. I write this to kind of give you a pointer as to how you can go to work to do so if you see fit.
I think that the major newspapers and major railroads in the country should collaborate. If you have the backing and moral support of the media, you’ll feel completely free to overlook anyone who gets in your way. Plus, if I had a ticket to use your railway, I’d be pretty reluctant to report on any accidents, delays, or washouts along your route. I want to shape public opinion, but someone can bribe and manipulate me if they go about it the right way. I’m sharing this to give you a hint on how to approach that if you choose to.
Should you wish to pervert my high moral notions in relation to railways, please make it good for thirty days, as it may take me a week or so to mortgage my property and get ready to go in good style. I will let you know on what day I will be in New Orleans, so that you can come and see me at that time. Should you have difficulty in obtaining an audience with me, owing to the throng of crowned heads, just show this autograph letter to the doorkeeper, and he will show you right in. Wipe your boots before entering.
If you want to change my strong beliefs about railways, please make it valid for thirty days, as it might take me a week to arrange a mortgage on my property and get ready in style. I'll inform you of the day I'll be in New Orleans so you can visit me then. If you have trouble getting in to see me because of all the important people around, just show this signed letter to the doorkeeper, and he’ll let you in. Please wipe your boots before entering.
Yours truly,
Sincerely,
Daniel Webster Briggs, Editor of “The Squeal.”
Daniel Webster Briggs, Editor of "The Squeal."
It is my opinion that no railroad official, however disobliging, would hesitate a moment about which way he would swing after reading an epistle after this pattern. Few, indeed, are the men who would be impolitic enough to incur the displeasure of such a paper as I have artfully represented “The Squeal” to be.
It’s my belief that no railroad official, no matter how uncooperative, would hesitate for a second about what choice to make after reading a letter like this. Really, there are very few people who would be foolish enough to risk the anger of a publication like the one I’ve cleverly described as “The Squeal.”
Words About Washington.
The name of George Washington has always had about it a glamour that made him appear more in the light of a god than a tall man with large feet and a mouth made to fit an old-fashioned, full-dress pumpkin pie. I use the word glamour, not so much because I know what glamour means, but because I have never used it before, and I am getting a little tired of the short, easy words I have been using so long.
The name George Washington has always carried a certain charm that made him seem more like a god than just a tall guy with big feet and a mouth suited for an old-fashioned, full-dress pumpkin pie. I use the word charm, not just because I know what it means, but because I haven’t used it before, and I’m getting a bit tired of the simple, easy words I’ve been using for so long.
George Washington's face has beamed out upon us for many years now, on postage stamps and currency, in marble, and plaster, and bronze, in photographs of original portraits, paintings, end stereoscopic views. We have seen him on horseback and on foot, on the war-path and on skates, cussing his troops for their shiftlessness, and then in the solitude of the forest, with his snorting war-horse tied to a tree, engaged in prayer.
George Washington's face has been shining down on us for many years now, on postage stamps and money, in marble, plaster, and bronze, in photos of original portraits, paintings, and stereoscopic views. We've seen him on horseback and on foot, in battle and on ice skates, scolding his troops for their laziness, and then alone in the forest, with his snorting war horse tied to a tree, lost in prayer.
We have seen all these pictures of George, till we are led to believe that he did not breathe our air or eat American groceries. But George Washington was not perfect. I say this after a long and careful study of his life, and I do not say it to detract the very smallest iota from the proud history of the Father of his Country. I say it simply that the boys of America who want to become George Washingtons will not feel so timid about trying it.
We’ve seen so many images of George that it makes us think he never breathed our air or ate American food. But George Washington wasn’t perfect. I say this after a thorough and thoughtful look at his life, and I don’t mean it to take away even the tiniest bit from the proud legacy of the Father of Our Country. I say it so that the boys of America who aspire to be like George Washington won’t feel so discouraged about giving it a shot.
When I say that George Washington, who now lies so calmly in the limekiln at Mount Vernon, could reprimand and reproach his subordinates at times, in a way to make the ground crack open and break up the ice in the Delaware a week earlier than usual, I do not mention it in order to show the boys of our day that profanity will make them resemble George Washington. That was one of his weak points, and no doubt he was ashamed of it, as he ought to have been. Some poets think that if they get drunk, and stay drunk, they will resemble Edgar A. Poe and George D. Prentice. There are lawyers who play poker year after year, and get regularly skinned, because they have heard that some of the able lawyers of the past century used to come home at night with poker chips in their pockets.
When I say that George Washington, who now rests peacefully in the limekiln at Mount Vernon, could really lay into his subordinates at times, making it feel like the ground would crack open and breaking the ice in the Delaware a week earlier than usual, I’m not bringing this up to suggest to today’s young folks that cursing is a way to be like George Washington. That was one of his flaws, and he was probably embarrassed about it, as he should have been. Some poets believe that if they get drunk and stay that way, they’ll turn into Edgar A. Poe and George D. Prentice. There are lawyers who play poker year after year and keep losing badly because they’ve heard that some of the skilled lawyers from the past century would come home at night with poker chips in their pockets.
Whisky will not make a poet, nor poker a great pleader. And yet I have seen poets who relied solely on the potency of their breath, and lawyers who knew more of the habits of a bob-tail flush than they ever did of the statutes in such case made and provided.
Whiskey won't turn someone into a poet, nor will poker make a great lawyer. Still, I’ve seen poets who only depended on the power of their words, and lawyers who understood more about the quirks of a bob-tail flush than they ever did about the laws in place for those situations.
George Washington was always ready. If you wanted a man to be first in war, you could call on George. If you desired an adult who would be first baseman in time of peace, Mr. Washington could be telephoned at any hour of the day or night. If you needed a man to be first in the hearts of his countrymen, George's postoffice address was at once secured.
George Washington was always prepared. If you needed someone to lead in battle, you could count on George. If you wanted a leader during peacetime, Mr. Washington was available at any hour, day or night. If you needed someone to be first in the hearts of his fellow citizens, George's contact information was easily obtained.
Though he was a great man, he was once a poor boy. How often we hear that in America! It is the place where it is a positive disadvantage to be born wealthy. And yet, sometimes I wish they had experimented a little that way on me. I do not ask now to be born rich, of course, because it is too late; but it seems to me that, with my natural good sense and keen insight into human nature, I could have struggled along under the burdens and cares of wealth with great success. I do not care to die wealthy, but if I could have been born wealthy, it seems to me I would have been tickled almost to death.
Though he was a great man, he was once a poor boy. How often do we hear that in America! It’s a place where being born wealthy can actually work against you. And yet, sometimes I wish they had tried that approach with me. I don’t ask to be born rich now, of course, because it’s too late; but it seems to me that, with my natural good sense and keen understanding of human nature, I could have managed the challenges and responsibilities of wealth quite successfully. I don’t care to die wealthy, but if I could have been born wealthy, I think I would have been over the moon.
I love to believe that true greatness is not accidental. To think and to say that greatness is a lottery is pernicious. Man may be wrong sometimes in his judgment of others, both individually and in the aggregate, but he who gets ready to be a great man will surely find the opportunity.
I like to believe that true greatness isn’t just random. Saying that greatness is like a lottery is harmful. People might misjudge others, whether individually or as a group, but someone who prepares to be a great person will definitely find their opportunity.
Many who read the above paragraph will wonder who I got to write it for me, but they will never find out.
Many people reading the paragraph above will wonder who I had write it for me, but they'll never find out.
In conclusion, let me say that George Washington was successful for three reasons. One was that he never shook the confidence of his friends. Another was that he had a strong will without being a mule. Some people cannot distinguish between being firm and being a big blue jackass.
In conclusion, I want to say that George Washington succeeded for three reasons. First, he never lost the trust of his friends. Second, he had a strong will without being stubborn. Some people can’t tell the difference between being determined and being a complete jerk.
Another reason why Washington is loved and honored to-day, is that he died before we had a chance to get tired of him. This is greatly superior to the method adopted by many modern statesmen, who wait till their constituency weary of them and then reluctantly and tardily die.
Another reason why Washington is loved and honored today is that he passed away before we had a chance to get tired of him. This is much better than the approach taken by many modern politicians, who wait until their constituents grow weary of them and then die slowly and reluctantly.
The Board of Trade.
I went into the Chicago Board of Trade awhile ago to see about buying some seed wheat for sowing on my farm next spring. I heard that I could get wheat cheaper there than anywhere else, so I went over. The members of the Board seemed to be all present. They were on the upper floor of the house, about three hundred of them, I judge, engaged in conversation. All of them were conversing when I entered, with the exception of a sad-looking man who had just been squeezed into a corner and injured, I was told. I told him that arnica was as good as anything I knew of for that, but he seemed irritated, and I strode majestically away. Probably he thought I had no business to speak to him without an introduction, but I never stand on ceremony when I see anyone in pain.
I went into the Chicago Board of Trade a while ago to check out buying some seed wheat for planting on my farm next spring. I heard I could find wheat cheaper there than anywhere else, so I went over. The members of the Board seemed to all be present. They were on the upper floor of the building, about three hundred of them, I guess, engaged in conversation. Everyone was talking when I walked in, except for a sad-looking man who had just been squeezed into a corner and injured, I was told. I mentioned that arnica was as good as anything I knew of for that, but he seemed annoyed, so I walked away confidently. He probably thought I had no right to speak to him without an introduction, but I don't worry about formality when I see someone in pain.
{Illustration: INDULGING IN CONVERSATION.}
{Illustration: HAVING A CHAT.}
I got a ticket when I went in, and began to look around for my wheat. I didn't see any at first. I then asked one of the conversationalists how wheat was.
I got a ticket when I went in and started looking around for my wheat. I didn't see any at first, so I asked one of the people chatting how the wheat was.
“Oh, wheat's pretty steady just now, 'specially October, but yesterday we thought the bottom had dropped out. Perfect panic in No. 2, red; No. 2, Chicago Spring, 73-7/8. Dull, my Christian friend, dull is no name for it. More fellers got pinched yesterday than would patch purgatory fifteen miles. What you doing, buying or selling?”
“Oh, wheat's holding steady right now, especially in October, but yesterday we thought it had completely crashed. There was total panic in No. 2, red; No. 2, Chicago Spring, 73-7/8. It's dull, my friend, dull doesn’t even cut it. More guys got hit yesterday than could fill purgatory fifteen miles over. What are you doing, buying or selling?”
“Buying.”
“Purchase.”
“Better let me sell you some choice Chicago Spring way down. Get some man you know on the Board to make the trade for you.”
“Better let me sell you some prime Chicago Spring way down. Get someone you know on the Board to make the trade for you.”
“Well, if you've got something good and cheap, and that you know will grow, I'd like to look at it,” I said.
“Well, if you have something good and affordable that you know will grow, I’d like to check it out,” I said.
He took me over by the door where there was a dishpan full of wheat, and asked me how that struck me, I said it looked good and asked him how much he could spare of it at .73. He said he had 50,000 bushels that he wasn't using, and he thought he could get me another 50,000 of a friend, if I wanted it. I said no, 100,000 bushels was more than I needed. I told him that if he would let me have that dishpan full, one-half cash and the balance in installments, I might trade with him, but I didn't want him to sell me his last bushel of wheat and rob himself.
He led me over to the door where there was a dishpan full of wheat and asked me what I thought about it. I said it looked good and asked him how much he could spare at 0.73. He mentioned he had 50,000 bushels that he wasn't using and thought he could get me another 50,000 from a friend if I wanted it. I told him no, that 100,000 bushels was more than enough for me. I suggested that if he would let me take the dishpan full for half in cash and the rest in installments, I might do business with him, but I didn’t want him to sell me his last bushel of wheat and shortchange himself.
“Very likely you've got a family,” said I, “and you mustn't forget that we've got a long, cold, hard winter ahead of us. Hang on to your wheat. Don't let Tom, Dick and Harry come along and chisel you out of your last kernel, just to be neighborly.”
“Most likely you have a family,” I said, “and you shouldn’t forget that we have a long, cold, tough winter ahead of us. Hold onto your wheat. Don't let Tom, Dick, and Harry come by and take all your last bits, just to be nice.”
I remained in the room an hour and a half, the cynosure of all eyes. There is a great deal of sociability there. Three hundred men all talking diagonally at each other at the same time, reminds me of a tete-a-tete I once had with a warm personal friend, who was a boiler-maker. He invited me to come around to the shop and visit him. He said we could crawl down through the manhole into the boiler and have a nice visit while he worked.
I stayed in the room for an hour and a half, the center of attention. There was a lot of socializing happening. Three hundred men were all talking across each other at the same time, which reminded me of a one-on-one conversation I once had with a good friend who was a boiler-maker. He invited me to come by the shop and visit him. He said we could crawl down through the manhole into the boiler and chat while he worked.
I remember of following him down through the hole into the boiler; then they began to head boiler rivets, and I knew nothing more till I returned to consciousness the next day to find myself in my own luxuriously-furnished apartments.
I remember following him down through the hole into the boiler; then they started to hammer the boiler rivets, and I didn't know anything else until I came to the next day and found myself in my own nicely furnished apartment.
The family physician was holding my hand. My wife asked: “Is he conscious yet, do you think, doctor?”
The family doctor was holding my hand. My wife asked, “Do you think he’s awake yet, doctor?”
“Yes,” he replied, “your husband begins to show signs of life. He may live for many years, but his intellect seems to have been mislaid during his illness. Do you know whether the cat has carried anything out of this room lately?”
“Yes,” he replied, “your husband is starting to show signs of life. He could live for many years, but his mind seems to have been lost during his illness. Do you know if the cat has taken anything out of this room recently?”
Then my wife said: “Yes, the cat did get something out of this room only the other day and ate it. Poor thing!”
Then my wife said, “Yeah, the cat did take something out of this room just the other day and ate it. Poor thing!”
The Cow-Boy.
So much amusing talk is being made recently anent the blood-bedraggled cow-boy of the wild West, that I rise as one man to say a few things, not in a dictatorial style, but regarding this so-called or so esteemed dry land pirate who, mounted on a little cow-pony and under the black flag, sails out across the green surge of the plains to scatter the rocky shores of Time with the bones of his fellow-man.
So much talk has been going around lately about the blood-soaked cowboy of the Wild West that I feel compelled to share a few thoughts, not in a bossy way, but about this so-called or so admired dry land pirate who, riding a small cow pony and under the black flag, sets out across the green waves of the plains to leave the rocky shores of Time scattered with the remains of his fellow man.
A great many people wonder where the cow-boy, with his abnormal thirst for blood, originated. Where did this young Jesse James, with his gory record and his dauntless eye, come from? Was he born in a buffalo wallow at the foot of some rock-ribbed mountain, or did he first breathe the thin air along the brink of an alkali pond, where the horned toad and the centipede sang him to sleep, and the tarantula tickled him under the chin with its hairy legs?
A lot of people wonder where the cowboy, with his unusual thirst for blood, came from. Where did this young Jesse James, with his bloody history and fearless gaze, originate? Was he born in a buffalo wallow at the base of some rugged mountain, or did he first inhale the thin air by an alkali pond, where the horned toad and the centipede lulled him to sleep, and the tarantula tickled him under the chin with its hairy legs?
Careful research and cold, hard statistics show that the cow-boy, as a general thing, was born in an unostentatious manner on the farm. I hate to sit down on a beautiful romance and squash the breath out of a romantic dream; but the cow-boy who gets too much moist damnation in his system, and rides on a gallop up and down Main street shooting out the lights of the beautiful billiard palaces, would be just as unhappy if a mouse ran up his pantaloon-leg as you would, gentle reader. He is generally a youth who thinks he will not earn his twenty-five dollars per month if he does not yell, and whoop, and shoot, and scare little girls into St. Vitus's dance. I've known more cow-boys to injure themselves with their own revolvers than to injure anyone else. This is evidently because they are more familiar with the hoe than they are with the Smith & Wesson.
Careful research and cold, hard statistics show that the cowboy, in general, was born in a humble setting on the farm. I don’t want to sit down on a beautiful romance and crush the life out of a romantic dream, but the cowboy who gets too much booze in him and rides up and down Main Street, shooting out the lights of the fancy pool halls, would be just as miserable if a mouse ran up his pant leg as you would be, dear reader. He’s usually a young guy who thinks he won’t earn his twenty-five dollars a month unless he yells, whoops, shoots, and scares little girls into hysterics. I’ve seen more cowboys hurt themselves with their own guns than injure anyone else. This is clearly because they’re more familiar with a hoe than they are with a Smith & Wesson.
One night while I had rooms in the business part of a Territorial city in the Rocky Mountain cattle country, I was awakened at about one o'clock A. M. by the most blood-curdling cry of “Murder” I ever heard. It was murder with a big “M.” Across the street, in the bright light of a restaurant, a dozen cow-boys with broad sombreros and flashing silver braid, huge leather chaperajas,
One night while I was staying in a hotel in the commercial area of a Territorial city in the Rocky Mountain cattle region, I was woken up around 1 A.M. by the most terrifying scream of “Murder” I had ever heard. It was murder with a capital “M.” Across the street, in the bright light of a restaurant, a dozen cowboys wearing wide-brimmed hats and gleaming silver decorations, massive leather chaps,
Mexican spurs and orange silk neckties, and with flashing revolvers, were standing. It seemed that a big, red-faced Captain Kidd of the band, with his skin full of valley tan, had marched into an ice-cream resort with a self-cocker in his hand, and ordered the vanilla coolness for the gang. There being a dozen young folks at the place, mostly male and female, from a neighboring hop, indulging in cream, the proprietor, a meek Norwegian with thin white hair, deemed it rude and outre to do so. He said something to that effect, whereat the other eleven men of alcoholic courage let off a yell that froze the cream into a solid glacier, and shook two kerosene lamps out of their sockets in the chandeliers.
Mexican spurs and orange silk neckties, along with flashy revolvers, were on display. It felt like a big, red-faced Captain Kidd from the gang, his skin tanned from the sun, had walked into an ice cream shop with a gun in his hand and ordered vanilla treats for everyone. With a dozen young people at the place, mostly guys and gals from a nearby dance, enjoying their ice cream, the owner, a timid Norwegian with thin white hair, thought it was rude and inappropriate to act that way. He mentioned something along those lines, and then the other eleven guys, filled with liquid courage, let out a yell that turned the ice cream into a solid block and knocked two kerosene lamps out of their sockets in the chandeliers.
{Illustration: HE YELLED MURDER.}
He yelled for help.
Thereupon, the little Y.M.C.A. Norwegian said:
Thereupon, the little Y.M.C.A. Norwegian said:
“Gentlemans, I kain't neffer like dot squealinks and dot kaind of a tings, and you fellers mit dot ledder pantses on and dot funny glose and such a tings like dot, better keep kaind of quiet, or I shall call up the policemen mit my delephone.”
“Gentlemen, I can’t ever stand those squealing sounds and that kind of stuff, and you guys with those leather pants on and those funny clothes and things like that, better keep it down, or I’ll call the police with my phone.”
Then they laughed at him, and cried yet again with a loud voice.
Then they laughed at him and shouted again loudly.
This annoyed the ice-cream agriculturist, and he took the old axe-handle that he used to jam the ice down around the freezer with, and peeled a large area of scalp off the leader's dome of thought, and it hung down over his eyes, so that he could not see to shoot with any degree of accuracy.
This annoyed the ice cream farmer, and he grabbed the old axe handle he used to pack the ice around the freezer and peeled a large patch of scalp off the leader's head, which hung down over his eyes, making it impossible for him to aim and shoot accurately.
After he had yelled “Murder!” three or four times, he fell under an ice-cream table, and the mild-eyed Scandinavian broke a silver-plated castor over the organ of self-esteem, and poured red pepper, and salt, and vinegar, and Halford sauce and other relishes, on the place where the scalp was loose.
After he shouted "Murder!" three or four times, he collapsed under an ice-cream table, and the kind-looking Scandinavian smashed a silver-plated shaker over his head and poured red pepper, salt, vinegar, Halford sauce, and other condiments on the spot where his scalp was loose.
This revived the brave but murderous cow-gentleman, and he begged that he might be allowed to go away.
This brought back the bold yet deadly cow-gentleman, and he pleaded to be allowed to leave.
The gentle Y.M.C.A. superintendent of the ten-stamp ice-cream freezers then took the revolvers away from the bold buccaneer, and kicked him out through a show-case, and saluted him with a bouquet of July oysters that suffered severely from malaria.
The kind Y.M.C.A. superintendent of the ten-stamp ice cream freezers then took the guns away from the brave pirate, kicked him out through a display case, and sent him off with a bunch of July oysters that were badly affected by malaria.
All cow-boys are not sanguinary; but out of twenty you will generally find one who is brave when he has his revolvers with him; but when he forgot and left his shooters at home on the piano, the most tropical violet-eyed dude can climb him with the butt-end of a sunflower, and beat his brains out and spatter them all over that school district.
All cowboys aren't bloodthirsty; but out of twenty, you'll usually find one who's tough when he has his guns. But if he forgets and leaves his shooters at home on the piano, even the most stylish guy with violet eyes can take him down with the handle of a sunflower and knock him out, making a mess all over that school district.
In the wild, unfettered West, beware of the man who never carries arms, never gets drunk and always minds his own business. He don't go around shooting out the gas, or intimidating a kindergarten school; but when a brave frontiersman, with a revolver in each boot and a bowie down the back of his neck, insults a modest young lady, and needs to be thrown through a plate-glass window and then walked over by the populace, call on the silent man who dares to wear a clean shirt and human clothes.
In the untamed West, watch out for the guy who never carries a weapon, never drinks too much, and always keeps to himself. He doesn’t go around causing trouble or scaring kids, but when a gutsy frontiersman, armed with a revolver in each boot and a knife up his sleeve, disrespects a decent young woman and deserves to be tossed through a plate-glass window and then stepped on by the crowd, look to the quiet guy who has the guts to wear a clean shirt and decent clothes.
Stirring Incidents at a Fire.
Last night I was awakened by the cry of fire. It was a loud, hoarse cry, such as a large, adult man might emit from his window on the night air. The town was not large, and the fire department, I had been told, was not so effective as it should have been.
Last night I was jolted awake by the shout of "fire!" It was a loud, raspy yell, like what a large adult man might scream from his window into the night. The town wasn't big, and I had heard that the fire department wasn't as effective as it should be.
For that reason I arose and carefully dressed myself, in order to assist, if possible. I carefully lowered myself from my room, by means of a staircase which I found concealed in a dark and mysterious corner of the passage.
For that reason, I got up and dressed carefully, hoping to help, if I could. I quietly made my way down from my room using a staircase I discovered hidden in a dark and mysterious corner of the hallway.
On the streets all was confusion. The hoarse cry of fire had been taken up by others, passed around from one to another, till it had swollen into a dull roar. The cry of fire in a small town is always a grand sight.
On the streets, everything was chaotic. The hoarse shout of "fire" had been picked up by others, passed from one person to another, until it had grown into a dull roar. The cry of "fire" in a small town is always an impressive sight.
All along the street in front of Mr. Pendergast's roller rink the blanched faces of the people could be seen. Men were hurrying to and fro, knocking the bystanders over in their frantic attempts to get somewhere else. With great foresight, Mr. Pendergast, who had that day finished painting his roller rink a dull-roan color, removed from the building the large card which bore the legend:
All along the street in front of Mr. Pendergast's roller rink, the pale faces of the crowd were visible. Men rushed around, bumping into bystanders in their desperate attempts to get somewhere else. With careful planning, Mr. Pendergast, who had just finished painting his roller rink a dull brown that day, took down the large sign that read:
FRESH PAINT!
NEW PAINT!
so that those who were so disposed might feel perfectly free to lean up against the rink and watch the progress of the flames.
so that those who wanted to could feel completely free to lean against the rink and watch the flames.
Anon the bright glare of the devouring element might have been seen bursting through the casement of Mr. Cicero Williams's residence, facing on the alley west of Mr. Pendergast's rink. Across the street the spectator whose early education had not been neglected could distinctly read the sign of our esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. Alonzo Burlingame, which was lit up by the red glare of the flames so that the letters stood out plainly as follows:
Anon the bright glare of the consuming fire could be seen bursting through the window of Mr. Cicero Williams's house, which faced the alley west of Mr. Pendergast's rink. Across the street, a spectator whose education had not been overlooked could clearly read the sign of our respected fellow townsman, Mr. Alonzo Burlingame, illuminated by the red flames, making the letters stand out clearly as follows:
Alonzo Burlingame,
Alonzo Burlingame,
Dealer in Soft and Hard Coal, Ice-Cream, Wood, Lime, Cement, Perfumery, Nails, Putty, Spectacles, and Horse Radish. Chocolate Caramels and Tar Roofing. Gas Fitting and Undertaking in all Its Branches. Hides, Tallow, and Maple Syrup. Fine Gold Jewelry, Silverware, and Salt. Glue, Codfish, and Gent's Neckwear. Undertaker and Confectioner. Diseases of Horses and Children a Specialty.
Dealer in Soft and Hard Coal, Ice Cream, Wood, Lime, Cement, Perfumes, Nails, Putty, Glasses, and Horseradish. Chocolate Caramels and Tar Roofing. Gas Fitting and Funeral Services in all its Forms. Hides, Tallow, and Maple Syrup. Fine Gold Jewelry, Silverware, and Salt. Glue, Codfish, and Men's Neckwear. Funeral Director and Candy Maker. Specializing in Diseases of Horses and Children.
Jno. White, Ptr.
John White, Pastor.
The flames spread rapidly, until they threatened the Palace rink of our esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. Pendergast, whose genial and urbane manner has endeared him to all.
The flames spread quickly, until they endangered the Palace rink of our respected neighbor, Mr. Pendergast, whose friendly and polished demeanor has made him well-liked by everyone.
With a degree of forethought worthy of a better cause, Mr. Leroy W. Butts suggested the propriety of calling out the hook and ladder company, an organization of which every one seemed to be justly proud. Some delay ensued in trying to find the janitor of Pioneer Hook and Ladder Company No. 1's building, but at last he was secured, and, after he had gone home for the key, Mr. Butts ran swiftly down the street to awaken the foreman, but, after he had dressed himself and inquired anxiously about the fire, he said that he was not foreman of the company since the 2d of April.
With a level of consideration that seemed better suited for a more important matter, Mr. Leroy W. Butts suggested that it would be appropriate to call out the hook and ladder company, an organization everyone seemed justly proud of. There was a bit of a delay while they tried to locate the janitor of Pioneer Hook and Ladder Company No. 1's building, but eventually, he was found. After he went home to get the key, Mr. Butts hurried down the street to wake up the foreman. However, once the foreman got dressed and asked about the fire, he explained that he hadn’t been the foreman since April 2nd.
Meantime the firefiend continued to rise up ever and anon on his hind feet and lick up salt-barrel after salt-barrel in close proximity to the Palace rink, owned by our esteemed fellow-citizen, Mr. Pendergast. Twice Mr. Pendergast was seen to shudder, after which he went home and filled out a blank which he forwarded to the insurance company.
Meanwhile, the fire demon kept rising up on its hind legs every now and then and devouring salt barrel after salt barrel near the Palace rink, owned by our respected local businessman, Mr. Pendergast. Twice Mr. Pendergast was spotted shuddering, after which he went home and completed a form to send to the insurance company.
Just as the town seemed doomed, the hook and ladder company came rushing down the street with their navy-blue hook and ladder truck. It is indeed a beauty, being one of the Excelsior noiseless hook and ladder factory's best instruments, with tall red pails and rich blue ladders.
Just when the town seemed like it was done for, the hook and ladder company raced down the street in their navy-blue truck. It's a real beauty, one of the best from the Excelsior noiseless hook and ladder factory, complete with tall red pails and bright blue ladders.
Some delay ensued, as several of the officers claimed that under a new bylaw passed in January they were permitted to ride on the truck to fires. This having been objected to by a gentleman who had lived in Chicago several years, a copy of the by-laws was sent for and the dispute summarily settled. The company now donned its rubber overcoats with great coolness and proceeded at once to deftly twist the tail of the firefiend.
Some delay happened because several officers claimed that under a new bylaw passed in January, they were allowed to ride on the truck to fires. After a gentleman who had lived in Chicago for several years objected to this, a copy of the by-laws was requested, and the dispute was quickly resolved. The company then put on its rubber overcoats with calmness and immediately set out to skillfully tackle the fire.
It was a thrilling sight as James McDonald, a brother of Terrance McDonald, Trombone, Ind., rapidly ascended one of the ladders in the full glare of the devouring element and fell off again.
It was an exciting sight as James McDonald, brother of Terrance McDonald, Trombone, Ind., quickly climbed one of the ladders in the bright light of the raging fire and fell off again.
Then a wild cheer arose to a height of about nine feet, and all again became confused.
Then a loud cheer erupted, reaching about nine feet high, and everything became chaotic once more.
It was now past 11 o'clock, and several of the members of the hook and ladder company who had to get up early the next day in order to catch a train excused themselves and went home to seek much-needed rest.
It was now past 11 o'clock, and several members of the hook and ladder company, who had to wake up early the next day to catch a train, said their goodbyes and went home to get some much-needed rest.
Suddenly it was discovered that the brick livery stable of Mr. Abraham McMichaels, a nephew of our worthy assessor, was getting hot. Leaving the Palace rink to its fate, the hook and ladder company directed its attention to the brick barn, and, after numerous attempts, at last succeeded in getting its large iron prong fastened on the second story window-sill, which was pulled out. The hook was again inserted, but not so effectively, bringing down at this time an armful of hay and part of an old horse blanket. Another courageous jab was made with the iron hook, which succeeded in pulling out about 5 cents worth of brick. This was greeted by a wild burst of applause from the bystanders, during which the hook and ladder company fell over each other and added to the horror of the scene by a mad burst of pale-blue profanity.
Suddenly, it was found that the brick livery stable of Mr. Abraham McMichaels, a nephew of our respected assessor, was on fire. Leaving the Palace rink to its fate, the hook and ladder company shifted its focus to the brick barn and, after several attempts, finally managed to get its large iron hook wedged on the second-story window sill, which was pulled out. The hook was inserted again, but not very effectively, and this time it brought down a bundle of hay and part of an old horse blanket. Another brave attempt was made with the iron hook, which succeeded in pulling out about 5 cents' worth of bricks. This was met with a wild cheer from the crowd, during which the hook and ladder company stumbled over each other and added to the chaos of the scene with a flurry of pale-blue profanity.
It was not long before the stable was licked up by the firefiend, and the hook and ladder company directed its attention toward the undertaking, embalming, and ice-cream parlors of our highly esteemed fellow-townsman, Mr. A. Burlingame. The company succeeded in pulling two stone window-sills out of this building before it burned. Both times they were encored by the large and aristocratic audience.
It didn't take long for the fire to consume the stable, and the hook and ladder crew turned their focus to the funeral home and ice cream parlor of our respected neighbor, Mr. A. Burlingame. The team managed to pull out two stone window sills from this building before it was completely destroyed. Each time, they were cheered on by the large and upscale crowd.
Mr. Burlingame at once recognized the efforts of the heroic firemen by tapping a keg of beer, which he distributed among them at 25 cents per glass.
Mr. Burlingame immediately acknowledged the hard work of the brave firefighters by tapping a keg of beer, which he served to them at 25 cents a glass.
This morning a space forty-seven feet wide, where but yesterday all was joy and prosperity and beauty, is covered over with blackened ruins. Mr. Pendergast is overcome by grief over the loss of his rink, but assures us that if he is successful in getting the full amount of his insurance he will take the money and build two rinks, either one of which will be far more imposing than the one destroyed last evening.
This morning, a space forty-seven feet wide, where just yesterday there was joy, prosperity, and beauty, is now filled with charred ruins. Mr. Pendergast is devastated by the loss of his rink but promises us that if he successfully receives the full amount of his insurance, he will use the money to build two rinks, each of which will be much more impressive than the one that was destroyed last night.
A movement is on foot to give a literary and musical entertainment at Burley's hall, to raise funds for the purchase of new uniforms for the “fire laddies,” at which Mrs. Butts has consented to sing “When the Robins Nest Again,” and Miss Mertie Stout will recite “'Ostler Jo,” a selection which never fails to offend the best people everywhere. Twenty-five cents for each offense.
A movement is underway to host a literary and musical event at Burley's hall to raise money for new uniforms for the "firefighters." Mrs. Butts has agreed to sing "When the Robins Nest Again," and Miss Mertie Stout will recite "'Ostler Jo," a piece that never fails to upset the most respectable people everywhere. Twenty-five cents for each offense.
Let there be a full house.
Let there be a packed house.
The Little Barefoot Boy.
With the moist and misty spring, with the pink and white columbine of the wildwood and the breath of the cellar and the incense of burning overshoes in the back yard, comes the little barefoot boy with fawn colored hair and a droop in his pantaloons. Poverty is not the grand difficulty with the little barefoot boy of spring. It is the wild, ungovernable desire to wiggle his toes in the ambient air, and to soothe his parboiled heels in the yielding mud.
With the damp and foggy spring, with the pink and white columbine blooming in the woods and the scent from the basement and the smell of burning overshoes in the backyard, comes the little barefoot boy with light brown hair and droopy pants. Poverty isn't the main issue for the little barefoot boy of spring. It's the wild, uncontrollable urge to wiggle his toes in the fresh air and to soothe his overheated heels in the soft mud.
I see him now in my mind's eye, making his annual appearance like a rheumatic housefly, stepping high like a blind horse. He has just left his shoes in the woodshed and stepped out on the piazza to proclaim that violet-eyed spring is here. All over the land the gladiolus bulb and the ice man begin to swell. The south wind and the new-born calf at the barn begin to sigh. The oak tree and the dude begin to put on their spring apparel. All nature is gay. The thrush is warbling in the asparagus orchard, and the prima donna does her throat up in a red flannel rag to wait for another season.
I see him now in my mind, making his yearly appearance like an achy housefly, stepping high like a blind horse. He just left his shoes in the shed and stepped onto the porch to announce that spring with violet eyes is here. All over the land, the gladiolus bulbs and the ice man start to swell. The southern wind and the newborn calf in the barn begin to sigh. The oak tree and the guy in cool clothes start to dress up for spring. All of nature is cheerful. The thrush is singing in the asparagus field, and the diva wraps her throat in a red flannel rag to wait for another season.
All these things indicate spring, but they are not so certain and unfailing as the little barefoot boy whose white feet are thrust into the face of the approaching season. Five months from now those little dimpled feet, now so bleached and tender, will look like a mudturtle's back and the superior and leading toe will have a bandage around it, tied with a piece of thread.
All these things show that spring is coming, but they're not as reliable as the little barefoot boy with his white feet stepping into the new season. Five months from now, those little dimpled feet, which are now so pale and tender, will look like a muddy turtle's shell, and the big toe will be wrapped in a bandage tied with a piece of thread.
Who would believe that the budding hoodlum before us, with the yellow chilblain on his heel and the early spring toad in his pocket, which he will present to the timid teacher as a testimonial of his regard this afternoon, may be the Moses who will lead the American people forty years hence into the glorious sunlight of a promised land.
Who would think that the young troublemaker in front of us, with a yellow sore on his heel and a spring toad in his pocket, which he plans to show to the nervous teacher this afternoon as a sign of his affection, could be the future leader who will guide the American people into a bright and promised future forty years from now?
He may possibly do it, but he doesn't look like it now.
He might be able to do it, but he doesn’t seem like it right now.
Yet John A. Logan and Samuel J. Tilden were once barefooted boys, with a suspender apiece. It doesn't seem possible, does it?
Yet John A. Logan and Samuel J. Tilden were once barefoot boys, each with a suspender. It doesn't seem possible, does it?
How can we imagine at this time Julius Caesar and Hannibal Hamlin and Lucretia Borgia at some time or other stubbed their bare toes against a root and filled the horizon with pianissimo wails. The barefoot boy of spring will also proceed to bathe in the river as soon as the ice and the policeman are out. He will choose a point on the boulevard, where he can get a good view of those who pass, and in company with eleven other little barefoot boys, he will clothe himself in an Adam vest, a pair of bare-skin pantaloons, a Greek slave overcoat and a yard of sunlight, and gaze earnestly at those who go by on the other side. Up and down the bank, pasting each other with mud, the little barefoot boys of spring chase each other, with their vertebrae sticking into the warm and sleepy air, while down in the marsh, where the cat-tails and the broad flags and the peach can and the deceased horse grow, the bull-frog is twittering to his mate.
How can we picture Julius Caesar, Hannibal Hamlin, and Lucretia Borgia at some point, stubbing their bare toes on a root and filling the air with soft cries? The barefoot boy of spring will also jump into the river as soon as the ice and the police are gone. He will find a spot on the boulevard where he can get a good view of those passing by, and along with eleven other little barefoot boys, he will dress in nothing but a fig leaf, a pair of bare-skin shorts, a Greek-style coat, and a bit of sunlight, watching intently as people walk by on the other side. Up and down the riverbank, splattering each other with mud, the little barefoot boys of spring chase each other, their spines poking into the warm, sleepy air, while down in the marsh, where the cattails and the tall flags grow, along with the peach trees and the old horse, the bullfrog is calling to his mate.
{Illustration: A TESTIMONIAL OF REGARD.}
{Illustration: A TESTIMONIAL OF REGARD.}
Later on, the hoarse voice of a rude parental snorter is heard approaching, and twelve slim Cupids with sunburned backs are inserted into twelve little cotton shirts and twelve despondent pairs of pantaloons hang at half-mast to twelve home-made suspenders, and as the gloaming gathers about the old home, twelve boys back up against the ice-house to cool off, while the enraged parent hangs up the buggy whip in the old place.
Later on, a gruff voice of an annoyed parent is heard approaching, and twelve slender Cupids with sunburned backs are dressed in twelve little cotton shirts, while twelve sad pairs of pants hang down on home-made suspenders. As twilight settles around the old home, twelve boys lean against the ice house to cool off, while the angry parent hangs up the buggy whip in its usual spot.
Favored a Higher Fine.
Will Taylor, the son of the present American Consul at Marseilles, was a good deal like other boys while at school in his old home, at Hudson, Wis. One day he called his father into the library, and said:
Will Taylor, the son of the current American Consul in Marseilles, was pretty much like any other boy while he was in school back in his hometown of Hudson, Wis. One day, he called his dad into the library and said:
“Pa, I don't like to tell you, but the teacher and I have had trouble.”
“Dad, I don’t want to say this, but I’ve been having issues with the teacher.”
“What's the matter now?”
“What's wrong now?”
“Well, I cut one of the desks a little with my knife, and the teacher says I've got to pay a dollar or take a lickin'.”
“Well, I scratched one of the desks a bit with my knife, and the teacher says I have to pay a dollar or get a spanking.”
“Well, why don't you take the licking and say nothing more about it? I can stand considerable physical pain, so long as it visits our family in that form. Of course, it is not pleasant to be flogged, but you have broken a rule of the school, and I guess you'll have to stand it. I presume that the teacher will in wrath remember mercy, and avoid disabling you so that you can't get your coat on any more.”
“Well, why don’t you just take the punishment and not say anything more about it? I can handle quite a bit of physical pain, as long as it comes to our family in that way. Of course, it’s not nice to be beaten, but you did break a school rule, so I guess you’ll have to deal with it. I hope the teacher will, in their anger, still show some mercy and won’t hurt you badly enough that you can’t put your coat on anymore.”
“But, pa, I feel mighty bad about it already, and if you'd pay my fine I'd never do it again. I know a good deal more about it now, and I will never do it again. A dollar ain't much to you, pa, but it's a heap to a boy that hasn't got a cent. If I could make a dollar as easy as you can, pa, I'd never let my little boy get flogged that way just to save a dollar. If I had a little feller that got licked bekuz I didn't put up for him, I'd hate the sight of money always. I'd feel as if every dollar in my pocket had been taken out of my little kid's back.”
“But, Dad, I already feel really bad about it, and if you could just pay my fine, I swear I’ll never do it again. I know a lot more about it now, and I really won’t. A dollar isn’t much to you, Dad, but it means a lot to a kid who doesn’t have any money. If I could make a dollar as easily as you can, Dad, I’d never let my little boy get punished just to save a dollar. If I had a little guy who got hurt because I didn’t stand up for him, I’d hate the sight of money forever. I’d feel like every dollar in my pocket came from my little kid’s pain.”
“Well, now, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a dollar to save you from punishment this time, but if anything of this kind ever occurs again I'll hold you while the teacher licks you, and then I'll get the teacher to hold you while I lick you. That's the way I feel about that. If you want to go around whittling up our educational institutions you can do so; but you will have to purchase them afterward yourself. I don't propose to buy any more damaged school furniture. You probably grasp my meaning, do you not? I send you to school to acquire an education, not to acquire liabilities, so that you can come around and make an assessment on me. I feel a great interest in you, Willie, but I do not feel as though it should be an assessable interest. I want to go on, of course, and improve the property, but when I pay my dues on it I want to know that it goes toward development work. I don't want my assessments to go toward the purchase of a school-desk with American hieroglyphics carved on it.
“Well, here’s the deal. I’ll give you a dollar to spare you from punishment this time, but if something like this happens again, I’ll hold you while the teacher punishes you, and then I’ll get the teacher to hold you while I punish you. That’s how I feel about it. If you want to mess with our education system, be my guest; but you’ll have to deal with the consequences yourself. I’m not buying any more broken school furniture. You understand my point, right? I send you to school to get an education, not to take on liabilities so you can come back and assess me. I care about you, Willie, but I don’t think it should turn into a financial burden. I want to continue improving the property, but when I pay my fees, I want to know it’s going toward development, not for a school desk with silly carvings all over it.”
“I hope that you will bear this in your mind, my son, and beware. It will be greatly to your interest to beware. If I were in your place I would put in a large portion of my time in the beware business.”
“I hope you keep this in mind, my son, and stay cautious. It will really be in your best interest to be careful. If I were you, I would spend a significant amount of my time being cautious.”
The boy took the dollar and went thoughtfully away to school, and no more was ever said about the matter until Mr. Taylor learned casually several months later that the Spartan youth had received the walloping and filed away the dollar for future reference. The boy was afterward heard to say that he favored a much heavier fine in cases of that kind. One whipping was sufficient, he said, but he favored a fine of $5. It ought to be severe enough to make it an object.
The boy took the dollar and walked away thoughtfully to school, and nothing more was mentioned about it until Mr. Taylor found out casually a few months later that the resilient kid had taken the punishment and set aside the dollar for later use. The boy was later heard saying that he preferred a much heavier fine for situations like that. One spanking was enough, he said, but he thought a fine of $5 would be better. It should be tough enough to make it worth paying attention to.
“I Spy.”
Dear reader, do you remember the boy of your school who did the heavy falling through the ice and was always about to break his neck, but managed to live through it all? Do you call to mind the youth who never allowed anybody else to fall out of a tree and break his collar bone when he could attend to it himself? Every school has to secure the services of such a boy before it can succeed, and so our school had one. When I entered the school I saw at a glance that the board had neglected to provide itself with a boy whose duty it was to nearly kill himself every few days in order to keep up the interest so I applied for the position. I secured it without any trouble whatever. The board understood at once from my bearing that I would succeed. And I did not betray the trust they had reposed in me.
Dear reader, do you remember the kid from school who always managed to take a big fall through the ice and seemed on the verge of breaking his neck, but somehow came through it all? Do you recall the guy who never let anyone else fall out of a tree and break their collarbone when he could handle it himself? Every school needs to have a kid like that to succeed, and our school had one. When I started at the school, I immediately noticed that the board hadn't provided for someone whose job was to nearly injure himself every few days to keep things interesting, so I applied for the role. I got it without any issues. The board could tell right away from my attitude that I would be successful. And I didn’t let them down.
{Illustration: BRINGING IN THE REMAINS.}
{Illustration: COLLECTING THE REMAINS.}
Before the first term was over I had tried to climb two trees at once and been carried home on a stretcher; been pulled out of the river with my lungs full of water, and artificial respiration resorted to; been jerked around over the north half of the county by a fractious horse whose halter I had tied to my leg, and which leg is now three inches longer than the other; together with various other little early eccentricities which I cannot at this moment call to mind. My parents at last got so that along about 2 o'clock P.M. they would look anxiously out of the window and say, “Isn't it about time for the boys to get here with William's remains? They generally get here before 2 o'clock.”
Before the first term ended, I attempted to climb two trees at once and ended up being carried home on a stretcher; I was pulled from the river with my lungs full of water, requiring artificial respiration; I was yanked around the northern part of the county by a rebellious horse whose halter I had tied to my leg, which is now three inches longer than the other; along with various other little early mishaps that I can’t quite recall at the moment. My parents eventually started to get worried around 2 o'clock P.M., looking anxiously out the window and saying, “Isn’t it about time for the boys to return with William’s remains? They usually arrive before 2 o'clock.”
One day five or six of us were playing “I spy” around our barn. Every body knows how to play “I spy.” One shuts his eyes and counts 100, for instance, while the others hide. Then he must find the rest and say “I spy” so-and-so and touch the “goal” before they do. If anybody beats him to the goal the victim has to “blind” over again.
One day, five or six of us were playing "I spy" around our barn. Everyone knows how to play "I spy." One person closes their eyes and counts to 100 while the others hide. Then, they have to find everyone and say "I spy" so-and-so and touch the "goal" before anyone else does. If someone else reaches the goal before them, the person counting has to start over.
Well, I knew the ground pretty well, and could drop twenty feet out of the barn window and strike on a pile of straw so as to land near the goal, touch it, and let the crowd in free without getting found out. I did this several times and got the blinder, James Bang, pretty mad. After a boy has counted 500 or 600, and worked hard to gather in the crowd, only to get jeered and laughed at by the boys, he loses his temper. It was so with James Cicero Bang. I knew that he almost hated me, and yet I went on. Finally, in the fifth ballot, I saw a good chance to slide down and let the crowd in again as I had done on former occasions. I slipped out of the window and down the side of the barn about two feet, when I was detained unavoidably. There was a “batten” on the barn that was loose at the upper end. I think I was wearing my father's vest on that day, as he was away from home, and I frequently wore his clothes when he was absent. Anyhow the vest was too large, and when I slid down that loose board ran up between the vest and my person in such a way as to suspend me about eighteen feet from the ground, in a prominent but very uncomfortable position.
Well, I knew the ground pretty well and could drop twenty feet out of the barn window and land on a pile of straw so I could touch the goal, let the crowd in for free, and not get caught. I did this several times and made James Bang really mad. After a boy has counted to 500 or 600 and worked hard to gather the crowd, only to be laughed at by the other boys, he loses his cool. That was how it was with James Cicero Bang. I knew he almost hated me, but I kept going. Finally, in the fifth ballot, I saw a good chance to slide down and let the crowd in again like before. I slipped out of the window and down the side of the barn about two feet when I got stuck. There was a loose board on the barn at the top. I think I was wearing my dad's vest that day since he was away and I often wore his clothes when he was gone. Anyway, the vest was too big, and when I slid down, that loose board wedged itself between the vest and my body, leaving me hanging about eighteen feet off the ground in a really awkward and uncomfortable position.
I remember it quite distinctly. James C. Bang came around where he could see me. He said: “I spy Billy Nye and touch the goal before him.” No one came to remove the barn. No one came to sympathize with me in my great sorrow and isolation. Every little while James C. Bang would come around the corner and say: “Oh, I see ye. You needn't think you're out of sight up there. I can see you real plain. You better come down and blind. I can see ye up there!”
I remember it really clearly. James C. Bang came over where he could see me. He said, “I see you, Billy Nye, and I can reach the goal before you.” No one came to take down the barn. No one came to share in my deep sadness and loneliness. Every now and then, James C. Bang would come around the corner and say, “Oh, I see you. Don’t think you’re out of sight up there. I can see you really clearly. You should come down and play. I can see you up there!”
I tried to unbutton my vest and get down there and lick James, but it was of no use. It was a very trying time. I can remember how I tried to kick myself loose, but failed. Sometimes I would kick the barn and sometimes I would kick a large hole in the horizon. Finally I was rescued by a neighbor who said he didn't want to see a good barn kicked into chaos just to save a long-legged boy that wasn't worth over six bits.
I tried to unbutton my vest and get down there to lick James, but it was no use. It was a really tough time. I can remember how I tried to kick myself free, but I couldn’t. Sometimes I would kick the barn, and sometimes I would kick a big hole in the horizon. Finally, a neighbor rescued me, saying he didn't want to see a good barn wrecked just to save a long-legged kid who wasn’t worth more than six bits.
It affords me great pleasure to add that while I am looked up to and madly loved by every one that does not know me, Jas. C. Bang is brevet president of a fractured bank, taking a lonely bridal tour by himself in Europe and waiting for the depositors to die of old age.
It gives me a lot of joy to say that while everyone who doesn't know me adores and admires me, Jas. C. Bang is the acting president of a broken bank, taking a solo honeymoon trip across Europe and just waiting for the depositors to pass away from old age.
The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they most generally get there with both feet. (Adapted from the French by permission.)
The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they usually get there in the end. (Adapted from the French by permission.)
Mark Anthony.
Marcus Antonius, commonly called Mark Antony, was a celebrated Roman general and successful politician, who was born in 83 B.C. His grandfather, on his mother's side, was L. Julius Caesar, and it is thought that to Mark's sagacity in his selection of a mother, much of his subsequent success was due.
Marcus Antonius, often known as Mark Antony, was a famous Roman general and successful politician, born in 83 B.C. His maternal grandfather was L. Julius Caesar, and it's believed that Mark's smart choice of mother contributed significantly to his later success.
Young Antony was rather gay and festive during his early years, and led a life that in any city but Rome would have occasioned talk. He got into a great many youthful scrapes, and nothing seemed to please him better than to repeatedly bring his father's gray hairs down in sorrow to the grave. Debauchery was a matter to which he gave much thought, and many a time he was found consuming the midnight oil while pursuing his studies in this line.
Young Antony was quite cheerful and lively during his early years, leading a life that in any city other than Rome would have stirred up some gossip. He got into a lot of youthful trouble, and nothing seemed to upset him more than constantly causing his father's hair to turn gray with worry. He spent a lot of time thinking about partying and often found himself burning the midnight oil while studying this lifestyle.
At that time Rome was well provided for in the debauchery department, and Mr. Antony became a thorough student of the entire curriculum.
At that time, Rome had plenty to offer in terms of indulgence, and Mr. Antony became a dedicated student of everything it had to teach.
About 57 B.C. he obtained command of the cavalry of Gambinino in Syria and Egypt. He also acted as legate for Caesar in Gaul about 52 B.C., as nearly as I can recall the year. I do not know exactly what a legate is, but it had something to do with the Roman ballet, I understand, and commanded a good salary.
About 57 B.C., he took command of the cavalry of Gambinino in Syria and Egypt. He also served as a legate for Caesar in Gaul around 52 B.C., as far as I can remember. I'm not entirely sure what a legate is, but I think it had something to do with the Roman military and came with a decent salary.
He was also elected, in 50, B.C., as Argus and Tribune—acting as Tribune at night and Argus during the day time, I presume, or he may have been elected Tribune and ex-officio Argus. He was more successful as Tribune than he was in the Argus business.
He was also elected, in 50 B.C., as Argus and Tribune—serving as Tribune at night and Argus during the day, I assume, or he might have been elected as Tribune and automatically taken on the role of Argus. He was more successful as Tribune than he was in the Argus role.
Early in 49, B.C., he fled to Caesar's camp, and the following year was appointed commander-in-chief. He commanded the left wing of the army at the battle of Pharsalia, and years afterward used to be passionately fond of describing it and explaining how he saved the day, and how everybody else was surprised but him, and how he was awakened by hearing one of the enemy's troops, across the river, stealthily pulling on his pantaloons.
Early in 49 B.C., he ran away to Caesar's camp, and the next year he was made commander-in-chief. He led the left wing of the army at the battle of Pharsalia, and years later he loved to passionately recount it, explaining how he turned the tide of the battle, how everyone else was caught off guard except for him, and how he woke up to the sound of one of the enemy's soldiers across the river quietly putting on his pants.
Antony married Fulvia, the widow of a successful demagogue named P. Clodius. This marriage could hardly be regarded as a success. It would have been better for the widow if she had remained Mrs. P. Clodius, for Mark Antony was one of those old-fashioned Romans who favored the utmost latitude among men, but heartily enjoyed seeing an unfaithful woman burned at the stake. In those days the Roman girl had nothing to do but live a pure and blameless life, so that she could marry a shattered Roman rake who had succeeded in shunning a blameless life himself, and at last, when he was sick of all kinds of depravity and needed a good, careful wife to take care of him, would come with his dappled, sin-sick soul and shattered constitution, and his vast acquisitions of debts, and ask to be loved by a noble young woman. Nothing pleased a blase Roman so well as to have a young and beautiful girl, with eyes like liquid night, to take the job of reforming him. I frequently get up in the night to congratulate myself that I was not born, 2,000 years ago, a Roman girl.
Antony married Fulvia, the widow of a well-known politician named P. Clodius. This marriage was hardly a success. It would have been better for her if she had stayed Mrs. P. Clodius, as Mark Antony was one of those old-school Romans who supported the idea of free love among men but was quick to punish unfaithful women harshly. Back then, a Roman girl had one job: to live a pure and virtuous life so that she could marry a damaged Roman playboy who had managed to avoid living a good life himself. Eventually, when he got tired of all his wild ways and needed a responsible wife to care for him, he would come to her with his troubled soul and broken health, along with a mountain of debt, expecting her to love him wholeheartedly. Nothing delighted a jaded Roman more than having a young and beautiful girl, with eyes like the night sky, take on the challenge of fixing him. I often wake up in the middle of the night to feel grateful that I wasn't born, 2,000 years ago, as a Roman girl.
The historian continues to say, that though Mr. Antony continued to live a life of licentious lawlessness, that occasioned talk even in Rome, he was singularly successful in politics.
The historian goes on to say that even though Mr. Antony lived a life of reckless abandon that sparked gossip even in Rome, he was remarkably successful in politics.
He was very successful at funerals, also, and his off-hand obituary works were sought for far and wide. His impromptu remarks at the grave of Caesar, as afterward reported by Mr. Shakespeare, from memory, attracted general notice and made the funeral a highly enjoyable affair. After this no assassination could be regarded as a success, unless Mark Antony could be secured to come and deliver his justly celebrated eulogy.
He was also very popular at funerals, and his casual obituary speeches were in high demand everywhere. His spontaneous comments at Caesar’s grave, later reported by Mr. Shakespeare from memory, drew a lot of attention and made the funeral quite entertaining. After that, no assassination could be considered successful unless Mark Antony could be booked to deliver his famous eulogy.
About 43, B.C., Antony, Octavius and Lepidus formed a co-partnership under the firm name and style of Antony, Octavius & Co., for the purpose of doing a general, all-round triumvirate business and dealing in Roman republican pelts. The firm succeeded in making republicanism extremely odious, and for years a republican hardly dared to go out after dark to feed the horse, lest he be jumped on by a myrmidon and assassinated. It was about this time that Cicero had a misunderstanding with Mark's myrmidons and went home packed in ice.
Around 43 B.C., Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus teamed up under the business name Antony, Octavius & Co. to run a general triumvirate operation and trade in Roman republican goods. The partnership made republicanism incredibly unpopular, so much so that for years, a republican wouldn’t even go outside after dark to feed his horse, fearing he’d be attacked by a henchman and killed. It was around this time that Cicero had a conflict with Mark's henchmen and ended up coming home frozen in ice.
Mark Antony, when the firm of Antony, Octavius & Co. settled up its affairs, received as his share the Asiatic provinces and Egypt. It was at this time that he met Cleopatra at an Egyptian sociable and fell in love with her. Falling in love with fair women and speaking pieces over new-made graves seemed to be Mark's normal condition. He got into a quarrel with Octavius and settled it by marrying Octavia, Octavius' sister, but this was not a love match, for he at once returned to Cleopatra, the author of Cleopatra's needle and other works.
Mark Antony, when the business of Antony, Octavius & Co. wrapped up its affairs, received the Asian provinces and Egypt as his share. It was during this time that he met Cleopatra at an Egyptian gathering and fell for her. Falling for beautiful women and delivering speeches over freshly dug graves seemed to be Mark's usual state. He got into a conflict with Octavius and resolved it by marrying Octavia, Octavius' sister, but this wasn't a love match, as he quickly went back to Cleopatra, the creator of Cleopatra's needle and other works.
This love for Cleopatra was no doubt the cause of his final overthrow, for he frequently went over to see her when he should have been at home killing invaders. He ceased to care about slashing around in carnage, and preferred to turn Cleopatra's music for her while she knocked out the teeth of her old upright piano and sang to him in a low, passionate, vox humana tone.
This love for Cleopatra was definitely the reason for his eventual downfall, as he often went to see her when he should have been at home fighting off invaders. He stopped caring about being in battle and preferred to play Cleopatra's music for her while she battered the keys of her old upright piano, singing to him in a soft, passionate, vox humana tone.
So, at last, the great cemetery declaimer and long distance assassin, Mark Antony, was driven out of his vast dominions after a big naval defeat at Actium, in September, 31 B.C., retreated to Alexandria, called for more reinforcements and didn't get them. Deserted by his fleet, and reduced to a hand-me-down suit of clothes and a two-year-old plug hat, he wrote a poetic wail addressed to Cleopatra and sent it to the Alexandria papers; then, closing the door and hanging up his pantaloons on a nail so as to reduce the sag in the knees, he blew out the gas and climbed over the high board fence which stands forever between the sombre present and the dark blue, mysterious ultimatum.
So finally, the famous grave speaker and long-distance killer, Mark Antony, was kicked out of his massive territories after a major naval loss at Actium in September, 31 B.C. He retreated to Alexandria, requested more reinforcements, and didn’t get any. Abandoned by his fleet and stuck in a hand-me-down outfit and a two-year-old top hat, he wrote a sorrowful poem for Cleopatra and sent it to the Alexandria newspapers. Then, after closing the door and hanging his pants on a nail to fix the sagging knees, he turned off the gas and climbed over the tall fence that forever stands between the grim present and the dark, mysterious unknown.
Man Overbored.
“Speaking about prohibition,” said Misery Brown one day, while we sat lying on the damp of the Blue Tail Fly, “I am prone to allow that the more you prohibit, the more you—all at once—discover that you have more or less failed to prohibit.
“Speaking about prohibition,” said Misery Brown one day, while we lay on the damp of the Blue Tail Fly, “I tend to think that the more you try to prohibit, the more you suddenly realize that you've mostly failed to prohibit it.”
“Now, you can win a man over to your way of thinking, sometimes, but you mustn't do it with the butt-end of a telegraph-pole. You might convert him that way, perhaps, but the mental shock and phrenological concussion of the argument might be disastrous to the convert himself.
“Now, you can get a guy to see things your way sometimes, but you shouldn't do it with the blunt end of a telegraph pole. You might change his mind that way, maybe, but the mental shock and brain jolt from the argument could really mess him up."
“A man once said to me that rum was the devil's drink, that Satan's home was filled with the odor of hot rum, that perdition was soaked with spiced rum and rum punch. 'You wot not,' said he, 'the ruin rum has rot. Why, Misery Brown,' said he, 'rum is my bete noir.' I said I didn't care what he used it for, he'd always find it very warming to the system. I told him he could use it for a hot bete noir, or a blanc mange, or any of those fancy drinks; I didn't care.
“A guy once told me that rum was the drink of the devil, that Satan's place smelled like hot rum, and that hell was soaked with spiced rum and rum punch. 'You have no idea,' he said, 'the destruction that rum has caused. Why, Misery Brown,' he said, 'rum is my bete noir.' I told him I didn’t care what he used it for; he’d always find it very warming. I mentioned that he could use it for a hot bete noir, or a blanc mange, or any of those fancy drinks; I didn’t care.”
“But the worst time I ever had grappling with the great enemy, I reckon, was in the later years of the war, when I pretty near squashed the rebellion. Grim-visaged war had worn me down pretty well. I played the big tuba in the regimental band, and I began to sigh for peace.
“But the worst time I ever had dealing with the great enemy, I guess, was in the later years of the war, when I almost crushed the rebellion. The harsh realities of war had really taken a toll on me. I played the big tuba in the regimental band, and I started to long for peace.”
“We had been on the march all summer, it seemed to me. We'd travel through dust ankle-deep all day that was just like ashes, and halt in the red-hot sun five minutes to make coffee. We'd make our coffee in five minutes, and sometimes we'd make it in the middle of the road; but that's neither here nor there.
“We had been marching all summer, or at least that's how it felt. We'd walk through dust that was ankle-deep, like ashes, all day and stop in the scorching sun for just five minutes to make coffee. We’d brew our coffee in those five minutes, and sometimes we even did it in the middle of the road; but that's neither here nor there."
“We finally found out that we would make a stand in a certain town, and that the Q.M. had two barrels of old and reliable whisky in store. We also found out that we couldn't get any for medical purposes nor anything else All we could do was to suffer on and wait till the war closed. I didn't feel like postponing the thing myself, so I began to investigate. The great foe of humanity was stored in a tobacco-house, and the Q.M. slept three nights between the barrels. The chances for a debauch looked peaked and slim in the extreme. However, there was a basement below, and I got in there one night with a half-inch auger, and two wash-tubs. Later on there was a sound of revelry by night. There was considerable 'on with the dance, let joy be unconfined.'
“We finally discovered that we would take a position in a specific town, and that the Q.M. had two barrels of old, dependable whiskey stored away. We also found out that we couldn't access any for medical use or anything else. All we could do was endure and wait until the war ended. I didn't want to delay it any longer myself, so I started to look into it. The main source of temptation was kept in a tobacco shop, and the Q.M. slept three nights between the barrels. The chances for a wild time seemed minimal at best. However, there was a basement below, and I managed to sneak in one night with a half-inch auger and two wash tubs. Later, there was quite a bit of celebration that went on into the night. There was certainly some 'on with the dance, let joy be unconfined.'”
“The next day there was a spongy appearance to the top of the head, which seemed to be confined to our regiment, as a result of the sudden giving way, as it were, of prohibitory restrictions. It was a very disagreeable day, I remember. All nature seemed clothed in gloom, and R.E. Morse, P.D.Q., seemed to be in charge of the proceedings. Redeyed Regret was everywhere.
“The next day, the top of the head looked spongy, which seemed to only affect our regiment, likely because of the sudden lifting of restrictions. I remember it being a really unpleasant day. Everything in nature felt dark and gloomy, and R.E. Morse, P.D.Q., appeared to be in charge of what was happening. Red-eyed Regret was everywhere."
“We then proceeded to yearn for the other barrel of woe, that we might pile up some more regret, and have enough misery to last us through the balance of the campaign. We acted on this suggestion, and, with a firm resolve and the same half-inch auger, we stole once more into the basement of the tobacco-house.
“We then started to crave the other barrel of sadness, so we could stack up more regret and have enough misery to carry us through the rest of the campaign. We took this suggestion seriously, and with a strong determination and the same half-inch auger, we snuck back into the basement of the tobacco-house.”
“I bored nineteen consecutive holes in the atmosphere, and then an intimate friend of mine bored twenty-seven distinct holes in the floor, only to bore through the bosom of the night. Eleven of us spent the most of the night boring into the floor, and at three o'clock A.M. it looked like a hammock, it was so full of holes. The quartermaster slept on through it all. He slept in a very audible tone of voice, and every now and then we could hear him slumbering on.
“I drilled nineteen straight holes in the air, and then a close friend of mine drilled twenty-seven unique holes in the floor, only to break through the depth of the night. Eleven of us spent most of the night drilling into the floor, and by three o'clock A.M. it looked like a hammock, it was so full of holes. The quartermaster slept through it all. He slept quite loudly, and every now and then we could hear him snoring away.”
“At last we decided that he was sleeping middling close to that barrel, so we began to bore closer to the snore. It was my turn to bore, I remember, and I took the auger with a heavy heart. I bored through the floor, and for the first time bored into something besides oxygen. It was the quartermaster. A wild yell echoed through the southern confederacy, and I pulled out my auger. It had on the point a strawberry mark, and a fragment of one of those old-fashioned woven wire gray shirts, such as quartermasters used to wear.
“At last we decided that he was sleeping pretty close to that barrel, so we started to drill closer to the snoring. I remember it was my turn to drill, and I took the auger with a heavy heart. I drilled through the floor, and for the first time, I hit something other than air. It was the quartermaster. A wild yell rang out across the southern confederacy, and I pulled out my auger. On the tip was a strawberry mark, along with a piece of one of those old-fashioned woven wire gray shirts that quartermasters used to wear.”
“I remember that we then left the tobacco-house. In the hurry we forgot two wash-tubs, a half-inch auger, and 980,361 new half-inch auger holes that had never been used.”
“I remember that we left the tobacco house. In the rush, we forgot two wash tubs, a half-inch auger, and 980,361 new half-inch auger holes that had never been used.”
“Done It A-Purpose.”
At Greeley a young man with a faded cardigan jacket and a look of woe got on the train, and as the car was a little crowded he sat in the seat with me. He had that troubled and anxious expression that a rural young man wears when he first rides on the train. When the engine whistled he would almost jump out of that cardigan jacket, and then he would look kind of foolish, like a man who allows his impulses to get the best of him. Most everyone noticed the young man and his cardigan jacket, for the latter had arrived at the stage of droopiness and jaded-across-the-shoulders look that the cheap knit jacket of commerce acquires after awhile, and it had shrunken behind and stretched out in front so that the horizon, as you stood behind the young man, seemed to be bound by the tail of this garment, which started out at the pocket with good intentions and suddenly decided to rise above the young man's shoulder blades.
At Greeley, a young man wearing a worn cardigan and a sad expression got on the train. Since the car was a bit crowded, he sat next to me. He had that worried look that rural guys often have when they ride a train for the first time. When the engine whistled, he nearly jumped out of his cardigan, and then he looked kind of silly, like someone who can't control their impulses. Most people noticed him and his cardigan because it had reached that point of sagging and a tired look that cheap knitwear gets over time. It had shrunk in the back and stretched out in front, so if you stood behind him, it looked like the horizon was being held back by the tail of his garment, which started out neatly at the pocket and suddenly decided to rise above his shoulder blades.
He seemed so diffident and so frightened among strangers, that I began to talk with him.
He seemed so shy and so scared around strangers that I started talking to him.
“Do you live at Greeley?” I inquired.
“Do you live in Greeley?” I asked.
“No, sir,” he said, in an embarrassed way, as most anyone might in the presence of greatness. “I live on a ranch up the Pandre. I was just at Greeley to see the circus.”
“No, sir,” he said, feeling embarrassed, like anyone would in front of someone great. “I live on a ranch up the Pandre. I was just in Greeley to see the circus.”
I thought I would play the tenderfoot and inquiring pilgrim from the cultured East, so I said: “You do not see the circus often in the West, I presume, the distance is so great between towns and the cost of transportation is so great?”
I figured I’d be the naive and curious traveler from the cultured East, so I said: “You probably don’t see the circus much in the West, right? The distance between towns is so far and the cost of getting there is quite high?”
“No, sir. This is the first circus I ever was to. I have never saw a circus before.”
“No, sir. This is the first circus I've ever been to. I've never seen a circus before.”
“How did you like it?”
“How was it?”
“O, tip-top. It was a good thing. I'd like to see it every day if I could, I laughed and drank lemonade till I've got my cloze all pinned up with pins, and I'd as soon tell you, if you wont give it away, that my pants is tied on me with barbed fence wire.”
“O, awesome. It was really good. I'd love to see it every day if I could. I laughed and drank lemonade until my clothes got all pinned up with pins, and I’d just as soon tell you, if you won’t spill it, that my pants are held up with barbed wire.”
“Probably that's what gives you that anxious and apprehensive look?”
“Is that what makes you look so anxious and worried?”
“Yes, sir. If I look kind of doubtless about something, its because I'm afraid my pantaloons will fall off on the floor and I will have to borrow a roller towel to wear home.”
“Yeah, sure. If I look a bit uncertain about something, it’s because I’m worried my pants are going to fall off and I’ll have to borrow a towel to wear home.”
“How did you like the animals?”
“How did you feel about the animals?”
“I liked that part of the Great Moral Aggregation the best of all. I have not saw such a sight before. I could stand there and watch that there old scaly elephant stuff hay into his bosom with his long rubber nose for hours. I'd read a good deal first and last about the elephant, the king of beasts, but I had never yet saw one. Yesterday father told me there hadn't been much joy into my young life, and so he gave me a dollar and told me to go over to the circus and have a grand time. I tell you, I just turned myself loose and gave myself up to pleasure.”
“I liked that part of the Great Moral Aggregation the best of all. I had never seen such a sight before. I could stand there and watch that old, scaly elephant stuff hay into his belly with his long, flexible trunk for hours. I’d read a lot about elephants, the kings of beasts, but I had never actually seen one. Yesterday, my dad told me there hadn't been much joy in my young life, so he gave me a dollar and told me to go to the circus and have a great time. I tell you, I just let myself go and completely embraced the fun.”
{Illustration: I WAS A POOR CONVERSATIONALIST.}
{Illustration: I WAS BAD AT SMALL TALK.}
“What other animals seemed to please you?” I asked, seeing that he was getting a little freer to talk.
“What other animals do you like?” I asked, noticing that he was starting to open up a bit more.
“Oh, I saw the blue-nosed baboon from Farther India, and the red-eyed sandhill crane from Maddygasker, I think it was, and the sacred Jack-rabbit from Scandihoovia, and the lop-eared layme from South America. Then there was the female acrobat with her hair tied up with red ribbon. It's funny about them acrobat wimmen. They get big pay, but they never buy cloze with their money. Now, the idea of a woman that gets $2 or $3 a day, for all I know, coming out there before 2,000 total strangers, wearing a pair of Indian war clubs and a red ribbon in her hair. I tell you, pardner, them acrobat prima donnars are mighty stingy with their money, or else they're mighty economical with their cloze.”
“Oh, I saw the blue-nosed baboon from Farther India, the red-eyed sandhill crane from Madagascar, I think it was, the sacred jackrabbit from Scandinavia, and the lop-eared llama from South America. Then there was the female acrobat with her hair tied up with a red ribbon. It's funny about those acrobat women. They get paid a lot, but they never spend it on clothes. Now, the idea of a woman making $2 or $3 a day, for all I know, coming out there in front of 2,000 total strangers, wearing a pair of Indian war clubs and a red ribbon in her hair. I tell you, partner, those acrobat divas are either really stingy with their money or they're just super thrifty with their clothes.”
“Did you go into the side show?”
“Did you check out the side show?”
“No, sir. I studied the oil paintings on the outside, but I didn't go in, I met a handsome looking man there near the side show, though, that seemed to take an interest in me. There was a lottery along with the show and he wanted me to go and throw for him.”
“No, sir. I looked at the oil paintings outside, but I didn’t go in. I did meet a good-looking guy near the side show who seemed interested in me. There was a lottery happening with the show, and he wanted me to go and place a bet for him.”
“Capper, probably?”
"Capper, maybe?"
“Perhaps so. Anyhow, he gave me a dollar and told me to go and throw for him.”
“Maybe. Anyway, he gave me a dollar and told me to go throw for him.”
“Why didn't he throw for himself?”
“Why didn’t he throw for himself?”
“O, he said the lottery man knew him and wouldn't let him throw.”
“O, he said the lottery guy knew him and wouldn't let him throw.”
“Of course. Same old story. He saw you were a greeney and got you to throw for him. He stood in with the game so that you drew a big prize for the capper, created a big excitement, and you and the crowd sailed in and lost all the money you had. I'll bet he was a man with a velvet coat, and a moustache dyed a dead black and waxed as sharp as a cambric needle.”
“Of course. Same old story. He saw that you were new to the game and got you to throw for him. He was involved in the game so that you won a big prize for the bookie, created a lot of excitement, and you and the crowd ended up losing all your money. I bet he was the kind of guy who wore a velvet coat with a mustache dyed jet black and waxed to a fine point.”
“Yes; that's his description to a dot. I wonder if he really did do that a-purpose.”
“Yes, that's his description to a tee. I wonder if he actually did that on purpose.”
“Well, tell us about it. It does me good to hear a blamed fool tell how he lost his money. Don't you see that your awkward ways and general greenness struck the capper the first thing, and you not only threw away your own money, but two or three hundred other wappy-jawed pelicans saw you draw a big prize and thought it was yours, then they deposited what little they had and everything was lovely.”
“Well, tell us about it. It’s nice to hear a downright fool explain how he lost his money. Don’t you see that your clumsy behavior and overall naivety caught the attention of the con artist from the start? Not only did you waste your own money, but two or three hundred other clueless people saw you win a big prize and thought it was yours, so they put in what little they had, and everything seemed great.”
“Well, I'll tell you how it was, if it'll do any good and save other young men in the future. You see this capper, as you call him, gave me a $1 bill to throw for him, and I put it into my vest pocket so, along with the dollar bill father gave me. I always carry my money in my right hand vest pocket. Well, I sailed up to the game, big as old Jumbo himself, and put a dollar into the game. As you say, I drawed a big prize, $20 and a silver cup. The man offered me $5 for the cup and I took it.”
“Well, I’ll tell you how it went, if it helps and saves other young guys in the future. You see this hustler, as you call him, gave me a dollar bill to throw for him, and I stuck it in my vest pocket with the dollar bill my dad gave me. I always keep my cash in my right hand vest pocket. So, I swaggered up to the game, feeling as bold as ever, and put a dollar into the game. As you say, I hit the jackpot, $20 and a silver cup. The guy offered me $5 for the cup, and I took it.”
“Then it flashed over my mind that I might have got my dollar and the other feller's mixed, so I says to the proprietor, 'I will now invest a dollar for a gent who asked me to draw for him.'
“Then it occurred to me that I might have mixed up my dollar with the other guy's, so I said to the owner, 'I'm going to put a dollar down for a gentleman who asked me to draw for him.'”
“Thereupon I took out the other dollar, and I'll be eternally chastised if I didn't draw a brass locket worth about two bits a bushel.”
“Thereupon I took out the other dollar, and I'll be forever scolded if I didn't pull out a brass locket worth about twenty-five cents a bushel.”
I didn't say anything for a long time. Then I asked him how the capper acted when he got his brass locket.
I didn’t say anything for a while. Then I asked him how the capper reacted when he got his brass locket.
“Well, he seemed pained and grieved about something, and he asked me if I hadn't time to go away into a quiet place where we could talk it over by ourselves; but he had a kind of a cruel, insincere look in his eye, and I said no, I believed I didn't care to, and that I was a poor conversationalist, anyhow; and so I came away, and left him looking at his brass locket and kicking holes in the ground and using profane language.
“Well, he looked upset and troubled about something, and he asked me if I had time to go to a quiet place where we could talk it over privately; but he had a sort of cruel, fake look in his eye, so I told him no, I didn’t feel like it, and that I’m not great at having conversations anyway; and so I left, leaving him staring at his brass locket, kicking the ground, and cursing.”
“Afterward I saw him talking to the proprietor of the lottery, and I feel, somehow, that they had lost confidence in me. I heard them speak of me in a jeering tone of voice, and one said as I passed by: 'There goes the meek-eyed rural convict now,' and he used a horrid oath at the same time.
“Afterward, I saw him talking to the lottery owner, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that they had lost faith in me. I heard them talk about me in a mocking tone, and one of them said as I walked by: 'There goes the timid-eyed country convict now,' and he cursed at the same time.”
“If it hadn't been for that one little quincidence, there would have been nothing to mar the enjoyment of the occasion.”
“If it hadn't been for that one tiny coincidence, there would have been nothing to ruin the enjoyment of the event.”
Picnic Incidents.
Camping out in summer for several weeks is a good thing generally. Freedom from social restraint and suspenders is a great luxury for a time, and nothing purifies the blood quicker, or makes a side of bacon taste more like snipe on toast, than the crisp ozone that floats through the hills and forests where man can monkey o'er the green grass without violating a city ordinance.
Camping out in the summer for a few weeks is generally a great experience. Being free from social constraints and formalities is a nice luxury for a while, and nothing cleanses the body faster or makes a piece of bacon taste more like gourmet food than the fresh air that fills the hills and forests, where you can roam freely on the grass without breaking any city laws.
The picnic is an aggravation. It has just enough of civilization to be a nuisance, and not enough barbarism to make life seem a luxury. If our aim be to lean up against a tree all day in a short seersucker coat and ditto pantaloons that segregated while we were festooning the hammock, the picnic is the thing. If we desire to go home at night with a jelly symphony on each knee and a thousand-legged worm in each ear, we may look upon the picnic as a success.
The picnic is a hassle. It has just enough civilization to be annoying, but not enough wildness to make life feel like a treat. If our goal is to lean against a tree all day in a light seersucker coat and matching pants that got tangled up while we were hanging the hammock, then the picnic is perfect. If we want to go home at night with jelly stains on each knee and a thousand-legged worm in each ear, we can consider the picnic a success.
But to those who wish to forget the past and live only in the booming present, to get careless of gain and breathe brand-new air that has never been used, to appease an irritated liver, or straighten out a torpid lung, let me say, pick out a high, dry clime, where there are trout enough to give you an excuse for going there, take what is absolutely necessary and no more, and then stay there long enough to have some fun.
But for those who want to forget the past and focus only on the exciting present, to stop worrying about making money and enjoy fresh air that hasn’t been breathed before, to calm an upset liver, or revitalize a sluggish lung, I suggest you choose a high, dry place, where there are plenty of trout to justify your trip, pack only what you really need and nothing more, and stay there long enough to have some fun.
If we picnic, we wear ourselves out trying to have a good time, so that we can tell about it when we get back, but we do not actually get acquainted with each other before we have to quit and return.
If we have a picnic, we exhaust ourselves trying to enjoy ourselves, just so we can share stories when we get back, but we don't really get to know each other before we have to stop and head home.
To camp, is to change the whole programme of life, and to stop long enough in the never-ending conflict for dollars and distinction, to get a full breath and look over the field. Still, it is not always smooth sailing. To camp, is sometimes to show the material of which we are made. The dude at home is the dude in camp, and wherever he goes he demonstrates that he was made for naught. I do not know what a camping party would do with a dude unless they used him to bait a bear trap with, and even then it would be taking a mean advantage of the bear. The bear certainly has some rights which we are bound in all decency to respect.
To camp means to completely change your life routine and pause long enough in the endless struggle for money and recognition to take a deep breath and reflect. However, it’s not always easy. Camping can sometimes reveal who we really are. The snob at home is still a snob in the campsite, and no matter where he goes, he proves that he isn’t cut out for anything worthwhile. I honestly don’t know what a camping group would do with a snob unless they used him as bait for a bear trap, and even then, that would be unfair to the bear. The bear definitely has rights that we should respect.
James Milton Sherrod said he had a peculiar experience once while he was in camp on the Poudre in Colorado.
James Milton Sherrod said he had a strange experience once while he was camping on the Poudre in Colorado.
“We went over from Larmy,” said he, “in July, eight years ago—four of us. There was me and Charcoal Brown, and old Joe and young Joe Connoy. We had just got comfortably down on the Lower Fork, out of the reach of everybody and sixty miles from a doctor, when Charcoal Brown got sick. Wa'al we had a big time of it. You can imagine yourself somethin' about it. Long in the night Brown began to groan and whoop and holler, and I made a diagnosis of him. He didn't have much sand anyhow. He was tryin' to git a pension from the government on the grounds of desertion and failure to provide, and some such a blame thing or another, so I didn't feel much sympathy fur him. But when I lit the gas and examined him, I found that he had a large fever on hand, and there we was without a doggon thing in the house but a jug of emigrant whiskey and a paper of condition powders fur the mule. I was a good deal rattled at first to know what the dickens to do fur him. The whiskey wouldn't do him any good, and, besides, if he was goin' to have a long spell of sickness we needed it for the watchers.
“We came over from Larmy,” he said, “in July, eight years ago—there were four of us. It was me, Charcoal Brown, old Joe, and young Joe Connoy. We had just settled down comfortably on the Lower Fork, far away from everyone and sixty miles from a doctor, when Charcoal Brown got sick. Well, we had quite the ordeal. You can imagine what it was like. Late at night, Brown started groaning and shouting, so I tried to figure out what was wrong with him. He never was the toughest guy. He was trying to get a pension from the government claiming desertion and failure to provide, or some other nonsense, so I didn’t have much sympathy for him. But when I lit the gas and examined him, I realized he had a serious fever, and here we were with nothing in the house except a jug of emigrant whiskey and a packet of condition powders for the mule. I was pretty shaken at first, not sure what to do for him. The whiskey wouldn’t help, and besides, if he was going to be sick for a while, we needed it for the people watching over him.”
{Illustration: MAKING USE OF A DUDE.}
{Illustration: USING A PERSON.}
“Wa'al, it was rough. I'd think of a thousand things that was good fur fevers, and then I'd remember that we hadn't got 'em. Finally old Joe says to me, 'James, why don't ye soak his feet?' says he. 'Soak nuthin',' says I; 'what would ye soak 'em in?' We had a long-handle frying-pan, and we could heat water in it, of course, but it was too shaller to do any good, anyhow; so we abandoned that synopsis right off. First I thought I'd try the condition powders in him, but I hated to go into a case and prescribe so recklessly. Finally I thought of a case of rheumatiz that I had up in Bitter Creek years ago, and how the boys filled their socks full of hot ashes and put 'em all over me till it started the persbyterian all over me and I got over it. So we begun to skirmish around the tent for socks, and I hope I may be tee-totally skun if there was a blame sock in the whole syndicate. Ez fur me, I never wore 'em, but I did think young Joe would be fixed. He wasn't though. Said he didn't want to be considered proud and high strung, so he left his socks at home.
"Well, it was tough. I'd think of a thousand things that worked for fevers, and then I'd remember we didn't have any of them. Finally, old Joe says to me, 'James, why don't you soak his feet?' I replied, 'Soak what? In what?' We had a long-handled frying pan, and we could heat water in it, but it was too shallow to be effective anyway, so we dropped that idea right away. At first, I thought I’d try the condition powders on him, but I didn't want to go into a situation and prescribe without thinking. Eventually, I remembered a case of rheumatism I had up in Bitter Creek years ago, and how the guys filled their socks with hot ashes and put them all over me until it got the perspiration going again and I got better. So we started searching around the tent for socks, and I swear I couldn’t find a single sock in the whole place. As for me, I never wore them, but I thought young Joe would have some. He didn’t though. He said he didn't want to seem proud or overly particular, so he left his socks at home."
{Illustration: CHARCOAL BROWN'S REPROACHES.}
{Illustration: CHARCOAL BROWN'S CRITICISMS.}
“Then we begun to look around and finally decided that Brown would die pretty soon if we didn't break up the fever, so we concluded to take all the ashes under the camp-fire, fill up his cloze, which was loose, tie his sleeves at the wrists, and his pants at the ankles, give him a dash of condition powders and a little whiskey to take the taste out of his mouth, and then see what ejosted nature would do.
“Then we started to look around and finally decided that Brown would die pretty soon if we didn't break the fever, so we concluded to take all the ashes from the campfire, fill up his clothes, which were loose, tie his sleeves at the wrists and his pants at the ankles, give him a dose of condition powders and a little whiskey to mask the taste in his mouth, and then see what natural instincts would do.”
“So we stood Brown up agin a tree and poured hot ashes down his back till he begun to fit his cloze pretty quick, and then we laid him down in the tent and covered him up with everything we had in our humble cot. Everything worked well till he begun to perspirate, and then there was music, and don't you forget it. That kind of soaked the ashes, don't you see, and made a lye that would take the peelin' off a telegraph pole.
“So we propped Brown up against a tree and poured hot ashes down his back until he started to swear pretty quickly, and then we laid him down in the tent and covered him with everything we had in our small bed. Everything was fine until he started to sweat, and then there was a lot of noise, and don't you forget it. That kind of soaked the ashes, you see, and created a lye that could strip the paint off a telephone pole.”
“Charcoal Brown jest simply riz up and uttered a shrill whoop that jarred the geology of Colorado, and made my blood run cold. The goose flesh riz on old Joe Connoy till you could hang your hat on him anywhere. It was awful.
“Charcoal Brown just suddenly got up and let out a sharp whoop that shook the ground in Colorado and sent chills down my spine. Old Joe Connoy was covered in goosebumps, so much that you could hang your hat on him anywhere. It was terrible.
“Brown stood up on his feet, and threw things, and cussed us till we felt ashamed of ourselves. I've seen sickness a good deal in my time, but—I give it to you straight—I never seen an invalid stand up in the loneliness of the night, far from home and friends, with the concentrated lye oozin' out of the cracks of his boots, and reproach people the way Charcoal Brown did us.
“Brown stood up, threw things around, and cursed at us until we felt ashamed. I've witnessed a lot of sickness in my day, but—I'll be honest—I’ve never seen someone unwell stand up in the dead of night, far from home and friends, with the concentrated lye oozing out of the cracks in his boots, and blame people the way Charcoal Brown did us.”
“He got over it, of course, before Christmas, but he was a different man after that. I've been out campin' with him a good many times sence, but he never complained of feelin' indisposed. He seemed to be timid about tellin' us even if he was under the weather, and old Joe Connoy said mebbe Brown was afraid we would prescribe fur him or sumthin'.”
“He got over it, of course, before Christmas, but he was a different man after that. I've been camping with him a lot since then, but he never complained about feeling unwell. He seemed hesitant to let us know even if he wasn’t feeling great, and old Joe Connoy said maybe Brown was afraid we’d suggest something for him or something like that.”
Nero.
Nero, who was a Roman Emperor from 54 to 68 A.D., was said to have been one of the most disagreeable monarchs to meet that Rome ever had. He was a nephew of Culigula, the Emperor, on his mother's side, and a son of Dominitius Ahenobarbust, of St. Lawrence county. The above was really Nero's name, but in the year 50, A.D., his mother married Claudius and her son adopted the name of Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus. This name he was in the habit of wearing during the cold weather, buttoned up in front. During the hot weather, Nero was all the name he wore. In 53, Nero married Octavia, daughter of Claudius, and went right to housekeeping. Nero and Octavia did not get along first-rate. Nero soon wearied of his young wife and finally transferred her to the New Jerusalem.
Nero, who was a Roman Emperor from 54 to 68 A.D., was believed to be one of the most unpleasant rulers that Rome ever had. He was the nephew of Caligula, the Emperor, on his mother's side, and the son of Domitius Ahenobarbus, from St. Lawrence County. That was actually Nero's name, but in 50 A.D., his mother married Claudius, and her son took on the name Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus. This name was what he went by during the colder months, buttoned up in front. During the hot months, he simply went by Nero. In 53, Nero married Octavia, the daughter of Claudius, and they quickly set up their home together. Nero and Octavia didn’t get along very well at first. Nero soon got tired of his young wife and eventually sent her away to the New Jerusalem.
In 54, Nero's mother, by concealing the rightful heir to the throne for several weeks and doctoring the returns, succeeded in getting the steady job of Emperor for Nero at a good salary.
In 54, Nero's mother, by hiding the legitimate heir to the throne for several weeks and manipulating the results, managed to secure a permanent position as Emperor for Nero at a great salary.
His reign was quite stormy and several long, bloody wars were carried on during that period. He was a good vicarious fighter and could successfully hold a man's coat all day, while the man went to the front to get killed. He loved to go out riding over the battle fields, as soon as it was safe, in his gorgeously bedizened band chariot and he didn't care if the wheels rolled in gore up to the hub, providing it was some other man's gore. It gave him great pleasure to drive about over the field of carnage and gloat over the dead. Nero was not a great success as an Emperor, but as a gloater he has no rival in history.
His reign was quite turbulent, and several extended, bloody wars took place during that time. He was a decent stand-in fighter and could hold a man's coat all day while that man went to the frontlines to face death. He enjoyed riding over the battlefields as soon as it was safe, in his elaborately decorated chariot, and he didn't care if the wheels rolled through blood up to the hubs, as long as it was someone else's blood. It gave him great pleasure to drive around the fields of carnage and gloat over the dead. Nero wasn’t very successful as an Emperor, but when it came to gloating, he had no equal in history.
Nero's reign was characterized, also, by the great conflagration and Roman fireworks of July, 64, by which two-thirds of the city of Rome was destroyed. The emperor was charged with starting this fire in order to get the insurance on a stock of dry goods on Main street.
Nero's reign was marked by the massive fire and Roman fireworks in July 64, which destroyed two-thirds of the city of Rome. The emperor was accused of starting the fire to collect insurance on a stock of dry goods on Main Street.
Instead of taking off his crown, hanging it up in the hall and helping to put out the fire, as other Emperors have done time and again, Nero took his violin up stairs and played, “I'll Meet You When the Sun Goes Down.” This occasioned a great deal of adverse criticism on the part of those who opposed the administration. Several persons openly criticised Nero's policy and then died.
Instead of taking off his crown, hanging it up in the hall, and helping to put out the fire like other Emperors had done many times before, Nero went upstairs with his violin and played, “I'll Meet You When the Sun Goes Down.” This led to a lot of negative criticism from those who opposed his rule. Several people openly criticized Nero's policies and then ended up dead.
A man in those days, would put on his overcoat in the morning and tell his wife not to keep dinner waiting. “I am going down town to criticise the Emperor a few moments,” he would say. “If I do not get home in time for dinner, meet me on the 'evergreen shore.'”
A man back then would put on his overcoat in the morning and tell his wife not to hold up dinner. “I’m heading downtown to criticize the Emperor for a bit,” he’d say. “If I’m not back in time for dinner, meet me on the 'evergreen shore.'”
Nero, after the death of Octavia, married Poppaea Sabina. She died afterward at her husband's earnest solicitation. Nero did not care so much about being a bridegroom, but the excitement of being a widower always gratified and pleased him.
Nero, after Octavia passed away, married Poppaea Sabina. She later died at her husband's strong urging. Nero wasn't that interested in being a groom, but he always found the thrill of being a widower satisfying and enjoyable.
He was a very zealous monarch and kept Rome pretty well stirred up during his reign. If a man failed to show up anywhere on time, his friends would look sadly at each other and say, “Alas, he has criticised Nero.”
He was a highly enthusiastic ruler and kept Rome quite animated during his reign. If someone was late to a gathering, their friends would exchange worried glances and say, “Oh no, he must have criticized Nero.”
A man could wrestle with the yellow fever, or the small-pox, or the Asiatic cholera and stand a chance for recovery, but when he spoke sarcastically of Nero, it was good-bye John.
A man could fight against yellow fever, smallpox, or Asiatic cholera and have a shot at recovery, but when he made sarcastic remarks about Nero, it was game over.
When Nero decided that a man was an offensive partisan, that man would generally put up the following notice on his office door:
When Nero decided that someone was an annoying supporter, that person would usually put up the following notice on their office door:
“Gone to see the Emperor in relation to charge of offensive partisanship. Meet me at the cemetery at 2 o'clock.”
“Gone to see the Emperor about accusations of biased partisanship. Meet me at the cemetery at 2 o'clock.”
Finally, Nero overdid this thing and ran it into the ground. He did not want to be disliked and so, those who disliked him were killed. This made people timid and muzzled the press a good deal.
Finally, Nero went too far and ruined everything. He didn’t want to be unpopular, so he had anyone who disliked him killed. This made people fearful and silenced the press quite a bit.
The Roman papers in those days were all on one side. They did not dare to be fearless and outspoken, for fear that Nero would take out his ad. So they would confine themselves to the statement that: “The genial and urbane Afranius Burrhus had painted his new and recherche picket fence last week,” or “Our enterprising fellow townsman, Caesar Kersikes, will remove the tail of his favorite bulldog next week, if the weather should be auspicious,” or “Miss Agrippina Bangoline, eldest daughter of Romulus Bangoline, the great Roman rinkist, will teach the school at Eupatorium, Trifoliatum Holler, this summer. She is a highly accomplished young lady, and a good speller.”
The Roman newspapers back then only took one side. They didn’t dare to be bold and honest, afraid that Nero would retaliate. Instead, they stuck to statements like: “The friendly and charming Afranius Burrhus painted his new and fancy picket fence last week,” or “Our resourceful local guy, Caesar Kersikes, will remove the tail of his favorite bulldog next week, if the weather is good,” or “Miss Agrippina Bangoline, the eldest daughter of Romulus Bangoline, the great Roman skater, will teach at the school in Eupatorium, Trifoliatum Holler, this summer. She is a very skilled young lady and a great speller.”
Nero got more and more fatal as he grew older, and finally the Romans began to wonder whether he would not wipe out the Empire before he died. His back yard was full all the time of people who had dropped in to be killed, so that they could have it off their minds.
Nero became increasingly deadly as he got older, and eventually, the Romans started to worry that he might destroy the Empire before he passed away. His backyard was constantly filled with people who had come over to be executed, so they could clear their consciences.
Finally, Nero himself yielded to the great strain that had been placed upon him and, in the midst of an insurrection in Gaul, Spain and Rome itself, he fled and killed himself.
Finally, Nero himself gave in to the immense pressure he was under and, in the middle of a rebellion in Gaul, Spain, and Rome itself, he fled and took his own life.
The Romans were very grateful for Nero's great crowning act in the killing line, but they were dissatisfied because he delayed it so long, and therefore they refused to erect a tall monument over his remains. While they admired the royal suicide and regarded it as a success, they censured Nero's negligence and poor judgment in suiciding at the wrong end of his reign.
The Romans were very thankful for Nero's major final act in the killing line, but they were unhappy because he took so long to do it, so they declined to build a tall monument over his remains. While they admired his royal suicide and saw it as a success, they criticized Nero's negligence and poor judgment for choosing to take his life at the wrong point in his reign.
I have often wondered what Nero would have done if he had been Emperor of the United States for a few weeks and felt as sensitive to newspaper criticism as he seems to have been. Wouldn't it be a picnic to see Nero cross the Jersey ferry to kill off a few journalists who had adversely criticised his course? The great violin virtuoso and light weight Roman tyrant would probably go home by return mail, wrapped in tinfoil, accompanied by a note of regret from each journalist in New York, closing with the remark, that “in the midst of life we are in death, therefore now is the time to subscribe.”
I often wonder what Nero would have done if he had been the Emperor of the United States for a few weeks and was as sensitive to newspaper criticism as he seemed to be. Wouldn’t it be amusing to see Nero take the Jersey ferry to eliminate a few journalists who had criticized him? The great violinist and lightweight Roman tyrant would probably end up going home in a hurry, wrapped in tinfoil, with a note of regret from each journalist in New York, ending with the line, “in the midst of life, we are in death, so now is the time to subscribe.”
Squaw Jim.
“Jim, you long-haired, backslidden Caucasian nomad, why don't you say something? Brace up and tell us your experience. Were you kidnapped when you were a kid and run off into the wild wickyup of the forest, or how was it that you came to leave the Yankee reservation and eat the raw dog of the Sioux?”
“Jim, you long-haired, fallen Caucasian wanderer, why don’t you speak up? Come on and share your story. Were you kidnapped as a child and taken off into the woods, or what made you leave the Yankee settlement and eat the raw dog of the Sioux?”
We were all sitting around the roaring fat-pine fire at the foot of the canon, and above us the full moon was filling the bottom of the black notch in the mountains, where God began to engrave the gulch that grew wider and deeper till it reached the valley where we were.
We were all gathered around the crackling fat-pine fire at the base of the canyon, and above us, the full moon illuminated the bottom of the dark gap in the mountains, where God started to carve out the gorge that widened and deepened until it reached the valley where we were.
Squaw Jim was tall, silent and grave. He was as dignified as the king of clubs, and as reticent as the private cemetery of a deaf and dumb asylum. He didn't move when Dutch Joe spoke to him, but he noticed the remark, and after awhile got up in the firelight, and later on the silent savage made the longest speech of his life.
Squaw Jim was tall, quiet, and serious. He had the dignity of a king playing cards, and he was as reserved as a private cemetery for a deaf and mute asylum. He didn’t react when Dutch Joe talked to him, but he heard the comment, and after a while, he stood up in the firelight, and later on, the silent savage gave the longest speech of his life.
{Illustration: “BOYS, YOU CALL ME SQUAW JIM."}
{Illustration: “GUYS, YOU CALL ME SQUAW JIM."}
“Boys, you call me Squaw Jim, and you call my girl a half breed. I have no other name than Squaw Jim with the pale faced dude and the dyspeptic sky pilot who tells me of his God. You call me Squaw Jim because I've married a squaw and insist on living with her. If I had married Mist-of-the-Waterfall, and had lived in my tepee with her summers, and wintered at St. Louis with a wife who belonged to a tall peaked church, and who wore her war paint, and her false scalp-lock, and her false heart into God's wigwam, I'd be all right, probably. They would have laughed about it a little among the boys, but it would have been “wayno” in the big stone lodges at the white man's city.
“Hey guys, you call me Squaw Jim, and you call my girl a half-breed. I don’t have any other name except Squaw Jim with the white dude and the cranky preacher who talks to me about his God. You call me Squaw Jim because I’ve married a Native woman and choose to live with her. If I had married Mist-of-the-Waterfall, and spent my summers in a teepee with her, and wintered in St. Louis with a wife who belonged to a tall church, who wore her traditional makeup and false hair, and brought her fake heart into God’s house, I’d probably be fine. They might have joked about it a bit among the guys, but it would have been totally accepted in the big stone buildings of the white man’s city.”
“I loved a pale faced girl in Connecticut forty years ago. She said she did me, but she met with a change of heart and married a bare-back rider in a circus. Then she ran away with the sword swallower of the side show, and finally broke her neck trying to walk the tight rope. The jury said if the rope had been as tight as she was it might have saved her life.
“I loved a pale-faced girl in Connecticut forty years ago. She said she loved me too, but then she changed her mind and married a bareback rider in a circus. After that, she ran away with the sword swallower from the sideshow and eventually broke her neck trying to walk the tightrope. The jury said that if the rope had been as tight as she was, it might have saved her life.”
“Since then I've been where the sun and the air and the soil were free. It kind of soothed me to wear moccasins and throw my biled shirt into the Missouri. It took the fever of jealousy and disappointment out of my soul to sleep in the great bosom of the unhoused night. Soon I learned how to parley-vous in the Indian language, and to wear the clothes of the red man. I married the squaw girl who saved me from the mountain fever and my foes. She did not yearn for the equestrian of the white man's circus. She didn't know how to raise XxYxZ to the nth power, but she was a wife worthy of the President of the United States. She was way off the trail in matters of etiquette, but she didn't know what it was to envy and hate the pale faced squaw with the sealskin sacque and the torpid liver, and the high-priced throne of grace. She never sighed to go where they are filling up Connecticut's celestial exhibit with girls who get mysteriously murdered and the young men who did it go out lecturing. You see I keep posted.
“Since then I've been where the sun, air, and earth are free. It felt comforting to wear moccasins and toss my boiled shirt into the Missouri. Sleeping under the open sky helped wash away the jealousy and disappointment in my soul. Soon I learned to speak the Indian language and wear the clothing of the Native people. I married the Native girl who saved me from the mountain fever and my enemies. She didn't long for the showman of the white man's circus. She didn’t know how to raise XxYxZ to the nth power, but she was a wife fit for the President of the United States. She was far from polished in matters of etiquette, but she didn’t know what it was to envy and resent the pale-faced woman with the sealskin coat and the sluggish demeanor, and the expensive throne of grace. She never wished to go where they are filling Connecticut's celestial exhibit with girls who mysteriously vanish, and the young men who commit these acts go out lecturing. You see, I stay informed.”
“Boys, you kind of pity me, I reckon, and say Squaw Jim might have been in Congress if he'd stayed with his people and wore night shirts and pared his claws, but you needn't.
“Guys, I guess you feel sorry for me and think Squaw Jim could have made it in Congress if he had stuck with his people, worn pajamas, and trimmed his nails, but you don’t have to.”
“My wife can't knock the tar out of a symphony on the piano, but she can mop the dew off the grass with a burglar, and knock out a dude's eyes at sixty yards rise.
“My wife can't play a symphony on the piano, but she can clear dew off the grass with a broom, and take a guy out at sixty yards."
“My wife is a little foggy on the winter style of salvation, and probably you'd stall her on how to drape a silk velvet overskirt so it wouldn't hang one-sided, but she has a crude idea of an every day, all wool General Superintendent of the Universe and Father of all-Humanity, whether they live under a horse blanket tepee or a Gothic mortgage. She might look out of place before the cross, with her chilblains and her childlike confidence, among the Tom cat sealskin sacques of your camel's hair Christianity, but if the world was supplied with Christians like my wife, purgatory would make an assignment, and the Salvation Army would go home and hoe corn. Sabe?”
“My wife is a bit confused about the winter style of salvation, and you might struggle to explain how to drape a silk velvet overskirt without it looking uneven, but she has a basic understanding of a down-to-earth, all-wool General Superintendent of the Universe and Father of all Humanity, whether people live under a horse blanket teepee or in a Gothic mortgaged home. She might seem out of place in front of the cross, with her chilblains and childlike confidence, among the fancy sealskin coats of your camel's hair Christianity, but if the world had more Christians like my wife, purgatory would become irrelevant, and the Salvation Army would pack up and go home to farm. Got it?”
Squaw Jim's Religion.
Referring to religious matters, the other day, Squaw Jim said: “I was up at the Post yesterday to kind of rub up against royalty, and refresh my memory with a few papers. I ain't a regular subscriber to any paper, for I can't always get my mail on time. We're liable to be here, there and everywhere, mebbe at some celebrated Sioux watering place and mebbe on the warpath, so I can't rely on the mails much, but I manage, generally, to get hold of a few old papers and magazines now and then. I don't always know who's president before breakfast the day after election, but I manage to skirmish around and find out before his term expires.
Referring to religious matters, the other day, Squaw Jim said: “I was up at the Post yesterday to kind of hang out with royalty and refresh my memory with a few papers. I’m not a regular subscriber to any paper because I can’t always get my mail on time. We tend to be here, there, and everywhere, maybe at some famous Sioux watering hole and maybe on the warpath, so I can’t rely on the mail much. But I usually manage to pick up a few old papers and magazines now and then. I don’t always know who the president is before breakfast the day after the election, but I find out before his term ends.”
“Now, speaking about the religion of the day, or, rather, the place where it used to be, it seems to me as if there's a mistake somewhere. It looks as if religion meant greenness, and infidelity meant science and smartness, according to the papers. I'm no scientist myself. I don't know evolution from the side of a house. As an evolver I couldn't earn my board, probably, and I wouldn't know a protoplasm from a side of sole leather; but I know when I get to the end of my picket rope, and I know just as sure where the knowable quits and the unknowable begins as anybody. I mean I can crawl into a prairie dog hole, and pull the hole in and put it in my pocket, in my poor, weak way, just as well as a scientist can. If a man offered to trade me a spavined megatherium for a foundered hypothesis, I couldn't know enough about either of the blamed brutes to trade and make a profit. I never run around after delightful worms and eccentric caterpillers. I have so far controlled myself and escaped the habit, but I am able to arrive at certain conclusions. You think that because I am the brother-in-law to an Indian outbreak, I don't care whether Zion languishes or not; but you are erroneous. You make a very common mistake.
“Now, talking about the religion of the moment, or, rather, the place where it used to be, it seems to me like there’s a mistake somewhere. It looks as if religion is associated with being naive, and being unfaithful is linked to intelligence and cleverness, according to the papers. I’m not a scientist myself. I can’t tell evolution from a house wall. As someone evolving, I probably couldn’t make a living, and I wouldn’t know protoplasm from a piece of leather; but I know when I reach the end of my rope, and I clearly understand where the known ends and the unknown begins, just like anyone else. I mean, I can crawl into a prairie dog hole, pull it in, and put it in my pocket, in my own, limited way, just as well as a scientist can. If someone offered to trade me a lame megatherium for a flawed hypothesis, I wouldn’t know enough about either of those creatures to make a profitable trade. I’ve never run around chasing delightful worms and quirky caterpillars. So far, I’ve managed to control myself and avoid that habit, but I can draw certain conclusions. You think that because I’m related to an Indian uprising, I don’t care if Zion struggles or not; but you’re mistaken. You’re making a very common error.”
“Mind you, I don't pretend to be up on the plan of salvation, and so far as vicarious atonement goes, I don't even know who is the author of it, but I've got a kind of hand-made religion that suits me. It's cheap, and portable, and durable, and stands our severe northern climate first rate. It ain't the protuberant kind. It don't protrude into other people's way like a sore thumb. All-wool religion don't go around with a chip on it's shoulder looking for a personal deal.
“Just so you know, I’m not claiming to fully understand the plan of salvation, and as for vicarious atonement, I have no idea who came up with it, but I’ve created a kind of homemade faith that works for me. It’s affordable, easy to carry, and tough enough to handle our harsh northern weather. It’s not the flashy type. It doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb and get in other people’s way. Genuine faith doesn’t walk around with a chip on its shoulder, looking for personal gain.”
“If I had time and could move my library around with me during our summer tour, I might monkey with speculative science and expose the plan of creation, but as it is now, I really haven't time.
“If I had time and could move my library with me during our summer trip, I might play around with speculative science and reveal the plan of creation, but as it stands, I really don’t have the time."
{Illustration: MOVING HIS LIBRARY.}
{Illustration: PACKING HIS BOOKSHELF.}
“I say this, however, friends, Romans and backsliders: I think sometimes when my little half-breed girl comes to me in the evening in her night dress, and kneels by me with her little brown face in between my knees, and with my hard hands in her unbraided hair, that she's got something better than speculative science when she says:
“I say this, though, my friends, Romans, and those who have strayed: sometimes, when my little mixed-race girl comes to me in the evening in her nightdress, kneeling by my side with her little brown face between my knees, and I have my rough hands in her unbraided hair, I feel like she has something more valuable than theoretical science when she says:
'Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take: This I ask for Jesus' sake;'
'Now I lie down to sleep. I pray the Lord will keep my soul; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord will take my soul: This I ask for Jesus' sake;'
“and I know that a million more little angels are saying that same thing, at that same hour, to the same imaginary God, I say to myself, if that is a vain, empty infatuation, blessed be that holy infatuation.
“and I know that a million more little angels are saying that same thing, at that same hour, to the same imaginary God. I tell myself, if that’s a pointless, empty obsession, then blessed be that sacred obsession.”
“If that's a wild and crazy delusion, let me be always deluded. If forty millions of chubby little angels bow their dimpled knees every evening to a false and foolish tradition, let me do so, too. If I die, then I will be in good company, even if I go no farther than the clouds of the valley.”
“If that's a wild and crazy delusion, then I want to stay deluded forever. If forty million cute little angels bend their dimpled knees every evening to a silly tradition, then count me in. If I die, at least I'll be in good company, even if I only go as far as the clouds in the valley.”
One Kind of Fool.
A young man, with a plated watch-chain that would do to tie up a sacred elephant, came into Denver the other day from the East, on the Julesburg Short line, and told the hotel clerk that he had just returned from Europe, and was on his way across the continent with the intention of publishing a book of international information. He handed an oilcloth grip across the counter, registered in a bold, bad way and with a flourish that scattered the ink all over the clerk's white shirt front.
A young man, sporting a watch chain that could probably restrain a sacred elephant, arrived in Denver the other day from the East on the Julesburg Short line. He told the hotel clerk he had just come back from Europe and was traveling across the continent with plans to publish a book of international information. He slid an oilcloth bag across the counter, signed in an exaggerated style that splattered ink all over the clerk's white shirt.
He was assigned to a quiet room on the fifth floor, that had been damaged by water a few weeks before by the fire department. After an hour or two spent in riding up and down the elevator and ringing for things that didn't cost anything, he oiled his hair and strolled into the dining-room with a severe air and sat down opposite a big cattle man, who never oiled his hair or stuck his nose into other people's business.
He was assigned to a quiet room on the fifth floor that had been damaged by water a few weeks earlier by the fire department. After spending an hour or two riding up and down in the elevator and asking for things that were free, he oiled his hair and walked into the dining room with a serious expression, sitting down across from a big cattleman who never oiled his hair or meddled in other people's affairs.
The European traveler entered into conversation with the cattle man. He told him all about Paris and the continent, meanwhile polishing his hands on the tablecloth and eating everything within reach. While he ate another man's dessert, he chatted on gaily about Cologne and pitied the cattle man who had to stay out on the bleak plains and watch the cows, while others paddled around Venice and acquired information in a foreign land.
The European traveler struck up a conversation with the cattle rancher. He shared all about Paris and the rest of the continent, while polishing his hands on the tablecloth and eating everything within reach. As he devoured another man's dessert, he cheerfully talked about Cologne and felt sorry for the cattle rancher who had to stay out on the desolate plains watching the cows, while others enjoyed themselves in Venice and learned about a foreign land.
At first the cattle man showed some interest in Europe, but after awhile he grew quiet and didn't seem to enjoy it. Later on the European tourist, with soiled cuffs and auburn mane, ordered the waiters around in a majestic way, to impress people with his greatness, tipped over the vinegar cruet into the salt and ate a slice of boiled egg out of another man's salad.
At first, the cattleman seemed interested in Europe, but after a while, he became quiet and didn't seem to enjoy it. Later on, the European tourist, with dirty cuffs and a reddish-brown hairstyle, bossed the waiters around in a way meant to impress others with his importance, knocked the vinegar cruet into the salt, and ate a piece of boiled egg from another man’s salad.
Casually a tall Kansas man strolled in and asked the European tourist what he was doing in Denver. The cattle man, who, by the way, has been abroad five or six times and is as much at home in Paris as he is in Omaha, investigated the matter, and learned that the fresh French tourist had been herding hens on a chicken ranch in Kansas for six years, and had never seen blue water. He then took a few personal friends to the dining-room door, and they watched the alleged traveler. He had just taken a long, refreshing drink from the finger bowl of his neighbor on the left and was at that moment, trying to scoop up a lump of sugar with the wrong end of the tongs.
Casually, a tall guy from Kansas walked in and asked the European tourist what he was doing in Denver. The cattleman, who has traveled abroad five or six times and feels just as comfortable in Paris as he does in Omaha, looked into it and found out that the fresh-off-the-boat French tourist had been herding chickens on a ranch in Kansas for six years and had never seen the ocean. He then took a few close friends to the dining-room door, and they watched the so-called traveler. He had just taken a long, refreshing sip from the finger bowl of the person sitting next to him and was currently trying to scoop up a lump of sugar with the wrong end of the tongs.
There are a good many fools who drift around through the world and dodge the authorities, but the most disastrous ass that I know is the man who goes West with two dollars and forty cents in his pocket, without brains enough to soil the most delicate cambric handkerchief, and tries to play himself for a savant with so much knowledge that he has to shed information all the time to keep his abnormal knowledge from hurting him.
There are a lot of fools who wander through the world, avoiding authority, but the biggest idiot I know is the guy who heads West with two dollars and forty cents in his pocket, with barely enough sense to stain the finest handkerchief, and tries to act smart with so much information that he constantly has to unload knowledge to keep his overwhelming intellect from causing him trouble.
John Adams' Diary.
December 3, 1764.—I am determined to keep a diary, if possible, the rest of my life. I fully realize how difficult it will be to do so. Many others of my acquaintance have endeavored to maintain a diary, but have only advanced so far as the second week in January. It is my purpose to write down each evening the events of the day as they occur to my mind, in order that in a few years they may be read and enjoyed by my family. I shall try to deal truthfully with all matters that I may refer to in these pages, whether they be of national or personal interest, and I shall seek to avoid anything bitter or vituperative, trying rather to cool my temper before I shall submit my thoughts to paper.
December 3, 1764.—I’m committed to keeping a diary for the rest of my life, if I can. I know it’s going to be challenging. Many people I know have tried to keep a diary but only made it to the second week of January. My plan is to write down the events of each day every evening, so that in a few years, my family can read and enjoy them. I’ll aim to be honest about everything I mention in these pages, whether it’s about national issues or personal matters, and I’ll try to avoid anything harsh or negative, making an effort to calm myself before I put my thoughts onto paper.
{Illustration: “WHERE'S THE PIE?"}
{Illustration: “WHERE'S THE PIE?"}
December 4.—This morning we have had trouble with the hired girl. It occurred in this wise: We had fully two-thirds of a pumpkin pie that had been baked in a square tin. This major portion of the pie was left over from our dinner yesterday, and last night, before retiring to rest, I desired my wife to suggest something in the cold pie line, which she did. I lit a candle and explored the pantry in vain. The pie was no longer visible. I told Mrs. Adams that I had not been successful, whereupon we sought out the hired girl, whose name is Tootie Tooterson, a foreign damsel, who landed in this country Nov. 7, this present year. She does not understand our language, apparently, especially when we refer to pie. The only thing she does without a strong foreign accent is to eat pumpkin pie and draw her salary. She landed on our coast six weeks ago, after a tedious voyage across the heaving billows. It was a close fight between Tootie and the ocean, but when they quit, the heaving billows were one heave ahead by the log.
December 4.—This morning we had some trouble with the hired girl. Here’s what happened: We had almost two-thirds of a pumpkin pie that had been baked in a square tin. This big piece of pie was leftover from our dinner yesterday, and last night, before going to bed, I asked my wife to suggest something we could do with the cold pie, which she did. I lit a candle and checked the pantry, but I couldn't find it. I told Mrs. Adams I had no luck, so we went to find the hired girl, whose name is Tootie Tooterson, a foreign woman who arrived in this country on November 7 of this year. She doesn’t seem to understand our language, especially when we mention pie. The only thing she does without a heavy accent is eat pumpkin pie and collect her salary. She arrived on our shores six weeks ago after a long voyage across rough seas. It was a tough battle between Tootie and the ocean, but in the end, the waves came out ahead by a log.
Miss Tooterson landed in Massachusetts in a woolen dress and hollow clear down into the ground. A strong desire to acquire knowledge and cold, hand-made American pie seems to pervade her entire being.
Miss Tooterson arrived in Massachusetts wearing a wool dress and feeling empty inside. A strong desire to gain knowledge and enjoy homemade American pie seems to fill her completely.
She has only allowed Mrs. Adams and myself to eat what she did not want herself.
She only lets Mrs. Adams and me eat what she doesn't want herself.
Miss Tooterson has also introduced into my household various European eccentricities and strokes of economy which deserve a brief notice here. Among other things she has made pie crust with castor oil in it, and lubricated the pancake griddle with a pork rind that I had used on my lame neck. She is thrifty and saving in this way, but rashly extravagant in the use of doughnuts, pie and Medford rum, which we keep in the house for visitors who are so unfortunate as to be addicted to the doughnut, pie or rum habit.
Miss Tooterson has also brought into my home several European quirks and budget-friendly tricks that are worth mentioning. For instance, she’s made pie crust using castor oil and greased the pancake griddle with a pork rind I had used on my sore neck. While she’s frugal in these ways, she’s recklessly indulgent when it comes to doughnuts, pie, and Medford rum, which we keep around for guests who are unfortunate enough to have a weakness for those treats.
It is discouraging, indeed, for two young people like Mrs. Adams and myself, who have just begun to keep house, to inherit a famine, and such a robust famine, too. It is true that I should not have set my heart upon such a transitory and evanescent terrestrial object like a pumpkin pie so near to T. Tooterson, imported pie soloist, doughnut mastro and feminine virtuoso, but I did, and so I returned from the pantry desolate.
It’s really discouraging for two young people like Mrs. Adams and me, who have just started to manage a household, to inherit a food shortage, and such a severe one at that. I know I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up over something as temporary and fleeting as a pumpkin pie, especially with T. Tooterson around, the pie expert, donut master, and talented baker, but I did, and that’s why I came back from the pantry feeling defeated.
{Illustration: A PIE SOLOIST.}
{Illustration: A Pie Soloist.}
I told Abigail that unless we poisoned a few pies for Tootie the Adams family would be a short-lived race. I could see with my prophetic eye that unless the Tootersons yielded the Adamses would be wiped out. Abigail would not consent to this, but decided to relieve Miss Tooterson from duty in this department, so this morning she went away. Not being at all familiar with the English language, she took four of Abigail's sheets and quite a number of towels, handkerchiefs and collars. She also erroneously took a pair of my night-shirts in her poor, broken way. Being entirely ignorant of American customs, I presume that she will put a belt around them and wear them externally to church. I trust that she will not do this, however, without mature deliberation.
I told Abigail that unless we poisoned a few pies for Tootie, the Adams family wouldn't last long. I could see with my foresight that if the Tootersons didn’t back down, the Adamses would be finished. Abigail wouldn’t agree to this, but decided to relieve Miss Tooterson from her role, so she left this morning. Not knowing much about English, she took four of Abigail's sheets and quite a few towels, handkerchiefs, and collars. She also mistakenly took a couple of my nightshirts in her confused way. Completely unaware of American customs, I assume she’ll put a belt around them and wear them as an outfit to church. I hope she thinks this through first, though.
{Illustration: IGNORANT OF AMERICAN CUSTOMS.}
{Illustration: UNAWARE OF AMERICAN CUSTOMS.}
I also had a bottle of lung medicine of a very powerful nature which the doctor had prepared for me. By some oversight, Miss Tooterson drank this the first day that she was in our service. This was entirely wrong, as I did not intend to use it for the foreign trade, but mostly for home consumption.
I also had a bottle of very strong lung medicine that the doctor had prepared for me. Somehow, Miss Tooterson drank it on her first day with us. This was completely wrong, as I didn't intend for it to be used for foreign trade, but mostly for home use.
This is a little piece of drollery that I thought of myself. I do not think that a joke impairs the usefulness of a diary, as some do. A diary with a joke in it is just as good to fork over to posterity as one that is not thus disfigured. In fact, what has posterity ever done for me that I should hesitate about socking a little humor into a diary? When has posterity ever gone out of its way to do me a favor? Never! I defy the historian to show a single instance where posterity has ever been the first to recognize and remunerate ability.
This is a little joke I came up with myself. I don't think a joke takes away from the usefulness of a diary, even if some people do. A diary with a joke in it is just as valuable to pass down to future generations as one that isn’t marred by humor. In fact, what has future generations ever done for me that makes me hesitate to add a bit of humor to my diary? When has anyone from the future ever gone out of their way to help me out? Never! I challenge any historian to show even one case where future generations have been the first to acknowledge and reward talent.
John Adams' Diary.
(No. 2.)
(No. 2.)
December 6.—It is with great difficulty that I write this entry in my diary, for this morning Abigail thought best for me to carry the oleander down into the cellar, as the nights have been growing colder of late.
December 6.—It's really hard for me to write this entry in my diary, because this morning Abigail decided it was best for me to take the oleander down to the cellar since the nights have been getting colder lately.
I do not know which I dislike most, foreign usurpation or the oleander. I have carried that plant up and down stairs every time the weather has changed, and the fickle elements of New England have kept me rising and falling with the thermometer, and whenever I raised or fell I most always had that scrawny oleander in my arms.
I don't know which I dislike more, foreign takeover or the oleander. I've taken that plant up and down the stairs every time the weather changed, and the unpredictable New England weather has kept me adjusting along with the thermometer. Whenever I went up or down, I almost always had that skinny oleander in my arms.
Richly has it repaid us, however, with its long, green, limber branches and its little yellow nubs on the end. How full of promises to the eye that are broken to the heart. The oleander is always just about to meet its engagements, but later on it peters out and fails to materialize.
Richly has it paid us back, though, with its long, green, flexible branches and its little yellow buds at the tips. They are full of promises to the eye but break the heart. The oleander is always on the verge of fulfilling its promises, but eventually it fizzles out and doesn't come through.
I do not know what we would do if it were not for our house plants. Every fall I shall carry them cheerfully down cellar, and in the spring I will bring up the pots for Mrs. Adams to weep softly into. Many a night at the special instance and request of my wife I have risen, clothed in one simple, clinging garment, to go and see if the speckled, double and twisted Rise-up-William-Riley geranium was feeling all right.
I don’t know what we’d do without our house plants. Every fall, I happily carry them down to the basement, and in the spring, I’ll bring the pots up for Mrs. Adams to gently weep into. Many nights, at my wife’s special request, I’ve gotten up, dressed in one simple, snug outfit, to check if the speckled, double, and twisted Rise-up-William-Riley geranium is doing okay.
Last summer Abigail brought home a slip of English ivy. I do not like things that are English very much, but I tolerated this little sickly thing because it seemed to please Abigail. I asked her what were the salient features of the English ivy. What did the English ivy do? What might be its specialty? Mrs. Adams said that it made a specialty of climbing. It was a climber from away back. “All right,” I then to her did straightway say, “let her climb.” It was a good early climber. It climbed higher than Jack's beanstalk. It climbed the golden stair. Most of our plants are actively engaged in descending the cellar stairs or in ascending the golden stair most all the time.
Last summer, Abigail brought home a piece of English ivy. I don’t really like English things that much, but I put up with this little sickly plant because it seemed to make Abigail happy. I asked her what the key features of the English ivy were. What exactly does the English ivy do? What might its specialty be? Mrs. Adams said that it was known for climbing. It has been a climber for a long time. "Okay," I then told her right away, "let it climb." It was a great early climber. It climbed higher than Jack's beanstalk. It climbed the golden stair. Most of our plants are usually busy either going down the cellar stairs or up the golden stair most of the time.
I descended the stairs with the oleander this morning, though the oleander got there a little more previously than I did. Parties desiring a good, secondhand oleander tub, with castors on it, will do well to give us a call before going elsewhere. Purchasers desiring a good set of second-hand ear muffs for tulips will find something to their advantage by addressing the subscriber.
I went down the stairs with the oleander this morning, although the oleander arrived a bit earlier than I did. Those looking for a nice second-hand oleander tub with wheels should reach out to us before checking other places. Buyers interested in a good pair of second-hand earmuffs for tulips will find something beneficial by contacting me.
We also have two very highly ornamental green dogoods for ivy vines to ramble over. We could be induced to sell these dogoods at a sacrifice, in order to make room for our large stock of new and attractive dogoods. These articles are as good as ever. We bought them during the panic last fall for our vines to climb over, but, as our vines died of membranous croup in November, these dogoods still remain unclum. Second-hand dirt always on hand. Ornamental geranium stumps at bed-rock prices. Highest cash prices paid for slips of black-and-tan foliage plants. We are headquarters for the century plant that draws a salary for ninety-nine years and then dies.
We also have two really decorative green dogoods for ivy vines to climb on. We’d be willing to sell these dogoods at a loss to make space for our large stock of new and appealing dogoods. These items are still in great condition. We bought them during the panic last fall for our vines to climb over, but since our vines died from membranous croup in November, these dogoods are still unused. We always have second-hand dirt available. Ornamental geranium stumps at rock-bottom prices. We pay the highest cash prices for slips of black-and-tan foliage plants. We're the go-to place for the century plant that earns a salary for ninety-nine years and then dies.
I do not feel much like writing in my diary to-day, but the physician says that my arm will be better in a day or two, so that it will be more of a pleasure to do business.
I don't really feel like writing in my diary today, but the doctor says that my arm will be better in a day or two, so it will be more enjoyable to get things done.
We are still without a servant girl, so I do some of the cooking. I make a fire each day and boil the teakettle. People who have tried my boiled teakettle say it is very fine.
We still don’t have a maid, so I do some of the cooking. I start a fire every day and boil the teakettle. People who have tasted my boiled teakettle say it’s really good.
Some of my friends have asked me to run for the Legislature here next election. Somehow I feel that I might, in public life, rise to distinction some day, and perhaps at some future time figure prominently in the affairs of a one-horse republic at a good salary.
Some of my friends have suggested I run for the Legislature in the next election. I have a feeling that I might, in public life, achieve some level of recognition someday, and maybe even play a key role in the affairs of a small republic while earning a decent salary.
I have never done anything in the statesman line, but it does not look difficult to me. It occurs to me that success in public life is the result of a union of several great primary elements, to-wit:
I’ve never been involved in politics, but it doesn’t seem too challenging to me. I think success in public life comes from a combination of several key factors, namely:
Firstly—Ability to whoop in a felicitous manner.
Firstly—Ability to cheer in a happy way.
Secondly—Promptness in improving the proper moment in which to whoop.
Secondly—Be quick to seize the right moment to cheer.
Thirdly—Ready and correct decision in the matter of which side to whoop on.
Thirdly—A quick and accurate decision about which side to cheer for.
Fourthly—Ability to cork up the whoop at the proper moment and keep it in a cool place till needed.
Fourthly—The ability to cork up the whoop at the right moment and keep it in a cool place until it’s needed.
And this last is one of the most important of all. It is the amateur statesman who talks the most. Fearing that he will conceal his identity as a fool, he babbles in conversation and slashes around in his shallow banks in public.
And this last point is one of the most important of all. It's the amateur politician who talks the most. Worried that he will hide his identity as a fool, he chats endlessly and flails around in his shallow knowledge in public.
As soon as I get the house plants down cellar and get their overshoes on for the winter, I will more seriously consider the question of our political affairs here in this new land where we have to tie our scalps on at night and where every summer is an Indian summer.
As soon as I move the house plants to the basement and put their winter coverings on, I will take a more serious look at our political situation here in this new land where we have to secure our headdresses at night and where every summer feels like an Indian summer.
John Adams' Diary
(No. 3.)
(No. 3.)
December 10.—I have put in a long and exhausting day in the court to-day in the case of Merkins vs. Merkins, a suit for divorce in which I am the counsel for the plaintiff, Eliza J. Merkins.
December 10.—I’ve had a long and exhausting day in court today for the case of Merkins vs. Merkins, a divorce suit where I’m representing the plaintiff, Eliza J. Merkins.
The case itself is a peculiarly trying one, and the plaintiff adds to its horrors by consulting me when I want to do something else. I took her case at an agreed price, and so Mrs. Merkins is trying to get her money's worth by consulting me in a way I abhor. She has consulted me in every mood and tense that I know of; at my office, on the street, in church, at the festive board and at different funerals to which we both happened to be called. Mrs. Merkins has hung like a pall over several Massachusetts funerals which otherwise had every symptom of success.
The case is really challenging, and the plaintiff makes it worse by coming to me when I have other things to do. I took her case for a set fee, and now Mrs. Merkins is trying to get her money's worth by consulting me in a way I can't stand. She's talked to me in every mood and tense I can think of; at my office, on the street, in church, at dinner parties, and at various funerals we both happened to attend. Mrs. Merkins has been a downer at several Massachusetts funerals that otherwise seemed to go well.
I am a great admirer of woman as a woman, but as a client in a suit for divorce she has her peculiarities. I have seen Eliza in every phase of the case. She has been calm and tearful, stormy and snorting, low-spirited and red-nosed, violent and menacing, resigned but sobby, trustful and confidential, high strung and haughty, crushed and weepy.
I really admire women for being women, but as a client going through a divorce, she has her quirks. I've seen Eliza in every phase of this process. She’s been calm and tearful, stormy and furious, downcast and sniffly, aggressive and threatening, resigned yet sobbing, hopeful and secretive, high-strung and arrogant, crushed and sobbing.
She makes a specialty of shedding the red-hot scalding tear wherever she can obtain permission to do so. She has wept in my wood-box, in my new spittoon, on my desk and on my birthday. I told her that I wished she would please weep on something else. There were enough objects in nature upon which a poor woman who wept constantly and had no other visible means of support could shed the wild torrents of her grief, without weeping on my anniversary. A man wants to keep his birthday as dry as possible. He hates to have it wept on by a client who has jewed him down to half price, and then insisted on coming in to sob with him in the morning before he has swept the office floor.
She has a knack for shedding her hot, scalding tears wherever she can get away with it. She's cried in my wood box, my new spittoon, on my desk, and even on my birthday. I told her that I wished she would find something else to cry on. There were plenty of things in nature where a woman who cried constantly and had no other obvious way to make a living could let out her wild torrents of grief, without ruining my anniversary. A man wants to keep his birthday as dry as he can. He really hates having it drenched in tears by a client who haggled him down to half price, and then insisted on coming in to weep with him in the morning before he's even had a chance to sweep the office floor.
One time she came and sobbed on my shoulder. Her tears are of the warm, damp kind, and feel disagreeable as they roll down the neck of a comparative stranger, who never can be aught but a friend. She rested her bonnet on my bosom while she wept, and I then discovered that she has been in the habit of wearing this bonnet while cooking her buckwheat pancakes. I presume she keeps her bonnet on all the time, so that she may be ready to dash out and consult me at all times without delay. Still, she ought not to do it, for when she leans her head on the bosom of her counsel in order to consult him, he detects the odor of the early sausage and the fleeting pancake.
One time she came and cried on my shoulder. Her tears are warm and damp, and they feel uncomfortable as they roll down the neck of someone who is basically a stranger but can only be a friend. She rested her bonnet on my chest while she cried, and I then realized that she has a habit of wearing this bonnet when she cooks her buckwheat pancakes. I guess she keeps it on all the time so she can rush out to consult me whenever she needs to. Still, she really shouldn’t do that, because when she leans her head on her advisor’s chest to talk, he can smell the early sausage and the lingering pancake.
You may bust such a bonnet and crush it if you will, But the scent of the pancake will cling round it still.
You can smash that hat and crush it if you want, But the smell of the pancake will stick around it anyway.
As soon as I saw that her object was to lean up against me and not only convulse herself with sobs, but that she intended to jar me also with her great woe, I told her that I would have to request her to avaunt. I then, as she did not act upon my suggestion, avaunted her myself. I avaunted her into a chair with a sickening thud.
As soon as I realized that her goal was to lean against me and not just cry uncontrollably, but also to overwhelm me with her sadness, I told her that I needed her to back off. Since she didn’t follow my suggestion, I pushed her away myself. I shoved her into a chair with a sickening thud.
{Illustration: A TENDER CASE.}
{Illustration: A SENSITIVE CASE.}
She then burst forth in a torrent of vituperation. When the abnormal sobber is suddenly corked up, these sobs rankle in the system and burst forth in the shape of vituperation. In the course of her remarks, she stated in a violent manner that she would denounce me throughout the country and retain other counsel. I told her I wished she would, as my sympathies were with Mr. Merkins. I told her that she must either pay me a larger fee or I should insist on her weeping in the alley before she came up.
She then launched into a flood of insults. When someone who usually cries suddenly stops, those sobs fester inside and come out as anger. During her outburst, she forcefully declared that she would badmouth me all over the country and hire another lawyer. I told her that I actually hoped she would, since I was on Mr. Merkins' side. I also told her that she needed to pay me a higher fee or I would insist that she cry in the alley before coming back inside.
She then took her departure with a rising inflection. On the following day, however, I found her at the office door, and she stood near and consulted me again, while I took up the ashes and started a fire in the stove.
She then left with a tone that suggested more was to come. The next day, though, I found her at the office door, and she stayed close, asking for my advice again while I cleared the ashes and lit a fire in the stove.
Her case is quite peculiar.
Her case is pretty strange.
She wants a divorce from her husband on the grounds of cruelty to animals, or something of that kind, and when she first told me about it I thought she had a case, but when we came to trial I found that she had had every reason to believe that if she could be segregated from Mr. Merkins she could at once become the bride of a gentleman who ploughed the raging main.
She wants a divorce from her husband due to animal cruelty or something like that, and when she first shared this with me, I thought she had a valid point. But when we actually went to trial, I realized she had every reason to believe that if she could separate from Mr. Merkins, she could immediately become the wife of a gentleman who sailed the open seas.
Just as we went to the jury to-day with the case, she heard casually that the gentleman who had been in the main-ploughing business had just married without her knowledge or consent.
Just as we presented the case to the jury today, she casually heard that the guy who had been in the main plowing business had just gotten married without her knowledge or consent.
“Heap Brain.”
Much trouble has been done by a long haired phrenologist in the West who has, during his life, felt of over a hundred thousand heads. A comparison of a large number of charts given in these cases shows that so far no head examined would indicate anything less than a member of the lower house of congress. Artists, orators, prima-donnas and statesmen are plenty, but there are no charts showing the natural-born farmer, carpenter, shoemaker or chambermaid.
Much trouble has been caused by a long-haired phrenologist in the West who has, throughout his life, examined over a hundred thousand heads. A comparison of a large number of charts from these cases shows that so far, no head examined indicates anything less than a member of the House of Representatives. There are plenty of artists, speakers, prima donnas, and politicians, but there are no charts showing the natural-born farmer, carpenter, shoemaker, or housekeeper.
That is the reason butter is so high west of the Missouri river to-day, while genius actually runs riot.
That’s why butter is so expensive west of the Missouri River today, while creativity is really thriving.
What this day and age of the world needs, is a phrenologist who will paw around among the intellectual domes of free-born American citizens, and search out a few men who can milk a cow in a cool and unimpassioned tone of voice.
What this day and age needs is a phrenologist who will explore the minds of free-born American citizens and find a few people who can calmly and unemotionally milk a cow.
It is true that every man in America is a sovereign, but he had better not overdo it. The man who sits up nights to be a sovereign and allows the calves to eat his brown-eyed beans, is not leading his fellow men up to a higher and nobler life. The sovereign business can be run in the ground if we are not careful.
It’s true that every man in America is a sovereign, but he’d better not overdo it. The guy who stays up all night trying to be a sovereign while letting the calves eat his brown-eyed beans isn’t helping his fellow men move toward a better and more honorable life. The whole sovereignty thing can go downhill fast if we’re not careful.
{Illustration: A FUTURE PRESIDENT.}
{Illustration: A FUTURE PRESIDENT.}
Very likely the white-eyed boy with the hickory dado along the base of his overalls is the boy who in future years is to be the president of the United States. But do not, oh, do not trow, fair young reader, that every Albino youth in our broad land who wears an isosceles triangle in navy blue flannel athwart his system, is going to be the chief magistrate of this mighty republic.
Very likely, the white-eyed boy with the hickory-striped overalls is the one who will someday become the president of the United States. But please, dear young reader, don’t assume that every albino kid in our vast country who wears a navy blue flannel shirt in an isosceles triangle pattern is destined to be the leader of this great republic.
We need statesmen and orators and artists very much; but the world at this moment also needs several athletic parties with the horse-sense adequate to produce flour and other vegetables necessary to feed the aforesaid statesmen, orators, etc., etc.
We really need politicians, speakers, and artists; but right now, the world also needs some practical people with the common sense to grow flour and other vegetables to feed those politicians, speakers, and so on.
Let me say a word to the bright-eyed youth of America, Let me murmur in your ear this never dying truth: When a long-haired crank asks you a dollar to tell you, you are a young Demosthenes, stand up and look yourself over at a distance before you swallow it all.
Let me say a word to the bright-eyed youth of America. Let me whisper this timeless truth in your ear: When a long-haired weirdo asks you for a dollar to tell you that you're a young Demosthenes, take a step back and look at yourself from a distance before you believe it all.
There is no use talking, we have got to procure provisions in some manner, and in order to do so the natural-born bone and muscle of the country must go at and promote the growth of such things, or else we artists, poets and statesmen, will have to take off our standing collars and do it ourselves.
There’s no point in discussing this; we need to get supplies somehow. To achieve that, the hardworking people of the country must step up and help grow those resources. Otherwise, we artists, poets, and politicians will have to roll up our sleeves and do it ourselves.
Phrenology is a good thing, no doubt, if we can purify it. So long as it does not become the slave of capital, there is nothing about phrenology that is going to do harm; but when it becomes the creature of the trade dollar, it looks as though the country would be filled up with wild-eyed genius that hasn't had a square meal for two weeks. The time will surely come when America will demand less statesmanship and more flour; when less statistics and a purer, nobler and more progressive style of beefsteak will demand our attention.
Phrenology is definitely a good thing if we can refine it. As long as it doesn’t get overshadowed by big money, there’s nothing harmful about phrenology; but when it becomes driven by profit, it seems like the country will be filled with desperate geniuses who haven’t eaten properly in weeks. The time will surely come when America will want less politics and more basic necessities; when we’ll need to focus on simpler, higher-quality food rather than just data and statistics.
I had hoped that phrenology would step in and start this reform; but so far it has not, within the range of my observation. It may be, however, that the mental giant bump translator with whom I came in contact was not a fair representative. Still, he has been in the business for over thirty years, and some of our most polished criminals have passed under his hands.
I had hoped that phrenology would come forward and initiate this reform; but so far, it hasn’t happened in my experience. It’s possible, though, that the mental giant bump translator I interacted with wasn’t a good example. Still, he’s been in the field for over thirty years, and some of our most sophisticated criminals have been assessed by him.
An erroneous phrenologist once told me that I would shine as a revivalist, and said that I ought to marry a tall blonde with a nervous, sanguinary temperament. Then he said, “One dollar, please,” and I said, “All right, gentle scientist with the tawny mane, I will give you the dollar and marry the tall blonde with the bank account and bilious temperament, when you give me a chart showing me how to dispose of a brown-eyed brunette with a thoughtful cast of countenance, who married me in an unguarded moment two years ago.”
An incorrect phrenologist once told me that I would excel as a revivalist and that I should marry a tall blonde with a nervous, bloody disposition. Then he said, “One dollar, please,” and I replied, “Sure, gentle scientist with the tawny hair, I’ll give you the dollar and marry the tall blonde with the bank account and moody temperament when you provide me with a chart on how to deal with a brown-eyed brunette with a thoughtful expression who married me in an unguarded moment two years ago.”
He looked at me in a reproachful kind of way, struck at me with a chair in an absent-minded manner and stole away.
He looked at me with disapproval, hit me with a chair without really thinking, and then slipped away.
The Approaching Humorist.
The following letter has been received, and, as it encloses no unsmirched postage stamp to insure a private reply, I take great pleasure in answering it in these pages:
The following letter has been received, and since it doesn't include a clean postage stamp for a private reply, I'm happy to respond to it in these pages:
Christiana, Kas., Sept. 22nd, 1884
Christiana, KS, Sept. 22, 1884
Dear Sir.—I am studying for a Humorist. Could you help me to some of the Joliest Books that are written? With some of the best Jokes of the Day &c &c &c.
Dear Sir.—I'm studying to become a Humorist. Could you recommend some of the funniest books out there? Also, I'd love to hear some of the best jokes of the day, etc., etc., etc.
Also what it would be best for me to do for to become an Humorist.
Also, what would be the best way for me to become a humorist?
I am said to be a Natural Born Humorist by my friends and all I need is Cultivation to make my mark.
I’m told by my friends that I’m a natural comedian, and all I need is some nurturing to make my mark.
Please reply by return mail.
Please reply by email.
Kindly Yours
Best regards
Herman A.H.
Herman A.H.
For some time I have been grieving over the dearth of humor in America, and wondering who the great coming humorist was to be. Several papers have already deplored the lack of humor in our land, but they have not been able to put their finger on the approaching humorist of the age. Just as we had begun to despair, however, here he comes, quietly and unostentatiously, modestly and ungrammatically. Unheralded and silently, like Maud S. or any other eminent man, he slowly rises above the Kansas horizon, and tells us that it will be impossible to conceal his identity any longer. He is the approaching humorist of the nineteenth century.
For a while now, I’ve been lamenting the lack of humor in America and wondering who the next great humorist would be. Several publications have already pointed out the scarcity of humor in our country, but they haven't managed to identify the emerging humorist of this era. Just when we started to lose hope, here he comes, quietly and without fanfare, modestly and imperfectly. Unannounced and silently, like Maud S. or any other notable figure, he gradually rises above the Kansas skyline and tells us that it will no longer be possible to hide his identity. He is the upcoming humorist of the nineteenth century.
It is a serious matter, Herman, to prescribe a course of study that will be exactly what you need to bring you out. Perhaps you might do well to take a Kindergarten course in spelling and the rudiments of grammar; still, that is not absolutely necessary. A friend of mine named Billings has done well as a humorist, though his knowledge of spelling seems to be pitiably deficient. Grammar is convenient where a humorist desires to put on style or show off before crowned heads, but it is not absolutely indispensable.
It’s a serious matter, Herman, to recommend a study plan that will really help you improve. You might find it helpful to take a Kindergarten course in spelling and basic grammar; however, that’s not absolutely necessary. A friend of mine named Billings has done well as a humorist, even though his spelling skills are quite lacking. Grammar can be useful when a humorist wants to sound sophisticated or impress important people, but it’s not absolutely essential.
Regarding the “Joliest Books” necessary for your perusal, in order to chisel your name on the eternal tablets of fame, tastes will certainly differ. I am almost sorry that you wrote to me, because we might not agree. You write like one of these “Joly” humorists such as people employ to go along with a picnic and be the life of the party, and whose presence throughout the country has been so depressing. If one may be allowed to judge of your genius by the few autograph lines forwarded, you belong to that class of brain-workers upon whom devolves the solemn duty of pounding sand. If you are really a brain-worker, will you kindly inform the writer whose brain you are working now, and how you like it as far as you have gone?
Regarding the “Joliest Books” you need to check out to carve your name into the eternal tablets of fame, opinions will definitely vary. I almost regret that you reached out to me because we might not see eye to eye. You write like one of those “Joly” humorists that people hire to liven up a picnic and who have been quite a downer across the country. If we can judge your talent by the few lines you sent, you seem to belong to that group of thinkers whose serious job is to pound sand. If you really are a thinker, could you let me know whose brain you’re currently working on and how you’re finding it so far?
American humor has burst forth from all kinds of places, nearly. The various professions have done their share. One has risen from a tramp until he is wealthy and dyspeptic, and another was blown up on a steamboat before he knew that he was a humorist.
American humor has emerged from just about everywhere. Different professions have contributed to it. One person has gone from being a drifter to becoming wealthy and cantankerous, while another was blown up on a steamboat before realizing he was a humorist.
Suppose you try that, Herman. M. Quad, one of the very successful humorists of the day, both in a literary and financial way, was blown up by a steamboat before he bloomed forth into the full flush and power of success. Try that, Herman. It is a severe test, but it is bound to be a success. Even if it should be disastrous to you, it will be rich in its beneficial results to those who escape.
Suppose you give that a shot, Herman. M. Quad, one of the successful humorists of his time, both in writing and finance, was blown up by a steamboat before he fully achieved success. Go for it, Herman. It’s a tough challenge, but it’s sure to be successful. Even if it turns out badly for you, it will still have valuable results for those who make it through.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
What We Eat.
On 3d street, St. Paul, there stands a restaurant that has outside as a sign, under a glass case, a rib roast, a slice of ham and a roast duck that I remembered distinctly having seen there in 1860 and before the war. I asked an epicure the other day if he thought it right to keep those things there year after year when so many were starving throughout the length and breadth of the land. He then straightway did take me up close so that I could see that the food was made of plaster and painted, as hereinbefore set forth and by me translated, as Walt Whitman would say.
On 3rd Street in St. Paul, there’s a restaurant that has a display outside featuring a rib roast, a slice of ham, and a roast duck under a glass case. I clearly remember seeing those items there back in 1860 and before the war. The other day, I asked a food expert if he thought it was right to keep those things on display year after year while so many people across the country are starving. He then took me up close so I could see that the food was actually made of plaster and painted, just as I described earlier, as Walt Whitman would say.
A day or two afterward, at a rural hotel, I struck some of that same roast beef and ham. I thought that the sign had been put on the table by mistake, and I made bold to tell the proprietor about it, on the ground that “any neglect or impertinence on the part of servants should be reported at the office.” He received the information with great rudeness and a most disagreeable air.
A day or two later, at a countryside hotel, I found the same roast beef and ham again. I assumed the sign had been placed on the table by mistake, so I took the risk of informing the owner, saying that “any neglect or rudeness from the staff should be reported to the office.” He reacted with extreme rudeness and an unpleasant demeanor.
There are two kinds of guests who live at the average hotel. One is the party who gets up and walks over the whole corps de hote, from the bald-headed proprietor to the bootblack, while the other is the meek and mild-eyed man, doomed to sit at the table and bewail the flight of time and the horrors of starvation while waiting for the relief party to come with his food.
There are two types of guests who stay at an average hotel. One is the person who gets up and interacts with everyone from the bald-headed owner to the bootblack, while the other is the quiet, mild-mannered man, stuck sitting at the table lamenting the passage of time and the pains of hunger, waiting for the staff to bring his food.
I belong to the latter class. Born, as I was, in a private family, and early acquiring the habit of eating food that was intended to assuage hunger mostly, it takes me a good while to accustom myself to the style of dyspeptic microbe used simply to ornament a bill of fare. Of course it is maintained by some hotel men that food solely for eating purposes is becoming obsolete and outre, and that the stuff they put on their bills of fare is just as good to pour down the back of a guest as diet that is cooked for the common, low, perverted taste of people who have no higher aspiration than to eat their food.
I belong to the latter group. Since I was born into a private family and developed the habit of eating food mainly to satisfy hunger, it takes me a while to adjust to the kind of food that just serves to decorate a menu. Some hotel owners insist that food meant purely for eating is becoming outdated and outre, claiming that the items on their menus are just as suitable to dump down a guest's throat as the food prepared for the average person with no higher goal than to enjoy their meal.
Of course the genial, urbane and talented reader will see at once the style of hotel I am referring to. It is the hotel that apes the good hotel and prints a bill of fare solely as a literary effort. That is the hotel where you find the moth-eaten towel and the bed-ridden coffee. There is where you get butter that runs the elevator day times and sleeps on the flannel cakes at night.
Of course, the friendly, sophisticated, and skilled reader will immediately recognize the type of hotel I'm talking about. It's the hotel that pretends to be a nice place and produces a menu just for show. That's the hotel where you find the worn-out towels and stale coffee. That's where the butter operates the elevator during the day and settles on the pancakes at night.
It is there that you meet the weary and way-worn steak that bears the toothprints of other guests who are now in a land where the early-rising chambermaid cannot enter.
It is there that you encounter the tired and travel-worn steak that shows the bite marks of other guests who are now in a place where the early-rising housekeeper cannot go.
I also refer to the hotel where the bellboy is simply an animated polisher of banisters, and otherwise extremely useless. It is likewise the house where the syrup tastes like tincture of rhubarb, and the pancakes taste like a hektograph.
I also mention the hotel where the bellboy is just a lively polisher of banisters and pretty much useless otherwise. It’s also the place where the syrup tastes like rhubarb tincture, and the pancakes taste like a hectograph.
The traveling man will call to mind the hotel to which I refer, and he will instantly name it and tell you that he has never spent the Sabbath there.
The traveling man will remember the hotel I'm talking about, and he will quickly name it and tell you that he has never spent the Sabbath there.
I honestly believe that some hotel men lose money and custom by trying to issue a large blanket-sheet bill of fare every day, when a more modest list containing two or three things that a human being could eat with impunity would be far more acceptable, healthy and remunerative.
I genuinely think that some hotel managers lose money and customers by trying to provide an extensive menu every day, when a simpler list with just a couple of options that people can actually enjoy would be much more appealing, healthier, and profitable.
Some people can live on cracked wheat, bran and skimmed milk, no matter where they go, and so they always seem to be perfectly happy; but, while simplicity is my watchword, and while I am Old Simplicity himself, as it were, I haven't been constructed with stomachs enough to successfully wrestle with these things. I like a few plain dishes with victuals on them, cooked by a person who has had some experience in that line before. I am not so especially tied to high prices and finger-bowls, for I have risen from the common people, and during the first eighteen years of my life I had to dress myself. I was not always the pampered child of enervating luxury that I now am, by any means. So I can subsist for weeks on good, plain food, and never murmur or repine; but where the mistake at some hotels seems to have been made, is in trying to issue a bill of fare every day that will attract the attention of literary minds and excite the curiosity of linguists instead of people who desire to assuage an internal craving for grub.
Some people can thrive on cracked wheat, bran, and skim milk, no matter where they are, and they always seem perfectly happy. However, while simplicity is my motto, and while I embody Old Simplicity himself, I don’t have enough stomachs to handle these things successfully. I enjoy a few simple dishes with food on them, prepared by someone who has some experience in cooking. I’m not particularly attached to high prices and fancy settings since I come from humble beginnings, and during the first eighteen years of my life, I had to dress myself. I wasn’t always the spoiled child of luxury that I am now, by any means. So I can live for weeks on good, simple food and never complain; but the issue at some hotels seems to be that they try to create a menu every day that appeals to literary types and piques the curiosity of linguists instead of catering to those who just want to satisfy their basic hunger.
I use the term grub in its broadest and most comprehensive sense.
I use the term "grub" in its widest and most complete sense.
So, if I may take the liberty to do so, let me exhort the landlord who is gradually accumulating indebtedness and remorse, to use a plainer, less elaborate, but more edible list of refreshments. Otherwise his guests will all die young.
So, if I may be so bold, I urge the landlord, who is slowly building up debt and regret, to use a simpler, less fancy, but more appealing list of snacks. Otherwise, his guests will all pass away young.
Let him discard the seamless waffle and the kiln-dried hen. Let him abstain from the debris known as cottage pudding, that being its alias, while the doctors recognize it as old Gastric Disturbance. Too much of our hotel food tastes like the second day of January or the fifth day of July. That's the whole thing in a few words, and unless the good hotels are nearer together we shall have to multiply our cemetery facilities.
Let him get rid of the endless waffles and the dried-out chicken. Let him avoid the stuff known as cottage pudding, which is its nickname, while the doctors call it old Gastric Disturbance. Too much of our hotel food tastes like it’s been sitting around since January 2nd or July 5th. That sums it all up in a few words, and unless the good hotels are closer together, we’ll need to expand our cemetery services.
Poor hotels are responsible for lots of drunkards every year. The only time I am tempted to soak my sorrows in rum is after I have read a delusive bill of fare and eaten a broiled barn-hinge with gravy on it that tasted like the broth of perdition. It is then that the demon of intemperance and colic comes to me and, in siren tones, says: “Try our bourbon, with 'Polly Narius' on the side.”
Cheap hotels are responsible for many drunks every year. The only time I feel tempted to drown my sorrows in rum is after I've looked at a misleading menu and eaten a broiled barn hinge with gravy that tasted like awful broth. It's then that the demon of excess and stomach pain comes to me and, in seductive tones, says: “Try our bourbon, with 'Polly Narius' on the side.”
Care of House Plants.
Stern winter is the season in which to keep the eye peeled for the fragile little house plant. It is at that time that the coarse and brutal husband carries the Scandinavian flower known as the Ole Ander, part way down the cellar, and allows it to fall the rest of the way. I carried a large Ole Andor up and down stairs for nine years, until the spring of 1880. That was rather a backward spring, and a pale red cow, with one horn done up in a French twist, ate the most of it as it stood on the porch.
Stern winter is the season to watch out for the delicate little house plant. It's during this time that the rough and harsh husband takes the Scandinavian flower known as the Ole Ander partway down to the cellar and lets it drop the rest of the way. I carried a large Ole Andor up and down the stairs for nine years, until the spring of 1880. That spring was pretty late, and a pale red cow, with one horn styled in a French twist, ate most of it while it was standing on the porch.
{Illustration: CARRYING OUT THE OLE ANDER.}
{Illustration: CARRYING OUT THE OLE ANDER.}
This cow was a total stranger to me. I had never done anything for her by which to win her esteem. It shows how Providence works through the humblest means sometimes to accomplish a great good.
This cow was a complete stranger to me. I had never done anything for her to earn her respect. It really shows how Providence can work through the simplest means to achieve something great.
I have tried many times to find the postoffice address of that lonely cow, so I might comfort her declining years, but she seemed to have melted away into the bosom of space, for I cannot find her. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of a pale red cow, with one horn done up in a French twist, and wearing a look of settled melancholy, will please communicate the same to me, as we have another Ole Ander that will just about fit her, I think, by spring.
I’ve tried many times to find the post office address of that lonely cow, so I could comfort her in her old age, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air because I can’t locate her. Anyone who knows the whereabouts of a pale red cow, with one horn styled in a French twist and sporting a look of deep sadness, please let me know, as we have another Ole Ander that should be a good match for her, I think, by spring.
{Illustration: WREAKING VENGEANCE.}
{Illustration: TAKING REVENGE.}
Bulbs may be wrapped in cotton and put in a cool place in the fall, and fed to the domestic animals in the spring. Geraniums should put on their buffalo overcoats about the middle of November in our rigid northern clime, and in the spring they will have the same luxuriant foliage as the tropical hat-rack. Vines may be left in the room during the winter until the furnace slips a cog and then you can pull them down and feed them to the family horses. In changing your plants from the living rooms or elsewhere to the cellar in the fall, take great care to avoid injury to the pot. I have experienced some very severe winters in my life, but I have never seen the mercury so low that a flowerpot couldn't struggle through and look fresh and robust in the spring. The longevity of the pot is surprising when we consider how much death there is all about it. I had a large brown flower-pot once that originally held the germ of a calla lily. This lily emerged from the soil with the light of immortality in its eye. It got up to where we began to be attached to it, and then it died. Then we put a plant in its place which was given us by a friend. I do not remember now what this plant was called, but I know it was sent to us wrapped up in a piece of moist brown paper, and half an hour later a dray drove up to the house with the name of the plant itself. In the summer it required very little care, and in the winter I would cover the little thing up with its name, and it would be safe till spring. One evening we had a free-for-all musicale at my house, and a corpulent friend of mine tried to climb it, and it died. (Tried to climb the plant, not the musicale.) The plant yielded to the severe climb it. This joke now makes its debut for the first time before the world. Anyone who feels offended with this joke may wreak his vengeance on a friend of mine named Sullivan, who is passionately fond of having people wreak their vengeance on him. People having a large amount of unwreaked vengeance on hand will do well to give him a call before purchasing elsewhere.
Bulbs can be wrapped in cotton and stored in a cool place during the fall, then fed to the pets in the spring. Geraniums should be dressed warmly around mid-November in our harsh northern climate, and by spring, they'll have lush foliage like a tropical plant. Vines can stay in the room throughout winter until the heating system stops working, at which point you can take them down and feed them to the family horses. When moving your plants from the living areas to the cellar in the fall, be very careful not to damage the pot. I've experienced some pretty brutal winters in my life, but I've never seen the temperature drop so low that a flowerpot couldn't survive and look fresh and healthy in the spring. It's surprising how long pots last considering all the death surrounding them. I once had a large brown flowerpot that originally held the seed of a calla lily. This lily grew from the soil with a sparkle of life in its eye. We became attached to it until it sadly passed away. Then we put in a new plant given to us by a friend. I can't remember what the plant was called, but it arrived wrapped in a piece of damp brown paper, and half an hour later, a delivery truck showed up with the plant's name. In summer, it needed very little care, and in winter, I'd cover it up with its name to keep it safe until spring. One evening, we hosted a casual musicale at my house, and a heavyset friend of mine tried to climb it, which caused it to die. (He attempted to climb the plant, not the musicale.) The plant couldn’t handle that climb. This joke is now making its debut for the first time. Anyone offended by this joke can take their frustration out on a friend of mine named Sullivan, who loves when people vent their frustrations on him. Those with a lot of unvented anger should definitely reach out to him before going elsewhere.
A Peaceable Man.
Will L. Visscher always made a specialty of being a peaceable man. He would make most any sacrifice in order to secure general amnesty. I've known him to go around six blocks out of his way, to avoid a stormy interview with a belligerant dog. He was always very tender-hearted about dogs, especially the open-faced bulldog.
Will L. Visscher always prided himself on being a peaceful guy. He would go to great lengths to ensure everyone got along. I’ve seen him take a long detour just to prevent a heated encounter with an aggressive dog. He was always very soft-hearted when it came to dogs, especially the friendly bulldog.
But he had a queer experience years ago, in St. Jo, Missouri. He had been city editor of the Kansas City Journal for some time, but one evening, while in the composing-room, the foreman told him that the place for the city editor was down stairs, in his office. He therefore ordered Visscher to go down there. Visscher said he would do so later on, after he got fatigued with the composing-room and wanted change of scene.
But he had a strange experience years ago in St. Jo, Missouri. He had been the city editor of the Kansas City Journal for a while, but one evening, while in the composing room, the foreman told him that the city editor's place was downstairs, in his office. So, he told Visscher to go down there. Visscher replied that he would do it later, after he got tired of the composing room and wanted a change of scenery.
The foreman thereupon jumped on Mr. Visscher with a small pica wrought iron side stick. Visscher allowed that he was a peaceable man, but entered into the general chaos of double-leaded editorial, and hair and brass dashes, and dashes for liberty and heterogeneous “pi,” and foot-sticks and teeth, with great zeal. He succeeded in putting a large doric head on the foreman, and although he was a peaceable man, he went down to the office and got his discharge for disturbing the discipline of the office.
The foreman then attacked Mr. Visscher with a small wrought iron side stick. Visscher claimed he was a peaceful man, but he jumped right into the chaotic world of double-leaded editorial, along with hair and brass dashes, dashes for freedom, mixed-up “pi,” foot-sticks, and teeth, with great enthusiasm. He managed to give the foreman a big hit, and even though he was a peaceful man, he went down to the office and got fired for disrupting the office's discipline.
He went to St. Jo the same day, and celebrated his debut into the town by a little game of what is known as “draw.” He was fortunate in “filling his hand,” and while he was taking in the stakes, a young man from Arkansas, who was in the game, nipped a two-dollar note in a quiet kind of way, which, however, was detected by Mr. V., who mentioned the matter at the time. This maddened the Arkansas man, and later on he put one of his long arms around Mr. Visscher so as to pinion him, and then smote him across the brow with an instrument, known to science as “the brass knucks.” This irritated Mr. Visscher, and as soon as he had returned to consciousness he remarked that, although it was rather an up-hill job in Missouri, he was trying to be a peaceable man. He then broke the leg of a card-table over the head of the Arkansas man, and went to the doctor to get his own brow sewed on again.
He went to St. Jo the same day and celebrated his debut in town with a little game of what’s called “draw.” He got lucky and won a good hand, and while he was collecting the stakes, a young guy from Arkansas, who was playing, quietly snagged a two-dollar bill. Mr. V. noticed this and called him out at the time. This sent the Arkansas guy into a rage, and later, he threw one of his long arms around Mr. Visscher to pin him down and hit him across the forehead with something known scientifically as “brass knuckles.” This annoyed Mr. Visscher, and as soon as he regained consciousness, he said that even though it was pretty tough in Missouri, he was trying to keep the peace. He then smashed a card table leg over the Arkansas guy’s head and went to the doctor to get his own forehead stitched up.
While he was sitting in the doctor's office a friend of the Arkansas man came in and asked him to please stand up while he knocked him down. Visscher opened a little dialogue with the man, and drew him into conversation till he could open a case of surgical instruments near by, then he took out one of those knives that the surgeons use in removing the viscera from the leading gentleman at a post mortem.
While he was sitting in the doctor's office, a friend of the Arkansas man came in and asked him to please stand up while he knocked him down. Visscher started a little conversation with the guy, engaging him in talk until he could open a nearby case of surgical instruments. Then, he took out one of those knives that surgeons use to remove organs during an autopsy.
“Now,” said he, sharpening the knife on the stove-pipe and handing down a jar containing alcohol with a tumor in it, “I am a peaceful man and don't want any fuss; but if you insist on a personal encounter, I will slice off fragments of your physiognomy at my leisure, and for twenty minutes I will fill this office with your favorite features. I make a specialty of being a peaceable man, remember; but if you'll just say the word, I'll put overcoat button-holes and eyelet-holes and crazy-quilts all over your system. If I've got to kill off the poker-players of St. Jo before I can have any fun, I guess I might as well begin on you as on any one I know.”
“Look,” he said, sharpening the knife on the stovepipe and handing over a jar filled with alcohol and something odd in it, “I’m a pretty laid-back guy and don’t want any drama; but if you’re asking for a personal showdown, I’ll take my time carving pieces off your face, and for twenty minutes I’ll decorate this office with your favorite features. I pride myself on being a calm person, just so you know; but if you give me the signal, I’ll start putting buttonholes and eyelet holes and crazy quilt designs all over you. If I have to take out the poker players of St. Jo to have some fun, I guess starting with you makes as much sense as anyone else.”
{Illustration: HE WAS A PEACEABLE MAN.}
{Illustration: HE WAS A PEACEABLE MAN.}
He then made a stab at the man and pinned his coat-tail to the door-frame. Fear loaned the bad man strength, and, splitting the coat-tail, he fled, taking little mementoes of the tumor-jar and shedding them in his flight.
He then lunged at the man, pinning his coat-tail to the door frame. Fear gave the bad man strength, and as he tore the coat-tail, he ran away, taking small souvenirs from the tumor jar and dropping them as he escaped.
When Mr. Visscher went up to the Herald office soon after to get a job, he was introduced casually to the foreman, who said:
When Mr. Visscher went to the Herald office shortly after to look for a job, he was casually introduced to the foreman, who said:
“Ah, this is the young man who licks the foreman of the paper he works on, is it? I am glad to meet you, Mr. Visscher. I am looking for a white-eyed son of a sea-cook who goes around over Missouri thumping the foremen of our leading journals. Come out into the ante-room, Mr. Visscher, till I jar your back teeth loose and send you to the morgue in a gunny-sack.” Mr. Visscher repeated that he was trying to live in Missouri and be a peaceable man, but that if there was anything that he could do to make it pleasant for the foreman, he would cheerfully do it.
“Ah, so you're the young guy who flatters the foreman at the paper where you work, huh? It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Visscher. I'm on the hunt for a cocky dude who's making waves across Missouri by messing with the foremen of our top publications. Why don’t you step into the other room, Mr. Visscher, so I can rattle your teeth loose and send you off in a sack?” Mr. Visscher insisted he was just trying to live peacefully in Missouri, but if there was anything he could do to make things easier for the foreman, he'd be more than happy to help.
Mr. Visscher was a small man, but when he felt aggrieved about anything he was very harassing to his adversary. They “clinched” and threw each other back and forth across the hall with great vigor. When they stopped for breath, the foreman's coat was pulled over his head and the bosom of Mr. Visscher's shirt was hanging on the gas-jet. There were also two front teeth on the floor unaccounted for.
Mr. Visscher was a short guy, but when he felt wronged about something, he was really tough on his opponent. They “grappled” and tossed each other around the hall with a lot of energy. When they paused to catch their breath, the foreman's coat was pulled over his head, and the front of Mr. Visscher's shirt was caught on the gas light. There were also two front teeth on the floor that didn’t belong to anyone.
Visscher pinned on his shirt-bosom and said he was a peaceable man, but if the custom seemed to demand four fights in one day, he would try to conform to any local usage of the city. Wherever he went, he wanted to fall right into line and be one of the party.
Visscher pinned on his shirt and said he was a peaceful guy, but if the tradition called for four fights in one day, he would do his best to go along with whatever the local customs were. Wherever he went, he wanted to fit in and be part of the group.
When he got well he was employed on the Herald, and for four years edited the amnesty column of the paper successfully.
When he recovered, he got a job at the Herald and successfully edited the amnesty column for four years.
Biography of Spartacus.
Spartacus, whose given name seems to have been torn off in its passage down through the corridors of time, was born in Thrace and educated as a shepherd. While smearing the noses of the young lambs with tar one spring, in order to prevent the snuffies among them, he thought that he would become a robber. It occurred to him that this calling was the only one he knew of that seemed to be open to the young man without means.
Spartacus, whose real name seems to have been lost over time, was born in Thrace and raised as a shepherd. One spring, while covering the noses of young lambs with tar to keep them from getting sick, he decided he would become a robber. He realized that this was the only option available to a young man without resources.
He had hardly got started, however, in the “hold up” industry, when he was captured by the Romans, sold at cost and trained as a gladiator, in a school at Capua. Here he succeeded in stirring up a conspiracy and uniting two hundred or more of the grammar department of the school in a general ruction, as it was then termed.
He had barely begun in the "hold up" business when he was captured by the Romans, sold for a low price, and trained as a gladiator at a school in Capua. There, he managed to spark a conspiracy and unite over two hundred of the school's students in what was referred to as a general uprising.
The scheme was discovered and only seventy of the number escaped, headed by Spartacus. These snatched cleavers from the butcher shops, pickets from the Roman fences and various other weapons, and with them fought their way to the foot hill where they met a wagon train loaded with arms and supplies. They secured the necessary weapons whereby to go into a general war business and established themselves in the crater of Mount Vesuvius.
The plan was uncovered, and only seventy people got away, led by Spartacus. They grabbed cleavers from butcher shops, pickets from Roman fences, and other weapons, and fought their way to the foothill where they encountered a wagon train filled with arms and supplies. They obtained the necessary weapons to start a full-scale war and set up camp in the crater of Mount Vesuvius.
Spartacus was a man of wonderful carriage and great physical strength. It had always been his theory that a man might as well die of old age as to feed himself to a Roman menagerie. He maintained that he would rather die in a general free fight, where he had a chance, than to be hauled around over the arena by one leg behind a Numidian lion.
Spartacus was a man of impressive posture and incredible physical strength. He always believed that a man might as well die of old age than be thrown to a Roman circus. He insisted that he would rather die in an open fight, where he had a shot, than be dragged around the arena by one leg behind a Numidian lion.
So he took his little band and fought his way to Vesuvius. There they had a pleasant time camping out nights and robbing the Roman's daytimes. The excitement of sleeping in a crater, added a wonderful charm to their lives. While others slept cold in Capua, Spartacus cuddled up to the crater and kept comfortable.
So he gathered his small group and fought his way to Vesuvius. There, they enjoyed camping out at night and robbing the Romans during the day. The thrill of sleeping in a crater added an incredible allure to their lives. While others shivered in Capua, Spartacus snuggled up to the crater and stayed warm.
For a long time the little party had it all their own way. They sniffed the air of freedom and lived on Roman spring chicken on the half shell, and it beat the arena business all hollow.
For a long time, the little group had everything their way. They enjoyed the feeling of freedom and feasted on Roman spring chicken served on the half shell, and it was way better than the whole arena scene.
At last, however, an army of 3,000 men was sent against them, and Spartacus awoke one morning to find himself blocked up in his crater. For a time the outlook was not cheering. Spartacus thought of telegraphing the war department for reinforcements, but finally decided not to do so.
At last, an army of 3,000 men was sent against them, and Spartacus woke up one morning to find himself trapped in his crater. For a while, the situation didn’t look good. Spartacus considered messaging the war department for reinforcements, but ultimately decided against it.
Finally, with ladders made of wild vines, the little garrison slipped out through what had seemed an impassable fissure in the crater, got in the rear of the army and demolished it completely. That's the kind of man that Spartacus was. Fighting was his forte.
Finally, with ladders made of wild vines, the small garrison slipped out through what had seemed like an impossible crack in the crater, got behind the army, and completely destroyed it. That's the kind of man Spartacus was. Fighting was his specialty.
Spartacus was also a good public speaker. One of his addresses to the gladiators has been handed down to posterity through the medium of the Fifth Reader, a work that should be in every household. In his speech he states that he was not always thus. But since he is thus, he believes that he has not yet been successfully outthussed by any body.
Spartacus was also a great public speaker. One of his speeches to the gladiators has been passed down through the Fifth Reader, a book that should be in every home. In his speech, he says that he wasn't always like this. But now that he is, he believes that no one has outdone him yet.
He speaks of his early life in the citron groves of Syrsilla, and how quiet and reserved he had been, never daring to say “gosh” within a mile of the house; but finally how the Romans landed on his coast and killed off his family. Then he desired to be a fighter. He had killed more lions than any other man in Italy. He kept a big crew of Romans busy, winter and summer, catching fresh lions for him to stick. He had killed a large number of men also. At one matinee for ladies and children he had killed a prominent man from the north, and had done it so fluently that he was encored three times. The stage manager then came forward and asked that the audience would please refrain from another encore as he had run out of men, but if the ladies and children would kindly attend on the following Saturday he hoped to be prepared with a good programme. In fact, he had just heard from his agent who wrote him that they had purchased two big lions and also had a robust gladiator up a tree. He hoped that he could get into town in a day or two with both attractions.
He talks about his early life in the lemon groves of Syrsilla and how quiet and reserved he was, never daring to say “gosh” within a mile of his house; but then the Romans landed on his coast and killed his family. After that, he wanted to become a fighter. He had killed more lions than anyone else in Italy. He kept a large crew of Romans busy, winter and summer, capturing fresh lions for him to fight. He had also killed a significant number of men. During one matinee for ladies and children, he killed a well-known man from the north and did it so impressively that he was applauded for an encore three times. The stage manager then stepped forward and asked the audience to please refrain from another encore as he had run out of men, but if the ladies and children would kindly come back the following Saturday, he hoped to be ready with a good program. In fact, he had just heard from his agent who told him that they had bought two big lions and also had a strong gladiator up a tree. He hoped to get into town in a day or two with both attractions.
Spartacus finally stood at the head of an army of 100,000 men, all starting out from the little band of 70 that cut loose from Capua with borrowed cleavers and axhandles. This war lasted but two years, during which time Spartacus made Rome howl. Spartacus had too much sense to attack Rome. But at last his army was betrayed and disorganized. With nothing but death or capture for him, he rode out between the two contending armies, shot his war horse in order to save expenses, and on foot rushed into the thickest of the fight. This was positively his last appearance. He killed a large number of people, but at last he yielded to the great pressure that was brought to bear upon him and died.
Spartacus finally led an army of 100,000 men, all beginning from a small group of 70 that broke away from Capua with borrowed cleavers and axe handles. This war lasted just two years, during which Spartacus made Rome tremble. He was too smart to directly attack Rome. But eventually, his army was betrayed and fell apart. Facing only death or capture, he charged between the two opposing armies, shot his war horse to cut costs, and rushed into the thick of the battle on foot. This was definitely his last stand. He killed a lot of people, but ultimately, he succumbed to the overwhelming pressure against him and died.
Probably no man not actually engaged in the practice of medicine ever killed so many people as Spartacus. He did not kill them because he disliked them personally, but because he thought it advisable to do so. Had he lived till the present time he would have done well as a lecturer. “Ten Years in the Arena, with Illustrations,” would draw first-rate at this time among a certain class of people. The large number of people still living in this country, who will lay aside their work and go twenty miles to attend a funeral, no matter whose funeral it is, would, no doubt, enjoy a bull fight or the cairn and refining joy that hovered over the arena. Those who have paid $175,000 to see Colonel John L. Sullivan disfigure a friend, would, no doubt, have made it $350,000 if the victim could have been killed and dragged around over the ring by the leg.
Probably no one not actually practicing medicine has ever killed as many people as Spartacus. He didn't do it out of personal hatred, but because he thought it was the right thing to do. If he were alive today, he would have made a great lecturer. "Ten Years in the Arena, with Illustrations" would attract a top audience among certain groups of people today. The many people still living in this country who will drop everything and travel twenty miles to attend a funeral, no matter whose it is, would surely enjoy a bullfight or the exciting atmosphere that surrounded the arena. Those who have paid $175,000 to watch Colonel John L. Sullivan injure a friend would probably have gladly spent $350,000 if they could have seen the victim killed and dragged around the ring by the leg.
Two thousand years have not refined us so much that we need be puffed up with false pride about it.
Two thousand years haven't improved us enough to be filled with false pride about it.
Concerning Book Publishing.
“Amateur” writes me that he is about to publish a book, and asks me if I will be kind enough to suggest some good, reliable publisher for him.
“Amateur” writes to me that he is about to publish a book and asks if I could kindly suggest some good, reliable publishers for him.
This would suggest that “Amateur” wishes to confer his book on some deserving publisher with a view to building him up and pouring a golden stream of wealth into his coffers. “Amateur” already, in his mind's eye, sees the eager millions of readers knocking each other down and trampling upon one another in the mad rush for his book. In my mind, I see his eye, lighted up with hope, and, though he lives in New Jersey, I fancy I can hear his quickened breath as his bosom heaves.
This suggests that “Amateur” wants to hand his book over to a deserving publisher to help him grow and bring a flow of wealth into his pockets. “Amateur” can already imagine millions of eager readers pushing each other aside and trampling over one another in their frantic rush to get his book. I can picture his eyes filled with hope, and even though he lives in New Jersey, I think I can hear his quickened breath as he breathes heavily.
{Illustration: WISHES TO CONFER HIS BOOK ON SOME DESERVING PUBLISHER.}
{Illustration: WANTS TO GIVE HIS BOOK TO A WORTHY PUBLISHER.}
Evidently he has never published a book. There is a good deal of fun ahead of him that he does not wot of. I used to think that when I got the last page of my book ready for press, the front yard would be full of publishers tramping down the velvet lawn and the meek-eyed pansies in their crazy efforts to get hold of the manuscript, but when I had written the last word of my first volume of soul-throb, and had opened the casement to look out on the howling, hungry mob of publishers, with checkbooks in one hand and a pillow-case full of scads in the other, I was a little puzzled to notice the abrupt and pronounced manner in which they were not there.
Clearly, he has never published a book. There's a lot of fun ahead of him that he has no idea about. I used to think that when I finished the last page of my book and sent it to print, my front yard would be filled with publishers trampling over the plush lawn and the delicate pansies in their wild attempts to grab the manuscript. But when I wrote the final word of my first heartfelt volume and opened the window to see the roaring, eager crowd of publishers, with checkbooks in one hand and a pillowcase full of cash in the other, I was a bit surprised to see how completely absent they were.
All of us have to struggle before we can catch the eye of the speaker. Milton didn't get one-fiftieth as much for “Paradise Lost” as I got for my first book, and yet you will find people to-day who claim that if Milton had lived he could have knocked the socks off of me with one hand tied behind him. Recollect, however, that I am not here to open a discussion on this matter. Everyone is entitled to his own opinion in relation to authors. People cannot agree on the relative merits of literature. Now, for instance, last summer I met a man over in South Park, Col., who could repeat page after page of Shakespeare, and yet, when I asked him if he was familiar with the poems of the “Sweet Singer of Michigan,” he turned upon me a look of stolid vacancy, and admitted that he had never heard of her in his life.
All of us have to struggle before we can catch the attention of the speaker. Milton didn't get even a fraction of what I made for “Paradise Lost” compared to what I got for my first book, and yet there are still people today who argue that if Milton had lived, he could have easily outdone me with one hand tied behind his back. But remember, I'm not here to debate this. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion about authors. People can't agree on the relative merits of literature. For example, last summer I met a guy over in South Park, Colorado, who could recite page after page of Shakespeare, but when I asked him if he knew about the poems of the “Sweet Singer of Michigan,” he gave me a blank look and admitted he had never heard of her in his life.
A Calm.
The old Greeley Colony in Colorado, a genuine oasis in the desert, with its huge irrigating canals of mountain water running through the mighty wheat fields, glistening each autumn at the base of the range, affords a good deal that is curious, not only to the mind of the gentleman from the States, but even to the man who lives at Cheyenne, W.T., only a few hours' journey to the north.
The old Greeley Colony in Colorado, a true oasis in the desert, with its large irrigation canals filled with mountain water flowing through the vast wheat fields, shining each autumn at the foot of the range, offers plenty that is interesting, not just to the gentleman from the States, but even to the person living in Cheyenne, W.T., just a few hours' trip to the north.
You could hardly pick out two cities so near each other and yet so unlike as Cheyenne and Greeley. The latter is quiet, and even accused of being dull, and yet everybody is steadily getting rich. It is a town of readers, thinkers and mental independents. It is composed of the elements of New England shrewdness and Western push, yet Greeley as compared with Cheyenne would be called a typical New England town in the midst of the active, fluctuating, booming West.
You could hardly find two cities so close to each other and yet so different as Cheyenne and Greeley. Greeley is quiet, even considered dull by some, but everyone is gradually getting rich. It’s a town full of readers, thinkers, and independent minds. It blends New England smarts with Western drive, yet compared to Cheyenne, Greeley would be seen as a typical New England town surrounded by the lively, changing, booming West.
Cheyenne is not so tame. With few natural advantages the reputation of Cheyenne is that, in commercial parlance, she is “A 1” for promptness in paying her debts and absence of failures. There is more wealth there in proportion to the number of inhabitants than elsewhere in the civilized world, no doubt. The people take special pleasure in surprising Eastern people who visit them by a reception very often that they will long remember for cordiality, hospitality, and even magnificence.
Cheyenne is not so tamed. With few natural advantages, Cheyenne has earned a reputation in business terms as “A 1” for paying her debts on time and having no defaults. There’s definitely more wealth there relative to the population than in other places around the civilized world. The locals take great pride in surprising visitors from the East with a warm, welcoming experience that they often remember for its friendliness, hospitality, and even grandeur.
Still I didn't start out to write up either Cheyenne or Greeley. I intended to mention casually Dr. Law, of the latter place, who acted as my physician for a few months and coaxed me back from the great hereafter. I had been under the hands of a physician just before, who was also coroner, and who, I found afterward, was trying to treat me professionally as long as the lamp held out to burn, intending afterward to sit upon me officially. He had treated me professionally until he was about ready to summon his favorite coroner's jury. Then I got irritated and left the county of his jurisdiction.
Still, I didn't set out to write about either Cheyenne or Greeley. I just meant to casually mention Dr. Law, from Greeley, who was my doctor for a few months and helped bring me back from the brink. I had been treated by another physician right before him, who was also the coroner. I later found out that he was trying to treat me as long as he could, planning to officially handle my case afterward. He had been treating me until he was ready to gather his favorite coroner's jury. That’s when I got fed up and left his county.
Learning that Dr. Law was relying solely on the practice of medicine for a livelihood, I summoned him, and after explaining the great danger that stood in the way of harmonizing the practice of medicine and the official work of the inquest business, I asked him if he had any business connection with any undertaking establishment or hic jacet business, and learning from him that he had none, I engaged him to solder up my vertebrae and reorganize my spinal duplex.
Learning that Dr. Law was depending entirely on medicine for his income, I called him in and, after explaining the significant risk involved in trying to balance medical practice with the official duties of the inquest process, I asked him if he had any ties to any funeral home or burial business. When he said he didn't, I hired him to fix my spine and straighten out my back.
Sometimes it isn't entirely the medicine you swallow that paralyzes pain so much as it is the quiet magnetism of a good story and the snap of a pleasant eye. I had one physician who tried to look joyous when he came into the room, but he generally asked me to run my tongue out till he could see where it was tied on, then he would feel my pulse with his cold finger and time it with a $6 watch, and after that he would write a new prescription for horse medicine and heave a sigh, look at me as he might if it had been the last time he ever expected to see me on earth, and then he would sigh and go away. When he came back he generally looked shocked and grieved to find me alive. This was the pro tem physician and ex-officio coroner. I always felt as though I ought to apologize to him for clinging to life so, when no doubt he had the jury in the hall waiting to “view” me.
Sometimes it’s not just the medicine you take that eases your pain, but the calming charm of a good story and the warmth of a friendly smile. I had one doctor who tried to appear cheerful when he walked into the room, but he usually asked me to stick out my tongue so he could see if it was tied down, then he would check my pulse with his cold finger and time it with a $6 watch. After that, he would write me a new prescription for some strong medication, let out a sigh, look at me as if it might be the last time he ever expected to see me, and then he would sigh again and leave. When he returned, he usually looked shocked and saddened to find me still alive. This was the pro tem doctor and ex-officio coroner. I always felt like I should apologize to him for hanging on to life so much, knowing he probably had the jury waiting in the hallway to “view” me.
Dr. Law used to tell me of the early history of the Greeley Colony, and how the original cranks of the community used to be in session most of the time, and how they sometimes neglected to do their planting to do legislating, and how they overdid the council work and neglected to “bug” their potatoes. I remember, also, of his description of how the crew, working on the original big irrigating canal, struck when it was about half done, and swore that from the Poudre the ditch was going to run up hill, and would, therefore, be a failure. The engineer didn't know at first what was best to do with the belligerent laborers, but finally he took the leader away from the rest of the crew and said, “Now, I tell you this in confidence, because of course I know perfectly well that the stockholders may kick on it if they hear it, but I'm building the blamed thing as level as I can and putting one end of it in the Poudre and one end in the Platte. Now, if I'm building it up hill the water'll run down from the Platte into the Poudre, and if not it'll run from the Poudre into the Platte. Sabe?”
Dr. Law used to tell me about the early history of the Greeley Colony, and how the original oddballs of the community were always in session, sometimes neglecting their planting to focus on legislation, and how they took council work too seriously and forgot to tend to their potatoes. I also remember his description of how the crew working on the original large irrigation canal went on strike when it was about halfway done, insisting that the ditch would be a failure because it was supposed to run uphill from the Poudre. The engineer wasn't sure how to handle the angry workers at first, but eventually, he took the leader aside and said, “Now, I'm sharing this with you in confidence since I know the stockholders might complain if they find out, but I'm building this thing as level as I can, putting one end in the Poudre and the other in the Platte. If I'm building it uphill, the water will run down from the Platte into the Poudre; if not, it'll flow from the Poudre into the Platte. Got it?”
The ditch was built, and now a deep, still river runs from the Poudre to the Platte, according to advertisement.
The ditch was built, and now a deep, calm river flows from the Poudre to the Platte, as promised.
Greeley is also noted for its watchmakers. I sent my watch to the first one I heard of, and he said it needed cleaning. He cleaned it. I paid him $2 and took it home, when it ran two hours and then suspended. Then I took it to another watchmaker who said that the first man had used machine oil on its works, and had heated the wheels so as to gum the oil on the cogs. He would have to eradicate the cooked oil from the watch, and it would cost me $3. I paid it, and joyfully took the watch home. The next day I found that it had gained time enough to pay for itself. By noon, it had fatigued itself so that it was losing terribly, and by the day following had folded its still hands across its pale face in the sleep that knows no waking. I took it to the third and last jeweler in the town. Everyone said he was a good workman, but a trifle slow. In the afternoon I went in to see how he was getting along with it. He was sitting at his bench with a dice cup in his eye, apparently looking into the digestive economy of the watch.
Greeley is also known for its watchmakers. I took my watch to the first one I heard about, and he told me it needed cleaning. He cleaned it, and I paid him $2 and took it home, but it only ran for two hours and then stopped. I brought it to another watchmaker who said that the first guy had used machine oil on the inner workings and had heated the gears, causing the oil to gum up the cogs. He said he would have to clean out the burnt oil from the watch, and it would cost me $3. I paid him, excited to take the watch home. The next day, I found that it had gained enough time to cover its cost. By noon, it had worn itself out and was losing time badly, and by the following day, it had gone silent, its hands resting across its pale face in an eternal sleep. I took it to the third and final jeweler in town. Everyone said he was a skilled craftsman, but a bit slow. In the afternoon, I stopped by to check on the progress. He was sitting at his workbench with a dice cup in his hand, seemingly focused on the inner workings of the watch.
I looked at him some time, not wishing to disturb him and interfere with his diagnosis. He did not move or say anything. Several people came in to trade and get the correct time, but he paid no attention to them.
I watched him for a while, not wanting to interrupt him or mess with his diagnosis. He didn’t move or say anything. Several people came in to trade and check the time, but he ignored them.
I got tired and changed from one foot to the other several times. Then I asked him how he got along, or something of that kind, but he never opened his head. He was the most preoccupied watch savant I ever saw. No outside influence could break up his chain of thought when he got after a diseased watch.
I got tired and shifted my weight from one foot to the other several times. Then I asked him how he was doing or something like that, but he never said a word. He was the most engrossed watch expert I had ever seen. Nothing from the outside could disrupt his train of thought when he was focused on fixing a broken watch.
I finally got around on the outside of the shop and looked in the window, where I could get a good view of his face.
I finally made my way around to the outside of the shop and looked in the window, where I could see his face clearly.
He was asleep.
He was sleeping.
The Story of a Struggler.
My name is Kaulbach. William J. Kaulbach is my name, and I am spending the summer in Canada. I may remain here during the winter, also. My parents are very poor. They had never been wealthy, and at the time of my birth they were even less wealthy than they had been before. As soon as I was born the poverty of my parents attracted my attention. I decided at once to relieve their distress. I intended to aid them from my own pocket, but found upon examination that I had no funds in my pocket; also, no pocket; also, no place to put a pocket if I had brought one with me. So my parents continued to be poor, and to put by a little poverty for a rainy day. I was sole heir to the poverty they had acquired in all these years.
My name is Kaulbach. I'm William J. Kaulbach, and I'm spending the summer in Canada. I might stay here through the winter too. My parents are really poor. They’ve never been wealthy, and at the time of my birth, they were even less well-off than before. Right after I was born, I noticed my parents' poverty. I immediately wanted to help them out. I planned to give them some money from my own savings, but when I checked, I realized I had no money in my pockets; in fact, I didn’t even have pockets or anywhere to put them if I had. So, my parents stayed poor, saving a little bit of their poverty for a rainy day. I was the sole heir to the poverty they had accumulated over the years.
Nature did not do much for me in the way of beauty, either. I was quite plain when born and may still be identified by that peculiarity. Plainess with me is not only a characteristic, but it is a passion. My whole being is wrapped up in it. My hair is a sort of neutral brindle, such as grows upon the top of a retired hair trunk, and my freckles are olive green, fading into a delicate, crushed-bran color. They are very large, and actually pain me at times.
Nature didn’t do much for me in terms of beauty either. I was quite plain when I was born and I can still be recognized by that trait. For me, plainness isn’t just a characteristic; it’s a passion. My entire being is focused on it. My hair is a sort of dull brindle, similar to what you find on a worn-out hair trunk, and my freckles are olive green, fading into a soft, crushed-bran color. They are very large and sometimes actually cause me pain.
My teacher tried to encourage me by telling me of other poor boys who had grown up to be president of the United States, and he tried to get me to consent to having my name used as a candidate; but I refrained from doing so. I knew that, although I was deserving of the place, I could not endure the bitterness of a campaign, and that the illustrated papers would enlarge upon my personal appearance and bring out my freckles till you could hang your hat on them.
My teacher tried to motivate me by sharing stories of other boys from humble backgrounds who became presidents of the United States. He wanted me to agree to have my name put forward as a candidate, but I declined. I realized that even though I deserved the position, I couldn't handle the harshness of a campaign, and that the tabloids would focus on my looks and exaggerate my freckles to the point where you could hang a hat on them.
So I grew up to be a stage robber.
So I grew up to be a stage robber.
When I have my mask on my freckles do not show. I lectured on phrenology at first to get means to prosecute my studies as a stage robber, and when I had perfected myself as a burglar I went abroad to study the methods of the Italian banditti. I was two years under the teaching of the old masters, and acquired great fluency as a robber while there. I studied from nature all the time, and some of my best work was taken from life. I had an opportunity to observe all the methods of the most celebrated garroting maestro and stilletto virtuoso. He was an enthusiast and thoroughly devoted to his art. He had a large price on his head, also. Aside from that he went bareheaded winter and summer.
When I wear my mask, my freckles don't show. I started by giving lectures on phrenology to fund my studies as a stage robber, and once I honed my skills as a burglar, I traveled abroad to learn the techniques of the Italian bandits. I spent two years learning from the old masters and became quite skilled as a robber during that time. I always studied from real life, and some of my best work was influenced by actual experiences. I had the chance to observe the techniques of the most famous garroting expert and stiletto master. He was passionate and completely dedicated to his craft. He also had a hefty bounty on his head. On top of that, he never wore a hat, regardless of the season.
{Illustration: MAKING HIS DEBUT.}
{Illustration: MAKING HIS DEBUT.}
Finally I returned to my own native land, poor, but fired with a mighty ambition. I went west and proceeded at once to debut. I went west to hold up the country. I was very successful, indeed, and have had my hands in the pockets of our most eminent men.
Finally, I returned to my homeland, broke but filled with a strong ambition. I headed west and immediately made my mark. I went west to uplift the region. I was quite successful and have even been in the pockets of our most prominent figures.
We were isolated from society a good deal, but we met the better class of people now and then in the course of our business. I did not like so much night work, and sometimes we had to eat raw pork because we did not wish to build a fire that would attract mosquitoes and sheriffs. So we were liable more or less to trichina and insomnia, but still we were free from sewer gas and poll tax. We did not get our mail with much regularity, but we got a lick at some mighty fine scenery.
We were pretty cut off from society, but we occasionally met some upper-class people while handling our business. I wasn't a fan of working nights, and sometimes we had to eat raw pork just to avoid starting a fire that would draw in mosquitoes and law enforcement. So we were somewhat at risk for trichina and sleeplessness, but at least we were free from sewage odors and poll taxes. Our mail didn't come regularly, but we did get to enjoy some really beautiful views.
But all this is only incidental. What I desired to say was this: Fame and distinction come high, and when we have them in our grasp at last we find that they bring their resultant sorrows. I worked long and hard for fame, and sat up nights and rode through alkali dust for thousands of miles, that I might be known as the leading robber of the age in which I lived, only to find at last that my great fame was the source of my chief annoyance. It made me so widely known that I felt, as Christine Nilsson says, “as though I lived in a glass case.” Everyone wanted to see me. Everyone wanted my autograph. Everyone wanted my skeleton to hang up in the library.
But all this is just a side note. What I really wanted to say was this: Fame and recognition come at a high cost, and when we finally achieve them, we realize they bring their own set of sorrows. I worked long and hard for fame, stayed up late, and traveled through dusty terrains for thousands of miles, just to be known as the top robber of my time, only to realize that my big fame was the source of my biggest frustration. It made me so well-known that I felt, as Christine Nilsson said, “as though I lived in a glass case.” Everyone wanted to see me. Everyone wanted my autograph. Everyone wanted my skeleton to display in their library.
I could have traveled with a show and drawn a large salary, but I hated to wear a boiler iron overcoat all through the hot weather, after having lived so wild and free. But all this attention worried me so that I could not sleep, and many a night I would arise from the lava bed on which I had reclined, and putting on my dressing-gown and slippers, I would wander about under the stars and wish that I could be an unknown boy again in my far away home. But I could not. I often wished that I could die a natural death, but that was out of the question.
I could have joined a traveling show and made a good salary, but I couldn’t stand wearing a heavy overcoat in the heat after living so wild and free. All the attention stressed me out so much that I couldn't sleep, and many nights, I'd get up from the bed of rocks where I had been lying, put on my robe and slippers, and walk around under the stars, wishing I could be an unknown kid back in my distant home. But I couldn't. I often wished I could just die peacefully, but that was not going to happen.
Finally, it got so that I did not dare to take a chew of tobacco, unless I did so under an assumed name. I hardly dared to let go of my six-shooter long enough to wipe my nose, for fear that someone might get the drop on me.
Finally, it got to the point where I didn’t even dare to take a dip of tobacco unless I was using a fake name. I barely felt comfortable putting down my six-shooter long enough to wipe my nose, worried that someone might catch me off guard.
That is the reason why I came to Canada. Here among so many criminals, I do not attract attention, but I use a nom de plume all the time, even here, and all these hot nights, while others take off their clothing, I lie and swelter in my heavy winter nom de plume.
That’s why I came to Canada. Here, surrounded by so many criminals, I don’t stand out, but I use a pen name all the time, even here, and on these hot nights, while others take off their clothes, I lie awake, sweating in my heavy winter pen name.
The Old Subscriber.
At this season of the year, we are forcibly struck with the earnest and honest effort that is being made by the publisher of the American newspaper. It is a healthy sign and a hopeful one for the future of our country. It occurs to me that with the great advancement of the newspaper, and the family paper, and the magazine, we do not expect leaders and statesmen to think for us so much as we did fifty years ago. We do not allow the newspaper to mold us so much as we did. We enjoy reading the opinion of a bright, brave, and cogent editor because we know that he sits where he can acquire his facts in a few hours from all quarters of the globe, and speak truly to his great audience in relation to those facts, but we have ceased to allow even that man to think for us.
At this time of year, we are struck by the genuine and dedicated efforts of the publisher of the American newspaper. It's a positive sign and an encouraging one for the future of our country. I realize that with the significant progress of newspapers, family publications, and magazines, we no longer expect leaders and statesmen to think for us as we did fifty years ago. We don’t let newspapers shape our opinions as much as we used to. We appreciate reading the views of a sharp, courageous, and persuasive editor because we know he can gather facts from all over the world in just a few hours and share them accurately with his large audience, but we have stopped letting even him think for us.
What then is to be the final outcome of all this? Is it not that the average American is going to use, and is using, his thinker more than he ever did before? Will not that thinker then, like the muscle of the blacksmith's arm, or the mule's hind foot, grow to a wondrous size as a result? Most assuredly.
What is the final outcome of all this? Isn't it that the average American is using their brain more than ever before? Will that brain, like a blacksmith's strong arm or a mule's powerful hind leg, grow to an impressive size as a result? Absolutely.
The day certainly is not far distant, when the American can not only out-fight, out-row, out-bat, out-run, out-lie, and out-sail all other nationalities; but he will also be able to out-think them. We already point with pride to some of the wonderful thoughts that our leading thinkists, with their thinkers, have thunk. There are native born Americans now living, who have thought of things that would make the head of the amateur thinker ache for a week.
The day is definitely coming when Americans won’t just be able to out-fight, out-row, out-bat, out-run, out-lie, and out-sail everyone else; they will also out-think them. We already proudly showcase some of the amazing ideas that our leading thinkers, along with their teams, have come up with. There are native-born Americans today who have imagined things that would leave any casual thinker scratching their head for a week.
All this is largely due to the free use of the newspaper as a home educator. The newspaper is growing more and more ubiquitous, if I may be allowed the expression. Many poor people, who, a few years ago, could not afford the newspaper, now have it scolloped and put it on their pantry shelves every year.
All this is mainly because people are using newspapers as a tool for home education. Newspapers are becoming more and more common, if that's okay to say. Many poorer folks, who just a few years ago couldn’t afford a newspaper, now have it delivered and put it on their pantry shelves every year.
But I did not start out to enlarge upon the newspaper. I would like to say a word or two more, however, on that general subject. Very often we hear some wise man with the responsibility of the universe on his shoulders, the man who thinks he is the censor of the human race now, and that he will be foreman of the grand jury on the Judgment Day—we hear this kind of man say every little while:
But I didn't intend to elaborate on the newspaper. I would like to add a few more words on that general topic, though. We often hear a so-called wise man, burdened by the weight of the universe, who believes he’s the judge of humanity now and thinks he’ll be the foreman of the grand jury on Judgment Day—this kind of person says from time to time:
“We've got too many papers. We are loaded down with reading matter. Can't read all my paper every day. Lots of days I throw my paper aside before I get it all read through, and never have a chance to finish it. All that is dead loss.”
“We have too many papers. We're overwhelmed with reading material. I can't read all my papers every day. Many days I set my papers aside before I finish reading them, and I never get the chance to complete them. All of that is a complete waste.”
It is, of course, a dead loss to that kind of a man. He is the kind of man that expects his family to begin at one side of the cellar and eat right straight across, it—cabbages, potatoes, turnips, pickles, apples, pumpkins, etc., etc.,—without stopping to discriminate. There are none too many papers, so far as the subscriber is concerned. Looking at it from the publisher's standpoint sometimes, there are too many.
It’s obviously a total waste for that type of guy. He’s the kind of guy who expects his family to start on one side of the cellar and eat everything in a row—cabbages, potatoes, turnips, pickles, apples, pumpkins, and so on—without taking a moment to choose what they like. There aren’t enough newspapers, as far as the subscriber is concerned. But when you look at it from the publisher's perspective, there are sometimes too many.
To the man who has inherited too large, wide, sinewy hands, and a brain that under the microscope looks like a hepatized lung, it seems some days as though the field had been over-crowded when he entered it. To the young man who was designed to maul rails or sock the fence-post into the bosom of the earth, and who has evaded that sphere of action and disregarded the mandate to maul rails, or to take a coal-pick and toy with the bowels of the earth, hoping to win an easier livelihood by feeding sour paste to village cockroaches, and still poorer pabulum to his subscribers, the newspaper field seems to be indeed jam full.
To the guy who has big, strong hands and a brain that looks like a damaged lung under a microscope, some days it feels like the field was already crowded when he got there. To the young man who was meant to work with heavy materials or hammer fence posts into the ground, who has avoided that kind of work and ignored the call to do it, hoping to make a living by serving bad food to village cockroaches and even worse content to his readers, the newspaper business really does seem packed.
But not so the man who is tall enough to see into the future about nine feet. He still remembers that he must live in the hearts of his subscribers, and he makes their wants his own. He is not to proud to listen to suggestions from the man who works. He recognizes that it is not the man with the diamond-mounted stomach who has contributed most to his success, but the man who never dips into society much with the exception of his family, perhaps, and that ought to be good society. A man ought not to feel too good to associate with his wife and children. Generally my sympathies are with his wife and children, if they have to associate with him very much.
But not so for the man who is tall enough to see into the future about nine feet. He still remembers that he must live in the hearts of his subscribers, and he makes their needs his own. He isn’t too proud to listen to suggestions from the working man. He realizes that it’s not the man with the diamond-studded stomach who has contributed the most to his success, but rather the man who doesn’t socialize often, except with his family, which should be considered good company. A man shouldn’t feel too good to spend time with his wife and children. Usually, my sympathies lean towards his wife and kids if they have to spend a lot of time with him.
But if I could ever get down to it, I would like to say a word on behalf of the old subscriber. Being an old subscriber myself, I feel an interest in his cause; and as he rarely rushes into print except to ask why the police contrive to keep aloof from anything that might look like a fight, or to inquire why the fire department will continue year after year to run through the streets killing little children who never injured the department in any way, just so that they will be in time to chop a hole in the roof of a house that is not on fire, and pour some water down into the library, then whoop through an old tin dipper a few times and go away—as the old subscriber does not generally say much in print except on the above subjects, I make bold to say on his behalf that as a rule, he is not treated half as well as the prodigal son, who has been spending his substance on a rival paper, or stealing his news outright from the old subscriber.
But if I ever get around to it, I’d like to say a word for the old subscriber. As an old subscriber myself, I’m invested in his cause; and since he rarely speaks up except to ask why the police stay away from anything that might look like a fight, or to wonder why the fire department keeps running through the streets every year, running over little kids who haven’t harmed them at all, just so they can get to a house that isn’t on fire and chop a hole in the roof, then pour water into the library, make some noise with an old tin dipper, and leave—since the old subscriber doesn’t usually talk much in print except about those topics, I’ll boldly say on his behalf that, generally speaking, he doesn’t get treated nearly as well as the prodigal son, who is out spending his money on a rival paper or outright stealing news from the old subscriber.
Why should we pat the new subscriber on the back, and give him a new album that will fall to pieces whenever you laugh in the same room? Why should you forget the old love for the new? Do we not often impose on the old subscriber by giving up the space he has paid for to flaming advertisements to catch the coy and skittish gudgeon who still lurks outside the fold? Do we not ofttimes offer a family Bible for a new subscriber when an old subscriber may be in a lost and undone state?
Why should we congratulate the new subscriber and give them a new album that falls apart whenever you laugh in the same room? Why should you forget your old love for the new? Don’t we often take advantage of the old subscriber by giving up the space they’ve paid for to flashy advertisements in an attempt to lure in the hesitant and shy fish who are still hanging around? Don’t we often offer a family Bible to a new subscriber when an old subscriber might be struggling and in need?
Do we not again and again offer to the wife of our new subscriber a beautiful, plain gold ring, or a lace pin for a year's subscription and $1, while the wife of our old subscriber is just in the shank of a long, hard, cold winter, without a ring or a pin to her back?
Do we not repeatedly offer the wife of our new subscriber a beautiful, simple gold ring or a lace pin for a year’s subscription and $1, while the wife of our long-time subscriber is struggling through a long, harsh, cold winter without a ring or a pin to her name?
We ought to remember that the old subscriber came to us with his money when we most needed it. He bore with us when we were new in the business, and used such provincialisms as “We have saw” and “If we had knew.” He bore with us when the new column rules were so sharp that they chawed the paper all up, and the office was so cold, waiting for wood to come in on subscription, that the “color” was greasy and reluctant. He took our paper and paid for it, while the new subscriber was in the penitentiary for all we know. He made a mild kick sometimes when he “didn't git his paper reggler;” but he paid on the first day of January every year in advance, out of an old calfskin wallet that opened out like a concertina, and had a strap that went around it four times, and looked as shiny, and sweaty, and good-natured as the razor-strop that might have been used by Noah.
We should remember that the long-time subscriber came to us with his money when we needed it the most. He put up with us when we were new to the business and used phrases like “We have saw” and “If we had knew.” He dealt with us when the new column rules were so rough that they tore the paper apart, and the office was so cold, waiting for firewood to come in from subscriptions, that the ink was greasy and hard to work with. He took our paper and paid for it while the new subscriber might have been in prison for all we knew. He would occasionally complain when he “didn't git his paper regular;” but he paid in advance on the first day of January every year, using an old calfskin wallet that opened up like an accordion and had a strap that wrapped around it four times, looking as shiny, sweaty, and friendly as a razor strop that could have been used by Noah.
The old subscriber never asked any rebate, or requested a prize volume of poetry with a red cover, because he had paid for another year; but he simply warmed his numb fingers, so that he could loosen his overalls and lower one side enough to let his hand into the pocket of his best pantaloons underneath, and there he always found the smooth wallet, and inside of it there was always a $2 bill, that had been put there to pay for the paper. Then the old subscriber would warm his hands some more, ask “How's tricks?” but never begin to run down the paper, and then he would go away to work for another year.
The old subscriber never asked for a discount or requested a special edition of poetry with a red cover because he had already paid for another year. Instead, he simply warmed his numb fingers so he could loosen his overalls and lower one side enough to reach into the pocket of his best pants underneath. There, he always found the smooth wallet, and inside it was always a $2 bill he had saved to pay for the paper. Then the old subscriber would warm his hands a bit more, ask, “How's it going?” but never criticize the paper, and then he would head off to work for another year.
{Illustration: THE RIGHT SORT OF SUBSCRIBER.}
{Illustration: THE RIGHT TYPE OF SUBSCRIBER.}
I want to say that this country rests upon a great, solid foundation of old, paid-up subscribers. They are the invisible, rock-ribbed resting-place for the dazzling superstructure and the slim and peaked spire. Whether we procure a new press or a new dress, a new contributor or a new printers' towel, we must bank on the old subscriber; for the new one is fickle, and when some other paper gives him a larger or a redder covered book, he may desert our standard. He yearns for the flesh-pots and the new scroll saws of other papers. He soon wearies of a uniformly good paper, with no chance to draw a town lot or a tin mine—in Montana.
I want to emphasize that this country is built on a strong foundation of loyal, long-time subscribers. They are the solid backbone that supports the flashy structure and the sharp spire. Whether we invest in a new printing press, fresh design, new contributors, or even new printer's towels, we need to rely on our existing subscribers; because new ones can be unpredictable, and if another publication offers them something flashier or different, they might switch their loyalty. They are drawn to the tempting perks and trendy features of other papers. They quickly lose interest in a consistently good publication if there’s no chance to win a prize or get involved in something exciting—like a town lot or a tin mine in Montana.
Let us, therefore, brethren of the press, cling to the old subscriber as he has clung to us. Let us say to him, on this approaching Christmas Eve, “Son, thou art always with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, that this, thy brother, who had been a subscriber for our vile contemporary many years, but is alive again, and during a lucid interval has subscribed for our paper; but, after all, we would not go to him if we wanted to borrow a dollar. Remember that you still have our confidence, and when we want a good man to indorse our note at the bank, you will find that your name in our memory is ever fresh and green.”
Let’s, therefore, friends in the media, hold on to the loyal subscriber just as he has held on to us. Let’s tell him this coming Christmas Eve, “You’re always with us, and everything we have is yours. It’s right that we celebrate because this brother of yours, who has subscribed to our terrible rival for many years but is back with us now, has during a clear moment chosen to subscribe to our paper; but still, we wouldn’t go to him if we needed to borrow a dollar. Remember, you still have our trust, and when we need a reliable person to vouch for us at the bank, you’ll see that your name stays fresh and cherished in our minds.”
Looking this over, I am struck with the amount of stuff I have successfully said, and yet there is a paucity of ideas. Some writers would not use the word paucity in this place without first knowing the meaning of it, but I am not that way. There are thousands of words that I now use freely, but could not if I postponed it until I could learn their meaning. Timidity keeps many of our authors back, I think. Many are more timid about using big words than they are about using other people's ideas.
Looking at this, I'm struck by how much I've managed to say, yet there’s a lack of ideas. Some writers wouldn’t use the word 'lack' here without knowing what it means first, but that's not me. There are thousands of words I now use confidently, but I wouldn’t be able to if I waited until I learned their meanings. I think fear holds many of our writers back. Many are more afraid of using complex words than they are of using others' ideas.
A friend of mine wanted to write a book, but hadn't the time to do it. So he asked me if I wouldn't do it for him. He was very literary, he said, but his business took up all his time, so I asked him what kind of a book he wanted. He said he wanted a funny book, with pictures in it and a blue cover. I saw at once that he had fine literary taste and delicate discrimination, but probably did not have time to give it full swing. I asked him what he thought it would be worth to write such a book. “Well,” he said, he had always supposed that I enjoyed it myself, but if I thought I ought to have pay besides, he would be willing to pay the same as he did for his other writing—ten cents a folio.
A friend of mine wanted to write a book but didn't have the time to do it. So he asked me if I could do it for him. He claimed to be very literary, but his business consumed all his time, so I asked him what kind of book he wanted. He said he wanted a funny book with pictures and a blue cover. I immediately recognized that he had great literary taste and subtle judgment, but probably didn’t have the time to fully pursue it. I asked him what he thought it would be worth to write such a book. “Well," he said, "I always assumed you enjoyed it, but if you think you should be paid for it, I’d be willing to pay what I do for my other writing—ten cents a folio.”
He is worth $50,000, because he has documentary evidence to show that a man who made that amount out of deceased hogs, had the misfortune to be his father and then die.
He is worth $50,000 because he has documented proof that a man who made that much from deceased hogs happened to be his father, who unfortunately passed away.
It was a great triumph to be born under such circumstances, and yet the young man lacks the mental stamina necessary to know how to successfully eat common mush and milk in such a low key that will not alarm the police.
It was a significant achievement to be born into such conditions, yet the young man doesn’t have the mental strength to figure out how to eat plain mush and milk discreetly enough not to raise the alarm with the police.
I use this incident more as an illustration than anything else. It illustrates how anything may be successfully introduced into an article of this kind without having any bearing whatever upon it.
I use this incident more as an example than anything else. It shows how anything can be successfully included in an article like this without having any relevance to it.
I like to close a serious essay, or treatise, with some humorous incident, like the clown in the circus out West last summer, who joked along through the performance all the afternoon till two or three children went into convulsions, and hypochondria seemed to reign rampant through the tent. All at once a bright idea struck him. He climbed up on the flying trapeze, fell off, and broke his neck. He was determined to make that audience laugh, and he did it at last. Every one felt repaid for the trouble of going to the circus.
I like to wrap up a serious essay or article with a humorous story, like the clown in the West circus last summer who joked around throughout the show until two or three kids started having fits and it seemed like fear was spreading through the tent. Suddenly, he had a clever idea. He climbed up on the flying trapeze, fell off, and broke his neck. He was determined to make the audience laugh, and he finally succeeded. Everyone felt it was worth the hassle of going to the circus.
My Dog.
I have owned quite a number of dogs in my life, but they are all dead now. Last evening I visited my dog cemetery—just between the gloaming and the shank of the evening. On the biscuit-box cover that stands at the head of a little mound fringed with golden rod and pickle bottles, the idler may still read these lines, etched in red chalk by a trembling hand:
I’ve had a lot of dogs in my life, but they’re all gone now. Last night, I went to my dog cemetery—right between dusk and the late evening. On the biscuit box lid that marks the top of a small mound surrounded by goldenrod and pickle bottles, anyone passing by can still read these words, written in red chalk by a shaking hand:
LITTLE KOSCIUSKO,—NOT DEAD,—BUT JERKED HENCE By Request. S.Y.L. (See you Later.)
LITTLE KOSCIUSKO,—NOT DEAD,—BUT TAKEN AWAY BY REQUEST. S.Y.L. (See you Later.)
I do not know why he was called Kosciusko. I do not care. I only know that his little grave stands out there while the gloaming gloams and the soughing winds are soughing.
I don’t know why he was called Kosciusko. I don’t care. I just know that his small grave is out there while the twilight falls and the whispering winds are blowing.
Do you ask why I am alone here and dogless in this weary world?
Do you wonder why I'm here all alone and without a dog in this exhausting world?
I will tell you, anyhow. It will not take long, and it may do me good:
I’ll tell you anyway. It won’t take long, and it might be good for me:
Kosciusko came to me one night in winter, with no baggage and unidentified. When I opened the door he came in as though he had left something in there by mistake and had returned for it.
Kosciusko showed up at my place one winter night, with no bags and no identification. When I opened the door, he walked in as if he had forgotten something inside and had come back to get it.
He stayed with us two years as a watch-dog. In a desultory way, he was a good watch-dog. If he had watched other people with the same unrelenting scrutiny with which he watched me, I might have felt his death more keenly than I do now.
He stayed with us for two years as a guard dog. In a casual way, he was a decent guard dog. If he had paid the same constant attention to other people that he did to me, I might have felt his death more deeply than I do now.
The second year that little Kosciusko was with us, I shaved off a full beard one day while down town, put on a clean collar and otherwise disguised myself, intending to surprise my wife.
The second year that little Kosciusko was with us, I shaved off my full beard one day while I was downtown, put on a clean collar, and otherwise disguised myself, planning to surprise my wife.
Kosciusko sat on the front porch when I returned. He looked at me as the cashier of a bank does when a newspaper man goes in to get a suspiciously large check cashed. He did not know me. I said, “Kosciusko, have you forgotten your master's voice?”
Kosciusko was sitting on the front porch when I came back. He looked at me like a bank teller does when a journalist walks in to cash a suspiciously large check. He didn’t recognize me. I said, “Kosciusko, have you forgotten your master's voice?”
He smiled sarcastically, showing his glorious wealth of mouth, but still sat there as though he had stuck his tail into the door-steps and couldn't get it out.
He smiled sarcastically, showing off his flashy smile, but still sat there like he had somehow gotten his tail stuck in the doorsteps and couldn't pull it out.
So I waived the formality of going in at the front door, and went around to the portcullis, on the off side of the house, but Kosciusko was there when I arrived. The cook, seeing a stranger lurking around the manor house, encouraged Kosciusko to come and gorge himself with a part of my leg, which he did. Acting on this hint I went to the barn. I do not know why I went to the barn, but somehow there was nothing in the house that I wanted. When a man wants to be by himself, there is no place like a good, quiet barn for thought. So I went into the barn, about three feet prior to Kosciusko.
So I skipped the whole thing of going in the front door and went around to the side with the portcullis, but Kosciusko was already there when I got there. The cook, noticing a stranger hanging around the manor, urged Kosciusko to come and enjoy a piece of my leg, which he did. Following that suggestion, I headed to the barn. I’m not sure why I went there, but for some reason, I didn’t want anything in the house. When a guy wants to be alone, there’s really no better place for thinking than a nice, quiet barn. So I walked into the barn, just a few steps ahead of Kosciusko.
{Illustration: THE COMBAT.}
{Illustration: THE FIGHT.}
Noticing the stairway, I ascended it in an aimless kind of way, about four steps at a time. What happened when we got into the haymow I do not now recall, only that Kosciusko and I frolicked around there in the hay for some time. Occasionally I would be on top, and then he would have all the delegates, until finally I got hold of a pitchfork, and freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell. I wrapped myself up in an old horse-net and went into the house. Some of my clothes were afterward found in the hay, and the doctor pried a part of my person out of Kosciusko's jaws, but not enough to do me any good.
Noticing the stairway, I climbed it in a random sort of way, about four steps at a time. I can't remember exactly what happened once we got into the haymow, just that Kosciusko and I played around in the hay for a while. Sometimes I would be on top, and then he would have all the fun, until I finally grabbed a pitchfork, and everyone screamed when Kosciusko fell. I wrapped myself in an old horse net and went back into the house. Some of my clothes were later found in the hay, and the doctor had to pull part of me out of Kosciusko's mouth, but not enough to help me.
I have owned, in all, eleven dogs, and they all died violent deaths, and went out of the world totally unprepared to die.
I have had a total of eleven dogs, and they all died tragic deaths, leaving this world completely unprepared for dying.
A Picturesque Picnic.
Railroads have made the Rocky Mountain country familiar and contiguous, I may say, to the whole world; but the somber canon, the bald and blackened cliff, the velvety park and the snowy, silent peak that forever rests against the soft, blue sky, are ever new. The foamy green of the torrent has whirled past the giant walls of nature's mighty fortress myriads of years, perhaps, and the stars have looked down into the great heart of earth for centuries, where the silver thread of streams, thousands of feet below, has been patiently carving out the dark canon where the eagle and the solemn echo have their home.
Railroads have made the Rocky Mountain region well-known and connected to the entire world; however, the dark canyon, the bare and scorched cliffs, the lush park, and the snowy, silent peak that always sits against the soft blue sky are constantly refreshing. The frothy green of the rushing water has flowed past the massive walls of nature’s grand fortress for countless years, and the stars have gazed down into the earth's great heart for centuries, where the silver thread of streams, thousands of feet below, has been slowly shaping the dark canyon where the eagle and the solemn echo reside.
I said this to a gentleman from Leadville a short time ago as we toiled up Kenoska Hill, between Platte canon and the South Park, on the South Park and Pacific Railway. He said that might be true in some cases and even more so, perhaps, depending entirely on whether it would or not.
I said this to a guy from Leadville not long ago while we were climbing Kenoska Hill, between Platte Canyon and South Park, on the South Park and Pacific Railway. He replied that might be true in some cases and maybe even more so, depending entirely on whether it would be or not.
I do not believe at this moment that he thoroughly understood me. He was only a millionaire and his soul, very likely, had never throbbed and thrilled with the mysterious music nature yields to her poet child.
I don't think he really understood me at this moment. He was just a millionaire, and his soul probably had never felt the deep and exciting music that nature offers to her poet child.
He could talk on and on of porphyry walls and contact veins, gray copper and ruby silver, and sulphurets and pyrites of iron, but when my eye kindled with the majestic beauty of these eternal battlements and my voice trembled a little with awe and wonder; while my heart throbbed and thrilled in the midst of nature's eloquent, golden silence, this man sat there like an Etruscan ham and refused to throb or thrill. He was about as unsatisfactory a throbber and thriller as I have met for years.
He could go on and on about porphyry walls and contact veins, gray copper and ruby silver, and sulfur and iron pyrites, but when I felt the majestic beauty of these eternal structures and my voice shook a bit with awe and wonder, while my heart raced and pulsed in the middle of nature's beautiful, golden silence, this guy just sat there like a statue and didn't feel anything. He was one of the least exciting people I've come across in years.
At an elevation of over 10,000 feet above high water mark, Fahrenheit, the South Park, a hundred miles long, surrounded by precipitous mountains or green and sloping foot-hills, burst upon us, In the clear, still air, a hundred miles away, at Pueblo, I could hear a promissory note and cut-throat mortgage drawing three per cent a month. So calm and unruffled was the rarified air that I fancied I could hear the thirteenth assessment on a share of stock at Leadville toiling away at the bottom of a two hundred and fifty foot shaft.
At an elevation of over 10,000 feet above sea level, the South Park, stretching a hundred miles long and surrounded by steep mountains or lush, sloping hills, opened up before us. In the clear, still air, I could hear the distant sounds of financial dealings from a hundred miles away in Pueblo, including a promissory note and a risky mortgage drawing three percent a month. The calm and serene atmosphere made me imagine I could even hear the thirteenth assessment on a share of stock in Leadville echoing from the bottom of a 250-foot shaft.
Colorado air is so pure that men in New York have, in several instances, heard the dull rumble of an assessment working as far away as the San Juan country.
Colorado air is so clean that people in New York have, on several occasions, heard the faint rumble of an assessment happening all the way in the San Juan area.
At Como, in the park, I met Col. Wellington Wade, the Duke of Dirty Woman's Ranch, and barber extraordinary to old Stand-up-and-Yowl, chief of the Piebiters.
At Como, in the park, I met Colonel Wellington Wade, the Duke of Dirty Woman's Ranch, and an amazing barber to old Stand-up-and-Yowl, the leader of the Piebiters.
Colonel Wade is a reformed temperance lecturer. I went to his shop to get shaved, but he was absent. I could smell hair oil through the keyhole, but the Colonel was not in his slab-inlaid emporium. He had been preparing another lecture on temperance, and was at that moment studying the habits of his adversary at a neighboring gin palace. I sat down on the steps and devoured the beautiful landscape till he came. Then I sat down in the chair, and he hovered over me while he talked about an essay he had written on the flowing bowl. His arguments were not so strong as his breath seemed to be. I asked him if he wouldn't breathe the other way awhile and let me sober up. I learned afterward that although his nose was red, his essay was not.
Colonel Wade is a reformed temperance lecturer. I went to his shop to get a shave, but he wasn’t there. I could smell hair oil through the keyhole, but the Colonel wasn’t in his fancy shop. He had been preparing another lecture on temperance and was currently studying the habits of his rival at a nearby bar. I sat down on the steps and took in the beautiful landscape until he arrived. Then I settled into the chair, and he leaned over me while talking about an essay he had written on drinking. His arguments weren’t as strong as his breath seemed to be. I asked him if he could breathe the other way for a bit and let me sober up. I later found out that even though his nose was red, his essay wasn’t.
He would shave me for a few moments, and then he would hone the razor on his breath and begin over again. I think he must have been pickling his lungs in alcohol. I never met a more pronounced gin cocktail symphony and bologna sausage study in my life.
He would shave me for a little while, then he would sharpen the razor by breathing on it and start again. I think he must have been soaking his lungs in alcohol. I’ve never encountered a more intense mix of gin and bologna sausage in my life.
I think Sir Walter Scott must have referred to Colonel Wade when he said, “Breathes there a man with soul so dead?” Colonel Wade's soul might not have been dead, but it certainly did not enjoy perfect health.
I think Sir Walter Scott must have been talking about Colonel Wade when he said, “Is there a man with a soul so dead?” Colonel Wade’s soul might not have been dead, but it definitely wasn’t in great shape.
I went over the mountains to Breckenridge the next day, climbed two miles perpendicularly into the sky, rode on a special train one day, a push car the next and a narrow-gauge engine the next. Saw all the beauty of the country, in charge of Superintendent Smith, went over to Buena Vista and had a congestion of the spine and a good time generally. You can leave Denver on a morning train and see enough wild, grand, picturesque loveliness before supper, to store away in your heart and hang upon the walls of memory, to last all through your busy, humdrum life, and it is a good investment, too.
I traveled over the mountains to Breckenridge the next day, climbed two miles straight up into the sky, took a special train one day, then a push car the next, and a narrow-gauge engine after that. I saw all the beauty of the area, guided by Superintendent Smith, went over to Buena Vista, and had a blast and a bit of a sore back. You can leave Denver on a morning train and experience enough wild, stunning, picturesque beauty before dinner to cherish in your heart and remember throughout your ordinary life, and it’s a worthwhile investment, too.
Taxidermy.
This name is from two Greek words which signify “arrangement” and “skin,” so that the ancient Greeks, no doubt, regarded taxidermy as the original skin-game of that period. Taxidermy did not flourish in America prior to the year 1828. At that time an Englishman named Scudder established a museum and general repository for upholstered beasts.
This name comes from two Greek words meaning “arrangement” and “skin,” so the ancient Greeks probably saw taxidermy as the original skin game of their time. Taxidermy didn’t really take off in America until 1828. That’s when an Englishman named Scudder set up a museum and a general collection for stuffed animals.
Since then the art has advanced quite rapidly. To properly taxiderm, requires a fine taste and a close study of the subject itself in life, akin to the requirements necessary in order to succeed as a sculptor. I have seen taxidermed animals that would not fool anybody. I recall, at this time especially, a mountain lion, stuffed after death by a party who had not made this matter a subject of close study. The lion was represented in a crouching attitude, with open jaws and red gums. As time passed on and year succeeded year, this lion continued to crouch. His tail became less rampant and drooped like a hired man on a hot day. His gums became less fiery red and his reddish skin hung over his bones in a loose and distraught manner, like an old buffalo robe thrown over the knees of a vinegary old maid. Spiders spun their webs across his dull, white fangs. Mice made their nests in his abdominal cavity. His glass eye became hopelessly strabismussed, and the moths left him bald-headed on the stomach. He was a sad commentary on the extremely transitory nature of all things terrestrial and the hollowness of the stuffed beast.
Since then, taxidermy has progressed quickly. To do it well requires a keen eye and an in-depth study of the subject as it lived, similar to what’s needed to be a successful sculptor. I've seen taxidermied animals that wouldn't fool anyone. I especially remember a mountain lion that was stuffed after it died by someone who hadn't invested the necessary time to study it closely. The lion was posed in a crouching position, with its mouth open and gums exposed. As years went by, the lion remained in that crouched position. Its tail lost its energy and drooped like a tired worker on a hot day. Its gums faded from bright red, and its reddish skin hung loosely over its bones, resembling an old buffalo robe draped over the knees of a cranky old lady. Spiders spun webs across its dull, white fangs. Mice built nests in its belly. Its glass eye became oddly crossed, and moths left it bald on the stomach. It served as a somber reminder of how fleeting everything is and the emptiness of a stuffed creature.
I had a stuffed bird for a long time, which showed the cunning of the stuffer to a great degree. It afforded me a great deal of unalloyed pleasure, because I liked to get old hunters to look at it and tell me what kind of a bird it was. They did not generally agree. A bitter and acrimonious fight grew out of a discussion in relation to this bird. A man from Vinegar Hill named Lyons and a party called Soiled Murphy (since deceased), were in my office one morning—Mr. Lyons as a witness, and Mr. Murphy in his great specialty as a drunk and disorderly. We had just disposed of the case, and had just stepped down from the bench, intending to take off the judicial ermine and put some more coal in the stove, when the attention of Soiled Murphy was attracted to the bird. He allowed that it was a common “hell-diver with an abnormal head,” while Lyons claimed that it was a kingfisher.
I had a stuffed bird for a long time, which really showed off the skill of the person who stuffed it. It brought me a lot of simple joy because I enjoyed getting old hunters to look at it and tell me what kind of bird it was. They usually didn’t agree. A heated and angry argument erupted over a discussion about this bird. One morning, a guy from Vinegar Hill named Lyons and a man known as Soiled Murphy (who has since passed away) were in my office—Mr. Lyons as a witness and Mr. Murphy in his usual role as a drunk and disorderly. We had just finished handling a case and were about to step down from the bench, ready to take off our judicial robes and put more coal in the stove, when Soiled Murphy’s attention was caught by the bird. He said it was a common “hell-diver with an abnormal head,” while Lyons insisted it was a kingfisher.
The bird had a duck's body, the head of a common eagle and the feet of a sage hen. These parts had been adjusted with great care and the tail loaded with lead somehow, so that the powerful head would not tip the bird up behind. With this rara avis, to use a foreign term, I loved to amuse and instruct old hunters, who had been hunting all their lives for a free drink, and hear them tell how they had killed hundred of these birds over on the Poudre in an early day, or over near Elk Mountain when the country was new.
The bird had the body of a duck, the head of a common eagle, and the feet of a sage hen. These parts had been carefully put together, and the tail was somehow weighted with lead so that the heavy head wouldn't tip the bird back. With this rara avis, as they say in another language, I enjoyed entertaining and teaching old hunters, who had spent their lives searching for a free drink, and listening to them share stories about how they had killed hundreds of these birds over on the Poudre back in the day, or near Elk Mountain when the area was still new.
So Lyons claimed that he had killed millions of these fowls, and Soiled Murphy, who was known as the tomato can and beer-remnant savant of that country, said that before the Union Pacific Railroad got into that section, these birds swarmed around Hutton's lakes and lived on horned toads.
So Lyons said he had killed millions of these birds, and Soiled Murphy, known as the expert on leftover tomatoes and beer in that area, mentioned that before the Union Pacific Railroad arrived, these birds flocked around Hutton's lakes and fed on horned toads.
The feeling got more and more partisan till Mr. Lyons made a pass at Soiled Murphy with a large red cuspidor that had been presented to me by Valentine Baker, a dealer in abandoned furniture and mines. Mr. Murphy then welted Lyons over the head with the judicial scales. He then adroitly caught a lump of bituminous coal with his countenance and fell to the floor with a low cry of pain.
The tension became increasingly divided until Mr. Lyons threw a large red spittoon at Soiled Murphy, which had been given to me by Valentine Baker, a seller of used furniture and mines. Mr. Murphy then struck Lyons on the head with the scales of justice. He skillfully caught a piece of coal with his face and collapsed to the ground with a soft cry of pain.
I called in an outside party as a witness, and in the afternoon both men were convicted of assault and battery. Soiled Murphy asked for a change of venue on the ground that I was prejudiced. I told him that I did not allow anything whatever to prejudice me, and went on with the case.
I called in an outsider as a witness, and in the afternoon both men were found guilty of assault and battery. Soiled Murphy requested a change of venue, claiming I was biased. I told him that nothing could sway my judgment, and continued with the case.
This great taxidermic masterpiece led to other assaults afterward, all of which proved remunerative in a small way. My successor claimed that the bird was a part of the perquisites of the office, and so I had to turn it over with the docket.
This amazing taxidermy piece led to other attempts later on, all of which were somewhat profitable. My replacement argued that the bird was a part of the job benefits, so I had to hand it over with the paperwork.
I also had a stuffed weasel from Cummins City that attracted a great deal of attention, both in this country and in Europe. It looked some like a weasel and some like an equestrian sausage with hair on it.
I also had a stuffed weasel from Cummins City that got a lot of attention, both in this country and in Europe. It looked a bit like a weasel and a bit like a furry riding sausage.
The Ways of Doctors.
“There's a big difference in doctors, I tell you,” said an old-timer to me the other day. “You think you know something about 'em, but you are still in the fluff and bloom, and kindergarten of life, Wait till you've been through what I have.”
“There's a huge difference in doctors, I’m telling you,” an old-timer said to me the other day. “You think you understand them, but you're still in the early stages of life. Wait until you've gone through what I have.”
“Where, for instance?” I asked him.
“Where, for example?” I asked him.
“Well, say nothing about anything else, just look at the doctors we had in the war. We had a doctor in our regiment that looked as if he knew so much that it made him unhappy. I found out afterward that he ran a kind of cow foundling asylum, in Utah before the war, and when he had to prescribe for a human being, it seemed to kind of rattle him.
“Well, putting everything else aside, just look at the doctors we had during the war. We had a doctor in our regiment who looked like he knew so much that it actually made him unhappy. I found out later that he ran a sort of cow orphanage in Utah before the war, and when he had to prescribe for a human, it seemed to throw him off.”
“I fell off'n my horse early in the campaign and broke my leg, I rickolect, and he sot the bone. He thought that a bone should be sot similar to a hen. He made what he called a good splice, but the break was above the knee, and he got the cow idea into his head in a way that set the knee behind. That was bad.
“I fell off my horse early in the campaign and broke my leg, I remember, and he set the bone. He thought that a bone should be set like a hen. He made what he called a good splice, but the break was above the knee, and he got the cow idea in his head in a way that positioned the knee behind. That was bad.
{Illustration: HE GAVE ME A CIGAR.}
{Illustration: HE GAVE ME A CIGAR.}
“I told him one day that he was a blamed fool. He gave me a cigar and told me I must be a mind reader.
“I told him one day that he was a damn fool. He handed me a cigar and said I must be a mind reader.”
“For several weeks our colonel couldn't eat anything, and seemed to feel kind of billious. He didn't know what the trouble was till he went to the doctor. He looked at the colonel a few moments, examined his tongue, and told him right off that he had lost his cud.
“For several weeks, our colonel couldn't eat anything and seemed to feel kind of sick. He didn’t know what the problem was until he went to the doctor. The doctor looked at the colonel for a few moments, examined his tongue, and immediately told him that he had lost his cud.”
“He bragged a good deal on his diagnosis. He said he'd like to see the disease he couldn't diagnose with one hand tied behind him.
“He bragged a lot about his diagnosis. He said he’d like to see the disease he couldn’t diagnose with one hand tied behind his back.”
“He was always telling me how he had resuscitated a man they hung over at T—— City in the early day. He was hung by mistake, it seemed. It was a dark night and the Vigilance committee was in something of a hurry, having another party to hang over at Dirty Woman's ranch that night, and so they erroneously hung a quiet young feller from Illinois, who had been sent west to cure a case of bronchitis. He was right in the middle of an explanation when the head vigilanter kicked the board from under him and broke his neck.
“He was always telling me about how he saved a guy who got hanged over at T—— City back in the day. It turned out he was hanged by mistake. It was a dark night, and the Vigilance committee was in a rush since they had another guy to hang over at Dirty Woman's ranch that night. So, they accidentally hanged a quiet young guy from Illinois who was out west to treat a case of bronchitis. He was right in the middle of explaining when the head vigilanter kicked the board out from under him and broke his neck.
{Illustration: BURIED WITH MILITARY HONORS.}
{Illustration: BURIED WITH MILITARY HONORS.}
“All at once, some one said: 'My God, we have made a ridiculous blunder. Boys, we can't be too careful about hanging total strangers. A few more such breaks as these, and people from the States will hesitate about coming here to make their homes. We have always claimed that this was a good country for bronchitis, but if we write to Illinois and tell this young feller's parents the facts, we needn't look for a very large hegira from Illinois next season. Doc., can't you do anything for the young man?'
“All of a sudden, someone said: 'Oh my God, we really messed up. Guys, we have to be super careful about hanging total strangers. If we keep making mistakes like this, people from the States will think twice about moving here. We've always said that this was a good place for bronchitis, but if we write to Illinois and tell this young guy's parents the truth, we shouldn't expect a big wave of people coming from Illinois next season. Doc, can't you do something for the young man?'”
“Then this young physician stepped forward, he says, and put his knee on the back of the boy's neck, give it a little push, at the same time pulled the head back with a snap that straightened the neck, and the young feller, who was in the middle of a large word, something like 'contumely,' when the barrel tipped over, finished out the word and went right on with the explanation. The doctor said he lived a good many years, and was loved and esteemed by all who knew him.
“Then this young doctor stepped up, he says, and put his knee on the back of the boy's neck, gave it a little push, while at the same time pulling the head back with a snap that straightened the neck, and the young guy, who was in the middle of a big word, something like 'contumely,' when the barrel tipped over, completed the word and continued with the explanation. The doctor said he lived many years and was loved and respected by everyone who knew him.”
“The doctor was always telling of his triumphs in surgery. He did save a good many lives, too, toward the close of the war. He did it in an odd way, too.
“The doctor was always bragging about his successes in surgery. He saved quite a few lives, especially toward the end of the war. He did it in a strange way, too.”
“He had about one year more to serve, and, with his doctoring on one side and the hostility of the enemy on the other, our regiment was wore down to about five hundred men. Everybody said we couldn't stand it more than another year. One day, however, the doctor had just measured a man for a porus plaster, and had laid the stub of his cigar carefully down on the top of a red powder-keg, when there was a slight atmospheric disturbance, the smell of burnt clothes, and our regiment had to apply for a new surgeon.
“He had about a year left to serve, and with his medical duties on one side and the enemy’s hostility on the other, our regiment was worn down to about five hundred men. Everyone said we couldn’t hold out for more than another year. One day, though, the doctor had just measured a guy for a porous plaster and had carefully placed the stub of his cigar on top of a red powder keg when there was a slight atmospheric disturbance, the smell of burnt clothes, and our regiment had to request a new surgeon.”
“The wife of our late surgeon wrote to have her husband's remains forwarded to her, but I told her that it would be very difficult to do so, owing to the nature of the accident. I said, however, that we had found an upper set of store teeth imbedded in a palmetto tree near by, and had buried them with military honors, erecting over the grave a large board, on which was inscribed the name and age of the deceased and this inscription:
“The wife of our late surgeon wrote to request that her husband's remains be sent to her, but I explained that it would be very difficult to do so because of the nature of the accident. However, I mentioned that we had found a set of upper dentures embedded in a nearby palmetto tree and had buried them with military honors, putting up a large board over the grave with the name and age of the deceased along with this inscription:
“Not dead, but spontaneously distributed. Gone to meet his glorified throng of patients. Ta, ta, vain world.”
Not dead, but suddenly spread apart. Off to join his glamorous group of patients. Bye-bye, shallow world.
Absent Minded.
I remember an attorney, who practiced law out West years ago, who used to fill his pipe with brass paper fasteners, and try to light it with a ruling pen about twice a day. That was his usual average.
I remember an attorney who practiced law out West years ago. He used to fill his pipe with brass paper clips and try to light it with a ruling pen about twice a day. That was his usual average.
He would talk in unknown tongues, and was considered a thorough and revised encyclopedia on everything from the tariff on a meerschaum pipe to the latitude of Crazy Woman's Fork west of Greenwich, and yet if he went to the postoffice he would probably mail his pocketbook and carefully bring his letter back to the office.
He would speak in languages no one understood, and was seen as a complete and updated encyclopedia on everything from the tax on a meerschaum pipe to the coordinates of Crazy Woman's Fork west of Greenwich. Yet, if he went to the post office, he would likely send his wallet by mistake and carefully bring his letter back to the office.
One day he got to thinking about the Monroe doctrine, or the sudden and horrible death of Judas Iscariot, and actually lost his office. He walked up and down for an hour, scouring the town for the evanescent office that had escaped his notice while he was sorrowing over the shocking death of Judas, or Noah's struggles against malaria and a damp, late spring.
One day he started thinking about the Monroe Doctrine or the sudden and terrible death of Judas Iscariot, and he actually lost his job. He walked back and forth for an hour, searching the town for the fleeting office that he had overlooked while he was lamenting the shocking death of Judas, or Noah's battles with malaria and a damp, late spring.
Martin Luther Brandt was the name of this eccentric jurist. He got up in the night once, and dressed himself, and taking a night train in that dreamy way of his, rode on to Denver, took the Rio Grande train in the morning and drifted away into old Mexico somewhere. He must have been in that same old half comatose state when he went away, for he made a most ludicrous error in getting his wife in the train. When he arrived in old Mexico he found that he had brought another man's wife, and by some strange oversight had left his own at home with five children. It hardly seems possible that a man could be so completely enveloped in a brown study that he would err in the matter of a wife and five children, but such was the case with Martin Luther. Martin Luther couldn't tell you his own name if you asked him suddenly, so as to give him a nervous shock.
Martin Luther Brandt was the name of this quirky lawyer. One night, he got up, got dressed, and in his usual dreamy style, took a night train to Denver. In the morning, he hopped on the Rio Grande train and drifted off to some part of old Mexico. He must have been in that same dazed state when he left, because he made a hilarious mistake by getting on the train with another man's wife. When he arrived in old Mexico, he discovered he had brought the wrong woman and, by some strange oversight, left his own wife at home with five kids. It’s hard to believe a man could be so lost in thought that he would confuse a woman and five children, but that was Martin Luther. If you suddenly asked him his own name, he probably wouldn’t even be able to tell you.
This dreamy, absent-minded, wool-gathering disease is sometimes contagious. Pretty soon after Martin Luther struck Mexico the malignant form of brown study broke out among the greasers, and an alarming mania on the somnambulistic order seemed to follow it. A party of Mexican somnambuloes one night got together, and while the disease was at its height tied Martin Luther to the gable of a 'dobe hen palace. His soul is probably at this moment floundering around through space, trying to find the evergreen shore.
This dreamy, distracted, daydreaming condition can sometimes be contagious. Shortly after Martin Luther impacted Mexico, a severe form of deep contemplation began spreading among the locals, along with a troubling wave of sleepwalking behavior. One night, a group of Mexican sleepwalkers gathered together, and during the peak of this condition, they tied Martin Luther to the roof of a adobe chicken coop. His spirit is probably wandering through space right now, trying to find the eternal shore.
An old hunter, who was a friend of mine, had this odd way of walking aimlessly around with his thoughts in some other world.
An old hunter, who was a friend of mine, had this strange way of wandering around, lost in his thoughts as if he were in another world.
I used to tell him that some day he would regret it, but he only laughed and continued to do the same fool thing.
I used to tell him that someday he would regret it, but he just laughed and kept doing the same stupid thing.
Last fall he saw a grizzly go into a cave in the upper waters of the Platte, and strolled in there to kill her. As he has not returned up to this moment, I am sure he has erroneously allowed himself to get mixed up as to the points of the compass, and has fallen a victim to this fatal brown study. Some think that the brown study had hair on it.
Last fall, he saw a grizzly bear enter a cave in the upper waters of the Platte and casually walked in to kill her. Since he hasn’t come back by now, I’m sure he got confused about directions and has become a victim of this dangerous distraction. Some believe that the distraction had hair.
Woman's Wonderful Influence.
“Woman wields a wonderful influence over man's destinies,” said Woodtick William, the other day, as he breathed gently on a chunk of blossom rock and then wiped it carefully with the tail of his coat.
“Women have a powerful influence over men's lives,” said Woodtick William the other day as he gently breathed on a piece of blossom rock and then carefully wiped it with the tail of his coat.
“Woman in most cases is gentle and long suffering, but if you observe close for several consecutive weeks you will notice that she generally gets there with both feet.
“Women are usually gentle and patient, but if you watch closely for several weeks in a row, you'll see that they often make their presence known assertively.”
“I've been quite a student of the female mind myself. I have, therefore, had a good deal of opportunity to compare the everedge man with the everedge woman as regards ketchin' on in our great general farewell journey to the tomb.
“I've been quite a student of the female mind myself. I have, therefore, had a good deal of opportunity to compare the everedge man with the everedge woman as regards ketchin' on in our great general farewell journey to the tomb.
{Illustration: “YOU GO ON WITH YOUR PETITION."}
{Illustration: “KEEP GOING WITH YOUR PETITION."}
“Woman has figgered a good deal in my own destinies. My first wife was a large, powerful woman, who married me before I hardly knew it. She married me down near Provost, in an early day. Her name was Lorena. The name didn't seem to suit her complexion and phizzeek as a general thing. It was like calling the fat woman in the museum Lily. Lorena was a woman of great strength of purpose. She was also strong in the wrists. Lorena was of foreign extraction, with far-away eyes and large, earnest red hands. You ought to have saw her preserve order during the hour for morning prayers. I had a hired man there in Utah, in them days, who was inclined to be a scoffer at our plain home-made style of religion. So I told Lorena that I was a little afraid that Orlando Whoopenkaugh would rise up suddenly while I was at prayer and spatter my thinker all over the cook stove, or create some other ruction that would cast a gloom over our devotions.
“Women have played a big role in my life. My first wife was a large, strong woman who married me before I even realized what was happening. She married me near Provost a long time ago. Her name was Lorena. The name didn't really fit her looks. It was like calling the overweight woman in the museum Lily. Lorena was very determined. She had strong wrists, too. Lorena was of foreign descent, with distant eyes and large, expressive red hands. You should have seen her maintain order during morning prayers. Back then in Utah, I had a hired hand who liked to scoff at our straightforward, homemade style of religion. So, I mentioned to Lorena that I was a bit worried that Orlando Whoopenkaugh would suddenly jump up while I was praying and make a mess of things or cause some kind of disruption that would ruin our devotion time.
“Lorena said: 'Never mind, William. You are more successful in prayer, while I am more successful in disturbances. You go on with your petition, and I will preserve order.”
“Lorena said: 'Forget it, William. You're better at praying, while I'm better at handling disruptions. You keep praying, and I'll keep things in order.”
“Lorena saved my life once in a singular manner. Being a large, powerful woman, of course she no doubt preserved me from harm a great many times; but on this occasion it was a clear case.
“Lorena saved my life once in a unique way. As a strong, powerful woman, she undoubtedly kept me safe from danger many times; but this time, it was a definite instance.
“I was then sinking on the Coopon claim, and had got the prospect shaft down a couple of hundred foot and was drifting for the side wall with indifferent success. We was working a day shift of six men, blasting, hysting and a little timbering. I was in charge of the crew and eastern capital was furnishing the ready John Davis, if you will allow me that low term.
“I was then digging on the Coopon claim and had managed to get the prospect shaft down a couple of hundred feet while drifting toward the side wall with mixed results. We were working a day shift with six men, blasting, hauling, and doing a bit of timbering. I was in charge of the crew, and eastern investors were providing the necessary funds, if you will let me use that casual term."
{Illustration: LORENA JUMPING NINE FEET HIGH.}
{Illustration: LORENA JUMPING NINE FEET HIGH.}
“Lorena and me had been a little edgeways for several days, owing to a little sassy remark made by her and a retort on my part in which I thoughtlessly alluded to her brother, who was at that time serving out a little term for life down at Canyon City, and who, if his life is spared, is at it yet. If I wanted to make Lorena jump nine feet high and holler, all I had to do was just to allude in a jeering way to her family record, so she got madder and madder, till at last it ripened into open hostility, and about noon on the 13th day of September Lorena attacked me with a large butcher knife and drove me into the adjoining county. She told me, also, that if I ever returned to Provost she would cut me in two right between the pancreas and the watch pocket and feed me to the hens.
“Lorena and I had been on edge for several days because of a sassy comment she made and my thoughtless comeback where I mentioned her brother, who was serving a life sentence down at Canyon City and, if he survives, still is. If I wanted to make Lorena jump and scream, all I had to do was make a mocking reference to her family background, which only made her angrier until it escalated into outright hostility. Then, around noon on September 13th, Lorena attacked me with a large butcher knife and chased me into the neighboring county. She also warned me that if I ever returned to Provost, she would cut me in half right between the pancreas and the watch pocket and feed me to the chickens.”
“I thought if she felt that way about it I would not return. I felt so hurt and so grieved about it that I never stopped till I got to Omaha. Then I heard how Lorena, as a means in the hands of Providence, had saved my unprofitable life.
“I thought if she felt that way about it, I wouldn’t go back. I was so hurt and upset about it that I didn’t stop until I got to Omaha. Then I found out how Lorena, as part of a greater plan, had saved my meaningless life.”
“When she got back to the house and had put away her butcher knife, a man came rushing in to tell her that the boys had struck a big pay streak of water, and that the whole crew in the Coopon was drowned, her husband among the rest.
“When she returned home and put away her butcher knife, a man rushed in to tell her that the boys had hit a huge water strike and that the entire crew in the Coopon had drowned, including her husband.”
“Then it dawned on Lorena how she had saved me, and for the first time in her life she burst into tears. People who saw her said her grief was terrible. Tears are sad enough when shed by a man, but when we see a strong woman bowed in grief, we shudder.
“Then it hit Lorena how she had saved me, and for the first time in her life, she broke down in tears. People who witnessed it said her sorrow was overwhelming. Tears are already heartbreaking when a man cries, but when we see a strong woman overcome by grief, it sends chills down our spines.”
“No one who has never deserted his wife at her urgent request can fully realize the pain and anguish it costs. I have been married many times since, but the sensation is just the same to-day as it was the first time I ever deserted my wife.
“No one who has never left their spouse at her desperate request can really understand the pain and anguish it causes. I've been married many times since then, but the feeling is exactly the same today as it was the first time I ever left my wife.
“As I said, though, a woman has a wonderful influence over a man's whole life. If I had a chance to change the great social fabric any, though, I should ask woman to be more thoughtful of her husband, and, if possible, less severe. I would say to woman, be a man. Rise above these petty little tyrannical ways. Instead of asking your husband what he does with every cent you give him, learn to trust him. Teach him that you have confidence in him. Make him think you have anyway, whether you have or not. Do not seek to get a whiff of his breath every ten minutes to see whether he has been drinking or not. If you keep doing that you will sock him into a drunkard's grave, sure pop. He will at first lie about it, then he will use disinfectants for the breath, and then he will stay away till he gets over it. The timid young man says, 'Pass the cloves, please. I've got to get ready to go home pretty soon.' The man whose wife really has fun with him says, 'Well, boys, good-night. I'm sorry for you.' Then he goes home.
“As I mentioned earlier, a woman has a significant impact on a man's entire life. If I had the opportunity to change society in any way, I would ask women to be more considerate of their husbands and, if possible, less harsh. I would encourage women to be more like men. Rise above these small, controlling tendencies. Instead of questioning your husband about every penny you give him, learn to trust him. Show him that you have confidence in him. Make him believe you have faith in him, whether you actually do or not. Don’t try to catch a whiff of his breath every ten minutes to check if he’s been drinking. If you keep that up, you’ll push him into becoming a drunkard, no doubt about it. At first, he’ll lie about it, then he’ll use mouthwash, and eventually, he’ll avoid you until he feels better. The nervous young man says, ‘Pass the cloves, please. I need to get ready to head home soon.’ The man whose wife truly enjoys being with him says, ‘Well, guys, good night. I feel for you.’ Then he leaves for home.”
“Very few men have had the opportunities for observation in a matrimonial way that I have, William. You see, one man judges all the wives in Christendom by his'n. Another does ditto, and so it goes. But I have made matrimony a study. It has been a life-work for me. Others have simply dabbled into it. I have studied all its phases and I am an expert. So I say to you that woman, in one way or another, either by strategy and winnin' ways or by main strength and awkwardness, is absolutely sure to wield an all-fired influence over poor, weak man, and while grass grows and water runs, pardner, you will always find her presiding over man's destinies and his ducats.”
“Very few men have had the chances to observe marriage the way I have, William. You see, one man judges all the wives in the world by his own. Another does the same, and it keeps going like that. But I’ve made studying marriage my focus. It’s been my life’s work. Others have just dabbled in it. I’ve looked at all its aspects and I’m an expert. So I tell you that a woman, in one way or another, whether through charm and winning ways or sheer strength and awkwardness, is bound to have a significant influence over poor, weak man. And as long as grass grows and water flows, partner, you will always find her in charge of man’s fate and his money.”
Causes for Thanksgiving.
We are now rapidly approaching the date of our great national thanksgiving. Another year has almost passed by on the wings of tireless time.
We are now quickly getting closer to the date of our big national thanksgiving. Another year has nearly gone by in the blink of an eye.
Since last we gathered about the festive board and spattered the true inwardness of the family gobbler over the table cloth, remorseless time, who knows not the weight of weariness, has sought out the good, the true and the beautiful, as well as the old, the sinful and the tough, and has laid his heavy hand upon them. We have no more fitting illustration of the great truth that death prefers the young and tender than the deceased turkey upon which we are soon to operate. How still he lies, mowed down in life's young morn to make a yankee holiday.
Since we last came together at the festive table and spread the true essence of the family turkey all over the tablecloth, relentless time, which doesn’t understand the burden of fatigue, has sought out what’s good, true, and beautiful, along with the old, the sinful, and the tough, and has placed its heavy hand upon them. There’s no better example of the harsh reality that death favors the young and innocent than the turkey we’re about to prepare. How quietly he lies, taken down in the prime of life to create a Yankee holiday.
How changed he seems! Once so gay and festive, now so still, so strangely quiet and reserved. How calmly he lies, with his bare limbs buried in the lurid atmosphere like those of a hippytehop artist on the west side.
How different he looks! Once so cheerful and lively, now so quiet, so oddly still and reserved. How peacefully he rests, with his bare limbs sunk in the intense atmosphere like those of a hip-hop artist on the west side.
Soon the amateur carver will plunge the shining blade into the unresisting bird, and the air will be filled with stuffing and half smothered profanity. The Thanksgiving turkey is a grim humorist, and nothing pleases him so well as to hide his joint in a new place and then flip over and smile when the student misses it and buries the knife in the bosom of a personal friend. Few men can retain their sang froid before company when they have to get a step ladder and take down the second joint and the merry thought from the chandelier while people are looking at them.
Soon the amateur carver will stab the shiny knife into the defenseless bird, and the air will be filled with stuffing and muffled swearing. The Thanksgiving turkey is a dark humorist, and nothing makes it happier than to hide its leg in a new spot and then flip over and grin when the novice misses it and plunges the knife into the chest of a close friend. Few people can keep their composure in front of others when they have to grab a step ladder and retrieve the second leg and the festive idea from the chandelier while everyone is watching.
And what has the past year brought us? Speaking from a Republican standpoint, it has brought us a large wad of dark blue gloom. Speaking from a Democratic standpoint, it has been very prolific of fourth-class postoffices worth from $200 down to $1.35 per annum. Politically, the past year has been one of wonderful changes. Many have, during the year just past, held office for the first time. Many, also, have gone out into the cold world since last Thanksgiving and seriously considered the great problem of how to invest a small amount of actual perspiration in plain groceries.
And what has the past year brought us? From a Republican viewpoint, it has given us a heavy dose of dark blue gloom. From a Democratic perspective, it has resulted in a number of low-quality post offices worth anywhere from $200 to $1.35 a year. Politically, the last year has seen some major changes. Many people have held office for the first time this past year. Additionally, many others have entered the tough world since last Thanksgiving and have seriously thought about the big issue of how to put in a little bit of hard work for basic groceries.
Many who considered the life of a politician to be one of high priced food and inglorious ease, have found, now that they have the fruit, that it is ashes on their lips.
Many who thought that being a politician meant enjoying expensive meals and an easy life have discovered, now that they’ve experienced it, that it feels like ashes in their mouths.
Our foreign relations have been mutually pleasant, and those who dwell across the raging main, far removed from the refining influences of our prohibitory laws, have still made many grand strides toward the amelioration of our lost and undone race. Many foreigners who have never experienced the pleasure of drinking mysterious beverages from gas fixtures and burial caskets in Maine, or from a blind pig in Iowa, or a Babcock fire extinguisher in Kansas, still enjoy life by bombarding the Czar as he goes out after a scuttle of coal at night, or by putting a surprise package of dynamite on the throne of a tottering dynasty, where said tottering dynasty will have to sit down upon it and then pass rapidly to another sphere of existence.
Our foreign relations have been generally positive, and people living across the turbulent ocean, far from the refining impact of our strict laws, have still made significant progress toward improving the condition of our lost and struggling race. Many foreigners who have never had the chance to enjoy mysterious drinks from gas fixtures and burial caskets in Maine, from a blind pig in Iowa, or a Babcock fire extinguisher in Kansas, still find joy in targeting the Czar as he goes out to fetch coal at night, or by leaving a surprise package of dynamite on the throne of a crumbling dynasty, where that dynasty will have no choice but to sit on it and quickly transition to another plane of existence.
Many startling changes have taken place since last November. The political fabric in our own land has assumed a different hue, and men who a year ago were unnoticed and unknown are even more so now. This is indeed a healthy sign. No matter what party or faction may be responsible for this, I say in a wholly non-partisan spirit, that I am glad of it.
Many surprising changes have occurred since last November. The political landscape in our country has taken on a different tone, and people who were unnoticed and unknown a year ago are even more so now. This is definitely a positive sign. Regardless of which party or group may be responsible for this, I can say, in a completely non-partisan way, that I'm glad about it.
I am glad to notice that, owing to the active enforcement of the Edmunds bill in Utah, polygamy has been made odorous. The day is not far distant when Utah will be admitted as a State and her motto will be “one country, one flag, and one wife at a time.” Then will peace and prosperity unite to make the modern Zion the habitation of men. The old style of hand-made valley tan will give place to a less harmful beverage, and we will welcome the new sister in the great family circle of States, not clothed in the disagreeable endowment robe, but dressed up in the Mother Hubbard wrapper, with a surcingle around it, such as the goddess of liberty wears when she has her picture taken.
I’m happy to see that, thanks to the strong enforcement of the Edmunds bill in Utah, polygamy has become unacceptable. The day isn't far off when Utah will become a state, and its motto will be “one country, one flag, and one wife at a time.” Then, peace and prosperity will come together to make the modern Zion a home for everyone. The old-fashioned hand-made valley tan will be replaced by a healthier drink, and we’ll welcome the new state into the larger family of states, not dressed in the unpleasant endowment robe, but in a Mother Hubbard dress, cinched around the waist like the goddess of liberty wears when her picture is taken.
Crops throughout the northwest have been fairly good, though the gain yield has been less in quantity and inferior in quality to that of last year. A Democratic administration has certainly frowned upon the professional, partisan office seekers, but it has been unable to stay the onward march of the chintz bug or to produce a perceptible falling off in pip among the yellow-limbed fowls. While Jeffersonian purity and economy have seemed to rage with great virulence at Washington, in the northwest heaves and botts among horses and common, old-fashioned hollow horn among cattle have been the prevailing complaints.
Crops across the northwest have been pretty good, although the harvest yield has been lower in quantity and not as good in quality compared to last year. The Democratic administration has definitely looked down on the professional, partisan job seekers, but it hasn't been able to stop the spread of the chintz bug or to significantly reduce pip among the yellow-legged chickens. While Jeffersonian ideals of purity and frugality seem to be strongly enforced in Washington, the main issues in the northwest have been heaves and botts in horses and the traditional hollow horn in cattle.
And yet there is much for which we should be thankful. Many broad-browed men who knew how a good paper ought to be conducted, but who had no other visible means of support, have passed on to another field of labor, leaving the work almost solely in the hands of the vast army of novices who at the present are at the head of journalism throughout the country, and who sadly miss those timely words of caution that were wont to fall from the lips of those men whose spirits are floating through space, finding fault with the arrangement of the solar system.
And yet there is a lot for which we should be grateful. Many wise men who understood how a good paper should be run, but had no other visible means of support, have moved on to another line of work, leaving the field mostly in the hands of a large group of newcomers who are currently leading journalism across the country, and who sadly miss the wise advice that used to come from those men whose spirits are now adrift in the universe, critiquing the layout of the solar system.
The fool-killer, in the meantime, has not been idle. With his old, rusty, unloaded musket, he has gathered in enough to make his old heart swell with pride, and to this number he has added many by using “rough on rats,” a preparation that never killed anything except those that were unfortunate enough to belong to the human family.
The fool-killer, meanwhile, hasn't been sitting around. With his old, rusty, unloaded musket, he's collected enough to make his heart swell with pride, and he's added to that count by using “rough on rats,” a product that never harmed anything except for those unfortunate enough to be human.
Still the fool-killer has missed a good many on account of the great rush of business in his line, and I presume that no one has a greater reason to be thankful for this oversight than I have.
Still, the fool-killer has missed quite a few due to the busy nature of his work, and I guess no one has more reason to be thankful for this slip-up than I do.
Farming in Maine.
The State of Maine is a good place in which to experiment with prohibition, but it is not a good place to farm it in very largely.
The State of Maine is a good place to try out prohibition, but it's not ideal for heavily implementing it.
In the first place, the season is generally a little reluctant. When I was up near Moosehead Lake, a short time ago, people were driving across that body of water on the ice with perfect impunity. That is one thing that interferes with the farming business in Maine. If a young man is sleigh-riding every night till midnight, he don't feel like hoeing corn the following day. Any man who has ever had his feet frost-bitten while bugging potatoes, will agree with me that it takes away the charm of pastoral pursuits. It is this desire to amalgamate dog days and Santa Claus, that has injured Maine as an agricultural hot-bed.
First of all, the season is usually a bit hesitant. Recently, when I was near Moosehead Lake, people were driving across the ice on that lake without a care in the world. That's one thing that disrupts farming in Maine. If a young man is out sleigh-riding every night until midnight, he doesn't feel like hoeing corn the next day. Any man who has ever had his feet frostbitten while digging potatoes will agree with me that it takes away the joy of country life. It's this desire to combine summer days and Christmas that has harmed Maine's reputation as an agricultural hotspot.
{Illustration: A DAY-DREAM.}
{Illustration: A DAYDREAM.}
Another reason that might be assigned for refraining from agricultural pursuits in Maine, is that the agitator of the soil finds when it is too late that soil itself, which is essential to the successful propagation of crops, has not been in use in Maine for years. While all over the State there is a magnificent stone foundation on which a farm might safely rest, the superstructure, or farm proper, has not been secured.
Another reason for avoiding farming in Maine is that the person working the land realizes too late that the soil, crucial for growing crops successfully, hasn’t been used in Maine for years. While there’s a great stone foundation throughout the State that could support a farm, the actual farm itself hasn’t been established.
If I had known when I passed through Minnesota and Illinois what a soil famine there was in Maine, I would have brought some with me. The stone crop this year in Maine will be very great. If they do not crack open during the dry weather, there will be a great many. The stone bruise is also looking unusually well for this season of the year, and chilblains were in full bloom when I was there.
If I had known when I was traveling through Minnesota and Illinois about the shortage of soil in Maine, I would have brought some with me. This year, the stone crop in Maine looks really good. If it doesn’t crack open during the dry weather, there will be a lot. The stone bruise also looks unusually good for this time of year, and chilblains were thriving when I was there.
In the neighborhood of Pittsfield, the country seems to run largely to cold water and chattel mortgages. Some think that rum has always kept Maine back, but I claim that it has been wet feet. In another article I refer to the matter of rum in Maine more fully.
In the Pittsfield area, it seems like the main focus is on cold water and personal loans. Some believe that alcohol has always held Maine back, but I argue that it's been damp conditions. In another article, I discuss the issue of alcohol in Maine in more detail.
The agricultural resources of Pittsfield and vicinity are not great, the principal exports being spruce gum and Christmas trees. Here also the huckleberry hath her home. But the country seems to run largely to Christmas trees. They were not yet in bloom when I visited the State, so it was too early to gather popcorn balls and Christmas presents.
The agricultural resources of Pittsfield and the surrounding area aren't extensive, with the main exports being spruce gum and Christmas trees. This is also where huckleberries are found. However, the area seems to be primarily focused on Christmas trees. They hadn't bloomed yet when I visited the state, so it was too early to pick popcorn balls and Christmas gifts.
Here, near Pittsfield, is the birthplace of the only original wormless dried apple pie, with which we generally insult our gastric economy when we lunch along the railroad. These pies, when properly kiln-dried and rivetted, with German silver monogram on top, if fitted out with Yale time lock, make the best fire and burglar-proof wormless pies of commerce. They take the place of civil war, and as a promoter of intestine strife they have no equal.
Here, near Pittsfield, is the birthplace of the only original worm-free dried apple pie, which we usually mock our digestion with during lunch along the railroad. These pies, when properly dried and secured, with a German silver monogram on top, and equipped with a Yale time lock, make the best fire and burglar-proof worm-free pies on the market. They replace civil war, and as a catalyst for internal conflict, they have no rival.
The farms in Maine are fenced in with stone walls. I do not know way this is done, for I did not see anything on these farms that anyone would naturally yearn to carry away with him.
The farms in Maine are surrounded by stone walls. I don't know why this is the case, since I didn't see anything on these farms that anyone would really want to take with them.
I saw some sheep in one of these enclosures. Their steel-pointed bills were lying on the wall near them, and they were resting their jaws in the crisp, frosty morning air. In another enclosure a farmer was planting clover seed with a hypodermic syringe, and covering it with a mustard plaster. He said that last year his clover was a complete failure because his mustard plasters were no good. He had tried to save money by using second-hand mustard plasters, and of course the clover seed, missing the warm stimulus, neglected to rally, and the crop was a failure.
I saw some sheep in one of these pens. Their pointed tools were lying on the wall nearby, and they were resting their jaws in the crisp, frosty morning air. In another pen, a farmer was planting clover seed with a syringe and covering it with a mustard plaster. He said that last year his clover crop failed completely because his mustard plasters weren’t effective. He had tried to save money by using used mustard plasters, and of course, the clover seed, lacking the necessary warmth, didn’t thrive, and the crop was a disaster.
Here may be noticed the canvas-back moose and a strong antipathy to good rum. I do not wonder that the people of Maine are hostile to rum—if they judge all rum by Maine rum. The moose is one of the most gamey of the finny tribe. He is caught in the fall of the year with a double-barrel shotgun and a pair of snow-shoes. He does not bite unless irritated, but little boys should not go near the female moose while she is on her nest. The masculine moose wears a harelip, and a hat rack on his head to which is attached a placard on which is printed:
Here you can see the canvas-back moose and a strong dislike for good rum. I can understand why the people of Maine aren't fond of rum—if they judge all rum by Maine rum. The moose is one of the most challenging of the game fish. It’s caught in the fall with a double-barrel shotgun and a pair of snowshoes. It doesn’t attack unless provoked, but little boys should stay away from the female moose when she’s nesting. The male moose has a harelip and a hat rack on his head with a sign that says:
PLEASE KEEP OFF THE GRASS.
Don’t walk on the grass.
This shows that the moose is a humorist.
This shows that the moose has a sense of humor.
Doosedly Dilatory.
Since the investigation of Washington pension attorneys, it is a little remarkable how scarce in the newspapers is the appearance of advertisements like this.
Since the investigation of Washington pension lawyers, it's quite notable how rare it is to see advertisements like this in the newspapers.
Pensions! Thousands of soldiers of the late war are still entitled to pensions with the large accumulations since the injury was received. We procure pensions, back pay, allowances. Appear in the courts for nonresident clients in United States land cases, etc. Address Skinnem & Co., Washington, D.C.
Pensions! Thousands of soldiers from the recent war are still entitled to pensions, along with significant back payments since their injuries. We help secure pensions, back pay, and allowances. We represent nonresident clients in U.S. land cases and more. Contact Skinnem & Co., Washington, D.C.
I didn't participate in the late war, but I have had some experience in putting a few friends and neighbors on the track of a pension. Those who have tried it will remember some of the details. It always seemed to me a little more difficult somehow for a man who had lost both legs at Antietam, than for the man who got his nose pulled off at an election three years after the war closed. It, of course, depended a good deal on the extemporaneous affidavit qualifications of the applicant. About five years ago an acquaintance came to me and said he wanted to get a pension from the government, and that he hadn't the first idea about the details. He didn't know whether he should apply to the President or to the Secretary of State. Would I “kind of put him onto the racket.” I asked him what he wanted a pension for, and he said his injury didn't show much, but it prevented his pursuit of kopecks and happiness. He had nine children by his first wife, and if he could get a pension he desired to marry again.
I didn't fight in the recent war, but I've helped a few friends and neighbors figure out how to apply for a pension. Those who have tried will remember some of the details. It always seemed to me that it was a bit harder for a guy who lost both legs at Antietam than for someone who got his nose injured in a brawl three years after the war ended. It mostly depended on the temporary affidavit qualifications of the applicant. About five years ago, a guy I knew came to me and said he wanted to get a pension from the government but had no idea how to go about it. He didn't know if he should apply to the President or the Secretary of State. Could I “kind of help him with the process”? I asked him why he wanted a pension, and he said his injury wasn't very visible, but it stopped him from chasing after money and happiness. He had nine kids from his first wife, and if he could get a pension, he wanted to get married again.
As to the nature of his injuries, he said that at the battle of Fair Oaks he supported his command by secreting himself behind a rail fence and harassing the enemy from time to time, by a system of coldness and neglect on his part. While thus employed in breaking the back of the Confederacy, a solid shot struck a crooked rail on which he was sitting, in such a way as to jar his spinal column. From this concussion he had never fully recovered. He didn't notice it any more while sitting down and quiet, but the moment he began to do manual labor or to stand on his feet too long, unless he had a bar or something to lean up against, he felt the cold chill run up his back and life was no object.
As for the nature of his injuries, he mentioned that during the battle of Fair Oaks, he supported his command by hiding behind a rail fence and occasionally bothering the enemy with his indifference. While he was busy undermining the Confederacy, a solid shot hit a crooked rail he was sitting on, jarring his spine. He never fully recovered from that concussion. He didn't feel it much when sitting quietly, but the moment he started doing manual labor or stood for too long, unless he had a bar or something to lean against, he felt a cold chill run up his back, and life became unbearable.
I told him that I was too busy to attend to it, and asked him why he didn't put his case in the hands of some Washington attorney, who could be on the ground and attend to it. He decided that he would, so he wrote to one of these philanthropists whom we will call Fitznoodle. I give him the nom de plume of Fitznoodle to nip a $20,000 libel suit in the bud. Well, Fitznoodle sent back some blanks for the claimant to sign, by which he bound himself, his heirs, executors, representatives and assigns, firmly by these presents to pay to said Fitznoodle, the necessary fees for postage, stationery, car fare, concert tickets, and office rent, while said claim was in the hands of the pension department. He said in a letter that he would have to ask for $2, please, to pay for postage. He inclosed a circular in which he begged to refer the claimant to a reformed member of the bar of the District of Columbia, a backslidden foreign minister and three prominent men who had been dead eleven years by the watch. In a postscript he again alluded to the $2 in a casual way, waved the American flag two times, and begged leave to subscribe himself once more. “Yours Fraternally and professionally, Good Samaritan Fitznoodle, Attorney at Law, Solicitor in Chancery, and Promotor of Even-handed Justice in and for the District of Columbia.” The claimant sent his $2, not necessarily for publication, but as a guaranty of good faith.
I told him I was too busy to handle it and asked why he didn't get a Washington lawyer to take care of it. He decided to do just that, so he wrote to a philanthropist we’ll call Fitznoodle. I’m using the name Fitznoodle to shut down a $20,000 libel suit before it gets started. Well, Fitznoodle sent back some forms for the claimant to sign, which stated that he and his heirs, executors, representatives, and assigns would pay Fitznoodle for all expenses like postage, stationery, travel, concert tickets, and office rent while the claim was with the pension department. In a letter, he mentioned he would need to ask for $2 to cover the postage. He included a circular that suggested the claimant contact a reformed member of the D.C. bar, a former foreign minister who had fallen from grace, and three prominent men who’d been dead for eleven years. In a postscript, he casually mentioned the $2 again, waved the American flag twice, and signed off. “Yours Fraternally and professionally, Good Samaritan Fitznoodle, Attorney at Law, Solicitor in Chancery, and Promoter of Even-handed Justice in and for the District of Columbia.” The claimant sent his $2, not necessarily for publication, but as a show of good faith.
Later on Mr. Fitznoodle said that the first step would be to file a declaration enclosing $5 and the names of two witnesses who were present when the claimant was born, and could identify him as the same man who enlisted from Emporia in the Thirteenth Kansas Nighthawks. Five dollars must be enclosed to defray the expenses of a trip to the office of the commissioner of pensions, which trip would naturally take in eleven saloons and ten cents in car fare. “P.S.—Attach to the declaration the signature and seal of a notary public of pure character, $5, the certificate of the clerk of a court of record as to the genuineness of the signature of the notary public, his term of appointment and $5.” These documents were sent, after which there was a lull of about three months. Then the swelling in Mr. Fitznoodle's head had gone down a little, but there was still a seal brown taste in his mouth. So he wrote the claimant that it would be necessary to jog the memory of the department about $3 dollars worth; and to file collateral testimony setting forth that claimant was a native born American or that he had declared his intention to become a citizen of the United States, that he had not formed nor expressed an opinion for or against the accused, which the testimony would not eradicate, that he would enclose $3, and that he had never before applied for a pension. After awhile a circular from the pension end of the department was received, stating that the claimant's application had been received, filed and docketed No. 188,935,062-1/2, on page 9,847 of book G, on the thumb-hand side as you come in on the New York train. On the strength of this document the claimant went to the grocery and bought an ecru-colored ham, a sack of corn meal and a pound of tobacco. In June Mr. Fitznoodle sent a blank to be filled out by the claimant, stating whether he had or had not been baptized prior to his enlistment; and, if so, to what extent, and how he liked it so far as he had gone. This was to be sworn to before two witnesses, who were to be male, if possible, and if not, the department would insist on their being female. These witnesses must swear that they had no interest in the said claim, or anything else. On receipt of this, together with $5 in postoffice money order or New York draft, the document would be filed and, no doubt, acted upon at once. In July, a note came from the attorney saying that he regretted to write that the pension department was now 250,000 claims behind, and if business was taken up in its regular order, the claim under discussion might not be reached for between nine and ten years. However, it would be possible to “expedite” the claim, if $25 could be remitted for the purpose of buying a spike-tail coat and plug hat, in which to appear before the commissioner of pensions and mash him flat on the shape of the attorney. As the claimant didn't know much of the practical working of the machinery of government, he swallowed this pill and remitted the $25. Here followed a good deal of red tape and international monkeying during which the claimant was alternately taking an oath to support the constitution of the United States, and promising to support the constitution and by-laws of Mr. Fitznoodle. The claimant was constantly assured that his claim was a good one and on these autograph letters written with a type-writer, the war-born veteran with a concussed vertebra bought groceries and secured the funds to pay his assessments.
Later on, Mr. Fitznoodle said the first step would be to submit a declaration along with $5 and the names of two witnesses who were there when the claimant was born and could confirm he was the same person who enlisted from Emporia in the Thirteenth Kansas Nighthawks. The $5 was required to cover the costs of a trip to the office of the commissioner of pensions, which would naturally include visits to eleven bars and a dime for car fare. “P.S.—Attach to the declaration the signature and seal of a reputable notary public, $5, and the certification from a court clerk verifying the authenticity of the notary's signature, his term of appointment, and another $5.” These documents were sent, leading to a wait of about three months. At that point, the swelling in Mr. Fitznoodle's head had decreased a bit, but there was still a bad taste in his mouth. So, he informed the claimant that it would be necessary to nudge the department's memory by about $3; and to submit supporting testimony stating that the claimant was a native-born American or had declared his intention to become a U.S. citizen, that he had not formed or voiced an opinion for or against the accused, which the testimony wouldn't override, that he would include $3, and that he had never before applied for a pension. Eventually, a circular from the pension department arrived, stating that the claimant's application had been received, filed, and logged as No. 188,935,062-1/2, on page 9,847 of book G, on the right-hand side as you come in on the New York train. Based on this document, the claimant went to the grocery store and bought a light-colored ham, a sack of cornmeal, and a pound of tobacco. In June, Mr. Fitznoodle sent a blank form for the claimant to fill out, asking whether he had been baptized before enlisting; and, if so, to what extent, and how he felt about it so far. This needed to be sworn before two witnesses, preferably male, and if that wasn’t possible, the department would insist on them being female. These witnesses had to swear they had no interest in the claim or anything else. Upon receiving this, along with $5 in a postal money order or New York draft, the document would be filed and likely acted upon immediately. In July, a note from the attorney arrived, saying he regretted to inform that the pension department was currently 250,000 claims behind, and if business was conducted in the usual order, the claim in question might not be processed for another nine to ten years. However, it would be possible to “expedite” the claim if $25 could be sent for the purpose of buying a fancy coat and top hat to impress the commissioner of pensions and win him over with the attorney's presentation. Since the claimant wasn’t very familiar with how government processes worked, he accepted this and sent the $25. This followed a lot of red tape and complications during which the claimant was continuously taking an oath to support the Constitution of the United States and promising to adhere to the rules set by Mr. Fitznoodle. The claimant was repeatedly assured that his claim was solid, and on these personally signed letters written on a typewriter, the war veteran bought groceries and secured funds to pay his bills.
For a number of years I heard nothing of the claim, but a few months ago, when Mr. Fitznoodle was arrested and jerked into the presence of the grand jury, a Washington friend wrote me that the officers found in his table a letter addressed to the man who was jarred in the rear of the Union army, and in which (the letter, I mean), he alluded to the long and pleasant correspondence which had sprung up between them as lawyer and client, and regretting that, as the claim would soon be allowed, their friendly relations would no doubt cease, would he please forward $13 to pay freight on the pension money, and also a lock of his hair that Mr. Fitznoodle could weave into a watchchain and wear always. As the claimant does not need the papers, he probably thinks by this time that Mr. Good Samaritan Fitznoodle has been kidnapped and thrown into the moaning, hungry sea.
For several years, I didn’t hear anything about the claim, but a few months ago, when Mr. Fitznoodle was arrested and brought before the grand jury, a friend in Washington informed me that the officers found a letter on his table addressed to the man who was jolted in the rear of the Union army. In that letter, he mentioned the long and enjoyable correspondence that had developed between them as lawyer and client, expressing regret that, since the claim would soon be approved, their friendly relations would likely come to an end. He requested that he send $13 to cover the freight on the pension money and also a lock of his hair that Mr. Fitznoodle could weave into a watchchain and wear always. Since the claimant doesn’t need the paperwork, he probably thinks by now that Mr. Good Samaritan Fitznoodle has been kidnapped and thrown into the moaning, hungry sea.
Every Man His Own Paper-Hanger.
It would please me very much, at no distant day, to issue a small book filled with choice recipes and directions for making home happy. I have accumulated an immense assortment of these things, all of general use and all excellent in their way, because they have been printed in papers all over the country—papers that would not be wrong. Some of these recipes I have tried.
It would make me very happy, before long, to publish a small book full of great recipes and tips for creating a happy home. I've gathered a huge collection of these ideas, all practical and each great in its own way, since they’ve been published in newspapers across the country—sources that can be trusted. I've tried some of these recipes myself.
I have tried the recipe for paste and directions for applying wall paper, as published recently in an agricultural paper to which I had become very much attached.
I have tried the recipe for paste and the instructions for applying wallpaper, as recently published in an agricultural magazine I had become quite fond of.
This recipe had all the characteristics of an ingenuous and honest document. I cut it out of the paper and filed it away where I came very near not finding it again. But I was unfortunate enough to find it after a long search.
This recipe had all the qualities of a genuine and straightforward document. I cut it out of the paper and stored it away, nearly not finding it again. But I was unlucky enough to locate it after a long search.
The scheme was to prepare a flour paste that would hold forever, and at the same time make the paper look smooth and neat to the casual observer. It consisted of so many parts flour, so many parts hot water and so many parts common glue. First, the walls were to be sized, however. I took a common tape measure and sized the walls.
The plan was to make a flour paste that would last forever and also make the paper look smooth and tidy to anyone who just glanced at it. It was made up of a specific amount of flour, a specific amount of hot water, and a specific amount of regular glue. First, though, the walls needed to be sized. I grabbed a regular tape measure to size the walls.
Then I put a dishpan on the cook stove, poured in the flour, boiling water and glue. This rapidly produced a dark brown mess of dough, to which I was obliged to add more hot water. It looked extremely repulsive to me, but it looked a good deal better than it smelled.
Then I placed a dishpan on the stove, poured in the flour, boiling water, and glue. This quickly created a dark brown mixture of dough, to which I had to add more hot water. It looked really unappealing to me, but it looked much better than it smelled.
I did not have much faith in it, but I thought I would try it. I put some of it on a long strip of wall paper and got up on a chair to apply it. In the excitement of trying to stick it on the wall as nearly perpendicular as possible, I lost my balance while still holding the paper and fell in such a manner as to wrap four yards of bronze paper and common flour paste around my wife's head, with the exception of about four feet of the paper which I applied to an oil painting of a Gordon Setter in a gilt frame.
I didn’t have much faith in it, but I thought I’d give it a shot. I put some of it on a long strip of wallpaper and climbed up on a chair to apply it. In my excitement to stick it on the wall as straight as possible, I lost my balance while still holding the paper and fell in a way that wrapped four yards of bronze paper and regular flour paste around my wife’s head, leaving about four feet of the paper stuck to an oil painting of a Gordon Setter in a fancy frame.
I decline to detail the dialogue which then took place between my wife and myself. Whatever claim the public may have on me, it has no right to demand this. It will continue to remain sacred. That is, not so very sacred of course, if I remember my exact language at the time, but sacredly secret from the prying eyes of the public.
I refuse to go into detail about the conversation that happened between my wife and me. No matter what the public thinks it deserves from me, it can't demand this. It will stay private. Well, not entirely private, of course, if I recall my exact words from then, but definitely off-limits to the public's curious eyes.
It is singular, but it is none the less the never dying truth, that the only time that paste ever stuck anything at all, was when I applied it to my wife and that picture. After that it did everything but adhere. It gourmed and it gummed everything, but that was all.
It’s strange, but it’s still a true fact that the only time glue ever actually stuck anything was when I used it on my wife and that picture. After that, it did everything but stick. It messed up and gummed up everything, but that’s all it did.
The man who wrote the recipe may have been stuck on it, but nothing else ever was.
The guy who wrote the recipe might have been fixated on it, but nothing else ever was.
{Illustration: I LOST MY BALANCE.}
I LOST MY BALANCE.
Finally a friend came along who helped me pick the paper off the dog and soothe my wife. He said that what this paste needed was more glue and a quart of molasses. I added these ingredients, and constructed a quart of chemical molasses which looked like crude ginger bread in a molten state.
Finally, a friend showed up who helped me clean the paper off the dog and calm my wife down. He suggested that what this mixture needed was more glue and a quart of molasses. I added those ingredients and created a quart of chemical molasses that looked like melted gingerbread.
Then, with the aid of my friend, I proceeded to paper the room. The paper would seem to adhere at times, and then it would refrain from adhering. This was annoying, but we succeeded in applying the paper to the walls in a way that showed we were perfectly sincere about it. We didn't seek to mislead anybody or cover up anything. Any one could see where each roll of paper tried to be amicable with its neighbor—also where we had tried the laying on of hands in applying the paper.
Then, with the help of my friend, I started to put up wallpaper in the room. The wallpaper would sometimes stick, and then at other times it wouldn’t stick at all. This was frustrating, but we managed to hang the paper on the walls in a way that showed we were completely genuine about it. We had no intention of deceiving anyone or hiding anything. Anyone could see where each roll of wallpaper tried to get along with the one next to it—and also where we had struggled a bit while applying it.
We got all the paper on in good shape—also the bronze. But they were in different places. The paper was on the walls, but the bronze was mostly on our clothes and on our hands. I was very tired when I got through, and I went to bed early, hoping to get much needed rest. In the morning, when I felt fresh and rested, I thought that the paper would look better to me.
We got all the paper up nicely—also the bronze. But they were in different spots. The paper was on the walls, while the bronze mostly ended up on our clothes and hands. I was really tired when I finished, so I went to bed early, hoping for some much-needed rest. In the morning, when I felt refreshed and well-rested, I thought the paper would look better to me.
There is where I fooled myself. It did not look better to me. It looked worse.
There is where I deceived myself. It didn't seem better to me. It seemed worse.
All night long I could occasionally hear something crack like a Fourth of July. I did not know at the time what it was, but in the morning I discovered.
All night long, I could sometimes hear something crack like it was the Fourth of July. I didn’t know what it was back then, but I found out in the morning.
It seems that, during the night, that paper had wrinkled itself up like the skin on the neck of a pioneer hen after death. It had pulled itself together with so much zeal that the room was six inches smaller each way and the carpet didn't fit.
It looks like, during the night, that paper had crumpled up like the skin on a pioneer hen's neck after it died. It had gathered itself so tightly that the room was six inches smaller on each side, and the carpet didn’t fit.
There is only one way to insure success in the publication of recipes. They must be tried by the editor himself before they are printed. If you have a good recipe for paste, you must try it before you print it. If you have a good remedy for botts, you must get a botty horse somewhere and try the remedy before you submit it. If you think of publishing the antidote for a certain poison, you should poison some one and try the antidote on him, in order to test it, before you bamboozle the readers of your paper.
There’s only one way to guarantee success in publishing recipes. They need to be tested by the editor before they’re printed. If you have a good recipe for paste, you must try it out before printing it. If you have an effective remedy for botts, find a horse with botts and test the remedy before you submit it. If you’re considering publishing the antidote for a certain poison, you should poison someone and test the antidote on them first, to ensure it works, before misleading your readers.
This, of course, will add a good deal of extra work for the editor, but editors need more work. All they do now is to have fun with each other, draw their princely salaries, and speak sarcastically of the young poet who sings,
This, of course, will create a lot more work for the editor, but editors need more work. All they do nowadays is have fun with each other, collect their generous salaries, and make sarcastic remarks about the young poet who sings,
“You have came far o'er the sea, And I've went away from thee.”
“You have come a long way across the sea, And I have gone away from you.”
Sixty Minutes in America.
The following selections are from the advance sheets of a forthcoming work with the above title, to be published by M. Foll de Roll. It is possible that other excerpts will be made from the book, in case the present harmonious state of affairs between France and America is not destroyed by my style of translation.
The following selections are from the advance sheets of an upcoming work with the above title, which will be published by M. Foll de Roll. It's possible that additional excerpts will be shared from the book if the current positive relationship between France and America remains intact despite my translation style.
In the preface M. Foll de Roll says: “France has long required a book of printed writings about that large, wide land of whom we listen to so much and yet so little sabe, as the piquant Californian shall say. America is considerable. America I shall call vast. She care nothing how high freedom shall come, she must secure him. She exclaims to all people: 'You like freedom pretty well, but you know nothing of it. We throw away every day more freedom than you shall see all your life. Come to this place when you shall run out of freedom. We make it. Do not ask us for money, but if you want personal liberty, please look over our vast stock before you elsewhere go.'
In the preface, M. Foll de Roll says: “France has long needed a book of printed writings about that large, expansive land that we hear so much about but know so little sabe, as the witty Californian might say. America is significant. I would call America vast. It doesn’t care how high freedom rises; it simply needs to secure it. It proclaims to everyone: 'You like freedom quite a bit, but you really know nothing about it. We throw away more freedom every day than you will experience in your entire life. Come here when you're out of freedom. We create it. Don’t ask us for money, but if you want personal liberty, please check our extensive selection before you look anywhere else.'”
“So everybody goes to America, where he shall be free to pay cash for what the American has for sale.
“So everyone goes to America, where they can freely pay cash for what the American has to offer."
“In this book will be found everything that the French people want to know of that singular land, for did I not cross it from New Jersey City, the town where all the New York people have to go to get upon the cars, through to the town of San Francisco?
“In this book, you will find everything that the French people want to know about that unique land, for didn’t I travel across it from New Jersey City, the place where all the New York folks have to go to catch the trains, all the way to San Francisco?”
“For years the writer of this book has had it in his mind to go across America, and then tell the people of France, in a small volume costing one franc, all about the grotesque land of the freedom bird.”
“For years, the author of this book has wanted to travel across America and then tell the people of France, in a small book costing one franc, all about the strange land of the freedom bird.”
In the opening chapter he alludes to New York casually, and apologizes for taking up so much space.
In the opening chapter, he casually mentions New York and apologizes for taking up so much space.
“When you shall land in New York, you shall feel a strange sensation. The stomach is not so what we should call 'Rise up William Riley,' to use an Americanism which will not bear translation. I ride along the Rue de Twenty-three, and want to eat everything my eyes shall fall upon.
“When you land in New York, you’ll feel a strange sensation. The stomach isn’t quite what we’d call 'Rise up William Riley,' using an American term that doesn’t really translate. I ride along Twenty-third Street and want to eat everything I see.”
“I stay at New York all night, and eat one large supper at 6 o'clock, and again at 9. At 12 I awake and eat the inside of my hektograph, and then lie down once more to sleep. The hektograph will be henceforth, as the American shall say, no good, but what is that when a man is starving in a foreign land?
“I stay in New York all night and have a big dinner at 6 o'clock, and again at 9. At midnight, I wake up and eat the insides of my hektograph, and then lie down to sleep again. From now on, the hektograph will be, as the American would say, useless, but what does that matter when a person is starving in a foreign land?”
“I leave New York in the morning on the Ferry de Pavonia, a steamer that goes to New Jersey City. Many people go to New York to buy food and clothes. Then you shall see them return to the woods, where they live the rest of the time. Some of the females are quite petite and, as the Americans have it, 'scrumptious.' One stout girl at New Jersey City, I was told, was 'all wool and a yard wide.'
“I leave New York in the morning on the Pavonia Ferry, a steamer that heads to Jersey City. Many people travel to New York to shop for food and clothes. Then you’ll see them head back to the woods, where they spend the rest of their time. Some of the women are quite petite and, as Americans say, 'scrumptious.' One stout girl in Jersey City, I heard, was 'all wool and a yard wide.'”
“The relations between New York and New Jersey City are quite amicable, and the inhabitants seem to spend much of their time riding to and fro on the Ferry de Pavonia and other steamers. When I talked to them in their own language they would laugh with great glee, and say they could not parley voo Norwegian very good.
“The relationship between New York and New Jersey City is pretty friendly, and the people seem to spend a lot of their time going back and forth on the Ferry de Pavonia and other boats. When I spoke to them in their own language, they would laugh joyfully and say they couldn’t speak Norwegian very well.”
“The Americans are very fond of witnessing what may be called the tournament de slug. In this, two men wearing upholstered mittens shake hands, and then one strikes at the other with his right hand, so as to mislead him, and, while he is taking care of that, the first man hits him with his left and knocks out some of his teeth. Then the other man spits out his loose teeth and hits his antagonist on the nose, or feeds him with the thumb of his upholstered mitten for some time. Half the gate money goes to the hospital where these men are in the habit of being repaired.
“The Americans really enjoy watching what could be called the tournament de slug. In this event, two guys wearing padded gloves shake hands, and then one guy throws a punch with his right hand to distract the other. While the other is focused on that, the first guy hits him with his left and knocks out some of his teeth. Then the other guy spits out his loose teeth and either punches his opponent on the nose or jabs him in the face with the thumb of his padded glove for a while. Half of the ticket sales go to the hospital where these guys usually get fixed up.”
“One of these men, who is now the champion scrapper, as one American author has it, was once a poor boy, but he was proud and ambitious. So he practiced on his wife evenings, after she had washed the dishes, until he found that he could 'knock her out,' as the American has it. Then he tried it on other relatives, and step by step advanced till he could make almost any man in America cough up pieces of this upholstered mitten which he wears in public.
“One of these men, who is now the champion fighter, as one American author puts it, was once a poor kid, but he was proud and ambitious. So he practiced on his wife in the evenings after she had washed the dishes, until he discovered that he could 'knock her out,' as Americans say. Then he tried it on other family members, and gradually moved up until he could make just about any guy in America cough up pieces of this padded glove he wears in public.”
“In closing this chapter on New York, I may say that I have not said so much of the city itself as I would like, but enough so that he who reads with care may feel somewhat familiar with it. New York is situated on the east side of America, near New Jersey City. The climate is cool and frosty a part of the year, but warm and temperate in the summer months. The surface is generally level, but some of the houses are quite tall.
“In concluding this chapter on New York, I must say that I haven't covered as much about the city itself as I would have liked, but I've shared enough for those who read carefully to feel somewhat familiar with it. New York is located on the east side of America, close to Jersey City. The climate is cool and chilly for part of the year, but warm and mild during the summer months. The landscape is mostly flat, but some of the buildings are pretty tall."
“I would not advise Frenchmen to go to New York now, but rather to wait until the pedestal of M. Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty has been paid for. Many foreigners have already been earnestly permitted to help pay for this pedestal.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that French people go to New York right now; instead, they should wait until the pedestal for M. Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty has been funded. Many foreigners have already been seriously allowed to contribute to this pedestal.”
Rev. Mr. Hallelujah's Hoss.
There are a good many difficult things to ride, I find, beside the bicycle and the bucking Mexican plug. Those who have tried to mount and successfully ride a wheelbarrow in the darkness of the stilly night will agree with me.
There are quite a few challenging things to ride, I realize, besides the bicycle and the bucking Mexican horse. Those who have attempted to get on and successfully ride a wheelbarrow in the darkness of a quiet night will agree with me.
You come on a wheelbarrow suddenly when it is in a brown study, and you undertake to straddle it, so to speak, and all at once you find the wheelbarrow on top. I may say, I think, safely, that the wheelbarrow is, as a rule, phlegmatic and cool; but when a total stranger startles it, it spreads desolation and destruction on every hand.
You suddenly come across a wheelbarrow that's lost in thought, and you try to straddle it, so to speak, and suddenly you find yourself on top of it. I can confidently say that, generally speaking, the wheelbarrow is calm and collected; but when a complete stranger surprises it, it wreaks havoc and chaos all around.
This is also true of the perambulator, or baby-carriage. I undertook to evade a child's phaeton, three years ago last spring, as it stood in the entrance to a hall in Main street. The child was not injured, because it was not in the carriage at the time; but I was not so fortunate. I pulled pieces of perambulator out of myself for two weeks with the hand that was not disabled.
This is also true of the stroller. Three years ago last spring, I tried to avoid a kid's cart as it was parked at the entrance of a hall on Main street. The kid wasn't hurt, because they weren't in the stroller at the time; but I wasn't so lucky. I pulled bits of stroller out of myself for two weeks with the hand that wasn't hurt.
How a sedentary man could fall through a child's carriage in such a manner as to stab himself with the awning and knock every spoke out of three wheels, is still a mystery to me, but I did it. I can show you the doctor's bill now.
How a lazy guy could fall into a child's stroller like that, stabbing himself with the awning and knocking out the spokes on three wheels, is still a mystery to me, but I did it. I can show you the doctor's bill now.
The other day, however, I discovered a new style of riding animal. The Rev. Mr. Hallelujah was at the depot when I arrived, and was evidently waiting for the same Chicago train that I was in search of. Rev. Mr. Hallelujah had put his valise down near an ordinary baggage-truck which leaned up against the wall of the station building.
The other day, though, I found a new way to ride animals. Reverend Mr. Hallelujah was at the station when I got there and was clearly waiting for the same Chicago train I was looking for. Reverend Mr. Hallelujah had set his suitcase down next to a regular baggage cart that was leaning against the wall of the station building.
He strolled along the platform a few moments, communing with himself and agitating his mind over the subject of Divine Retribution, and then he went up and leaned against the truck. Finally, he somehow got his arms under the handles of the truck as it stood up between his back and the wall. He still continued to think of the plan of Divine Retribution, and you could have seen his lips move if you had been there.
He walked along the platform for a few moments, deep in thought about Divine Retribution, and then he leaned against the truck. Eventually, he managed to get his arms under the handles of the truck as it sat between his back and the wall. He kept thinking about the idea of Divine Retribution, and if you had been there, you would have seen his lips moving.
Pretty soon some young ladies came along, rosy in winter air, beautiful beyond compare, frosty crystals in their hair; smiled they on the preacher there.
Pretty soon, some young women walked by, rosy from the winter air, stunningly beautiful, with frosty crystals in their hair; they smiled at the preacher there.
He returned the smile and bowed low. As he did so, as near as I can figure it out, he stepped back on the iron edge of the truck that the baggageman generally jabs under the rim of an iron-bound sample-trunk when he goes to load it. Anyhow, Mr. Hallelujah's feet flew toward next spring. The truck started across the platform with him and spilled him over the edge on the track ten feet below. So rapid was the movement that the eye with difficulty followed his evolutions. His valise was carried onward by the same wild avalanche, and “busted” open before it struck the track below.
He smiled back and bowed deeply. As he did this, as far as I can tell, he stepped back onto the iron edge of the cart that the baggage handler usually sticks under the rim of a sturdy sample trunk when he’s about to load it. Anyway, Mr. Hallelujah's feet flew up toward next spring. The cart started rolling across the platform with him and tossed him over the edge onto the tracks ten feet below. The movement was so fast that it was hard for anyone to follow what happened. His suitcase was carried along by the same chaotic rush and flew open before it hit the tracks below.
I was surprised to see some of the articles that shot forth into the broad light of day. Among the rest there was a bran fired new set of ready-made teeth, to be used in case of accident. Up to that moment I didn't know that Mr. Hallelujah used the common tooth of commerce. These teeth slipped out of the valise with a Sabbath smile and vulcanized rubber gums.
I was shocked to see some of the articles that emerged into the bright light of day. Among them was a brand-new set of ready-made teeth, meant for emergencies. Until that point, I had no idea that Mr. Hallelujah used regular commercial teeth. These teeth slid out of the suitcase with a Sabbath smile and rubber gums.
{Illustration: A RAPID MOVEMENT.}
{Illustration: A QUICK MOVEMENT.}
In striking the iron track below, the every-day set which the Rev. Mr. Hallelujah had in use became loosened, and smiled across the road-bed and right of way at the bran fired new array of incisors, cuspids, bi-cuspids and molars that flew out of the valise. Mr. Hallelujah got up and tried to look merry, but he could not smile without his teeth. The back seams of his Newmarket coat were more successful, however.
In hitting the iron track below, the everyday set that Rev. Mr. Hallelujah used came loose and smiled across the road-bed and right of way at the brand new array of incisors, cuspids, bicuspids, and molars that flew out of the suitcase. Mr. Hallelujah got up and tried to look cheerful, but he couldn’t smile without his teeth. The back seams of his Newmarket coat were more successful, though.
Mr. Hallelujah's wardrobe and a small boy were the only objects that dared to smile.
Mr. Hallelujah's wardrobe and a little boy were the only things that dared to smile.
Somnambulism and Crime.
A recent article in the London Post on the subject of somnambulism, calls to my mind several little incidents with somnambulistic tendencies in my own experience.
A recent article in the London Post about sleepwalking reminds me of a few little incidents with sleepwalking tendencies from my own experience.
This subject has, indeed, attracted my attention for some years, and it has afforded me great pleasure to investigate it carefully.
This topic has definitely caught my interest for a few years now, and I've really enjoyed studying it in depth.
Regarding the causes of dreams and somnambulism, there are many theories, all of which are more or less untenable. My own idea, given, of course, in a plain, crude way, is that thoughts originate on the inside of the brain and then go at once to the surface, where they have their photographs taken, with the understanding that the negatives are to be preserved. In this way the thought may afterward be duplicated back to the thinker in the form of a dream, and, if the impulse be strong enough, muscular action and somnambulism may result.
When it comes to the reasons behind dreams and sleepwalking, there are a lot of theories, most of which don’t hold up well. My own simple idea is that thoughts start inside the brain and then immediately make their way to the surface, almost like getting a picture taken, with the intent of saving the negatives. This way, the thought can later be replayed for the original thinker as a dream, and if the urge is strong enough, it can also lead to physical actions and sleepwalking.
On the banks of Bitter Creek, some years ago, lived an open-mouthed man, who had risen from affluence by his unaided effort until he was entirely free from any incumbrance in the way of property. His mind dwelt on this matter a great deal during the day. Thoughts of manual labor flitted through his mind, but were cast aside as impracticable. Then other means of acquiring property suggested themselves. These thoughts were photographed on the delicate negative of the brain, where it is a rule to preserve all negatives. At night these thoughts were reversed within the think resort, if I may be allowed that term, and muscular action resulted. Yielding at last to the great desire for possessions and property the somnambulist groped his way to the corral of a total stranger, and selecting a choice mule with great dewy eyes and real camel's hair tail, he fled. On and on he pressed, toward the dark, uncertain west, till at last rosy morn clomb the low, outlying hills and gilded the gray outlines of the sage-brush. The coyote slunk back to his home, but the somnambulist did not.
On the banks of Bitter Creek, some years ago, there lived a man who never held back his thoughts. He had risen from wealth through his own efforts until he was completely free from any burdens related to property. He spent a lot of his days focused on this idea. Thoughts of manual labor crossed his mind but were quickly dismissed as unrealistic. Then other ways to acquire property came to him. These thoughts were captured on the sensitive film of his mind, where all thoughts are typically stored. At night, these thoughts transformed in his mind, leading to physical action. Finally giving in to his strong desire for possessions, the sleepwalker made his way to the corral of a complete stranger and, choosing a beautiful mule with big, dewy eyes and a real camel's hair tail, he fled. He continued on toward the dark, uncertain west until, finally, a rosy morning climbed over the low hills and lit up the gray outlines of the sagebrush. The coyote slinked back to its home, but the sleepwalker did not.
He awoke as day dawned, and, when he found himself astride the mule of another, a slight shudder passed the entire length of his frame. He then fully realized that he had made his debut as a somnambulist. He seemed to think that he who starts out to be a somnambulist should never turn back. So he pressed on, while the red sun stepped out into the awful quiet of the dusty waste and gradually moved up into the sky, and slowly added another day to those already filed away in the dark maw of ages.
He woke up with the dawn, and when he noticed he was riding someone else's mule, a slight shiver ran through him. He then fully understood that he had made his entrance as a sleepwalker. He seemed to believe that once you start as a sleepwalker, you should never go back. So he continued on, while the red sun emerged into the eerie silence of the dusty wasteland and slowly climbed into the sky, adding another day to those already stored away in the dark depths of time.
Night came again at last, and with it other somnambulists similar to the first, only that they were riding on their own beasts. Some somnambulists ride their own animals, while others are content to bestride the steeds of strangers.
Night finally arrived again, bringing with it more sleepwalkers like the first group, except this time they were on their own animals. Some sleepwalkers ride their own creatures, while others are fine with riding the horses of strangers.
The man on the anonymous mule halted at last at the mouth of a deep canon. He did so at the request of other somnambulists. Mechanically he got down from the back of the mule and stood under a stunted mountain pine.
The man on the nameless mule finally stopped at the entrance of a deep canyon. He did this at the request of other sleepwalkers. Like a robot, he climbed down from the mule's back and stood under a small mountain pine.
After awhile he began to ascend the tree by means of his neck. When he had reached the lower branch of the tree he made a few gestures with his feet by a lateral movement of the legs. He made several ineffectual efforts to kick some pieces out of the horizon, and then, after he had gently oscilliated a few times, he assumed a pendent and perpendicular position at right angles with the limb of the tree.
After a while, he started to climb the tree using his neck. Once he reached the lower branch, he made a few movements with his feet by moving his legs sideways. He tried several times to kick some pieces out of the horizon, and then, after swaying gently a few times, he positioned himself hanging straight down at a right angle to the tree limb.
The other somnambulists then took the mule safely back to his corral, and the tragedy of a night was over.
The other sleepwalkers then safely returned the mule to his pen, and the night's drama was finally over.
The London Post very truly says that where somnambulism can be proved it is a good defense in a criminal action. It was so held in this case.
The London Post accurately states that when sleepwalking can be demonstrated, it serves as a valid defense in a criminal case. This was determined in this instance.
Various methods are suggested for rousing the somnambulist, such as tickling the feet, for instance; but in all my own experience, I never knew of a more radical or permanent cure than the one so imperfectly given above. It might do in some cases to tickle the feet of a somnambulist discovered in the act of riding away on an anonymous mule, but how could you successfully tickle the soles of his feet while he is standing on them? In such cases, the only true way would be to suspend the somnambulist in such a way as to give free access to the feet from below, and, at the same time, give him a good, wide horizon to kick at.
Various methods are suggested for waking up a sleepwalker, like tickling their feet, for example; but in all my own experience, I’ve never seen a more effective or lasting solution than the one mentioned above. It might work in some cases to tickle the feet of a sleepwalker who’s caught riding away on a random mule, but how could you possibly tickle their soles while they’re standing on them? In such situations, the only real way would be to suspend the sleepwalker in a way that allows access to their feet from below, while also giving them a wide view to aim their kicks at.
Modern Architecture.
It may be premature, perhaps, but I desire to suggest to anyone who may be contemplating the erection of a summer residence for me, as a slight testimonial of his high regard for my sterling worth and symmetrical escutcheon—a testimonial more suggestive of earnest admiration and warm personal friendship than of great intrinsic value, etc., etc., etc., that I hope he will not construct it on the modern plan of mental hallucination and morbid delirium tremens peculiar to recent architecture.
It might be a bit soon, but I want to suggest to anyone thinking about building me a summer home as a small sign of their appreciation for my true value and good reputation—something that shows genuine admiration and personal friendship rather than real monetary worth—that I hope they won’t follow the modern trend of confusing design and chaotic styles that have become common in recent architecture.
Of course, a man ought not to look a gift house in the gable end, but if my friends don't know me any better than to build me a summer cottage and throw in odd windows that nobody else wanted, and then daub it up with colors they have bought at auction and applied to the house after dark with a shotgun, I think it is time that we had a better understanding.
Of course, a man shouldn't judge a gift house by its gable end, but if my friends don't know me well enough to build me a summer cottage and add on random windows that nobody else wanted, and then slap on colors they bought at an auction and painted on the house at night with a shotgun, I think it's time we had a serious talk.
{Illustration: THE ARCHITECT.}
{Illustration: THE ARCHITECT.}
Such a structure does not come within either of the three classes of renaissance. It is neither Florentine, Roman, or Venetian. Any man can originate such a style if he will only drink the right kind of whiskey long enough and then describe the feelings to an amanuensis.
Such a structure doesn’t fit into any of the three styles of the Renaissance. It’s not Florentine, Roman, or Venetian. Anyone can come up with a style like this if they just drink the right kind of whiskey long enough and then share their feelings with a scribe.
Imagine the sensation that one of these modern, sawed-off cottages would create a hundred years from now, if it should survive! But that is impossible. The only cheering feature of the whole matter is that these creatures of a disordered imagination must soon pass away, and the bright sunlight of hard horse sense shine in through the shattered dormers and gables and gnawed-off architecture of the average summer resort.
Imagine how one of these modern, small cottages would feel a hundred years from now if it manages to survive! But that's unlikely. The only positive aspect of the whole situation is that these products of a chaotic imagination will soon fade away, and the clear light of common sense will shine through the broken dormers and gables and poorly designed architecture of the typical summer resort.
A friend of mine a few days ago showed me his new house with much pride. He asked me what I thought of it. I told him I liked it first-rate. Then I went home and wept all night. It was my first falsehood.
A friend of mine showed me his new house a few days ago, and he was really proud of it. He asked me what I thought, and I told him I thought it was great. Then I went home and cried all night. It was my first lie.
The house, taken as a whole, looked to me like a skating rink that had started out to make money, and then suddenly changed its mind and resolved to become a tannery. Then ten feet higher it lost all self-respect and blossomed into a full-blown drunk and disorderly, surrounded by the smokestack of a foundry and the bright future of thirty days ahead with the chain gang. That's the way it looked to me.
The house, overall, reminded me of a skating rink that originally aimed to make a profit but then abruptly decided to transform into a tannery. Then, ten feet higher, it lost all dignity and turned into a full-blown mess, flanked by the smokestack of a factory and the bleak reality of thirty days ahead with a chain gang. That’s how it appeared to me.
The roofs were made of little odds and ends of misfit rafters and distorted shingles that somebody had purchased at a sheriff's sale, and the rooms and stairs were giddy in the extreme.
The roofs were made of random bits and pieces of mismatched rafters and warped shingles that someone had bought at a sheriff's sale, and the rooms and stairs were extremely unstable.
I went in and rambled around among the cross-eyed staircases and other night-mares till reason tottered on her throne. Then I came out and stood on the architectural wart, called the side porch, to get fresh air. This porch was painted a dull red, and it had wooden rosettes at the corners that looked like a new carbuncle on the nose of a social wreck.
I went inside and wandered among the weird staircases and other nightmares until logic was barely holding on. Then I stepped outside and stood on the awkward side porch to get some fresh air. This porch was painted a dull red, and it had wooden rosettes at the corners that looked like a fresh blemish on the face of a social disaster.
Farther up on the demoralized lumber pile I saw, now and then, places where the workman's mind had wandered and he had nailed on his clapboards wrong side up, and then painted them with Paris green that he had intended to use on something else.
Farther up on the messed-up lumber pile, I occasionally noticed spots where the worker's mind had drifted, and he had nailed his boards upside down, then painted them with the Paris green he had planned to use for something else.
It was an odd looking structure, indeed. If my friend got all the material for nothing from people who had fragments of paint and lumber left over after they failed, and then if the workmen constructed it of night for mental relaxation and intellectual repose, without charge, of course the scheme was a financial success, but architecturally the house is a gross violation of the statutes in such cases made and provided, and against the peace and dignity of the State.
It was a strange-looking building, for sure. If my friend got all the materials for free from people who had leftover paint and wood after their projects didn’t work out, and then if the workers put it together at night for fun and to think things through, without getting paid, then the plan was a financial win. But architecturally, the house seriously broke the rules designed for these situations and went against the peace and dignity of the State.
There is a look of extreme poverty about the structure which a man might struggle for years to acquire and then fail. No one could look upon it without a feeling of heartache for the man who built that house, and probably struggled on year after year, building a little at a time as he could steal the lumber, getting a new workman each year, building a knob here and a protuberance there, putting in a three-cornered window at one point and a yellow tile or a wad of broken glass and other debris at another, patiently filling in around the ranch with any old rubbish that other people had got through with, painting it as he went along, taking what was left in the bottom of the pots after his neighbors had painted their bob-sleds or their tree boxes—little favors thankfully received—and then surmounting the whole pile with a potpourri of roof, and grand farewell incubus of humps and hollows for the rain to wander through and seek out the different cells where the lunatics live who inhabit it.
The structure has a look of extreme poverty, something a man might spend years trying to build only to fail. No one can look at it without feeling heartache for the person who constructed that house, likely struggling year after year, building a little at a time as he managed to steal the lumber, hiring a new worker each year, adding a knob here and a bump there, installing a triangle-shaped window at one spot and a yellow tile or a pile of broken glass and other scraps at another. He patiently filled in around the property with any old junk that others no longer needed, painting as he went along, using whatever was left in the bottom of paint cans after his neighbors were done with their projects—little favors he gratefully accepted—and finally topping it all off with a mismatched roof, a chaotic blend of bumps and dips for the rain to flow through as it finds its way to the various spots where the eccentric inhabitants live.
I did tell my friend one thing that I thought would improve the looks of his house. He asked me eagerly what it could be. I said it would take a man of great courage to do it for him. He said he didn't care for that. He would do it himself. If it only needed one thing he would never rest till he had it, whatever that might be.
I did mention to my friend something I thought would make his house look better. He asked me eagerly what it was. I said it would take a really brave person to do it for him. He said he wasn’t worried about that. He would take care of it himself. If it only needed one thing, he wouldn’t stop until he got it, no matter what it was.
Then I told him that if he had a friend—one he could trust—who would steal in there some night while the family were away, and scratch a match on the leg of his breeches, or on the breeches of any other gentleman who happened to be present, and hold it where it would ignite the alleged house, and then remain near there to see that the fire department did not meddle with it, he would confer a great favor on one who would cheerfully retaliate in kind on call.
Then I told him that if he had a friend—someone he could trust—who could sneak in there one night while the family was away, and strike a match on the leg of his pants, or on the pants of any other guy who happened to be there, and hold it where it would set the supposed house on fire, and then stick around to make sure the fire department didn't interfere with it, he would do a huge favor for someone who would gladly return the favor when asked.
Letter to a Communist.
Dear Sir.—Your courteous letter of the 1st instant, in which you cordially consent to share my wealth and dwell together with me in fraternal sunshine, is duly received. While I dislike to appear cold and distant to one who seems so yearnful and so clinging, and while I do not wish to be regarded as purse-proud or arrogant, I must decline your kind offer to whack up. You had not heard, very likely, that I am not now a Communist. I used to be, I admit, and the society no doubt neglected to strike my name off the roll of active members. For a number of years I was quite active as a Communist. I would have been more active, but I had conscientious scruples against being active in anything then.
Dear Sir, I appreciate your thoughtful letter from the 1st of this month, in which you kindly agree to share my wealth and live together with me in harmony. However, I want to avoid coming across as cold and distant to someone who seems so eager and attached, and I don’t want to be seen as arrogant or dismissive, but I must respectfully decline your generous offer to split things. You probably aren't aware that I’m not a Communist anymore. I used to be, I admit, and the organization likely didn’t take my name off the active member list. For several years, I was pretty involved as a Communist. I would have been more engaged, but I had some moral reservations about being active in anything at that time.
While you may be perfectly sincere in your belief that the great capitalists like Mr. Gould and Mr. Vanderbilt should divide with you, you will have great difficulty in making it perfectly clear to them. They will probably demur and delay, and hem and haw, and procrastinate, till finally they will get out of it in some way. Still, I do not wish to throw cold water on your enterprise. If the other capitalists look favorably on the plan, I will cheerfully co-operate with them. You go and see what you can do with Mr. Vanderbilt, and then come to me.
While you might genuinely believe that big capitalists like Mr. Gould and Mr. Vanderbilt should share their wealth with you, you’ll likely find it hard to convince them. They will probably hesitate, stall, and try to avoid the conversation until they manage to sidestep the issue altogether. Still, I don’t want to discourage your efforts. If the other investors are interested in the idea, I’ll gladly work alongside them. Go talk to Mr. Vanderbilt and see what you can work out, then come back to me.
You go on at some length to tell me how the most of the wealth is in the hands of a few men, and then you attack those men and refer to them in a way that makes my blood run cold. You tell the millionaires of America to beware, for the hot breath of a bloody-handed Nemesis is already in the air.
You go on for quite a while about how most of the wealth is controlled by just a few people, and then you criticize those individuals in a way that sends chills down my spine. You warn the millionaires of America to be cautious, because the ominous presence of vengeful fate is already in the atmosphere.
{Illustration: PRACTICAL COMMUNISM.}
{Illustration: PRACTICAL COMMUNISM.}
You may say to Nemesis, if you please, that I have a double-barreled shotgun standing at the head of my bed every night, and that I am in the Nemesis business. You also refer to the fact that the sleuth-hounds of eternal justice are camped on the trail of the pampered millionaire, and you ask us to avaunt. If you see the other sleuth-hounds of your society within a week or two, I wish you would say to them that at a regular meeting of the millionaires of this country, after the minutes of the previous meeting had been read and approved, we voted almost unanimously to discourage any sleuth-hound that we found camped on our trail after ten o'clock, P.M. Sleuth-hounds who want to ramble over our trails during office hours may do so with the utmost impunity, but after ten o'clock we want to use our trails for other purposes. No man wants to go to the great expense of maintaining a trail winter and summer, and then leave it out nights for other people to use and return it when they get ready.
You can tell Nemesis, if you want, that I have a double-barreled shotgun by my bed every night, and that I’m in the Nemesis business. You also mention that the hounds of eternal justice are hot on the trail of the wealthy, and you ask us to back off. If you run into the other hounds of your society in a week or two, I’d appreciate it if you could let them know that during a regular meeting of the millionaires in this country, after we read and approved the minutes of the previous meeting, we almost unanimously decided to discourage any hound that we find on our trail after ten o’clock at night. Hounds who want to roam our trails during business hours can do so without any issues, but after ten o’clock, we want to use our trails for other purposes. No one wants to spend a fortune maintaining a trail all year round just to have others use it at night and return it whenever they feel like it.
I do not censure you, however. If you could convince every one of the utility of Communism, it would certainly be a great boon—to you. To those who are now engaged in feeding themselves with flat beer out of a tomato can, such a change as you suggest would fall like a ray of sunshine in a rat-hole, but alas! it may never be. I tried it awhile, but my efforts were futile. The effect of my great struggle seemed to be that men's hearts grew more and more stony, and my pantaloons got thinner and thinner on the seat, 'till it seemed to me that the world never was so cold. Then I made some experiments in manual labor. As I began to work harder and sit down less, I found that the world was not so cold. It was only when I sat down a long time that I felt how cold and rough the world really was.
I don’t blame you, though. If you could convince everyone about the benefits of Communism, it would definitely be a huge advantage—for you. For those currently stuck drinking flat beer from a tomato can, the change you’re suggesting would feel like a ray of sunshine in a dark hole, but sadly, it may never happen. I tried it for a while, but my efforts were pointless. It seemed like the more I struggled, the more cold-hearted people became, and my pants wore thinner and thinner at the seat, until it felt like the world had never been so cold. Then I tried doing some physical labor. As I started to work harder and sit down less, I realized the world wasn’t that cold after all. It was only when I sat down for a long time that I truly felt how cold and rough the world could be.
Perhaps it is so with you. Sedentary habits and stale beer are apt to make us morbid. Sitting on the stone door sills of hallways and public buildings during cold weather is apt to give you an erroneous impression of life.
Perhaps it's the same for you. Sitting around and drinking flat beer can easily make us feel down. Hanging out on the cold stone doorsteps of hallways and public buildings during the winter can give you a false impression of life.
Of course I am willing to put my money into a common fund if I can be convinced that it is best. I was an inside passenger on a Leadville coach some years ago, when a few of your friends suggested that we all put our money into a common fund, and I was almost the first one to see that they were right. They went away into the mountains to apportion the money they got from our party, but I never got any dividend. Probably they lost my post-office address.
Of course, I’m open to putting my money into a shared fund if I can be convinced it’s the best choice. A few years ago, I was an inside passenger on a Leadville coach when some of your friends proposed that we all invest in a common fund, and I was one of the first to realize they had a point. They headed off into the mountains to divide the money they collected from our group, but I never received any payout. They probably lost my mailing address.
The Warrior's Oration.
Warriors! We are met here to-day to celebrate the white man's Fourth of July. I do not know what the Fourth of July has done for us that we should remember his birthday, but it matters not. Another summer is on the wane, and so are we. We are the walleyed waners from Wanetown. We have monopolized the wane business of the whole world.
Warriors! We are gathered here today to celebrate the white man's Fourth of July. I’m not sure what the Fourth of July has done for us that makes it worth remembering his birthday, but that doesn’t matter. Another summer is coming to an end, and so are we. We are the pale shadows from Wanetown. We have taken over the fading business of the entire world.
Autumn is almost here, and we have not yet gone upon the war path. The pale face came among us with the corn planter and the Desert Land Act, and we bow before him.
Autumn is almost here, and we haven’t gone to war yet. The white man came among us with the corn planter and the Desert Land Act, and we bow before him.
What does the Fourth of July signify to us? It is a hollow mockery! Where the flag of the white man now waves in the breeze, a few years ago the scalp of our foe was hanging in the air. Now my people are seldom. Some are dead and others drunk.
What does the Fourth of July mean to us? It’s a hollow joke! Where the white man's flag now flutters in the wind, just a few years ago the scalp of our enemy was hanging in the air. Now my people are rare. Some are dead, and others are drunk.
Once we chased the deer and the buffalo across the plains, and lived high. Now we eat the condemned corned beef of the oppressor, and weep over the graves of our fallen braves. A few more moons and I, too, shall cross over to the Happy Reservation.
Once we hunted deer and buffalo across the plains and lived freely. Now we eat the cursed corned beef of our oppressors and mourn the graves of our fallen warriors. A few more moons, and I, too, will pass to the Happy Reservation.
Once I could whoop a couple of times and fill the gulch with warlike athletes. Now I may whoop till the cows come home and only my sickly howl comes back to me from the hillsides. I am as lonely as the greenback party. I haven't warriors enough to carry one precinct.
Once I could shout a few times and fill the valley with fierce competitors. Now I can shout until the cows come home, but all I hear back from the hills is my weak cry. I'm as lonely as the greenback party. I don't have enough supporters to win even one precinct.
Where are the proud chieftains of my tribe? Where are Old Weasel Asleep and Orlando the Hie Jacet Promoter? Where are Prickly Ash Berry and The Avenging Wart? Where are The Roman-nosed Pelican and Goggle-eyed Aleck, The-man-who-rides-the-blizzard-bareback?
Where are the proud leaders of my tribe? Where are Old Weasel Asleep and Orlando the Hie Jacet Promoter? Where are Prickly Ash Berry and The Avenging Wart? Where are The Roman-nosed Pelican and Goggle-eyed Aleck, The-guy-who-rides-the-blizzard-bareback?
They are extremely gone. They are extensively whence. Ole Blackhawk, in whose veins flows the blood of many chiefs, is sawing wood for the Belle of the West deadfall for the whiskey. He once rode the war pony into the fray and buried his tomahawk in the phrenology of his foe. Now he straddles the saw-buck and yanks the woodsaw athwart the bosom of the basswood chunk.
They are completely gone. They are far away. Old Blackhawk, who has the blood of many chiefs running through his veins, is cutting wood for the Belle of the West deadfall for the whiskey. He once rode into battle on a war pony and buried his tomahawk in the skull of his enemy. Now he straddles the sawhorse and pulls the saw back and forth across the heart of the basswood log.
My people once owned this broad land; but the Pilgrim Fathers (where are they?) came and planted the baked bean and the dried apple, and my tribe vamoosed. Once we were a nation. Now we are the tin can tied to the American eagle.
My people once owned this vast land; but the Pilgrim Fathers (where are they now?) came and introduced baked beans and dried apples, and my tribe disappeared. Once we were a nation. Now we’re just a tin can tied to the American eagle.
Warriors! This should be a day of jubilee, but how can the man rejoice who has a boil on his nose? How can the chief of a once proud people shoot firecrackers and dance over the graves of his race? How can I be hilarious with the victor, on whose hands are the blood of my children?
Warriors! This should be a day of celebration, but how can a man be happy when he has a boil on his nose? How can the leader of a once proud people set off firecrackers and dance over the graves of his ancestors? How can I be cheerful with the victor, whose hands are stained with the blood of my children?
If we had known more of the white man, we would have made it red hot for him four hundred years ago when he came to our coast. We fed him and clothed him as a white-skinned curiosity then, but we didn't know there were so many of him. All he wanted then was a little smoking tobacco and love. Now he feeds us on antique pork, and borrows our annuities to build a Queen Anne wigwam with a furnace in the bottom and a piano in the top.
If we had understood the white man better, we would have made it really tough for him four hundred years ago when he arrived at our shores. We fed him and dressed him like a curious outsider back then, but we didn't realize there were so many of him. All he wanted then was a bit of tobacco and some affection. Now he feeds us old-fashioned pork and borrows our annuities to build a fancy house with a furnace in the basement and a piano on the top floor.
Warriors! My words are few. Tears are idle and unavailing. If I had scalding tears enough for a mill site, I would not shed a blamed one. The warrior suffers, but he never squeals. He accepts the position and says nothing. He wraps his royal horse blanket around his Gothic bones and is silent.
Warriors! I won’t say much. Crying doesn’t help at all. Even if I had enough hot tears to run a mill, I wouldn’t shed a single one. A warrior endures, but he doesn’t complain. He takes what comes and stays quiet. He wraps his majestic horse blanket around his strong body and remains silent.
But the pale face cannot tickle us with a barley straw on the Fourth of July and make us laugh. You can kill the red man, but you cannot make him hilarious over his own funeral. These are the words of truth, and my warriors will do well to paste them in their plug hats for future reference.
But the pale face can't get us to laugh with a straw on the Fourth of July. You can kill the red man, but you can’t make him find humor in his own funeral. These are the words of truth, and my warriors would be wise to remember them for the future.
The Holy Terror.
While in New England trying in my poor, weak way to represent the “rowdy west,” I met a sad young man who asked me if I lived in Chi-eene. I told him that if he referred to Cheyenne, I had been there off and on a good deal.
While I was in New England, trying in my weak little way to represent the "rowdy west," I met a sad young guy who asked me if I lived in Chi-eene. I told him that if he meant Cheyenne, I had been there quite a bit.
He said he was there not long ago, but did not remain. He bought some clothes in Chicago, so that he could appear in Chi-eene as a “holy terror” when he landed there, and thus in a whole town of “holy terrors” he would not attract attention.
He said he was there not too long ago, but didn’t stick around. He bought some clothes in Chicago so he could show up in Chi-eene as a “holy terror,” and that way, in a whole town of “holy terrors,” he wouldn’t stand out.
I am not, said he, by birth or instinct, a holy terror, but I thought I would like to try it a little while, anyhow. I got one of those Chicago sombreros with a gilt fried cake twisted around it for a band. Then I got a yellow silk handkerchief on the ten cent counter to tie around my neck. Then I got a suit of smoke-tanned buckskin clothes and a pair of moccasins. I had never seen a bad, bad man from Chi-eene, but I had seen pictures of them and they all wore moccasins. The money that I had left I put into a large revolver and a butcher knife with a red Morocco sheath to it. The revolver was too heavy for me to hold in one hand and shoot, but by resting it on a fence I could kill a cow easy enough if she wasn't too blamed restless.
I’m not, he said, by birth or instinct, a holy terror, but I thought I'd give it a shot for a bit, at least. I got one of those Chicago hats with a fancy fried cake twisted around it as a band. Then I picked up a yellow silk handkerchief from the ten-cent counter to tie around my neck. After that, I got a suit made of smoked buckskin and a pair of moccasins. I had never seen a really dangerous guy from Cheyenne, but I’d seen pictures of them and they all wore moccasins. The money I had left I spent on a large revolver and a butcher knife with a red leather sheath. The revolver was too heavy for me to hold and shoot with one hand, but if I rested it on a fence, I could easily take down a cow if she wasn’t too restless.
I went out to the stock yards in Chicago one afternoon and practiced with my revolver. One of my thumbs is out there at the stock yards now.
I went out to the stockyards in Chicago one afternoon and practiced with my revolver. One of my thumbs is out there at the stockyards now.
At Omaha I put on my new suit and sent my human clothes home to my father. He told me when I came away that when I got out to Wyoming, probably I wouldn't want to attract attention by wearing clothes, and so I could send my clothes back to him and he would be glad to have them.
At Omaha, I put on my new suit and sent my regular clothes back home to my dad. He told me when I left that once I got to Wyoming, I probably wouldn’t want to draw attention to myself by wearing regular clothes, so I could send them back to him and he’d be happy to have them.
At Sidney I put on my revolver and went into the eating house to get my dinner. A tall man met me at the door and threw me about forty feet in an oblique manner. I asked him if he meant anything personal by that and he said not at all, not at all. I then asked him if he would not allow me to eat my dinner and he said that depended on what I wanted for my dinner. If I would lay down my arms and come back to the reservation and remain neutral to the Government and eat cooked food, it would be all right, but if I insisted on eating raw dining-room girls and scalloped young ladies, he would bar me out.
At Sidney, I strapped on my revolver and walked into the diner to grab dinner. A tall guy met me at the door and tossed me about forty feet sideways. I asked him if that was a personal thing, and he said not at all, not at all. I then asked him if he would let me eat my dinner, and he replied that it depended on what I wanted for dinner. If I put down my weapons and went back to the reservation, staying neutral to the Government and eating cooked food, it would be fine. But if I insisted on eating raw dining-room girls and scalloped young ladies, he would kick me out.
We landed at Chi-eene in the evening. They had hacks and 'busses and carriages till you couldn't rest, all standing there at the depot, and a large colored man in a loud tone of voice remarked: “INTEROCEAN HO-TEL!!!!”
We arrived at Chi-eene in the evening. There were taxis and buses and carriages everywhere at the station, and a big Black man loudly announced, “INTEROCEAN HOTEL!!!!”
{Illustration: A REAL COWBOY.}
{Illustration: A REAL COWBOY.}
I went there myself. It had doors and windows to it, and carpets and gas. The young man who showed me to my room was very polite to me. He seemed to want to get acquainted. He said:
I went there myself. It had doors and windows, along with carpets and gas. The young man who showed me to my room was very polite. He seemed eager to get to know me. He said:
“You are from New Hampshire, are you not?”
"You're from New Hampshire, right?"
I told him not to give it away, but I was from New Hampshire. Then I asked him how he knew.
I told him not to share it, but I was from New Hampshire. Then I asked him how he found out.
He said that several New Hampshire people had been out there that summer, and they had worn the same style of revolver and generally had one thumb done up in a rag. Then he said that if I came from New Hampshire he would show me how to turn off the gas.
He mentioned that a few folks from New Hampshire had been out there that summer, and they all carried the same type of revolver and usually had one thumb wrapped in a rag. Then he said that if I was from New Hampshire, he would show me how to turn off the gas.
He also took my revolver down to the office with him and put it in the safe, because he said someone might get into my room in the night and kill me with it if he left it here. He was a perfect gentleman.
He also took my revolver to the office and put it in the safe because he said someone might get into my room at night and use it to kill me if he left it here. He was a true gentleman.
They have a big opera house there in Chi-eene, and while I was there they had the Eyetalian opera singers, Patty and Nevady there. The streets were lit up with electricity, and people seemed to kind of politely look down on me, I thought. Still, they acted as if they tried not to notice my clothes and dime museum hat.
They have a big opera house in Chi-eene, and while I was there, the Italian opera singers Patty and Nevady were performing. The streets were lit up with electricity, and people seemed to look down on me politely, or at least that’s how it felt. Still, they acted like they were trying not to notice my clothes and cheap museum hat.
They seemed to look at me as if I wasn't to blame for it, and as if they felt sorry for me. If I'd had my United States clothes with me, I could have had a good deal of fun in Chi-eene, going to the opera and the lectures, and concerts, et cetera. But finally I decided to return, so I wrote to my parents how I had been knocked down and garroted, and left for dead with one thumb shot off, and they gladly sent the money to pay funeral expenses.
They looked at me like I wasn’t at fault and seemed to feel sorry for me. If I had my American clothes with me, I could’ve had a lot of fun in Cheyenne, going to the opera, lectures, concerts, and so on. But in the end, I decided to head back, so I wrote to my parents about how I had been attacked, garrotted, and left for dead with one thumb shot off, and they gladly sent the money for the funeral expenses.
With this I got a cut-rate ticket home and surprised and horrified my parents by dropping in on them one morning just after prayers. I tried to get there prior to prayers, but was side-tracked by my father's new anti-tramp bull dog.
With this, I got a cheap ticket home and surprised and shocked my parents by showing up one morning right after prayers. I tried to arrive before prayers, but got sidetracked by my dad's new anti-tramp bulldog.
Boston Common and Environs.
Strolling through the Public Garden and the famous Boston Common, the untutored savage from the raw and unpolished West is awed and his wild spirit tamed by the magnificent harmony of nature and art. Everywhere the eye rests upon all that is beautiful in nature, while art has heightened the pleasing effect without having introduced the artistic jim-jams of a lost and undone world.
Strolling through the Public Garden and the famous Boston Common, the unrefined person from the rough and unrefined West is amazed and his wild spirit calmed by the stunning blend of nature and art. Everywhere the eye looks, there's beauty in nature, and art has enhanced the pleasing effect without bringing in the unnecessary complications of a chaotic world.
It is a delightful place through which to stroll in the gray morning while the early worm is getting his just desserts. There, in the midst of a great city, with the hum of industry and the low rumble of the throbbing Boston brain dimly heard in the distance, nature asserts herself, and the weary, sad-eyed stranger may ramble for hours and keep off the grass to his heart's content.
It’s a lovely spot to walk through on a gray morning while the early bird gets its reward. Right there, in the middle of a bustling city, with the buzz of work and the distant rumble of the vibrant Boston area faintly audible, nature makes its presence known, and the tired, sad-eyed visitor can wander for hours and enjoy the greenery without worry.
Nearly every foot of Boston Common is hallowed by some historical incident. It is filled with reminiscences of a time when liberty was not overdone in this new world, and the tyrant's heel was resting calmly on the neck of our forefathers.
Nearly every inch of Boston Common is sacred because of some historical event. It’s filled with memories of a time when freedom wasn’t taken for granted in this new world, and the oppressor's grip was firmly on the necks of our ancestors.
In the winter of 1775-6, over 110 years ago, as the ready mathematician will perceive, 1,700 redcoats swarmed over Boston Common. Later on the local antipathy to these tourists became so great that they went away. They are still fled. A few of their descendants were there when I visited the Common, but they seemed amicable and did not wear red coats. Their coats this season are made of a large check, with sleeves in it. Their wardrobe generally stands a larger check than their bank account.
In the winter of 1775-6, more than 110 years ago, as any good mathematician would notice, 1,700 redcoats crowded onto Boston Common. Eventually, the local hostility toward these visitors grew so strong that they left. They’re still gone. A few of their descendants were there when I visited the Common, but they appeared friendly and weren’t wearing red coats. Their jackets this season were made of a large check pattern, complete with sleeves. Overall, their wardrobe has a bigger check than their bank account.
The fountains in the Common and the Public Garden attract the eye of the stranger, some of them being very beautiful. The Brewer fountain on Flagstaff hill, presented to the city by the late Gardner Brewer, is very handsome. It was cast in Paris, and is a bronze copy of a fountain designed by Lienard of that city. At the base there are figures representing Neptune with his fabled pickerel stabber, life size; also Amphitrite, Acis and Galatea. Surviving relatives of these parties may well feel pleased and gratified over the life-like expression which, the sculptor has so faithfully reproduced.
The fountains in the Common and the Public Garden catch the attention of visitors, with some being quite beautiful. The Brewer fountain on Flagstaff Hill, given to the city by the late Gardner Brewer, is quite stunning. It was cast in Paris and is a bronze replica of a fountain designed by Lienard from that city. At the base, there are life-size figures depicting Neptune with his legendary trident, as well as Amphitrite, Acis, and Galatea. The surviving relatives of these figures may feel pleased and honored by the lifelike expressions that the sculptor has so faithfully captured.
But the Coggswell fountain is probably the most eccentric squirt, and one which at once rivets the eye of the beholder. I do not know who designed it, but am told that it was modeled by a young man who attended the codfish autopsy at the market daytimes and gave his nights to art.
But the Coggswell fountain is probably the most unusual fountain, and it immediately captures the attention of anyone who sees it. I’m not sure who designed it, but I’ve heard it was created by a young man who spent his days at the market observing codfish dissection and dedicated his nights to art.
The fountain proper consists of two metallic bullheads rampart. They stand on their bosoms, with their tails tied together at the top. Their mouths are abnormally distended, and the water gushes forth from their tonsils in a beautiful stream.
The fountain itself features two metal bullheads on the rampart. They’re positioned on their fronts, with their tails tied together at the top. Their mouths are unnaturally wide open, and water flows out from their throats in a lovely stream.
The pose of these classical codfish or bullheads is sublime. In the spirited Graeco-Roman tussle which they seem to be having, with their tails abnormally elevated in their artistic catch-as-catch-can or can-can scuffle, the designer has certainly hit upon a unique and beautiful impossibility.
The pose of these classic codfish or bullheads is amazing. In the lively Graeco-Roman struggle they appear to be engaged in, with their tails unusually raised in their artistic catch-as-catch-can or can-can dance, the designer has definitely created a unique and beautiful impossibility.
Each bullhead also has a tin dipper chained to his gills, and through the live-long day, till far into the night, he invites the cosmopolitan tramp to come and quench his never-dying thirst.
Each bullhead also has a tin dipper hanging from his gills, and all day long, into the night, he calls out to the worldly wanderer to come and satisfy his endless thirst.
The frog pond is another celebrated watering place. I saw it in the early part of May, and if there had been any water in it, it would have been a fine sight. Nothing contributes to the success of a pond like water.
The frog pond is another well-known watering spot. I saw it in early May, and if there had been any water in it, it would have looked great. Nothing makes a pond work like water.
I ventured to say to a Boston man that I was a little surprised to find a little frog pond containing neither frogs or pond, but he said I would find it all right if I would call around during office hours.
I mentioned to a Boston guy that I was a bit surprised to find a small frog pond with neither frogs nor a pond, but he told me I would find it if I stopped by during office hours.
While sitting on one of the many seats which may be found on the Common one morning, I formed the acquaintance of a pale young man, who asked me if I resided in Boston. I told him that while I felt flattered to think that I could possibly fool anyone, I must admit that I was only a pilgrim and a stranger.
While sitting on one of the many benches in the Common one morning, I met a pale young man who asked me if I lived in Boston. I told him that while I appreciated the compliment that I could fool anyone, I had to admit that I was just a visitor and a stranger.
He said that he was an old resident, and he had often noticed that the people of the Hub always Spoke to a Felloe till he was tired. I afterward learned that he was not an actual resident of Boston, but had just completed his junior year at the State asylum for the insane. He was sent there, it seems, as a confirmed case of unjustifiable Punist. Therefore the governor had Punist him accordingly. This is a specimen of our capitalized joke with Queen Anne do-funny on the corners. We are shipping a great many of them to England this season, where they are greedily snapped up and devoured by the crowned heads. It is a good hot weather joke, devoid of mental strain, perfectly simple and may be laughed at or not without giving the slightest offense.
He claimed to be a long-time resident and said he had often noticed that the people in the Hub always chatted with a fellow until he got tired. I later found out that he wasn't actually from Boston but had just completed his junior year at the state mental hospital. He was sent there, apparently, as a confirmed case of unjustifiable punishment. So, the governor punished him accordingly. This is an example of our clever jokes about Queen Anne that are popular around here. We're sending a lot of them to England this season, where they are eagerly snatched up and consumed by the royalty. It's a good summer joke, easy to enjoy without much thought, completely straightforward, and can be laughed at or not without causing any offense.
Drunk in a Plug Hat.
This world is filled with woe everywhere you go. Sorrow is piled up in the fence corners on every road. Unavailing regret and red-nosed remorse inhabit the cot of the tie-chopper as well as the cut-glass cage of the millionaire. The woods are full of disappointment. The earth is convulsed with a universal sob, and the roads are muddy with tears. But I do not call to mind a more touching picture of unavailing misery and ruin, and hopeless chaos, than the plug hat that has endeavored to keep sober and maintain self-respect while its owner was drunk. A plug hat can stand prosperity, and shine forth joyously while nature smiles. That's the place where it seems to thrive. A tall silk hat looks well on a thrifty man with a clean collar, but it cannot stand dissipation.
This world is filled with sadness everywhere you go. Heartache is stacked in the corners of fences on every road. Pointless regret and self-pity live in the home of the woodcutter as well as in the luxury of the millionaire. The woods are full of disappointment. The earth is shaking with a universal sigh, and the roads are muddy with tears. But I can’t think of a more poignant image of pointless misery and ruin, and hopeless chaos, than the hat that has tried to stay respectable while its owner was drunk. A regular hat can handle success and shine brightly when everything is good. That’s where it really thrives. A tall silk hat looks good on a neat man with a clean collar, but it can’t handle excess.
I once knew a plug hat that had been respected by everyone, and had won its way upward by steady endeavor. No one knew aught against it till one evening, in an evil hour, it consented to attend a banquet, and all at once its joyous career ended. It met nothing but distrust and cold neglect everywhere, after that.
I once knew a top hat that was respected by everyone and had earned its place through hard work. No one had anything bad to say about it until one evening, in a bad moment, it agreed to go to a banquet, and suddenly its happy journey came to an end. After that, it faced nothing but suspicion and indifference everywhere.
Drink seems to make a man temporarily unnaturally exhilarated. During that temporary exhilaration he desires to attract attention by eating lobster salad out of his own hat, and sitting down on his neighbor's.
Drink makes a person feel unnaturally excited for a little while. During that short burst of excitement, they want to show off by eating lobster salad out of their own hat and sitting on their neighbor's hat.
The demon rum is bad enough on the coatings of the stomach, but it is even more disastrous to the tall hat. A man may mix up in a crowd and carry off an overdose of valley tan in a soft hat or a cap, but the silk hat will proclaim it upon the house-tops, and advertise it to a gaping, wondering world. It has a way of getting back on the rear elevation of the head, or over the bridge of the nose, or of hanging coquettishly on one ear, that says to the eagle-eyed public: “I am chockfull.”
The demon rum is bad enough for the stomach, but it’s even worse for the tall hat. A guy might blend in with a crowd and manage an overdose of cheap booze while wearing a soft hat or a cap, but a silk hat will announce it loud and clear, making sure everyone notices. It has a tendency to slide back on the back of the head, tip over the nose, or hang playfully on one ear, sending a clear message to the observant public: “I’m totally out of it.”
I cannot call to mind a more powerful lecture on temperance, than the silent pantomime of a man trying to hang his plug hat on an invisible peg in his own hall, after he had been watching the returns, a few years ago. I saw that he was excited and nervously unstrung when he came in, but I did not fully realize it until he began to hang his hat on the smooth wall.
I can't think of a more impactful lesson on self-control than the silent struggle of a man trying to hang his top hat on an invisible hook in his own hallway after he had been following the election results a few years back. I noticed he was tense and on edge when he walked in, but I didn't fully grasp it until he started attempting to hang his hat on the flat wall.
{Illustration: A POWERFUL LECTURE.}
{Illustration: An Impactful Lecture.}
At first he laughed in a good-natured way at his awkwardness, and hung it up again carefully; but at last he became irritated about it, and almost forgot himself enough to swear, but controlled himself. Finding, however, that it refused to hang up, and that it seemed rather restless, anyhow, he put it in the corner of the hall with the crown up, pinned it to the floor with his umbrella, and heaved a sigh of relief. Then he took off his overcoat and, through a clerical error, pulled off his dress-coat also. I showed him his mistake and offered to assist him back into his apparel, but he said he hadn't got so old and feeble yet that he couldn't dress himself.
At first, he laughed good-naturedly at his clumsiness and carefully hung it up again. But eventually, he got annoyed and almost swore, though he managed to hold it in. Finding that it wouldn’t hang up properly and seemed a bit restless, he put it in the corner of the hall with the crown side up, pinned it to the floor with his umbrella, and sighed in relief. Then, he took off his overcoat and, due to a mix-up, accidentally removed his dress coat as well. I pointed out his mistake and offered to help him get back into his clothes, but he replied that he wasn’t so old and weak that he couldn’t dress himself.
Later on he came into the parlor, wearing a linen ulster with the belt drooping behind him like the broken harness hanging to a shipwrecked and stranded mule. His wife looked at him in a way that froze his blood. This startled him so that he stepped back a pace or two, tangled his feet in his surcingle, clutched wildly at the empty gas-light, but missed it and sat down in a tall majolica cuspidor.
Later, he entered the room wearing a linen coat with the belt hanging loosely behind him like a broken harness on a stranded mule. His wife looked at him in a way that sent chills down his spine. This startled him so much that he stepped back a couple of steps, tangled his feet in his belt, grabbed at the empty gas lamp but missed it, and ended up sitting down in a tall ceramic spittoon.
There were three games of whist going on when he fell, and there was a good deal of excitement over the playing, but after he had been pulled out of the American tear jug and led away, everyone of the twelve whist-players had forgotten what the trump was.
There were three games of whist happening when he fell, and there was a lot of excitement over the play, but once he was pulled out of the American tear jug and taken away, every one of the twelve whist players had forgotten what the trump was.
They say that he has abandoned politics since then, and that now he don't care whether we have any more November elections or not. I asked him once if he would be active during the next campaign, as usual, and he said he thought not. He said a man couldn't afford to be too active in a political campaign. His constitution wouldn't stand it.
They say he has given up on politics since then, and that now he doesn’t care whether we have any more November elections. I asked him once if he would be involved in the next campaign like usual, and he said he didn’t think so. He said a man couldn’t afford to be too involved in a political campaign. His health wouldn’t handle it.
At that time he didn't care much whether the American people had a president or not. If every public-spirited voter had got to work himself up into a state of nervous excitability and prostration where reason tottered on its throne, he thought that we needed a reform.
At that time, he didn’t really care if the American people had a president or not. If every civic-minded voter had to work themselves up into a state of anxious agitation and exhaustion where logic was barely holding on, he believed we needed a change.
Those who wished to furnish reasons to totter on their thrones for the National Central Committee at so much per tot, could do so; he, for one, didn't propose to farm out his immortal soul and plug hat to the party, if sixty million people had to stand four years under the administration of a setting hen.
Those who wanted to provide excuses to cling to their positions for the National Central Committee at a cost per excuse could do so; he, for one, didn't plan to sell his immortal soul and fancy hat to the party, especially if it meant sixty million people had to endure four years under a useless leader.
Spring.
Spring is now here. It has been here before, but not so much so, perhaps, as it is this year. In spring the buds swell up and bust. The “violets” bloom once more, and the hired girl takes off the double windows and the storm door. The husband and father puts up the screen doors, so as to fool the annual fly when he tries to make his spring debut. The husband and father finds the screen doors and windows in the gloaming of the garret. He finds them by feeling them in the dark with his hands. He finds the rafters, also, with his head. When he comes down, he brings the screens and three new intellectual faculties sticking out on his brow like the button on a barn door.
Spring is finally here. It's come before, but maybe not as much as it has this year. In spring, the buds swell up and burst open. The “violets” bloom again, and the hired help takes off the double windows and storm door. The husband and father puts up the screen doors to trick the annual fly trying to make its spring appearance. He locates the screen doors and windows in the dimness of the attic. He finds them by feeling around in the dark with his hands. He also bumps into the rafters with his head. When he comes back down, he brings the screens and three new ideas sticking out on his forehead like a barn door button.
Spring comes with joyous laugh, and song, and sunshine, and the burnt sacrifice of the over-ripe boot and the hoary overshoe. The cowboy and the new milch cow carol their roundelay. So does the veteran hen. The common egg of commerce begins to come forth into the market at a price where it can be secured with a step-ladder, and all nature seems tickled.
Spring arrives with joyful laughter, songs, and sunshine, along with the smoky scent of overcooked boots and worn-out overshoes. The cowboy and the new milk cow sing their duet. So does the old hen. The regular eggs we buy start showing up in stores at a price that makes them accessible with a step ladder, and it seems like all of nature is happy.
There are four seasons—spring, summer, autumn and winter. Spring is the most joyful season of the year. It is then that the green grass and the lavender pants come forth. The little robbins twitter in the branches, and the horny-handed farmer goes joyously afield to till the soil till the cows come home.—Virgil.
There are four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Spring is the most joyful season of the year. That's when the green grass and lavender plants come alive. The little robins chirp in the branches, and the hardworking farmer happily heads out to work the fields until the cows come home.—Virgil.
We all love the moist and fragrant spring. It is then that the sunlight waves beat upon the sandy coast, and the hand-maiden beats upon the sandy carpet. The man of the house pulls tacks out of himself and thinks of days gone by, when you and I were young, Maggie. Who does not leap and sing in his heart when the dandelion blossoms in the low lands, and the tremulous tail of the lambkin agitates the balmy air?
We all love the warm and fragrant spring. It's during this time that the sunlight dances on the sandy shore, and the maid sweeps the sandy floor. The man of the house removes the tacks from himself and reflects on the days gone by, when you and I were young, Maggie. Who doesn’t feel joy and want to sing when the dandelions bloom in the lowlands, and the little lamb's tail stirs the gentle breeze?
The lawns begin to look like velvet and the lawn-mower begins to warm its joints and get ready for the approaching harvest. The blue jay fills the forest with his classical and extremely au revoir melody, and the curculio crawls out of the plum-tree and files his bill. The plow-boy puts on his father's boots and proceeds to plow up the cunning little angle worm. Anon, the black-bird alights on the swaying reeds, and the lightning-rod man alights on the farmer with great joy and a new rod that can gather up all the lightning in two States and put it in a two-gallon jug for future use.
The lawns start to look like velvet, and the lawnmower begins to warm up and get ready for the coming harvest. The blue jay fills the forest with his classic and very au revoir melody, and the curculio crawls out of the plum tree and sharpens his beak. The plowboy puts on his dad's boots and gets ready to dig up the clever little angle worm. Soon, the blackbird lands on the swaying reeds, and the lightning rod guy drops in on the farmer with great excitement and a new rod that can collect all the lightning from two states and store it in a two-gallon jug for later use.
Who does not love spring, the most joyful season of the year? It is then that the spring bonnet of the workaday world crosses the earth's orbit and makes the bank account of the husband and father look fatigued. The low shoe and the low hum of the bumble-bee are again with us. The little striped hornet heats his nose with a spirit lamp and goes forth searching for the man with the linen pantaloons. All nature is full of life and activity. So is the man with the linen pantaloons. Anon, the thrush will sing in the underbrush, and the prima donna will do up her voice in a red-flannel rag and lay it away.
Who doesn’t love spring, the happiest season of the year? It’s the time when the spring bonnet of everyday life crosses the earth's path and makes the husband's and father's bank account look worn out. The low shoes and the low buzz of the bumblebee are back with us. The little striped hornet heats up his nose with a spirit lamp and goes out looking for the guy in the linen pants. Everything in nature is alive and buzzing. So is the guy in the linen pants. Soon, the thrush will sing in the bushes, and the prima donna will wrap her voice in a red-flannel cloth and put it away.
I go now into my cellar to bring out the gladiola bulb and the homesick turnip of last year. Do you see the blue place on my shoulder? That is where I struck when I got to the foot of the cellar stairs. The gladiola bulbs are looking older than when I put them away last fall. I fear me they will never again bulge forth. They are wrinkled about the eyes and there are lines of care upon them. I could squeeze along two years without the gladiola and the oleander in the large tub. If I should give my little boy a new hatchet and he should cut down my beautiful oleander, I would give him a bicycle and a brass band and a gold-headed cane.
I’m going down to my cellar to get the gladiola bulb and the homesick turnip from last year. Do you see the bruise on my shoulder? That’s from when I bumped it at the bottom of the cellar stairs. The gladiola bulbs look older than when I stored them last fall. I worry they’ll never bloom again. They’re wrinkled around the edges, and they show signs of neglect. I could go two years without the gladiolas and the oleander in the big tub. If I gave my little boy a new hatchet and he ended up cutting down my beautiful oleander, I’d reward him with a bicycle, a brass band, and a gold-headed cane.
O spring, spring,
You giddy young thing.{1}
O spring, spring,
You lively young thing.{1}{Footnote 1: From poems of passion and one thing another, by the author of this sketch.}
{Footnote 1: From poems filled with desire and various themes, by the author of this sketch.}
The Duke of Rawhide.
“I believe I've got about the most instinct bulldog in the United States,” said Cayote Van Gobb yesterday. “Other pups may show cuteness and cunning, you know, but my dog, the Duke of Rawhide Buttes, is not only generally smart, but he keeps up with the times. He's not only a talented cuss, but his genius is always fresh and original.”
“I think I have the most instinctive bulldog in the United States,” said Cayote Van Gobb yesterday. “Other pups might be cute and clever, but my dog, the Duke of Rawhide Buttes, is not only smart in general, but he also stays updated with the times. He’s not just a talented guy, but his genius is constantly fresh and original.”
“What are some of his specialties, Van?” said I.
“What are some of his specialties, Van?” I asked.
“Oh, there's a good many of 'em, fust and last. He never seems to be content with the achievements that please other dogs. You watch him and you'll see that his mind is active all the time. When he is still he's working up some scheme or another, that he will ripen and fructify later on.
“Oh, there are quite a few of them, first and last. He never seems to be satisfied with the accomplishments that make other dogs happy. You watch him, and you'll notice that his mind is always working. When he’s calm, he’s planning some idea or another that he will develop and bring to fruition later on.
“For three year's I've had a watermelon patch and run it with more or less success, I reckon. The Duke has tended to 'em after they got ripe, and I was going to say that it kept his hands pretty busy to do it, but, to be more accurate, I should say that it kept his mouth full. Hardly a night after the melons got ripe and in the dark of the moon, but the Dude would sample a cowboy or a sheep-herder from the lower Poudre. Watermelons were generally worth ten cents a pound along the Union Pacific for the first two weeks, and a fifty-pounder was worth $5. That made it an object to keep your melons, for in a good year you could grow enough on ten acres to pay off the national debt.
“For three years, I've had a watermelon patch that I've managed with some success, I guess. The Duke has taken care of them once they were ripe, and I was going to say it kept his hands pretty busy, but to be more precise, I should say it kept his mouth full. Almost every night after the melons got ripe and during the dark of the moon, the Duke would help himself to a cowboy or a sheep-herder from the lower Poudre. Watermelons typically sold for ten cents a pound along the Union Pacific for the first two weeks, and a fifty-pounder was worth $5. That made it worthwhile to take care of your melons, since in a good year you could grow enough on ten acres to pay off the national debt."
“Well, to return to my subject. Duke would sleep days during the season and gather fragments of the rear breadths of Western pantaloons at night. One morning Duke had a piece of fancy cassimere in his teeth that I tried to pry out and preserve, so that I could identify the owner, perhaps, but he wouldn't give it up. I coaxed him and lammed him across the face and eyes with an old board, but he wouldn't give it to me. Then I watched him. I've been watchin' him ever since. He took all these fragments of goods I found, over into the garret above the carriage shed.
“Well, back to my point. Duke would sleep during the day in the season and collect bits of the rear parts of Western pants at night. One morning, Duke had a piece of fancy cassimere stuck in his teeth that I tried to get out and keep so I could identify the owner, maybe, but he wouldn't let go of it. I tried to coax him and even hit him across the face and eyes with an old board, but he wouldn't surrender it to me. So I just kept an eye on him. I've been watching him ever since. He took all these pieces of fabric I found up into the attic above the carriage shed.”
“Yesterday I went in there and took a lantern with me. There on the floor the Duke of Rawhide had arranged all the samples of Rocky Mountain pantaloons with a good deal of taste, and I don't suppose you'd believe it, but that blamed pup is collecting all these little scraps to make himself a crazy quilt.
“Yesterday I went in there and took a lantern with me. There on the floor, the Duke of Rawhide had arranged all the samples of Rocky Mountain pants with a lot of style, and I don’t think you’d believe it, but that darn puppy is collecting all these little scraps to make himself a crazy quilt.”
“You can talk about instinct in animals, but, so far as the Duke of Rawhide Buttes is concerned, it seems to me more like all-wool genius a yard wide.”
“You can discuss animal instincts, but as far as the Duke of Rawhide Buttes is concerned, it strikes me as more of a genius that’s all wool and a yard wide.”
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
Etiquette at Hotels.
Etiquette at hotels is a subject that has been but lightly treated upon by our modern philosophy, and yet it is a subject that lies very near to every American heart. Had I not already more reforms on hand than I can possibly successfully operate I would gladly use my strong social influence and trenchant pen in that direction. Etiquette at hotels, both on the part of the proprietor, and his hirelings, and the guest, is a matter that calls loudly for improvement.
Etiquette at hotels is a topic that hasn’t been discussed much by our modern thinkers, but it’s something that resonates deeply with every American. If I didn’t already have more reforms to tackle than I can handle, I would eagerly use my strong social influence and sharp writing to address this issue. Hotel etiquette, involving the owner, the staff, and the guests, is an area that desperately needs improvement.
The hotel waiter alone, would well repay a close study. From the tardy and polished loiterer of the effete East, to the off-hand and social equal of the budding West, all waiters are deserving of philosophical scrutiny. I was thrown in contact with a waiter in New York last summer, whose manners were far more polished than my own. Every time I saw him standing there with his immediate pantaloons and swallow-tail coat, and the far-away, chastened look of one who had been unfortunate, but not crushed, I felt that I was unworthy to be waited upon by such a blue-blooded thoroughbred, and I often wished that we had more such men in Congress. And when he would take my order and go away with it, and after the meridian of my life had softened into the mellow glory of the sere and yellow leaf, when he came back, still looking quite young, and never having forgotten me, recognizing me readily after the long, dull, desolate years, I was glad, and I felt that he deserved something more than mere empty thanks and I said to him: “Ah, sir, you still remember me after years of privation and suffering. When every one else in New York has forgotten me, with the exception of the confidence man, you came to me with the glad light of recognition in your clear eye. Would you be offended if I gave you this trifling testimonial of my regard?” at the same time giving him my note at thirty days.
The hotel waiter alone is worth a closer look. From the slow and refined loiterer of the faded East to the casual and friendly equal of the growing West, all waiters deserve thoughtful examination. I met a waiter in New York last summer whose manners were far more polished than mine. Every time I saw him standing there in his tailored pants and swallow-tail coat, with the distant, subdued look of someone who's faced hardships but hasn’t been broken, I felt unworthy to be served by such an aristocratic individual. I often wished we had more men like him in Congress. When he took my order and walked away, and after the peak of my life had faded into the warm glory of autumn, when he came back still looking quite youthful and never forgetting me, recognizing me easily after all those long, dull years, I felt happy. I thought he deserved more than just empty gratitude, so I said to him: “Ah, sir, you still remember me after all these years of hardship. When everyone else in New York has forgotten me, except for the con artist, you approached me with the bright light of recognition in your clear eye. Would you be offended if I gave you this small token of my appreciation?” at the same time handing him my thirty-day note.
I wanted him to have something by which to always remember me, and I guess he has.
I wanted him to have something to always remember me by, and I guess he does.
Speaking of waiters, reminds me of one at Glendive, Montana. We had to telegraph ahead in order to get a place to sleep, and when we registered the landlord shoved out an old double-entry journal for us to record our names and postoffice address in. The office was the bar and before we could get our rooms assigned us, we had to wait forty-five minutes for the landlord to collect pay for thirteen drinks and lick a personal friend. Finally, when he got around to me, he told me that I could sleep in the night bar-tender's bed, as he would be up all night, and might possibly get killed and never need it again, anyhow. It would cost me $4 cash in advance to sleep one night in the bartender's bed, he said, and the house was so blamed full that he and his wife had got to wait till things kind of quieted down, and then they would have to put a mattress on the 15 ball pool table and sleep there.
Speaking of waiters, it reminds me of one I met in Glendive, Montana. We had to send a telegraph ahead to secure a place to sleep, and when we arrived, the landlord handed us an old double-entry journal to fill in our names and postal addresses. The office was actually the bar, and before we could be assigned our rooms, we had to wait forty-five minutes for the landlord to collect payment for thirteen drinks and chat with a personal friend. Finally, when he got to me, he said I could sleep in the night bartender's bed since he would be working all night and might end up getting killed, so he wouldn't need it anymore. It would cost me $4 in cash upfront to sleep in the bartender's bed, he added, and the house was so packed that he and his wife would have to wait until things settled down to put a mattress on the 15 ball pool table and sleep there.
I called attention to my valuable valise that had been purchased at great cost, and told him that he would be safe to keep that behind the bar till I paid; but he said he wasn't in the second-hand valise business, and so I paid in advance. It was humiliating, but he had the edge on me.
I pointed out my expensive suitcase that I had bought at a high price and told him it would be fine to keep that behind the bar until I paid him. But he said he wasn't in the second-hand suitcase business, so I ended up paying in advance. It was embarrassing, but he had the upper hand.
At the tea table I noticed that the waiter was a young man who evidently had not been always thus. He had the air of one who yearns to have some one tread on the tail of his coat. Meekness, with me, is one of my characteristics. It is almost a passion. It is the result of personal injuries received in former years at the hands of parties who excelled me in brute force and who succeeded in drawing me out in conversation, as it were, till I made remarks that were injudicious.
At the tea table, I noticed that the waiter was a young man who clearly hadn't always been like this. He had the vibe of someone who longs for someone to step on the back of his coat. Meekness is one of my traits; it's almost a passion for me. It comes from personal injuries I suffered in the past from those who were physically stronger and managed to provoke me into saying things that I later regretted.
So I did not disagree with this waiter, although I had grounds. When he came around and snorted in my ear, “Salt pork, antelope and cold beans,” at the same time leaning his full weight on my back, while he evaded the revenue laws by retailing his breath to the guests without a license, I thought I would call for what he had the most of, so I said if he didn't mind and it wouldn't be too much trouble, I would take cold beans.
So I didn’t argue with this waiter, even though I had reasons to. When he came by and sniffed in my ear, “Salt pork, antelope, and cold beans,” while leaning his full weight on my back and dodging the revenue laws by selling his breath to the guests without a permit, I figured I’d just order what he seemed to have the most of, so I asked if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d take cold beans.
I will leave it to the calm, impassionate and unpartisan reader to state whether that remark ought to create ill-feeling. I do not think it ought. However, he was irritable, and life to him seemed to be cold and dark. So he went to the general delivery window that led into the cold bean laboratory, and remarked in a hoarse, insolent, and ironical tone of voice:
I’ll let the calm, impartial reader decide if that comment should cause any negativity. I don’t believe it should. However, he was on edge, and life felt cold and dark to him. So he went to the general delivery window that opened into the cold bean laboratory and said in a rough, disrespectful, and sarcastic tone:
“Nother damned suspicious looking character wants cold beans.”
"Nother damn suspicious-looking character wants cold beans."
Fifteen Years Apart.
The American Indian approximates nearer to what man should be—manly, physically perfect, grand in character, and true to the instincts of his conscience—than any other race of beings, civilized or uncivilized. Where do we hear such noble sentiments or meet with such examples of heroism and self-sacrifice as the history of the American Indian furnishes? Where shall we go to hear again such oratory as that of Black Hawk and Logan? Certainly the records of our so-called civilization do not furnish it, and the present century is devoid of it.
The American Indian comes closer to the ideal of what humanity should be—strong, physically flawless, admirable in character, and aligned with the instincts of their conscience—than any other race, whether civilized or not. Where else can we find such noble sentiments or witness such examples of heroism and self-sacrifice as those presented in the history of the American Indian? Where can we hear oratory as powerful as that of Black Hawk and Logan? Clearly, the records of our so-called civilization don’t provide it, and this century lacks it.
They were the true children of the Great Spirit. They lived nearer to the great heart of the Creator than do their pale-faced conquerors of to-day who mourn over the lost and undone condition of the savage. Courageous, brave and the soul of honor, their cruel and awful destruction from the face of the earth is a sin of such magnitude that the relics and the people of America may well shrink from the just punishment which is sure to follow the assassination of as brave a race as ever breathed the air of Heaven.
They were the true children of the Great Spirit. They lived closer to the great heart of the Creator than their pale-faced conquerors do today, who lament the lost and broken condition of the native people. Courageous, brave, and honorable, the brutal and horrific destruction of their existence is a sin so great that the remnants and the people of America might well fear the inevitable consequences that will come after the killing of such a brave race as has ever lived on this earth.
{Illustration: AT FIFTEEN.}
{Illustration: AT 15.}
I wrote the above scathing rebuke of the American people when I was 15 years of age. I ran across the dissertation yesterday. As a general rule, it takes a youth 15 years of age to arraign Congress and jerk the administration bald-headed. The less he knows about things generally, the more cheerfully will he shed information right and left.
I wrote the above harsh criticism of the American people when I was 15 years old. I came across that essay yesterday. Generally speaking, it takes a 15-year-old to call out Congress and challenge the administration boldly. The less he knows about issues in general, the more eagerly he will share his opinions without hesitation.
At the time I wrote the above crude attack upon the government, I had not seen any Indians, but I had read much. My blood boiled when I thought of the wrongs which our race had meted out to the red man. It was at the time when my blood was just coming to a boil that I penned the above paragraph. Ten years later I had changed my views somewhat, relative to the Indian, and frankly wrote to the government of the change. When I am doing the administration an injustice, and I find it out, I go to the president candidly, and say: “Look here, Mr. President, I have been doing you a wrong. You were right and I was erroneous. I am not pig-headed and stubborn. I just admit fairly that I have been hindering the administration, and I do not propose to do so any more.”
At the time I wrote that rough critique of the government, I hadn’t seen any Native Americans, but I had read a lot. I was furious when I thought about the injustices our race had inflicted on the Indigenous people. It was during that time of anger that I wrote the paragraph above. Ten years later, my views about Native Americans changed somewhat, and I honestly communicated that change to the government. When I realize I’ve been unfair to the administration, I go to the president directly and say, “Look, Mr. President, I’ve been wrong. You were right, and I was mistaken. I’m not stubborn; I just admit that I’ve been obstructing the administration, and I won’t do that anymore.”
So I wrote to Gen. Grant and told him that when I was 15 years of age I wrote a composition at school in which I had arraigned the people and the administration for the course taken toward the Indians. Since that time I had seen some Indians in the mountains—at a distance—and from what I had seen of them I was led to believe that I had misjudged the people and the executive. I told him that so far as possible I would like to repair the great wrong so done in the ardor of youth and to once more sustain the arm of the government.
So I wrote to Gen. Grant and told him that when I was 15, I wrote a paper for school in which I criticized the people and the government for their treatment of the Indians. Since then, I had seen some Indians in the mountains—though from a distance—and from what I observed, I realized I had been mistaken in my views about them and the administration. I told him that I would like to do whatever I could to right the wrong I committed in my youthful enthusiasm and to support the government's efforts once again.
He wrote me kindly and said he was glad that I was friendly with the government again, and that now he saw nothing in the way of continued national prosperity. He said he would preserve my letter in the archives as a treaty of peace between myself and the nation. He said only the day before he had observed to the cabinet that he didn't care two cents about a war with foreign nations, but he would like to be on a peace footing with me. The country could stand outside interference better than intestine hostility. I do not know whether he meant anything personal by that or not. Probably not.
He wrote to me kindly and said he was happy that I was on good terms with the government again, and that now he didn’t see anything blocking continued national prosperity. He mentioned that he would keep my letter in the archives as a peace agreement between me and the nation. He said just the day before he had told the cabinet that he didn't care at all about a war with foreign countries, but he would like to maintain a peaceful relationship with me. The country could handle outside interference better than internal conflict. I’m not sure if he meant anything personal by that or not. Probably not.
He said he remembered very well when he first heard that I had attacked the Indian policy of the United States in one of my school essays. He still called to mind the feeling of alarm and apprehension which at that time pervaded the whole country. How the cheeks of strong men had blanched and the Goddess of Liberty felt for her back hair and exchanged her Mother Hubbard dress for a new cast-iron panoply of war and Roman hay knife. Oh, yes, he said, he remembered it as though it had been yesterday.
He said he remembered clearly when he first heard that I had criticized the Indian policy of the United States in one of my school essays. He still recalled the feeling of fear and anxiety that spread across the entire country at that time. How the faces of strong men turned pale and the Goddess of Liberty was so concerned that she changed out of her Mother Hubbard dress into a new suit of armor and a Roman sickle. Oh, yes, he said, he remembered it like it was yesterday.
Having at heart the welfare of the American people as he did, he hoped that I would never attack the republic again.
Having the welfare of the American people in mind as he did, he hoped that I would never attack the republic again.
And I never have. I have been friendly, not only personally, but officially, for a good while. Even if I didn't agree with some of the official acts of the president I would allow him to believe that I did rather than harass him with cold, cruel and adverse criticism. The abundant success of this policy is written in the country's wonderful growth and prosperous peace.
And I never have. I've been friendly, not just personally, but also officially, for quite some time. Even if I didn't agree with some of the president's official actions, I chose to let him think I did instead of bothering him with harsh, cold criticism. The great success of this approach is evident in the country's amazing growth and thriving peace.
Dessicated Mule.
The red-eyed antagonist of truth is not found alone in the ranks of the newspaper phalanx. You run up against him in all walks of life. He flourishes in all professions, and he is ready at all times to entertain. There is quite a difference between a malicious falsehood and the different shades of parables, fables with a moral, Sabbath-school books, newspaper sketches, and anecdotes told to entertain.
The red-eyed enemy of truth isn't found only among newspapers. You encounter him in all areas of life. He thrives in every profession and is always ready to entertain. There's a big difference between a harmful lie and the various types of stories, moral fables, Sunday school books, newspaper articles, and anecdotes meant for entertainment.
A malicious lie is injurious personally. A business lie is a falsehood for revenue only. But the yarns that are spun around camp-fires, in mining and logging camps, to while away a dull evening, are not within the jurisdiction of the criminal code or the home missionary.
A harmful lie hurts someone personally. A business lie is a falsehood meant solely for profit. However, the stories told around campfires in mining and logging camps to pass the time on a boring evening aren’t subject to the law or the home missionary.
On the train, yesterday several old lumbermen were telling about hard roads and steep hills, engineering skill and so forth. Finally they told about “snubbing” a loaded team down bad hills, and one man said:
On the train yesterday, a few old lumbermen were sharing stories about rough roads and steep hills, engineering skills, and so on. Eventually, they started talking about “snubbing” a loaded team down difficult hills, and one man said:
“You might 'snub' down a cheap hill, but you couldn't do it on our road. We tried it. Couldn't do a thing. Finally we got to building snow-sheds and hauling sand. You build a snow-shed that covers the grade, then fill the road in with two feet of loose sand, and you're O.K. We did that last winter, and when you drive a four-horse load of logs down through them long snow-sheds on bare ground, mind ye, and the bobs go plowing through the sand, the sled-shoes will make the fire fly so that you can read the President's message at midnight.”
“You might slide down a cheap hill, but you couldn't do it on our road. We tried it. We couldn’t make it work. Eventually, we started building snow sheds and hauling sand. You create a snow shed that covers the slope, then fill the road with two feet of loose sand, and you're good to go. We did that last winter, and when you drive a four-horse load of logs down those long snow sheds on bare ground, mind you, and the bobsled goes plowing through the sand, the sled shoes will create sparks so bright that you can read the President's message at midnight.”
Then an old man who went to Pike's Peak during the excitement and returned afterward, woke up and yawned two or three times, and said they used to have some trouble, a good many years ago getting over the range where the South Park road now goes from Chalk Creek Canon through Alpine Tunnel to the Gunnison.
Then an old man who visited Pike's Peak during the excitement and came back afterward woke up, yawned a couple of times, and said they had quite a bit of trouble, many years ago, crossing the range where the South Park road now runs from Chalk Creek Canyon through Alpine Tunnel to the Gunnison.
“We tried 'snubbing' and everything we could think of, but it was N.G.
“We tried 'snubbing' and everything we could think of, but it just didn't work.”
“Finally we got hold of a new kind of 'snub' that worked pretty well. We had a long table made a-purpose, that would reach to the foot of the hill from the top, and we'd tie a three-ton load to the end at the top of the hill; then we would hitch six mules to the end at the foot of the hill. Well, the principle of the thing was, that as the load went down on the Gunnison side it would pull the mules up the opposite side, tails first.”
“Finally, we figured out a new kind of 'snub' that worked really well. We had a long table made just for this purpose, which stretched from the top to the bottom of the hill, and we’d tie a three-ton load to the end at the top of the hill; then, we would hook six mules to the end at the bottom of the hill. The idea was that as the load went down on the Gunnison side, it would pull the mules up the opposite side, tails first.”
“How did it work?”
“How did it go?”
“Oh, it worked all right if the mules and the load balanced; but one day we put on a light mule named Emma Abbott, and the load got a start down the Gunnison side that made that old cable sing. The wagon tipped over and concussed a keg of blasting powder, and that obliterated the rest of the goods.
“Oh, it worked fine as long as the mules and the load were balanced; but one day we put a light mule named Emma Abbott on, and the load took off down the Gunnison side, making that old cable sing. The wagon tipped over and slammed into a keg of blasting powder, which destroyed the rest of the goods.”
“But the air on the other side was full of mules. You ought to seen 'em come up that hill!
“But the air on the other side was full of mules. You should've seen them come up that hill!
“It takes considerable of a crisis to affect the natural reserve of six mules; but when they saw how it was, they backed up that mountain with great enthusiasm. They didn't touch the ground but once in three thousand feet, but they struck the canopy of heaven several times.
“It takes quite a crisis to impact the natural stamina of six mules; but when they realized the situation, they climbed that mountain with great enthusiasm. They hardly touched the ground but once every three thousand feet, but they hit the sky several times.
“When the sky cleared up, we made a careful inventory of the stock.
“When the sky cleared, we took a careful inventory of the stock."
“We had a second-hand three-inch cable and some desiccated mule. We never went to look for the wagon; but when the weather got warm, the Coyotes helped us find Emma Abbott.
“We had a used three-inch cable and some dried mule meat. We never bothered to search for the wagon; but when the weather warmed up, the Coyotes helped us track down Emma Abbott.”
“She was hanging by the ear in the crotch of an old hemlock tree.
“She was hanging by the ear in the fork of an old hemlock tree.
“Life was extinct.
"Life was extinct."
“We found a few more of the mules, but they were fractional.
“We found a few more of the mules, but they were fractional.
“Emma Abbott was the only complete mule we found.”
“Emma Abbott was the only entire mule we came across.”
Time's Changes.
I fixed myself and went out trout fishing on the only original Kinnickinnick river last week. It was a kind of Rip Van Winkle picnic and farewell moonlight excursion home. I believe that Rip Van Winkle, however, confined himself to hunting mostly with an old musket that was on the retired list when Rip took his sleepy drink on the Catskills. If he could have gone with me fishing last week over the old trail, digging angle-worms at the same old place where I left the spade sticking in the grim soil twenty years ago—if we could have waded down the Kinnickinnick together with high rubber boots on, and got nibbles and bites at the same places, and found the same old farmers with nearly a quarter of a century added to their lives and glistening in their hair, we would have had fun no doubt on that day, and a headache on the day following. This affords me an opportunity to say that trout may be caught successfully without a corkscrew. I have tried it. I've about decided that the main reason why so many large lies are told about the number of trout caught all over the country, is that at the moment the sportsman pulls his game out of the water, he labors under some kind of an optical illusion, by reason of which he sees about nine trout where he ought to see only one.
I got ready and went out trout fishing on the original Kinnickinnick River last week. It felt like a Rip Van Winkle picnic and a farewell moonlight trip home. I think Rip Van Winkle, though, mostly stuck to hunting with an old musket that was already outdated when he took his sleepy drink in the Catskills. If he could have joined me fishing last week on the old trail, digging for angle-worms at the same spot where I left the spade stuck in the hard soil twenty years ago — if we could have waded down the Kinnickinnick together in high rubber boots, caught nibbles and bites in the same spots, and met the same old farmers with almost a quarter of a century added to their lives and silver in their hair, we would have had a great time that day, and a headache the next day. This gives me a chance to point out that you can catch trout successfully without a corkscrew. I've tried it. I've pretty much concluded that the main reason so many big lies are told about the number of trout caught everywhere is that the moment a fisherman pulls his catch out of the water, he experiences some kind of optical illusion, making him think he sees about nine trout when he should only see one.
I wish I had as many dollars as I have soaked deceased angle-worms in that same beautiful Kinnickinnick. There was a little stream made into it that we called Tidd's creek. It is still there. This stream runs across Tidd's farm, and Tidd twenty years ago wouldn't allow anybody to fish in the creek. I can still remember how his large hand used to feel, as he caught me by the nape of the neck and threw me over the fence with my amateur fishing tackle and a willow “stringer” with eleven dried, stiff trout on it. Last week I thought I would try Tidd's creek again. It was always a good place to fish, and I felt the same old excitement, with just enough vague forebodings in it to make it pleasant. Still, I had grown a foot or so since I used to fish there, and perhaps I could return the compliment by throwing the old gentleman over his own fence, and then hiss in his ear “R-r-r-r-e-v-e-n-g-e!!!”
I wish I had as many dollars as I have soaked dead worms in that same beautiful Kinnickinnick. There was a little stream that we called Tidd's creek. It's still there. This stream runs across Tidd's farm, and twenty years ago, Tidd wouldn’t let anyone fish in the creek. I can still remember how his big hand felt when he grabbed me by the back of the neck and tossed me over the fence with my beginner fishing gear and a willow “stringer” holding eleven dried, stiff trout. Last week, I thought I’d give Tidd's creek another try. It was always a great spot for fishing, and I felt that same old excitement, with just enough vague worries mixed in to make it enjoyable. Still, I had grown a foot or so since I used to fish there, and maybe I could return the favor by throwing the old guy over his own fence, then whisper in his ear, “R-r-r-r-e-v-e-n-g-e!!!”
{Illustration: I BECAME MORE FEARLESS.}
I became more fearless.
I had got pretty well across the “lower forty” and had about decided that Tidd had been gathered to his fathers, when I saw him coming with his head up like a steer in the corn. Tidd is a blacksmith by trade, and he has an arm with hair on it that looks like Jumbo's hind leg. I felt the same old desire to climb the fence and be alone. I didn't know exactly how to work it. Then I remembered how people had remarked that I had changed very much in twenty years, and that for a homely boy I had grown to be a remarkably picturesque-looking man. I trusted to Tidd's failing eyesight and said:
I had made it pretty far across the “lower forty” and was about to decide that Tidd had passed away, when I saw him coming with his head held high like a bull in a cornfield. Tidd is a blacksmith by trade, and his arm is covered in hair that looks like Jumbo's back leg. I felt that same old urge to climb the fence and be alone. I wasn’t quite sure how to work it out. Then I remembered how people had said that I had changed a lot over the past twenty years, and that for an average-looking guy, I had turned into a pretty striking-looking man. I relied on Tidd's poor eyesight and said:
“How are you?”
"How's it going?"
He said, “How are you?” That did not answer my question, but I didn't mind a little thing like that.
He said, “How are you?” That didn’t answer my question, but I didn’t mind a small detail like that.
Then he said: “I sposed that every pesky fool in this country knew I don't allow fishing on my land.”
Then he said, “I suppose that every annoying idiot in this country knows I don't allow fishing on my land.”
“That may be,” says I, “but I ain't fishing on your land. I always fish in a damp place if I can. Moreover, how do I know this is your land? Carrying the argument still further, and admitting that every peesky fool knows that you didn't allow fishing here, I am not going to be called a pesky fool with impunity, unless you do it over my dead body.” He stopped about ten rods away and I became more fearless. “I don't know who you are,” said I, as I took off my coat and vest and piled them up on my fish basket, eager for the fray. “You claim to own this farm, but it is my opinion that you are the hired man, puffed up with a little authority. You can't order me off this ground till you show me a duly certified abstract of title and then identify yourself. What protection does a gentleman have if he is to be kicked and cuffed about by Tom, Dick and Harry, claiming they own the whole State. Get out! Avaunt! If you don't avaunt pretty quick I'll scrap you and sell you to a medical college.”
"That might be true," I said, "but I'm not fishing on your land. I always fish in a wet spot if I can. Besides, how do I know this is your land? To take it even further, even if every annoying idiot knows that you don’t let people fish here, I’m not going to let you call me an annoying fool without a fight, unless you do it over my dead body." He stopped about ten rods away, and I felt bolder. "I don’t know who you are," I said, as I took off my coat and vest and piled them on my fish basket, ready for a confrontation. "You claim to own this farm, but I think you’re just the hired help, puffed up with a little authority. You can’t tell me to leave until you show me a proper title deed and then identify yourself. What kind of protection does a gentleman have if he has to deal with random guys, like Tom, Dick, and Harry, who claim to own the whole state? Get out! Scram! If you don’t get lost soon, I’ll scrap you and sell you to a medical college."
He stood in dumb amazement a moment, then he said he would go and get his deed and his shotgun. I said shotguns suited me exactly, and I told him to bring two of them loaded with giant powder and barbed wire. I would not live alway. I asked not to stay. When he got behind the corn-crib I climbed the fence and fled with my ill-gotten gains.
He stood there in shock for a moment, then said he would go get his deed and his shotgun. I replied that shotguns were just what I wanted, and I told him to bring two loaded with dynamite and barbed wire. I didn’t want to live forever. I asked him not to stay. When he got behind the corn-crib, I climbed the fence and ran off with my stolen loot.
The blacksmith in his prime may lick the small boy, but twenty years changes their relative positions. Possibly Tidd could tear up the ground with me now, but in ten more years, if I improve as fast as he fails, I shall fish in that same old stream again.
The blacksmith in his prime might beat the little boy, but twenty years shifts their positions. Maybe Tidd could take me down now, but in another ten years, if I improve as quickly as he declines, I’ll be fishing in that same old stream again.
Letter From New York.
Dear friend.—Being Sunday, I take an hour to write you a letter in regard to this place. I came here yesterday without attracting undue attention from people who lived here. If they was surprised, they concealed it from me.
Dear friend.—Since it’s Sunday, I’m taking an hour to write you a letter about this place. I arrived here yesterday without drawing too much attention from the locals. If they were surprised, they hid it from me.
I've camped out on the Chug years ago, and went to sleep with no live thing near me except my own pony, and woke up with the early song of the coyote, and have been on the lonesome plain for days where it seemed to me that a hostile would be mighty welcome if he would only say something to me, but I was never so lonesome as I was here in this big town last night, although it is the most thick settled place I was ever at.
I've camped out in the Chug a few years ago, and went to sleep with only my pony nearby, waking up to the early song of the coyote. I spent days on the lonely plains where I felt like any unfriendly visitor would be a welcome distraction if they would just say something to me. But I've never felt as lonely as I did last night in this big town, even though it's the most populated place I've ever been.
I was so kind of low and depressed that I strolled in to the bar at last, allowing that I could pound on the counter and call up the boys and get acquainted a little with somebody, just as I would at Col. Luke Murrin's, at Cheyenne; but when I waved to the other parties, and told them to rally round the foaming beaker, they apologized, and allowed they had just been to dinner.
I was feeling really low and down, so I finally walked into the bar, thinking I could pound on the counter, call over the guys, and chat a bit with someone, just like I would at Col. Luke Murrin's in Cheyenne. But when I waved at the others and told them to come over for a drink, they apologized and said they had just finished dinner.
Just been to dinner, and there it was pretty blamed near dark! Then I asked 'em to take a cigar, but they mostly cackillated they had no occasion.
Just got back from dinner, and it was almost completely dark! Then I asked them to take a cigar, but they mostly stammered that they had no reason to.
I was mad, but what could I do? They was too many for me, and I couldn't coerce the white livered aristocratic mob, for quicker'n scat they could have hollored into a little cupboard they had there in the corner, and in less'n two minits they'd of had the whole police department and the hook and ladder company down there after me with a torch-light procession.
I was furious, but what could I do? There were too many of them, and I couldn't intimidate that cowardly aristocratic crowd. In the blink of an eye, they could have shouted into a little cupboard they had in the corner, and in less than two minutes, the whole police department and the fire department would have been down there after me in a torchlight procession.
So I swallowed my wrath and a tame drink of cultivated whiskey with Apollo Belvidere on the side, and went out into the auditorium of the hotel.
So I held back my anger and sipped a smooth drink of quality whiskey with Apollo Belvidere beside me, and stepped out into the hotel auditorium.
Here I was very unhappy, being, as the editor of the Green River Gazette would say, “the cynosure of all eyes.”
Here I was very unhappy, being, as the editor of the Green River Gazette would say, “the center of attention.”
I would rather not be a cynosure, even at a good salary; so I thought I would ask the proprietor to build a fire in my room. I went up to the recorder's office, where the big hotel autograft album is, and asked to see the proprietor.
I’d prefer not to be the center of attention, even for a decent paycheck; so I thought I’d ask the owner to start a fire in my room. I went up to the recorder's office, where the big hotel guestbook is, and asked to see the owner.
A good-looking young man came forward and asked me what he could do for me. I said if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I wisht he would build a little fire in my room, and I would pay him for it; or, if he would show me where the woodpile was, I would build the fire myself—I wasn't doing anything special at that time.
A good-looking young guy stepped up and asked how he could help me. I said if it wasn't too much trouble, I wished he would make a small fire in my room, and I'd pay him for that; or, if he could just show me where the woodpile was, I could build the fire myself—I wasn't doing anything important at the moment.
He then whistled through his teeth and crooked his finger in a shrill tone of voice to a young party who was working for him, and told him to “build a fire in four-ought-two.”
He then whistled through his teeth and gestured with his finger in a high-pitched voice to a young guy who was working for him, and told him to “build a fire in four-oh-two.”
I then sat down in the auditorium and read out of a railroad tract, which undertook to show that a party that undertook to ride over a rival road, must do so because life was a burden to him, and facility, and comfort, and safety, and such things no object whatever. But still I was very lonely, and felt as if I was far, far away from home.
I then sat down in the auditorium and read from a railroad pamphlet, which tried to argue that someone who chose to travel on a rival railway must be doing so because life felt overwhelming, and ease, comfort, safety, and those things were not important at all. But even so, I felt very lonely and as if I was really far away from home.
I couldn't have been more uncomfortable if I'd been a young man I saw twenty-five years ago on the old overland trail. He had gone out to study the Indian character, and to win said Indian to the fold. When I next saw him he was twenty miles farther on. He had been thrown in contact with said Indian in the meantime. I judged he had been making a collection of Indian arrows. He was extremely no more. He looked some like Saint Sebastian, and some like a toothpick-holder.
I couldn't have felt more uncomfortable if I were the young man I saw twenty-five years ago on the old overland trail. He had gone out to study Native American cultures and to bring them into the fold. When I saw him again, he was twenty miles ahead. He had encountered those Native Americans in the meantime. I figured he had been collecting Indian arrows. He certainly wasn’t looking like himself anymore. He resembled a mix between Saint Sebastian and a toothpick holder.
I was never successfully lost on the plains, and so I started out after supper to find my room. I found a good many other rooms, and tried to get into them, but I did not find four-ought-two till a late hour; then I subsidized the night patrol on the third floor to assist me.
I was never really lost on the plains, so after dinner I set out to find my room. I came across a lot of other rooms and tried to get into them, but I didn’t find four-oh-two until late at night; then I enlisted the help of the night patrol on the third floor.
This is a nice place to stop, but it is a little too rich for my blood, I guess Not so much as regards price, but I can see that I am beginning to excite curiosity among the boarders. People are coming here to board just because I am here, and it is disagreeable. I do not court notoriety. I have always lived in a plain way, and I would give a dollar if people would look the other way while I eat my pie.
This is a nice place to stop, but I guess it’s a bit too fancy for me. Not so much because of the price, but I can tell that I’m starting to draw attention from the other guests. People are coming here to stay just because I’m here, and it’s uncomfortable. I don’t want any attention. I’ve always lived simply, and I would pay a dollar just for people to look the other way while I eat my pie.
Yours truly,
Sincerely,
E.O.D.
End of Day.
To E. Wm. Nye, Esq.
To E. Wm. Nye, Esq.
P.S.—This is not a dictated letter. I left my stenograffer and revolver at Pumpkin Buttes.
P.S.—This is not a dictated letter. I left my stenographer and gun at Pumpkin Buttes.
E.O.D.
End of day.
Crowns and Crowned Heads.
During the hot weather very few crowns are worn this season, and a few hints as to the care of the crown itself may not be out of place.
During the hot weather, very few crowns are worn this season, and a few tips on how to care for the crown itself might be useful.
The crown should not be carelessly hung on the hat rack in the royal hall for the flies to roost upon, but it should be thoroughly cleaned and put away as soon as the weather becomes too hot to wear it comfortably.
The crown shouldn’t just be tossed on the hat rack in the royal hall for the flies to settle on; it should be cleaned thoroughly and stored away as soon as it gets too hot to wear comfortably.
Great care should be used in cleaning a gold-plated crown, to avoid wearing out the plate. Take a good stiff tooth brush, with a little soapsuds, and clean the crown thoroughly at first, drying it on a clean towel and taking care not to drop it on the floor and thus knock the moss-agate diadem loose. Next, get a sleeve of the royal undershirt, or, in case you can not procure one readily, the sleeve of a duke or right-bower may be used. Soak this in vinegar, and, with a coat of whiting, polish the crown thoroughly, wrap it in cotton-flannel and put in the bureau. Sometimes, the lining of the crown becomes saturated with hair-oil from constant use and needs cleaning. In such cases the lining may be removed, boiled in concentrated lye two hours, or until tender, and then placed on the grass to bleach in the sun.
Great care should be taken when cleaning a gold-plated crown to avoid wearing off the plating. Use a stiff toothbrush with some soapy water to thoroughly clean the crown at first, then dry it with a clean towel, being careful not to drop it on the floor and loosen the moss-agate diadem. Next, get a sleeve from a royal undershirt, or if that's not available, you can use a sleeve from a duke or a close associate. Soak this sleeve in vinegar and, with some whiting, polish the crown well. Wrap it in cotton flannel and store it in the drawer. Sometimes, the lining of the crown gets saturated with hair oil from regular use and needs to be cleaned. In those cases, the lining can be removed, boiled in concentrated lye for two hours or until soft, and then placed on the grass to bleach in the sun.
Most crowns are size six-and-seven-eights, and they are therefore frequently too large for the number six head of royalty. In such cases a newspaper may be folded lengthwise and laid inside the sweat-band of the crown, thus reducing the size and preventing any accident by which his or her majesty might lose the crown in the coal-bin while doing chores.
Most crowns are size six and seven-eighths, so they're often too big for the number six head of royalty. In these situations, a newspaper can be folded lengthwise and placed inside the sweatband of the crown, which reduces the size and helps prevent any accidents where their majesty might lose the crown in the coal-bin while doing chores.
After the Fourth of July and other royal holidays, this newspaper may be removed, and the crown will be found none too large for the imperial dome of thought.
After the Fourth of July and other royal holidays, this newspaper can be taken down, and the crown will fit perfectly on the imperial dome of thought.
Sceptres may be cleaned and wrapped in woolen goods during the hot months. The leg of an old pair of pantaloons makes a good retort to run a sceptre into while not in use. Never try to kill flies or drive carpet tacks with the sceptre. It is an awkward tool at best, and you might 'easily knock a thumb nail loose. Great care should also be taken of the royal robe. Do not use it for a lap robe while dining, nor sleep in it at night. Nothing looks more repugnant than a king on the throne, with little white feathers all over his robe.
Scepters should be cleaned and stored in woolen cloth during the hot months. The leg of an old pair of pants makes a good holder for a scepter when it's not in use. Never try to swat flies or drive carpet tacks with the scepter. It's an awkward tool, and you could easily hurt your thumb. You should also take great care of the royal robe. Don’t use it as a lap blanket while eating, and don’t sleep in it at night. Nothing looks worse than a king on the throne with little white feathers all over his robe.
It is equally bad taste to govern a kingdom in a maroon robe with white horse hairs all over it.
It’s just as bad taste to rule a kingdom in a maroon robe covered in white horse hairs.
{Illustration: A HARD-WORKING MONARCH.}
{Illustration: A DEDICATED MONARCH.}
I once knew a king who invariably curried his horses in his royal robes; and if the steeds didn't stand around to suit him, he would ever and anon welt them in the pit of the stomach with his cast-iron sceptre. It was greatly to the interest of his horses not to incur the royal displeasure, as the reader has no doubt already surmised.
I once knew a king who always groomed his horses while wearing his royal robes; and if the horses didn't behave as he wanted, he would periodically strike them in the stomach with his heavy scepter. It was definitely in the best interest of his horses to avoid the king's anger, as you’ve probably guessed.
The robe of the king should only be worn while his majesty is on the throne. When he comes down at night, after his day's work, and goes out after his coal and kindling-wood, he may take off his robe, roll it up carefully, and stick it under the throne, where it will be out of sight. Nothing looks more untidy than a fat king milking a bobtail cow in a Mother Hubbard robe trimmed with imitation ermine.
The king's robe should only be worn while he’s on the throne. When he comes down at night after his day's work and goes out to get coal and kindling, he can take off his robe, roll it up carefully, and tuck it under the throne, where it won’t be seen. Nothing looks messier than a plump king milking a bobtail cow in a Mother Hubbard robe trimmed with faux ermine.
My Physician.
{An Open Letter.}
Open Letter
Dear Sir: I have seen recently an open letter addressed to me, and written by you in a vein of confidence and strictly sub rosa. What you said was so strictly confidential, in fact, that you published the letter in New York, and it was copied through the press of the country. I shall, therefore, endeavor to be equally careful in writing my reply.
Dear Sir: I recently came across an open letter addressed to me that you wrote in a confidential tone. What you said was so private, in fact, that you published the letter in New York, and it was picked up by news outlets across the country. Therefore, I will make sure to be just as careful in writing my response.
You refer in your kind and confidential note to your experience as an invalid, and your rapid recovery after the use of red-hot Mexican pepper tea in a molten state.
You mention in your thoughtful and confidential note about your experience as someone who was unwell, and how you quickly got better after using red-hot Mexican pepper tea while it was still molten.
But you did not have such a physician as I did when I had spinal meningitis. He was a good doctor for horses and blind staggers, but he was out of his sphere when he strove to fool with the human frame. Change of scene and rest were favorite prescriptions of his. Most of his patients got both, especially eternal rest. He made a specialty of eternal rest.
But you didn’t have a doctor like mine when I had spinal meningitis. He was great with horses and blind staggers, but he had no clue when it came to the human body. His go-to treatments were a change of scenery and rest. Most of his patients got both, especially the final kind of rest. He really focused on that final kind of rest.
He did not know what the matter was with me, but he seemed to be willing to learn.
He didn't know what was wrong with me, but he appeared eager to find out.
My wife says that while he was attending me I was as crazy as a loon, but that I was more lucid than the physician. Even with my little, shattered wreck of mind, tottering between a superficial knowledge of how to pound sand and a wide, shoreless sea of mental vacuity, I still had the edge on my physician, from an intellectual point of view. He is still practicing medicine in a quiet kind of way, weary of life, and yet fearing to die and go where his patients are.
My wife says that while he was taking care of me, I was completely out of it, but somehow I was clearer than the doctor. Even with my fractured mind, wavering between a basic understanding of how to get by and a vast emptiness of thought, I still had the upper hand over my doctor when it came to intellect. He’s still working in medicine in a laid-back way, tired of life, yet afraid to die and end up where his patients are.
He had a sabre wound on one cheek that gave him a ferocious appearance. He frequently alluded to how he used to mix up in the carnage of battle, and how he used to roll up his pantaloons and wade in gore. He said that if the tocsin of war should sound even now, or if he were to wake up in the night and hear war's rude alarum, he would spring to arms and make tyranny tremble till its suspender buttons fell off.
He had a saber scar on one cheek that made him look fierce. He often mentioned how he used to get caught up in the chaos of battle and how he'd roll up his pants and wade through blood. He said that if the call to war sounded now, or if he woke up in the night to hear the harsh alarm of war, he would grab his weapons and make tyranny shake until its suspenders came undone.
Oh, he was a bad man from Bitter Creek.
Oh, he was a bad dude from Bitter Creek.
One day I learned from an old neighbor that this physician did not have anything to do with preserving the Union intact, but that he acquired the scar on his cheek while making some experiments as a drunk and disorderly. He would come and sit by my bedside for hours, waiting for this mortality to put on immortality, so that he could collect his bill from the estate, but one day I arose during a temporary delirium, and extracting a slat from my couch I smote him across the pit of the stomach with it, while I hissed through my clenched teeth:
One day I found out from an old neighbor that this doctor wasn’t really involved in keeping the Union together, but he got the scar on his cheek while he was drunk and causing trouble during some experiments. He would come and sit by my bedside for hours, waiting for me to pass away so he could collect his bill from my estate. But one day, during a brief delirium, I got up, grabbed a slat from my bed, and struck him in the stomach with it, hissing through my clenched teeth:
“Physician, heal thyself.”
"Doctor, heal yourself."
{Illustration: “PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF."}
{Illustration: “Doctor, heal yourself."}
I then tottered a few minutes, and fell back into the arms of my attendants. If you do not believe this, I can still show you the clenched teeth. Also the attendants.
I then wobbled for a few minutes and fell back into the arms of my attendants. If you don't believe this, I can still show you my clenched teeth. Also the attendants.
I had a hard time with this physician, but I still live, contrary to his earnest solicitations.
I struggled with this doctor, but I'm still alive, despite his serious pleas.
I desire to state that should this letter creep into the press of the country, and thus become in a measure public, I hope that it will create no ill-feeling on your part.
I want to say that if this letter ends up in the country's press and becomes somewhat public, I hope it won't cause any bad feelings on your side.
Our folks are all well as I write, and should you happen to be on Lake Superior this winter, yachting, I hope you will drop in and see us. Our latch string is hanging out most all the time, and if you will pound on the fence I will call off the dog.
Our family is doing well as I write this, and if you find yourself on Lake Superior this winter, yachting, I hope you’ll stop by and visit us. Our door is always open, and if you knock on the fence, I’ll call off the dog.
I frequently buy a copy of your paper on the streets. Do you get the money?
I often buy a copy of your newspaper on the street. Do you receive the money?
Are you acquainted with the staff of The Century, published in New York? I was in The Century office several hours last spring, and the editors treated me very handsomely, but, although I have bought the magazine ever since, and read it thoroughly, I have not seen yet where they said that “they had a pleasant call from the genial and urbane William Nye.” I do not feel offended over this. I simply feel hurt.
Are you familiar with the staff of The Century, published in New York? I spent several hours at the The Century office last spring, and the editors treated me very well. However, even though I've bought the magazine ever since and have read it cover to cover, I haven't seen where they mentioned that “they had a pleasant visit from the friendly and sophisticated William Nye.” I’m not offended by this—I just feel hurt.
Before that I had a good notion to write a brief epic on the “Warty Toad,” and send it to The Century for publication, but now it is quite doubtful.
Before that, I had a great idea to write a short epic about the “Warty Toad” and send it to The Century for publication, but now it seems uncertain.
The Century may be a good paper, but it does not take the press dispatches, and only last month I saw in it an account of a battle that to my certain knowledge occurred twenty years ago.
The Century might be a decent magazine, but it doesn’t cover the press releases, and just last month I came across an article about a battle that I know for a fact happened twenty years ago.
All About Oratory.
Twenty centuries ago last Christmas there was born in Attica, near Athens, the father of oratory, the greatest orator of whom history has told us. His name was Demosthenes. Had he lived until this spring he would have been 2,270 years old; but he did not live. Demosthenes has crossed the mysterious river. He has gone to that bourne whence no traveler returns.
Twenty centuries ago last Christmas, in Attica near Athens, the father of oratory was born — the greatest speaker in history. His name was Demosthenes. If he had lived until this spring, he would have been 2,270 years old; but he didn't make it. Demosthenes has crossed the mysterious river. He has gone to that place from which no traveler returns.
Most of you, no doubt, have heard about it. On those who may not have heard it, the announcement will fall with a sickening thud.
Most of you have probably heard about it. For those who might not have, the announcement will hit them like a heavy blow.
This sketch is not intended to cast a gloom over your hearts. It was designed to cheer those who read it and make them glad they could read.
This sketch isn't meant to bring you down. It was written to uplift those who read it and make them glad they have the ability to read.
Therefore, I would have been glad if I could have spared them the pain which this sudden breaking of the news of the death of Demosthenes will bring. But it could not be avoided. We should remember the transitory nature of life, and when we are tempted to boast of our health, and strength, and wealth, let us remember the sudden and early death of Demosthenes.
Therefore, I would have been happy if I could have protected them from the hurt that this sudden news of Demosthenes' death will cause. But it was unavoidable. We should keep in mind how fleeting life is, and when we feel tempted to brag about our health, strength, and wealth, let us not forget the unexpected and early death of Demosthenes.
Demosthenes was not born an orator. He struggled hard and failed many times. He was homely, and he stammered in his speech; but before his death they came to him for hundreds of miles to get him to open their county fairs and jerk the bird of freedom bald-headed on the Fourth of July.
Demosthenes wasn't born an orator. He worked extremely hard and faced many failures. He was unattractive and had a stutter; however, by the time he died, people traveled from hundreds of miles away to have him open their county fairs and deliver a rousing speech on the Fourth of July.
When Demosthenes' father died, he left fifteen talents to be divided between Demosthenes and his sister. A talent is equal to about $1,000. I often wish I had been born a little more talented.
When Demosthenes' dad passed away, he left fifteen talents to be shared between Demosthenes and his sister. A talent is roughly equal to about $1,000. I often wish I had been born a bit more talented.
Demosthenes had a short breath, a hesitating speech, and his manners were very ungraceful. To remedy his stammering, he filled his mouth full of pebbles and howled his sentiments at the angry sea. However, Plutarch says that Demosthenes made a gloomy fizzle of his first speech. This did not discourage him. He finally became the smoothest orator in that country, and it was no uncommon thing for him to fill the First Baptist Church of Athens full. There are now sixty of his orations extant, part of them written by Demosthenes and part of them written by his private secretary.
Demosthenes had a short breath, a hesitant way of speaking, and his mannerisms were quite awkward. To fix his stuttering, he stuffed his mouth with pebbles and shouted his thoughts at the raging sea. However, Plutarch mentions that Demosthenes had a disappointing performance during his first speech. This didn’t dishearten him. He eventually became the most fluent speaker in the country, and it was not uncommon for him to fill the First Baptist Church of Athens to capacity. There are currently sixty of his speeches still in existence, some written by Demosthenes himself and others by his personal secretary.
When he started in, he was gentle, mild and quiet in his manner; but later on, carrying his audience with him, he at last became enthusiastic. He thundered, he roared, he whooped, he howled, he jarred the windows, he sawed the air, he split the horizon with his clarion notes, he tipped over the table, kicked the lamps out of the chandeliers and smashed the big bass viol over the chief fiddler's head.
When he first began, he was gentle, calm, and quiet in his demeanor; but later on, as he engaged his audience, he eventually became passionate. He thundered, roared, whooped, howled, rattled the windows, sliced through the air, filled the room with his bold notes, overturned the table, kicked the lamps out of the chandeliers, and smashed the big bass violin over the lead fiddler's head.
Oh, Demosthenes was business when he got started. It will be a long time before we see another off-hand speaker like Demosthenes, and I, for one, have never been the same man since I learned of his death.
Oh, Demosthenes was serious when he got started. It'll be a long time before we see another off-the-cuff speaker like Demosthenes, and I, for one, have never been the same since I learned about his death.
“Such was the first of orators,” says Lord Brougham. “At the head of all the mighty masters of speech, the adoration of ages has consecrated his place, and the loss of the noble instrument with which he forged and launched his thunders, is sure to maintain it unapproachable forever.”
“Such was the first of orators,” says Lord Brougham. “At the top of all the great masters of speech, the admiration of generations has solidified his position, and the loss of the incredible skill with which he crafted and delivered his powerful messages is sure to keep it unmatched forever.”
I have always been a great admirer of the oratory of Demosthenes, and those who have heard both of us, think there is a certain degree of similarity in our style.
I have always been a huge fan of Demosthenes' speaking skills, and those who have listened to both of us say there’s a certain similarity in our styles.
And not only did I admire Demosthenes as an orator, but as a man; and, though I am no Vanderbilt, I feel as though I would be willing to head a subscription list for the purpose of doing the square thing by his sorrowing wife, if she is left in want, as I understand that she is.
And not only did I admire Demosthenes as a speaker, but also as a person; and, even though I'm not a Vanderbilt, I feel like I would be willing to start a fundraising effort to do the right thing for his grieving wife, if she is in need, as I've heard that she is.
I must now leave Demosthenes and pass on rapidly to speak of Patrick Henry.
I need to leave Demosthenes and quickly move on to talk about Patrick Henry.
Mr. Henry was the man who wanted liberty or death. He preferred liberty, though. If he couldn't have liberty, he wanted to die, but he was in no great rush about it. He would like liberty, if there was plenty of it; but if the British had no liberty to spare, he yearned for death. When the tyrant asked him what style of death he wanted, he said that he would rather die of extreme old age. He was willing to wait, he said. He didn't want to go unprepared, and he thought it would take him eighty or ninety years more to prepare, so that when he was ushered into another world he wouldn't be ashamed of himself.
Mr. Henry was the guy who wanted freedom or death. He preferred freedom, though. If he couldn't have freedom, he wanted to die, but he wasn't in any hurry about it. He would love freedom if there was plenty of it available; but if the British had no freedom to spare, he longed for death. When the tyrant asked him how he wanted to die, he said he’d rather pass away from old age. He was willing to wait, he said. He didn’t want to go unprepared, and he thought it would take him eighty or ninety more years to get ready, so that when he moved on to the next world, he wouldn't be ashamed of himself.
One hundred and ten years ago, Patrick Henry said: “Sir, our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston. The war is inevitable, and let it come. I repeat it, sir, let it come!”
One hundred and ten years ago, Patrick Henry said: “Sir, our chains are forged. You can hear their clanking on the streets of Boston. The war is unavoidable, so let it happen. I say it again, sir, let it happen!”
In the spring of 1860, I used almost the same language. So did Horace Greeley. There were four or five of us who got our heads together and decided that the war was inevitable, and consented to let it come.
In the spring of 1860, I used nearly the same words. So did Horace Greeley. There were four or five of us who got together and agreed that the war was unavoidable, and we accepted that it was going to happen.
Then it came. Whenever there is a large, inevitable conflict loafing around waiting for permission to come, it devolves on the great statesmen and bald-headed literati of the nation to avoid all delay. It was so with Patrick Henry. He permitted the land to be deluged in gore, and then he retired. It is the duty of the great orator to howl for war, and then hold some other man's coat while he fights.
Then it came. Whenever there's a big, unavoidable conflict lingering around, waiting for the go-ahead, it's up to the great statesmen and bald-headed intellectuals of the nation to speed things up. It was the same with Patrick Henry. He let the country get soaked in blood, and then he stepped back. It's the job of the great orator to call for war and then hold someone else's coat while they fight.
Strabusmus and Justice.
Over in St. Paul I met a man with eyes of cadet blue and a terra cotta nose. His eyes were not only peculiar in shape, but while one seemed to constantly probe the future, the other was apparently ransacking the dreamy past. While one rambled among the glorious possibilities of the remote yet golden ultimately, the other sought the somber depths of the previously.
Over in St. Paul, I met a guy with light blue eyes and a brownish-red nose. His eyes were not just odd in shape; one seemed to constantly look toward the future, while the other appeared to dig through the hazy past. One wandered through the fantastic possibilities of what's to come, while the other explored the dark depths of what had been.
He told me that years ago he had a mild case of strabismus and that both eyes seemed to glare down his nose till he got restless and had them operated on. Those were the days when they used to fasten a crochet hook under the internal rectus muscle and cut it a little with a pair of optical sheep shears. The effect of this course was to allow the eye to drift back to a direct line; but this man fell into the hands of a drunken surgeon who cut the muscle too much, and thereby weakened it so that it gradually swung past the point it ought to have stopped at, and he saw with horror that his eye was going to turn out and protrude, as it were, so that a man could hang his hat on it. The other followed suit, and the two orbs that had for years looked along the bridge of the terra cotta nose, gradually separated, and while one looked toward next Christmas with fond anticipations, the other loved to linger over the remembrances of last fall.
He told me that years ago he had a mild case of strabismus and that both eyes seemed to glare down his nose until he got restless and had them operated on. Back then, they would attach a crochet hook under the internal rectus muscle and cut it a little with a pair of optical sheep shears. The outcome of this procedure was supposed to allow the eye to shift back to a straight line; but this guy ended up with a drunk surgeon who cut the muscle too much, weakening it so that it gradually drifted past where it should have stopped. He watched in horror as his eye started to turn outward and protrude, as if someone could hang a hat on it. The other eye followed suit, and the two orbs that had for years looked along the bridge of his terra cotta nose gradually separated. While one looked ahead to next Christmas with fond hopes, the other reminisced about last fall.
This thing continued till he had to peer into the future with his off eye closed, and vice versa.
This went on until he had to look into the future with one eye closed and the other open.
It is needless to say that he hungered for the blood of that physician and surgeon. He tried to lay violent hands on him and wipe up the ground with him and wear him out across a telegraph pole. But the authorities always prevented the administration of swift and lawful justice.
It goes without saying that he craved the blood of that doctor and surgeon. He attempted to violently confront him, to wipe the floor with him, and to wear him out against a telegraph pole. But the authorities always stopped any chance of quick and fair justice.
Time passed on, till one night the abnormal wall-eyed man loosened a board in the sidewalk up town so that the physician and surgeon caught his foot in it and caused an oblique fracture of the scapula, pied his dura mater, busted his cornucopia and wrecked his sarah-bellum.
Time went on until one night the strange wall-eyed man pried loose a board on the sidewalk uptown, causing the doctor to trip and suffer an angled fracture of the shoulder blade, injured his dura mater, damaged his cornucopia, and messed up his brain.
Perhaps I am in error as to some of these medical terms and their orthography, but that is about the way the man with the divergent orbs told it to me.
Perhaps I'm mistaken about some of these medical terms and their spelling, but that's how the guy with the mismatched eyes told it to me.
The physician and surgeon was quite a ruin. He had to wear clapboards on himself for months, and there were other doctors, and laudable pus and threatened gangrene and doctors' bills, with the cemetery looming up in the near future. Day after day he took his own anti-febrile drinks, and rammed his busted system full of iron and strychnine and beef tea and dover's powders and hypodermic squirt till he wished he could die, but death would not come. He pawed the air and howled. They fed him his own nux vomica, tincture of rhubarb and phosphates and gruel, and brought him back to life with a crooked collar bone, a shattered shoulder blade and a look of woe.
The doctor and surgeon was a total mess. He had to wear braces for months, and there were other doctors involved, along with infection, the risk of gangrene, and mounting medical bills, with the graveyard looking closer every day. Day after day, he took his own fever-reducing drinks and loaded his broken body with iron, strychnine, beef broth, pain meds, and injections until he wished he could just die, but death wouldn't come. He flailed around and screamed. They fed him his own nux vomica, rhubarb extract, phosphates, and oatmeal, bringing him back to life with a crooked collarbone, a damaged shoulder blade, and a look of despair.
Then he sued the town for $50,000 damages because the sidewalk was imperfect, and the wild-eyed man with the inflamed nose got on the jury.
Then he sued the town for $50,000 in damages because the sidewalk was faulty, and the wild-eyed man with the red nose was on the jury.
I will not explain how it was done, but there was a verdict for defendant with costs on the Esculapian wreck. The man with the crooked vision is not handsome, but he is very happy. He says the mills of the gods grind slowly, but they pulverise middling fine.
I won't go into detail about how it happened, but there was a ruling in favor of the defendant regarding the medical disaster. The guy with the impaired eyesight isn't attractive, but he's quite content. He says that the wheels of justice turn slowly, but when they do, they grind things down just right.
A Spencerian Ass.
After I had accumulated a handsome competence as city editor of the old Morning Sentinel at Laramie City, and had married and gone to housekeeping with a gas stove and other luxuries, my place on the Sentinel was taken by a newspaper man named Hopkins, who had just graduated from a business college, and who brought a nice glazed grip sack and a diploma with him that had never been used.
After I had built a solid career as the city editor of the old Morning Sentinel in Laramie City, and had gotten married and settled down with a gas stove and other comforts, a newspaper guy named Hopkins, who had just finished business school, took my spot at the Sentinel. He came with a nice shiny suitcase and a diploma that he had never put to use.
Hopkins wrote a fine Spencerian hand and wore a black and tan dog where-ever he went. The boys were willing to overlook his copper-plate hand, but they drew the line at the dog. He not only wrote in beautiful style, but he copied his manuscript, so that when it went in to the printer it was as pretty as a wedding invitation.
Hopkins had great Spencerian handwriting and always had a black and tan dog with him. The boys were okay with his fancy handwriting, but they couldn’t accept the dog. He didn’t just write beautifully; he also made sure his manuscript looked good, so when it went to the printer, it looked as nice as a wedding invitation.
{Illustration: HE THREW ME OUT.}
{Illustration: HE KICKED ME OUT.}
Hopkins ran the city page nine days, and then he came into the city hall where I was trying a simple drunk and bade me adieu.
Hopkins covered the city page for nine days, and then he stopped by the city hall where I was dealing with a straightforward DUI case and said goodbye.
I just say this to show how difficult it is for a fine penman to get ahead as a journalist. Of course good, readable writers like Knox and John Hancock may become great, but they have to be men of sterling ability to start with.
I mention this to highlight how challenging it is for a skilled writer to succeed as a journalist. Sure, talented and approachable writers like Knox and John Hancock can achieve greatness, but they need to have exceptional skill from the beginning.
I have some of the most bloodcurdling horrors preserved for the purpose of showing Hopkins' wonderful and vivid style. I will throw them in.
I have some of the scariest horrors saved to showcase Hopkins' amazing and vivid style. I’ll include them.
“A little son of our esteemed fellow townsman, J.H. Hayford, suffered greatly last evening with virulent colic, but this A.M., as we go to press, is sleeping easily.”
“A young son of our respected neighbor, J.H. Hayford, experienced severe pain from colic last night, but this morning, as we go to press, he is sleeping peacefully.”
Think of shaking the social foundations of a mountain mining and stock town with such grim, nervous prostrators as that! The next day he startled Southern Wyoming and Northern Colorado and Utah with the maddening statement that “our genial friend, Leopold Gussenhoven's fine, yellow dog, Florence Nightingale, had been seriously threatened with insomnia.”
Think about how unsettling it would be to shake the social foundations of a mountain mining and stock town with such grim, anxious people! The next day, he shocked Southern Wyoming, Northern Colorado, and Utah with the outrageous statement that “our friendly buddy, Leopold Gussenhoven's fine, yellow dog, Florence Nightingale, had seriously been threatened with insomnia.”
That was the style of mental calisthenics he gave us in a town where death by opium and ropium was liable to occur, and where five men with their Mexican spurs on climbed one telegraph pole in one night and sauntered into the remote indefinitely. Hopkins told me that he had tried to do what was right, but that he had not succeeded very well. He wrung my hand and said:
That was the kind of mental workout he provided in a town where dying from opium and other drugs was common, and where five guys in their Mexican spurs could climb one telegraph pole in a single night and wander off into the unknown. Hopkins told me he had tried to do the right thing, but he hadn't been very successful. He shook my hand and said:
“I have tried hard to make the Sentinel fill a long want felt, but I have not been fortunate. The foreman over there is a harsh man. He used to come in and intimate in a frowning and erect tone of voice, that if I did not produce that copy p.d.q., or some other abbreviation or other, that he would bust my crust, or words of like import.
“I’ve really tried to make the Sentinel meet a long-standing need, but I haven’t been successful. The foreman over there is a tough guy. He would come in and imply in a stern and upright tone that if I didn’t get that copy done ASAP, or some other abbreviation, he would take me down a notch, or something along those lines.”
“Now that's no way to talk to a man of a nervous temperament who is engaged in copying a list of hotel arrivals, and shading the capitals as I was. In the business college it was not that way. Everything was quiet, and there was nothing to jar a man like that.
“Now that's no way to talk to someone who's nervous and is busy copying a list of hotel arrivals, shading the capitals like I was. At the business college, it was different. Everything was calm, and nothing bothered a person like that.”
“Of course I would like to stay on the Sentinel and draw the princely salary, but there are two hundred reasons why I cannot do it. So far as the physical effort is concerned, I could draw the salary with one hand tied behind me, but there is too much turmoil and mad haste in daily journalism to suit me, and another thing, the proprietor of the Sentinel this morning stole up behind me and struck me over the head with a wrought-iron side stick weighing ten pounds. If I had not concealed a coil spring in my plug hat, the blow would have been deleterious to me.
“Of course I’d love to stay at the Sentinel and earn that great salary, but there are two hundred reasons why I can't. As far as the physical work goes, I could handle the salary with one hand tied behind my back, but the chaos and fast pace of daily journalism just isn’t for me. Plus, this morning, the owner of the Sentinel snuck up behind me and hit me over the head with a ten-pound wrought-iron stick. If I hadn’t hidden a spring coil in my hat, that blow would have really hurt.”
“Then he threw me out of the door against a total stranger, and flung pieces of coal at me and called me a copper-plate ass, and said that if I ever came into the office again he would assassinate me.
“Then he threw me out the door into a complete stranger, hurled pieces of coal at me, called me a copper-plate ass, and said that if I ever came back into the office, he would kill me.”
“That is the principal reason why I have severed my connection with the Sentinel.”
“That is the main reason why I have ended my connection with the Sentinel.”
As he said this, Mr. Hopkins took out a polka-dot handkerchief wiped away a pearly tear the size of a walnut, wrung my hand, also the polka-dot wipe, and stole out into the great, horrid hence.
As he said this, Mr. Hopkins took out a polka-dot handkerchief, wiped away a tear the size of a walnut, squeezed my hand, along with the polka-dot wipe, and quietly slipped out into the dark, scary unknown.
Anecdotes of Justice.
The justice of the peace is sometimes a peculiarity, and if someone does not watch him he will exceed his jurisdiction. It took a constable, a sheriff, a prosecuting attorney and a club to convince a Wyoming justice of the peace that he had no right to send a man to the penitentiary for life. Another justice in Utah sentenced a criminal to be hung on the following Friday between twelve and one o'clock of said day, but he couldn't enforce the sentence. A Wisconsin justice of the peace granted a divorce and in two weeks married the couple over again—ten dollars for the divorce and two dollars for the relapse. Another Badger justice bound a young man over to appear and answer at the next term of the Circuit Court for the crime of chastity, and the evidence was entirely circumstantial, too.
The justice of the peace can be quite quirky, and if someone isn't careful, he might overstep his authority. It took a constable, a sheriff, a prosecutor, and a group of people to make a Wyoming justice of the peace realize he couldn't send a man to prison for life. Another justice in Utah sentenced a criminal to be hanged the following Friday between noon and 1 PM, but he couldn't carry out the sentence. A Wisconsin justice of the peace granted a divorce and two weeks later remarried the same couple—charging ten dollars for the divorce and two dollars for the second wedding. Another justice in Wisconsin bound a young man to appear at the next Circuit Court session for the crime of having too much self-control, and the evidence was purely circumstantial.
Another one, when his first case came up, jerked a candle box around behind the dining-room table, put his hat on the back of his head, borrowed a chew of tobacco from the prisoner and said: “Now, boys, the court's open. The first feller that says a word unless I speak to him will get paralyzed. Now tell your story.” Then each witness and the defendant reeled off his yarn without being sworn. The justice fined the defendant ten dollars and made the complaining witness pay half the costs. The justice then took the fine and put it in his pocket, adjourned court, and in an hour was so full that it took six men to hold his house still long enough for him to get into the doors.
Another guy, when his first case came up, pushed a candle box behind the dining room table, tilted his hat to the back of his head, borrowed a chew of tobacco from the defendant, and said: “Alright, everyone, the court is now in session. The first person who speaks without me talking to them will get in serious trouble. Now, go ahead and tell your story.” Then each witness and the defendant shared their account without being sworn in. The judge fined the defendant ten dollars and made the complaining witness pay half the costs. The judge then took the fine and stuffed it in his pocket, ended the session, and an hour later he was so drunk that it took six men to keep his house steady long enough for him to get through the doors.
A North Park justice of the peace and under-sheriff formed a partnership years ago for the purpose of supplying people with justice at New York prices, and by doing a strictly cash business they dispensed with a good deal of justice, such as it was.
A North Park justice of the peace and under-sheriff teamed up years ago to provide people with justice at New York prices, and by operating on a strictly cash basis, they cut out a lot of the justice, whatever that was worth.
It was a misdemeanor to kill game and ship it out of the State, and as there was a good deal killed there, consisting of elk, antelope and black tail deer especially, and as it could not be hauled out of the Park at that season without going across the Wyoming line and back again into the State of Colorado, the under-sheriff would load himself down with warrants, signed in blank, and station himself on horseback at the foot of the pass to the North. He would then arrest everybody indiscriminately who had any fraction of a deer, antelope or elk on his wagon, try the case then and there, put on a fine of $25 to $75, which if paid never reached the treasury, and then he would wait for another victim. The average man would rather pay the fine than go back a hundred miles through the mountains to stand trial, so the under-sheriff and justice thrived for some time. But one day the under-sheriff served his patent automatic warrant on a young man who refused to come down. The officer then drew one of those large baritone instruments that generally has a coward at one end and a corpse at the other. He pointed this at the young man and assessed a fine of $50 and costs. Instead of paying this fine, the youth, who was quite nimble, but unarmed, knocked the bogus officer down with the butt end of his six-mule whip, took his self-cocking credentials away and lit out. In less than a week the justice and his copper were in the refrigerator.
It was illegal to kill wildlife and ship it out of the state, and since a lot of animals were being killed there, mainly elk, antelope, and blacktail deer, and since it couldn’t be transported out of the park during that season without crossing into Wyoming and then back into Colorado, the under-sheriff would load himself up with blank warrants and set up on horseback at the base of the northern pass. He would then indiscriminately arrest anyone who had even a bit of deer, antelope, or elk in their wagon, hold an impromptu trial right there, impose a fine of $25 to $75—which, if paid, never made it to the treasury—and then wait for his next target. Most people would rather pay the fine than trek a hundred miles back through the mountains to go to trial, so the under-sheriff and the justice managed to profit for a while. But one day, the under-sheriff served his automatic warrant on a young man who refused to comply. The officer then brandished one of those large instruments that usually has a coward at one end and a corpse at the other. He aimed it at the young man and slapped a $50 fine plus costs on him. Instead of paying, the young man, who was quite agile but unarmed, knocked the fake officer down with the butt of his six-mule whip, took his self-cocking credentials, and bolted. In less than a week, the justice and his deputy were out of the picture.
I was once a justice of the peace, and a good many funny little incidents occurred while I held that office. I do not allude to my official life here in order to call attention to my glowing career, for thousands of others, no doubt, could have administered the affairs of the office as well as I did, but rather to speak of one incident which took place while I was a J.P.
I used to be a justice of the peace, and quite a few amusing little things happened while I had that position. I'm not mentioning my official life to brag about my impressive career, since thousands of others could have managed the responsibilities of the role just as well as I did, but to share one particular incident that happened while I was a J.P.
One night after I had retired and gone to sleep a milkman, called Bill Dunning, rang the bell and got me out of bed. Then he told me that a man who owed him a milk bill of $35 was all loaded up and prepared to slip across the line overland into Colorado, there to grow up with the country and acquire other indebtedness, no doubt. Bill desired an attachment for the entire wagon-load of goods and said he had an officer at hand to serve the writ.
One night after I had gone to bed and fallen asleep, a milkman named Bill Dunning rang the bell and woke me up. He told me that a guy who owed him a $35 milk bill was all set to sneak over the border into Colorado, planning to settle down and probably rack up more debt. Bill wanted to seize the whole wagon-load of goods and mentioned that he had an officer ready to serve the writ.
“But,” said I, as I wrapped a “welcome” husk door mat around my glorious proportions, “how do you know while we converse together he is not winging his way down the valley of the Paudre?”
“But,” I said, as I wrapped a “welcome” doormat around my impressive figure, “how do you know while we’re talking he isn’t flying down the valley of the Paudre?”
“Never mind that, jedge,” says William. “You just fix the dockyments and I'll tend to the defendant.”
“Forget about that, judge,” says William. “Just handle the documents and I’ll take care of the defendant.”
In an hour Bill returned with $35 in cash for himself and the entire costs of the court, and as we settled up and fixed the docket I asked Bill Dunning how he detained the defendant while we made out the affidavit bond and writ of attachment.
In an hour, Bill came back with $35 in cash for himself and to cover all the court costs. As we sorted everything out and organized the docket, I asked Bill Dunning how he was able to hold the defendant while we prepared the affidavit bond and writ of attachment.
“You reckollect, jedge,” says William, “that the waggin wheel is held onto the exle with a big nut. No waggin kin go any length of time without that there nut onto the exle. Well, when I diskivered that what's-his-name was packed up and the waggin loaded, I took the liberty to borrow one o' them there nuts fur a kind of momento, as it were, and I kept that in my pocket till we served the writ and he paid my bill and came to his milk, if you'll allow me that expression, and then I says to him, 'Pardner,' says I, you are going far, far away where I may never see you again. Take this here nut,' says I, 'and put it onto the exle of the oft hind wheel of your waggin, and whenever you look at it hereafter, think of poor old Bill Dunning, the milkman.'”
“You remember, judge,” says William, “that the wagon wheel is held onto the axle with a big nut. No wagon can go very far without that nut on the axle. Well, when I discovered that what’s-his-name was packed up and the wagon loaded, I took the liberty to borrow one of those nuts as a sort of keepsake, and I kept it in my pocket until we served the writ, he paid my bill, and came to his senses, if you’ll allow me that expression. Then I said to him, 'Partner,' I said, 'you are going far, far away where I may never see you again. Take this nut,' I said, 'and put it on the axle of the back wheel of your wagon, and whenever you look at it in the future, think of poor old Bill Dunning, the milkman.'”
The Chinese God.
I presume that I shall not be accused of sacrilege in referring to the Chinese god as an inferior piece of art. Viewed simply from an artistic and economical standpoint, it seems to me that the Chinaman should have less pride in his bow-legged and inefficient god than in any other national institution.
I don't think I'll be considered disrespectful for calling the Chinese god a lesser piece of art. Looking at it purely from an artistic and economic perspective, it seems to me that the Chinese person should feel less pride in their bow-legged and ineffective god than in any other national institution.
I do not wish to be understood as interfering with any man's religious views; but when polygamy is made a divine decree, or a basswood deity is whittled out and painted red, to look up to and to worship, I cannot treat that so-called religious belief with courtesy and reverence. I am quite liberal in all religious matters. People have noticed that and remarked it, but the Oriental god of commerce seems to me to be greatly over-rated. He seems to lack that genuine decision of character which should be a feature of an over-ruling power.
I don't want to come across as someone who interferes with anyone's religious beliefs; however, when polygamy is presented as a divine command, or when a basswood idol is carved and painted red for people to admire and worship, I can't treat that so-called religious belief with respect and reverence. I'm quite open-minded about all religious matters. People have noticed that and commented on it, but to me, the Eastern god of commerce seems greatly overhyped. He lacks the strong character that should define a higher power.
I ask the phrenologist to come with me and examine the head of the alleged Josh, and to state whether or not he believes that the properly balanced head of a successful god should not have a more protuberant knob of spirituality, and a less pronounced alimentiveness. Should the bump of combativeness hang out over the ear, while time, tune and calculation are noticeably reticent? I certainly wot not.
I ask the phrenologist to come with me and examine the head of the supposed Josh, and to say whether he thinks that the well-balanced head of a successful god should have a more prominent bump for spirituality and a less noticeable one for appetite. Should the bump for aggression stick out over the ear while the bumps for time, music, and reasoning are clearly lacking? I certainly don’t think so.
Again, how can the physiognomy of the Celestial Josh be consistent with a moral and temperate god? The low brow would not indicate a pronounced omniscience, and the Jumbo ears and the copious neck would not impress me with the idea of purity and spirituality.
Again, how can the appearance of the Celestial Josh align with a moral and balanced god? The low brow doesn’t suggest strong knowledge, and the big ears and thick neck don’t give me a sense of purity and spirituality.
It is, no doubt, wrong to attack sacred matters for the purpose of gaining notoriety; but I believe I am right, when I assert that the Chinese god must go. We should not be Puritanical, but we might safely draw the line at the bow-legged and sedentary goddess of leprosy.
It’s definitely wrong to attack sacred things just to become famous; however, I’m confident when I say that the Chinese god needs to be removed. We shouldn’t be overly strict, but we can safely set a boundary when it comes to the bow-legged and inactive goddess of leprosy.
If Confucius bowed the suppliant knee to that goggle-eyed jim-jam Josh, I am grieved to know it. If such was the case, the friends of Confucius should keep the matter from me. I cannot believe that the great philosopher wallowed in the dust at the feet of such a polka-dot carricature of a gorilla's horrid dream.
If Confucius actually bowed down to that googly-eyed mess Josh, I would be upset to hear it. If that’s true, Confucius’s friends should keep that from me. I can't accept that the great philosopher humbled himself before such a ridiculous cartoonish version of a nightmare gorilla.
I bought a Chinese god once, for four bits. He was not successful in the profession which he aimed to follow. Whatever he may have been in China, he was not a very successful god in the English language. I put him upon the mantel, and the clock stopped, the servant girl sent in her resignation, and a large dog jumped through the parlor-window. All this happened within two hours from the time I erected the lop-eared, knocked-kneed and club-footed Oolong in my household.
I once bought a Chinese god for four bits. He wasn't successful in the career he tried to have. No matter what he might have been in China, he didn't do very well as a god in English. I placed him on the mantel, and the clock stopped, the maid handed in her resignation, and a big dog jumped through the living room window. All of this happened within two hours of putting the lop-eared, knocked-kneed, and clubfooted Oolong in my home.
{Illustration: THE DOG EXITS.}
{Illustration: THE DOG LEAVES.}
Perhaps this may have been largely due to my ignorance of his habits. Possibly if I had been more familiar with his eccentricities, it would have been all right; but as it was, there was no book of instructions given with him, and I couldn't seem to make him work.
Perhaps this was mostly because I didn’t understand his habits. If I had been more familiar with his quirks, it might have worked out fine; but since there was no manual provided with him, I couldn’t figure out how to make him function.
During the week following, the prospect shaft of the New Jerusalem mine struck a subterranean gulf-stream and water-logged the stock, a tall yellow dog, under the weight of a great woe, picked out my cistern to suicide in, and I skated down the cellar-stairs on my shoulder-blades and the phrenological location known as Love of Home, in such a terrible manner as to jar the foundations of the earth, and kick a large hole out of the bosom of the night.
During the week that followed, the prospect shaft of the New Jerusalem mine hit an underground river and flooded the place. A tall yellow dog, overwhelmed with sadness, chose my cistern to end its life in. I slid down the cellar stairs on my shoulder blades and the spot in my brain associated with Love of Home, in such a wild way that it shook the ground and created a big hole in the night.
I then met with a change of heart, and overthrew the warty heathen god, and knocked him galley west. My hens at once began to watch the produce market, and, noticing the high price of eggs, commenced to orate with great zeal instead of standing around with their hands in their pockets. I saw the new moon over my right shoulder, and all nature seemed gay once more.
I then had a change of heart and took down the ugly pagan god, sending him flying off course. My hens immediately started keeping an eye on the produce market, and noticing the high egg prices, they began to speak up with enthusiasm instead of just standing around doing nothing. I saw the new moon over my right shoulder, and everything in nature felt cheerful again.
The above are a few of my reasons for believing that the Chinese god is either greatly over-estimated, or else shippers and producers are flooding the market with fraudulent gods.
The above are a few of my reasons for believing that the Chinese god is either heavily over-rated, or that shippers and producers are saturating the market with fake gods.
A Great Spiritualist.
I have an uncle who is a physician, and a very busy one at that. He is a very active man, and allows himself very little relaxation indeed. How many times he has said to me, “Well, I can't stand here and fool away my time with you. I've got a typhoid fever patient down in the lower end of town who will get well if I don't get over there this forenoon.”
I have an uncle who is a doctor, and he’s incredibly busy. He’s a really active guy and hardly takes any time to relax. How many times has he told me, “Look, I can’t just stand here wasting time with you. I have a typhoid fever patient on the other side of town who will get better if I don’t get over there this morning.”
He never allows himself any relaxation to speak of, except to demonstrate the truth of spiritualism. He does love to monkey with the supernatural, and he delights in getting hold of some skeptical friend and convincing him of the presence of spirits beyond a doubt. I've known him to ignore two cases of croup and one case of twins to attend a seance and help convince a doubting Thomas on the spirit question.
He doesn't allow himself any real downtime, except to prove the reality of spiritualism. He enjoys playing around with the supernatural and loves to grab a skeptical friend and show them without a doubt that spirits are present. I’ve seen him skip attending to two cases of croup and one set of twins just to go to a seance and help persuade a skeptic about the spirit issue.
I believe that he and I, together with a little time in which to prepare, could convince the most skeptical. He says that with a friend to assist him, who is en rapport, and who has a little practice, he can reach the stoniest heart. He is a very susceptible medium indeed, and created a great furore in his own town. He said it was a great comfort to him to converse with his former patients, and he felt kind of attached to them, so that he hated to be separated from them, even in death.
I believe that he and I, with a little time to prepare, could convince even the most skeptical. He says that with a friend to help him, who is in tune and has some experience, he can reach even the hardest heart. He is a very sensitive medium and caused quite a stir in his hometown. He mentioned that it was a great comfort for him to talk to his former patients, and he felt a strong connection to them, which made him dislike being separated from them, even after death.
Spiritualism had quite a run in his neighborhood at one time, as I have said. Even his own family yielded to the convincing proof and the astounding phenomena. If his wife hadn't found some of his spiritual tracks down cellar, she would have remained firm, no doubt, but the doctor forgot and left his step-ladder down there, and that showed where the hole in the floor opened into his mysterious cabinet.
Spiritualism was really popular in his neighborhood at one point, as I mentioned earlier. Even his own family was swayed by the compelling evidence and incredible happenings. If his wife hadn't discovered some of his spiritual clues in the basement, she would have likely held her ground, but the doctor forgot to take his step-ladder up, which revealed where the hole in the floor led to his secret cabinet.
He said if he had been a little more careful, no doubt he could have convinced anybody of the presence of spirits or anything else. He said he didn't intend to give up as long as there was anything left in the cellar.
He said that if he had been a bit more careful, he definitely could have convinced anyone of the existence of spirits or anything else. He mentioned that he didn't plan to give up as long as there was anything left in the cellar.
He had such unwavering confidence in the phenomena that all he asked of anybody was faith and a buckskin string about two feet long.
He had such strong confidence in the phenomena that all he asked from anyone was faith and a two-foot-long buckskin string.
He and his brother, a reformed member of Congress, read the inmost thoughts of a skeptical friend all one evening by the aid of supernatural powers and a tin tube. The reformed member of Congress acted as medium, and the doctor, who was unfortunately and ostensibly called away into the country early in the evening, remained at the window outside, where he could read the queries written by the victim on a slip of paper. Then he would run around the house and murmur the same through a tin tube at another window by the medium's ear.
He and his brother, a former member of Congress, read the deepest thoughts of a skeptical friend all evening with the help of supernatural powers and a tin tube. The former member acted as the medium, while the doctor, who was unfortunately and obviously summoned out to the country early in the night, stayed by the window outside, where he could see the questions written by the victim on a piece of paper. Then he would run around the house and whisper the same through a tin tube at another window near the medium's ear.
It was astounding. The skeptical man would write some deep question on a slip of paper, and after the medium had felt of his brow, and groaned a few hollow groans, and rolled his eyes up, he would answer it without having been within twenty feet of the question or the questioner. The victim said he would never doubt again.
It was amazing. The doubtful guy would jot down a profound question on a piece of paper, and after the medium had touched his forehead, let out a few deep groans, and rolled his eyes, he would respond without ever being anywhere near the question or the person who asked it. The victim said he would never question it again.
What a comfort it was to know that immortality was an established fact. If he could have heard a man talking in a low tone of voice through an old tin dipper handle, at the south window on the ground floor, and occasionally swearing at a mosquito on the back of his neck, he would have hesitated.
What a relief it was to know that immortality was a real thing. If he could have heard a guy speaking quietly through an old tin dipper handle at the south window on the ground floor, and sometimes cursing at a mosquito on his neck, he would have second-guessed himself.
An old-timer over there said that Woodworth would be a mighty good physician if he would let spiritualism alone. He claimed that no man could be a great physician and surgeon and still be a fanatic on spiritualism.
An older guy over there said that Woodworth would be a really good doctor if he would just stay away from spiritualism. He insisted that no one could be an outstanding physician and surgeon while also being obsessed with spiritualism.
General Sheridan's Horse.
I have always taken a great interest in war incidents, and more so, perhaps, because I wasn't old enough to put down the rebellion myself. I have been very eager to get hold of and hoard up in my memory all its gallant deeds of both sides, and to know the history of those who figured prominently in that great conflict has been one of my ambitions.
I have always been really interested in war events, maybe even more so because I wasn't old enough to fight in the rebellion myself. I've been eager to remember all the brave actions from both sides, and learning about the key figures in that major conflict has been one of my goals.
I have also watched with interest the steady advancement of Phil Sheridan, the black-eyed warrior with the florid face and the Winchester record. I have also taken some pains to investigate the later history of the old Winchester war horse.
I have also watched with interest the steady advancement of Phil Sheridan, the black-eyed warrior with the flushed face and the Winchester record. I have also taken some time to look into the later history of the old Winchester war horse.
“Old Rienzi died in our stable a few years after the war,” said a Chicago livery man to me, a short time ago. “General Sheridan left him with us and instructed us to take good care of him, which we did, but he got old at last, and his teeth failed upon him, and that busted his digestion, and he kind of died of old age, I reckon.”
“Old Rienzi passed away in our stable a few years after the war,” said a Chicago livery guy to me not long ago. “General Sheridan left him with us and told us to take good care of him, which we did, but he finally got old, his teeth gave out on him, which messed up his digestion, and I think he kind of just died of old age.”
“How did General Sheridan take it?”
“How did General Sheridan respond?”
“Oh, well, Phil Sheridan is no school girl. He didn't turn away when old Rienzi died and weep the manger full of scalding regret. If you know Sheridan, you know that he don't rip the blue dome of heaven wide open with unavailing wails. He just told us to take care of its remains, patted the old cuss on the head a little and walked off. Phil Sheridan don't go around weeping softly into a pink bordered wipe when a horse dies. He likes a good horse, but Rienzi was no Jay-Eye-See for swiftness, and he wasn't the purtiest horse you ever see, by no means.”
“Oh, come on, Phil Sheridan is no schoolgirl. He didn’t turn away when old Rienzi died, crying his eyes out with regret. If you know Sheridan, you know he doesn’t tear open the sky with useless wails. He just told us to take care of the old guy, gave him a little pat on the head, and walked away. Phil Sheridan doesn’t go around crying softly into a pink-bordered handkerchief when a horse dies. He appreciates a good horse, but Rienzi wasn’t exactly a champion for speed, and he certainly wasn’t the prettiest horse you’d ever see, not at all.”
“Did you read lately how General Sheridan don't ride on horseback since his old war horse died, and seems to have lost all interest in horses?”
“Did you see recently that General Sheridan doesn’t ride on horseback anymore since his old war horse died, and it seems like he’s lost all interest in horses?”
“No, I never did. He no doubt would rather ride in a cable car or a carriage than to jar himself up on a horse. That's all likely enough, but, as I say, he's a matter of fact little fighter from Fighttown. He never stopped to snoot and paw up the ground and sob himself into bronchitis over old Rienzi. He went right on about his business, and, like old King What's-His-name he hollered for another hoss, and the War Department never slipped a cog.”
“No, I never did. He probably prefers to ride in a cable car or a carriage instead of bouncing around on a horse. That seems likely, but, as I said, he's a practical little fighter from Fighttown. He didn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself over old Rienzi. He just kept focused on his work, and, like that old king, he called for another horse, and the War Department never missed a beat.”
Later on I read that the old war horse was called Winchester and that he was still alive in a blue grass pasture in Kentucky. The report said that old Winchester wasn't very coltish, and that he was evidently failing. I gathered the idea that he was wearing store teeth, and that his memory was a little deficient, but that he might live yet for years. After that I met a New York livery stable prince, at whose palace General Sheridan's well-known Winchester war horse died of botts in '71. He told me all about it and how General Sheridan came on from Chicago at the time, and held the horse's head in his lap while the fleet limbs that flew from Winchester down and saved the day, stiffened in the great, mysterious repose of death. He said Sheridan wept like a child, and as he told the touching tale to me I wept also. I say I wept. I wept about a quart, I would say. He said also that the horse's name wasn't Winchester nor Rienzi; it was Jim.
Later, I read that the old war horse was named Winchester and that he was still alive in a bluegrass pasture in Kentucky. The report mentioned that old Winchester wasn't very lively and that he was clearly declining. I got the impression that he had false teeth and that his memory was somewhat fading, but he might still live for several more years. After that, I met a New York livery stable owner, whose establishment was where General Sheridan's famous Winchester war horse died of colic in '71. He told me all about it and how General Sheridan came from Chicago at that time and held the horse's head in his lap while the strong legs that had once sprinted from Winchester to save the day got cold in the still, mysterious peace of death. He said Sheridan cried like a child, and as he recounted this touching story to me, I cried too. I mean, I really cried. I probably shed about a quart of tears, I'd say. He also mentioned that the horse's name wasn't Winchester or Rienzi; it was Jim.
I was sorry to know it. Jim is no name for a war horse who won a victory and a marble bust and a poem. You can't respect a horse much if his name was Jim.
I was disappointed to learn that. Jim is not a fitting name for a war horse who achieved victory, earned a marble bust, and inspired a poem. You can't really respect a horse if his name is Jim.
After that I found out that General Sheridan's celebrated Winchester horse was raised in Kentucky, also in Pennsylvania and Michigan; that he went out as a volunteer private; that he was in the regular service prior to the war, and that he was drafted, and that he died on the field of battle, in a sorrel pasture, in '73, in great pain on Governor's Island; that he was buried with Masonic honors by the Good Templars and the Grand Army of the Republic; that he was resurrected by a medical college and dissected; that he was cremated in New Orleans and taxidermed for the Military Museum at New York. Every little while I run up against a new fact relative to this noted beast. He has died in nine different States, and been buried in thirteen different styles, while his soul goes marching on. Evidently we live in an age of information. You can get more information nowadays, such as it is, than you know what to do with.
After that, I found out that General Sheridan's famous Winchester horse was raised in Kentucky, Pennsylvania, and Michigan; that he started as a volunteer private; that he was in the regular service before the war, and that he was drafted, and he died on the battlefield, in a sorrel pasture, in '73, in great pain on Governor's Island; that he was buried with Masonic honors by the Good Templars and the Grand Army of the Republic; that he was resurrected by a medical college and dissected; that he was cremated in New Orleans and taxidermied for the Military Museum in New York. Every so often, I come across a new fact about this famous beast. He has died in nine different states and been buried in thirteen different ways, while his spirit goes marching on. Clearly, we live in an age of information. You can get more information nowadays, for better or worse, than you know what to do with.
A Circular.
To my friends, regardless of party.—Many friends having solicited me to apply for a foreign mission under the present administration, I have finally consented to do so, and last week filed my application for such missions as might still remain vacant.
To my friends, no matter the political party.—Many friends have asked me to apply for a foreign mission with the current administration, so I’ve finally agreed to it, and last week I submitted my application for any missions that might still be open.
To insure my appointment, much will remain for you to do. I now call upon my friends to aid me by their united effort. I especially solicit the aid of my friends who have repeatedly heretofore promised it to me while drunk.
To ensure my appointment, there's still a lot for you to do. I'm now asking my friends to help me with their combined efforts. I especially request the support of my friends who have repeatedly promised to help me while they were drunk.
{Illustration: PLENTY OF CORRESPONDENCE.}
{Illustration: LOTS OF MESSAGES.}
You will see at a glance that I can only make the application. You must support it by your petitions and letters. It would be of little use for one man to write five thousand letters to the president, but if five thousand people each write him a letter in which casual reference is made to my social worth and 7-1/3 octave brain, it will make him pay attention.
You can quickly see that I can only submit the application. You need to back it up with your petitions and letters. It wouldn't do much good for one person to send five thousand letters to the president, but if five thousand people each write him a letter mentioning my social value and 7-1/3 octave brain, it will grab his attention.
My idea would be for each of my friends to set aside one day in each week to write to the president, opening it in a chatty way by asking him if he does not think we are having rather a backward spring, and what he is doing for his cut worms now, and how his folks are, etc., etc. Then gradually lead up to the statement that you think I would be an ornament to the administration if I should go abroad and linger on a foreign strand at $2,000 per linger and stationery.
My suggestion is for each of my friends to take one day each week to write to the president, starting off in a friendly manner by asking him if he thinks we’re having a pretty rough spring, what he’s doing about his cut worms now, how his family is doing, and so on. Then, gradually make your way to the point that you believe I would be a great addition to the administration if I went abroad and hung out on a foreign beach at $2,000 per visit, plus stationery.
This will keep the president properly stirred up, and cause him to earn his salary. The effect will be to secure the appointment at last, as you will see if you persevere.
This will keep the president appropriately engaged and make him earn his salary. The result will be that you will finally secure the appointment, as you will see if you keep at it.
I need not add that I will do what is right by my friends upon receiving my commission.
I don’t need to say that I’ll do right by my friends once I get my commission.
Do not neglect this suggestion because it comes to you in the form of a circular, but remember it and act upon it. Remember that, although the president is stubborn as Sam Hill, he will at last yield to fatigue, and when tired nature can hold out no longer, the last letter will drop from his nerveless hand and he will surrender.
Do not ignore this suggestion just because it comes in a circular, but keep it in mind and take action. Remember that, even though the president is as stubborn as can be, he will eventually give in to exhaustion, and when tired nature can’t go on any longer, the last letter will fall from his limp hand and he will give up.
{Illustration: NURSING THE FIERY STEED.}
{Illustration: TENDING TO THE FIERY HORSE.}
Some of you will urge that I have been an offensive partisan, but when you come to think it over I have not been so all-fired partisan. There have been days and days when it did not show itself very much. However, that is not the point. I want your hearty indorsement and I want it to be entirely voluntary, and if you do not give it, and give it freely and voluntarily, you hadn't better ask me for any more favors.
Some of you might say that I’ve been unreasonably biased, but if you think about it, I haven’t been that extreme. There have been plenty of days when it wasn’t obvious at all. But that’s not the main issue. I want your full support, and I want it to be completely voluntary. If you can’t give it willingly, then don’t bother asking me for any more favors.
All the newspapers most heartily indorse me. The Rocky Mountain Whoop very truthfully says:
All the newspapers fully support me. The Rocky Mountain Whoop honestly states:
“Mr. Nye called at our office yesterday and subscribed for our paper. We are proud to add him to our list of paid-up subscribers, and should he renew his subscription next year, paying in advance, we will cheerfully refer to it among other startling news.”
“Mr. Nye visited our office yesterday and signed up for our paper. We're excited to add him to our roster of paid subscribers, and if he renews his subscription next year by paying in advance, we'll happily mention it among other exciting news.”
I have a scrap-book full of such indorsements as this, and now, if my friends will peel their coats and write as they should, I can make this administration open its eyes.
I have a scrapbook filled with endorsements like this, and now, if my friends will roll up their sleeves and write as they should, I can get this administration to take notice.
Several papers in Iowa have alluded to my being in town, and referred to the fact that I had paid my bills while there. But press indorsements alone are not sufficient. What is needed is the written testimony of friends and neighbors. No matter how poor or humble or worthless you may be, write to Mr. Cleveland and tell him how much confidence you have in me, and if you can call to mind any little acts of kindness, or any times when I have got up in the night to give you a dollar, or nurse a colicky horse for you, throw that in. Throw it in anyhow. It will do no harm, and may do much good.
Several newspapers in Iowa have mentioned that I've been in town and noted that I paid my bills while I was there. But just having press endorsements isn't enough. What's really needed is written support from friends and neighbors. No matter how poor, humble, or insignificant you feel, please write to Mr. Cleveland and share how much confidence you have in me. If you can remember any small acts of kindness or times when I got up in the middle of the night to lend you a dollar or help with a sick horse, include that too. Just add it in. It can't hurt and might actually help a lot.
I can solemnly promise all my friends that if they will secure my appointment to a foreign country for four years, I will not return during that time. What more can I offer? I will stay longer if I am reappointed. I would do anything for my friends.
I can seriously promise all my friends that if they can get me assigned to a foreign country for four years, I won’t come back during that time. What more can I offer? I’ll stay even longer if I get reappointed. I would do anything for my friends.
Do not throw this circular carelessly aside. Read it carefully over and act upon it. Some of you are poor spellers, and will try to get out of it in that way. Others are in the penitentiary and cannot spare the time. But to one and all I say, write, and write regularly, to the president. Do not wait for a reply from him, because he is pretty busy now; but he will be tickled to death to hear from you, and anything you say about me will give him great pleasure.
Do not toss this circular aside carelessly. Read it thoroughly and take action. Some of you might be bad at spelling and will try to avoid it that way. Others are in prison and might not have the time. But to everyone, I say, write regularly to the president. Don’t wait for a response from him, since he’s quite busy right now; but he’ll be really happy to hear from you, and anything you say about me will bring him great joy.
N.B.—Please be careful not to inclose this circular in your letter to the president.
N.B.—Please make sure not to include this circular in your letter to the president.
The Photograph Habit.
No doubt the photograph habit, when once formed, is one of the most baneful, and productive of the most intense suffering in after years, of any with which we are familiar. Some times it seems to me that my whole life has been one long, abject apology for photographs that I have shed abroad throughout a distracted country.
No question, once you get into the habit of taking photos, it becomes one of the most harmful things and can cause a lot of pain later on. Sometimes it feels like my entire life has just been a long, desperate apology for all the photos I've scattered around a chaotic world.
Man passes through seven distinct stages of being photographed, each one exceeding all previous efforts in that line.
Man goes through seven unique stages of being photographed, with each one surpassing all previous attempts in that area.
First he is photographed as a prattling, bald-headed baby, absolutely destitute of eyes, but making up for this deficiency by a wealth of mouth that would make a negro minstrel olive green with envy. We often wonder what has given the average photographer that wild, hunted look about the eyes and that joyless sag about the knees. The chemicals and the indoor life alone have not done all this. It is the great nerve tension and mental strain used in trying to photograph a squirming and dark red child with white eyes, in such a manner as to please its parents.
First, he’s photographed as a babbling, bald baby, completely lacking eyes, but making up for that with a mouth so expressive it could make a minstrel green with envy. We often wonder what gives the typical photographer that wild, hunted look in their eyes and that weary sag in their knees. The chemicals and indoor life alone can't account for it. It’s the intense nerve tension and mental strain from trying to capture a squirming, dark red child with white eyes in a way that pleases the parents.
An old-fashioned dollar store album with cerebro-spinal meningitis, and filled with pictures of half-suffocated children in heavily-starched white dresses, is the first thing we seek on entering a home, and the last thing from which we reluctantly part.
An outdated dollar store photo album filled with images of almost suffocated kids in stiff white dresses is the first thing we look for when we enter a home, and the last thing we reluctantly leave behind.
The second stage on the downward road is the photograph of the boy with fresh-cropped hair, and in which the stiff and protuberant thumb takes a leading part.
The second stage on the downward road is the photo of the boy with freshly cut hair, and where the stiff and prominent thumb plays a major role.
Then follows the portrait of the lad, with strongly marked freckles and a look of hopeless melancholy. With the aid of a detective agency, I have succeeded in running down and destroying several of these pictures which were attributed to me.
Then comes the portrait of the boy, with prominent freckles and an expression of deep sadness. With the help of a detective agency, I’ve managed to track down and get rid of several of these pictures that were wrongly credited to me.
Next comes the young man, 21 years of age, with his front hair plastered smoothly down over his tender, throbbing dome of thought. He does not care so much about the expression on the mobile features, so long as his left hand, with the new ring on it, shows distinctly, and the string of jingling, jangling charms on his watch chain, including the cute little basket cut out of a peach stone, stand out well in the foreground. If the young man would stop to think for a moment that some day he may become eminent and ashamed of himself, he would hesitate about doing this.
Next is the young man, 21 years old, with his hair slicked down over his sensitive, thinking head. He doesn’t worry too much about the expression on his animated face, as long as his left hand, with the new ring on it, is clearly visible, and the string of jingling charms on his watch chain, including the adorable little basket carved from a peach pit, stands out in the foreground. If the young man took a moment to consider that one day he might become famous and regret his choices, he might think twice about this.
Soon after, he has a tintype taken in which a young lady sits in the alleged grass, while he stands behind her with his hand lightly touching her shoulder as though he might be feeling of the thrilling circumference of a buzz saw. He carries this picture in his pocket for months, and looks at it whenever he may be unobserved.
Soon after, he gets a tintype taken where a young woman sits on what seems to be grass, while he stands behind her with his hand gently resting on her shoulder, almost as if he’s sensing the exciting edge of a buzz saw. He keeps this picture in his pocket for months and looks at it whenever he thinks no one is watching.
Then, all at once, he discovers that the young lady's hair is not done up that way any more, and that her hat doesn't seem to fit her. He then, in a fickle moment, has another tintype made, in which another young woman, with a more recent hat and later coiffure, is discovered holding his hat in her lap.
Then, all of a sudden, he realizes that the young lady's hair isn't styled that way anymore and that her hat doesn’t seem to fit her. In a moment of indecision, he gets another tintype made, where a different young woman, with a more modern hat and hairstyle, is seen holding his hat in her lap.
This thing continues, till one day he comes into the studio with his wife, and tries to see how many children can be photographed on one negative by holding one on each knee and using the older ones as a back-ground.
This goes on until one day he walks into the studio with his wife and tries to see how many kids he can fit on one negative by holding one on each knee and using the older ones as a background.
The last stage in his eventful career, the old gentleman allows himself to be photographed, because he is afraid he may not live through another long, hard winter, and the boys would like a picture of him while he is able to climb the dark, narrow stairs which lead to the artist's room.
The final chapter of his eventful life, the old man agrees to be photographed because he worries he might not survive another long, tough winter, and the kids want a picture of him while he can still manage the dark, narrow stairs that lead up to the artist's studio.
Sadly the thought comes back to you in after years, when his grave is green in the quiet valley, and the worn and weary hands that have toiled for you are forever at rest, how patiently he submitted while his daughter pinned the clean, stiff, agonizing white collar about his neck, and brushed the velvet collar of his best coat; how he toiled up the long, dark, lonesome stairs, not with the egotism of a half century ago, but with the light of anticipated rest at last in his eyes—obediently, as he would have gone to the dingy law office to have his will drawn—and meekly left the outlines of his kind old face for those he loved and for whom he had so long labored.
Sadly, that thought comes back to you years later, when his grave is green in the quiet valley, and the tired hands that worked for you are finally at rest. You remember how patiently he submitted while his daughter pinned the clean, stiff, painful white collar around his neck and brushed the velvet collar of his best coat. He trudged up the long, dark, lonely stairs, not with the arrogance of half a century ago, but with the light of anticipated rest in his eyes—obeying, just as he would have gone to the dingy law office to get his will drawn—and quietly left the outline of his kind old face for the ones he loved and for whom he had worked so long.
It is a picture at which the thoughtless may smile, but it is full of pathos, and eloquent for those who knew him best. His attitude is stiff and his coat hunches up in the back, but his kind old heart asserts itself through the gentle eyes, and when he has gone away at last we do not criticise the picture any more, but beyond the old coat that hunches up in the back, and that lasted him so long, we read the history of a noble life.
It’s a picture that might make the careless smile, but it’s filled with emotion and speaks volumes to those who knew him well. His posture is rigid and his coat is bunched up in the back, but his warm old heart shines through his gentle eyes. When he finally leaves, we no longer judge the picture; instead, beyond the old coat that’s bunched up in the back and has served him for so long, we see the story of a great life.
Silently the old finger-marked album, lying so unostentatiously on the gouty centre table, points out the mile-stones from infancy to age, and back of the mistakes of a struggling photographer is portrayed the laughter and the tears, the joy and the grief, the dimples and the gray hairs of one man's life-tine.
Silently, the old, finger-marked album, resting quietly on the battered coffee table, highlights the milestones from childhood to old age. Behind the blunders of a struggling photographer, it captures the laughter and tears, the joy and sorrow, the dimples and gray hairs of one man's lifetime.
Rosalinde.
In answer to a former article relative to the dearth of woman here, we are now receiving two to five letters per day from all classes and styles of young, middle-aged and old women who desire to come to Wyoming.
In response to an earlier article about the shortage of women here, we are now getting two to five letters a day from all kinds of women—young, middle-aged, and old—who want to come to Wyoming.
Some of them would like to come here to work and obtain an honest livelihood, and some of them desire to come here and marry cattle kings.
Some of them want to come here to work and earn a decent living, while others want to come here and marry wealthy ranchers.
A recent letter from Michigan, written in lead pencil, and evidently during hours when the writer should have been learning her geography lesson, is very enthusiastic over the prospect of coming out here where one girl can have a lover for every day in the week. She signs herself Rosalinde, with a small r, and adds in a postscript that she “means business.”
A recent letter from Michigan, written in pencil, and clearly during a time when the writer should have been studying her geography, is very excited about the idea of coming out here where one girl can have a different boyfriend for every day of the week. She signs herself Rosalinde, with a lowercase r, and adds in a postscript that she “means business.”
Yes, Rosalinde, that's what we are afraid of. We had a kind of a vague fear that you meant business, so we did not reply to your letter. Wyoming already has women enough who write with a lead pencil. We are also pretty well provided with poor spellers, and we do not desire to ransack Michigan for affectionate but sap-headed girls.
Yes, Rosalinde, that's exactly what we're worried about. We had a bit of a nagging fear that you were serious, so we didn’t respond to your letter. Wyoming already has enough women who write with a pencil. We also have plenty of bad spellers, and we don’t want to search through Michigan for sweet but clueless girls.
Stay in Michigan, Rosalinde, until we write to you, and one of these days when you have been a mother eight or nine times, and as you stand in the golden haze in the back yard, hanging out damp shirts on an uncertain line, while your ripe and dewy mouth is stretched around a bass-wood clothes pin, you will thank us for this advice.
Stay in Michigan, Rosalinde, until we reach out to you, and one of these days when you’ve been a mother eight or nine times, and as you stand in the warm sunlight in the backyard, hanging up damp shirts on a shaky line, with a wooden clothespin in your mouth, you’ll thank us for this advice.
Michigan is the place for you. It is the home of the Sweet Singer and the abiding place of the Detroit Free Press. We can't throw any such influences around you here as those you have at your own door.
Michigan is the place for you. It is the home of the Sweet Singer and the base of the Detroit Free Press. We can't offer you any of the same influences you have right outside your door.
Do not despair, Rosalinde. Some day a man, with a great, warm, manly heart and a pair of red steers, will see you and love you, and he will take you in his strong arms and protect you from the Michigan climate, just as devotedly as any of our people here can. We do not wish to be misunderstood in this matter. It is not as a lover that we have said so much on the girl question, but in the domestic aid department, and when we get a long letter from a young girl who eats slate pencils and reads Ouida behind her atlas, we feel like going over there to Michigan with a trunk strap and doing a little missionary work.
Don't worry, Rosalinde. One day a man, with a big, caring heart and a pair of red steers, will see you and love you. He'll hold you in his strong arms and keep you safe from the Michigan weather, just as devotedly as anyone here can. We don’t want to be misunderstood about this. It's not from a romantic perspective that we've talked so much about the girl situation, but from a practical standpoint. Whenever we get a long letter from a young girl who chews on slate pencils and reads Ouida behind her atlas, we feel like heading over to Michigan with a trunk strap and doing some volunteer work.
The Church Debt.
I have been thinking the matter over seriously and I have decided that if I had my life to live over again, I would like to be an eccentric millionaire.
I’ve been seriously thinking about this, and I’ve decided that if I could live my life again, I would want to be an eccentric millionaire.
I have eccentricity enough, but I cannot successfully push it without more means.
I have enough eccentricity, but I can't really express it without more resources.
I have a great many plans which I would like to carry out, in case I could unite the two necessary elements for the production of the successful eccentric millionaire.
I have a lot of plans that I want to bring to life, as long as I can combine the two essential components for creating the successful eccentric millionaire.
Among other things, I would be willing to bind myself and give proper security to any one who would put in money to offset my eccentricity, that I would ultimately die. We all know how seldom the eccentric millionaire now dies. I would be willing to inaugurate a reform in that direction.
Among other things, I would be ready to commit myself and provide proper security to anyone who invests money to counteract my eccentricity, that I would eventually die. We all know how rare it is for eccentric millionaires to actually die nowadays. I would be willing to start a reform in that area.
I think now that I would endow a home for men whose wives are no longer able to support them. In many cases the wife who was at first able to support her husband comfortably, finally shoulders a church debt, and in trying to lift that she overworks and impairs her health so that she becomes an invalid, while hor husband is left to pine away in solitude or dependent on the cold charities of the world.
I believe I would create a shelter for men whose wives can no longer take care of them. Often, a wife who was once able to provide for her husband comfortably ends up taking on a church debt, and in her efforts to manage that, she overworks herself and damages her health, becoming unable to care for herself. Meanwhile, her husband is left to suffer in loneliness or rely on the harsh generosity of outsiders.
My heart goes out toward those men even now, and in case I should fill the grave of the eccentric millionaire, I am sure that I would do the square thing by them.
My heart goes out to those guys even now, and if I end up filling the grave of the eccentric millionaire, I know I would do the right thing by them.
The method by which our wives in America are knocking the church debt silly, by working up their husbands' groceries into “angel food” and selling them below actual cost, is deserving of the attention of our national financiers.
The way our wives in America are tackling the church debt by turning their husbands' groceries into “angel food” and selling them for less than what they cost is worth the attention of our national financial experts.
The church debt itself is deserving of notice in this country. It certainly thrives better under a republican form of government than any other feature of our boasted civilization. Western towns spring up everywhere, and the first anxiety is to name the place, the second to incur a church debt and establish a roller rink.
The church debt itself is worth mentioning in this country. It definitely does better under a republican government than any other aspect of our proud civilization. Western towns pop up everywhere, and the first concern is to name the place, the second is to take on a church debt and set up a roller rink.
After that a general activity in trade is assured. Of course the general hostility of church and rink will prevent ennui and listlessness, and the church debt will encourage a business boom. Naturally the church debt cannot be paid without what is generally known through the West as the “festival and hooraw.” This festival is an open market where the ladies trade the groceries of their husbands to other ladies' husbands, and everybody has a “perfectly lovely time.” The church clears $2.30, and thirteen ladies are sick all the next day.
After that, general activity in trade is guaranteed. Of course, the widespread opposition from the church and rink will keep boredom and lethargy at bay, and the church debt will spark a business boom. Naturally, the church debt can’t be paid off without what is commonly referred to in the West as the “festival and hooraw.” This festival is an open market where the ladies exchange their husbands' groceries with other ladies’ husbands, and everyone has a “perfectly lovely time.” The church makes $2.30, and thirteen ladies feel sick the next day.
This makes a boom for the physicians and later on for the undertaker and general tombist. So it will be seen that the Western town is right in establishing a church debt as soon as the survey is made and the town properly named. After the first church debt has been properly started, others will rapidly follow, so that no anxiety need be felt if the church will come forward the first year and buy more than it can pay for.
This creates a demand for doctors and later for the funeral director and general burial services. So, it’s clear that the Western town is correct in setting up a church debt as soon as the survey is completed and the town is officially named. Once the first church debt is established, others will quickly follow, so there’s no need to worry if the church comes forward in the first year and purchases more than it can afford.
{Illustration: PUGILISM IN RELIGION.}
{Illustration: FIGHTING IN RELIGION.}
The church debt is a comparatively modern appliance, and yet it has been productive of many peculiar features. For instance, we call to mind the clergyman who makes a specialty of going from place to place as a successful debt demolisher. He is a part of the general system, just as much as the ice cream freezer or the buttonhole bouquet.
The church debt is a relatively recent phenomenon, but it has led to many unique characteristics. For example, we think of the clergyman who specializes in traveling from place to place as a successful debt eliminator. He is just as much a part of the overall system as the ice cream maker or the buttonhole flower.
Then there is a row or social knock-down-and-drag-out which goes along with the church debt. All these things add to the general interest, and to acquire interest in one way or another is the mission of the c.d.
Then there's a feud or social brawl that comes with the church debt. All these issues increase the overall interest, and gaining interest in one way or another is the goal of the c.d.
I once knew a most exemplary woman who became greatly interested in the wiping out of a church debt, and who did finally succeed in wiping out the debt, but in its last expiring death struggle it gave her a wipe from which she never recovered. She had succeeded in begging the milk and the cream, and the eggs and the sandwiches, and the use of the dishes and the sugar, and the loan of an oyster, and the use of a freezer and fifty button-hole bouquets to be sold to men who were not in the habit of wearing bouquets, but she could not borrow a circular artist to revolve the crank of the freezer, so she agitated it herself. Her husband had to go away prior to the festivities, but he ordered her not to crank the freezer. He had very little influence with her, however, and so to-day he is a widower. The church debt was revived in the following year, and now there isn't a more thriving church debt anywhere in the country. Only last week that church traded off $75 worth of groceries, in the form of asbestos cake and celluloid angel food, in such a way that if the original cost of the groceries and the work were not considered, the clear profit was $13, after the hall rent was paid. And why should the first cost of the groceries be reckoned, when we stop to think that they were involuntarily furnished by the depraved husband and father.
I once knew a remarkable woman who became really invested in eliminating a church debt, and she ultimately succeeded in doing so, but during the final push to pay it off, she faced a setback from which she never recovered. She successfully convinced others to donate milk, cream, eggs, sandwiches, the use of dishes, sugar, a loan of an oyster, access to a freezer, and fifty buttonhole bouquets to sell to men who usually didn’t wear them, but she couldn’t find an artist to turn the crank of the freezer, so she did it herself. Her husband had to leave before the event, but he told her not to crank the freezer. He didn’t have much say over her, though, and now he’s a widower. The church's debt resurfaced the following year, and now there's no more thriving church debt anywhere in the country. Just last week, that church exchanged $75 worth of groceries for asbestos cake and celluloid angel food, which, without considering the original grocery costs and labor, netted a profit of $13 after covering the hall rent. And why should we factor in the initial grocery costs when we remember they were involuntarily provided by the wayward husband and father?
I must add, also, that in the above estimate doctors' bills and funeral expenses are not reckoned.
I should also mention that in the above estimate, doctors' bills and funeral expenses are not included.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
A Collection of Keys.
I'm getting to be quite a connoisseur of hotel keys as I get older. For ten years I have been collecting these mementoes of travel and cording them away in my key cabinet. Some have square brass tags attached to them, others have round ones. Still others affect the octagonal, the fluted, the hexagonal, the scalloped, the plain, the polished, the docorated, the chaste, the Etruscan, the metropolitan, the rural, the cosmopolitan, the shirred, the tucked, the biased, the high neck and long sleeve or the decolette style of brass check.
I'm becoming quite the expert on hotel keys as I get older. For ten years, I've been collecting these travel keepsakes and storing them in my key cabinet. Some have square brass tags attached, while others have round ones. Then there are those with octagonal, fluted, hexagonal, scalloped, plain, polished, decorated, chaste, Etruscan, metropolitan, rural, cosmopolitan, shirred, tucked, biased, high neck and long sleeve, or decolette style brass tags.
I have, so far, paid my bills, but I have not returned the keys to my room. Hotel proprietors will please take notice and govern themselves accordingly. When my visit to a pleasant city has become a beautiful memory only, I all at once sit down on something hard and find that it is the key to my former room at the hotel. Sitting down on a key tag of corrugated brass, as big as a buckwheat pancake, would remind most anyone of something or other.
I have, so far, paid my bills, but I haven't returned the keys to my room. Hotel owners, please take note and act accordingly. When my time in a lovely city becomes just a nice memory, I suddenly sit down on something hard and realize it's the key to my old hotel room. Sitting on a key tag made of corrugated brass, as big as a buckwheat pancake, would remind just about anyone of something.
I generally leave my tooth-brush in my room and carry off the key as a kind of involuntary swap, so far as the hotel proprietor is concerned, but I do not think it is a mutual benefit, particularly. I cannot use the key to a hotel 500 miles away, and so far as a tooth-brush is concerned, it generally has pleasant associations only for the owner. A man is fond of his own toothbrush, but it takes years for him to love the tooth-brush of a stranger.
I usually leave my toothbrush in my room and take the key with me, which seems like an unintentional trade to the hotel owner, but I don't think it's exactly a win-win situation. I can't use a key from a hotel that's 500 miles away, and a toothbrush usually only has good memories for its owner. A person really loves their own toothbrush, but it takes a long time to get attached to someone else's.
There are a good many associations attached to these keys, like the tags. They point backward to the rooms to which the keys belong. Here is a fat one that led to room number 33-1/2 in the Synagogue hotel. It was a cheerful room, where the bell boy said an old man had asphyxiated himself with gas the previous week. I had never met the old man before, but that night, about 1 o'clock A.M., I had the pleasure of his acquaintance. He came in a sad and reproachful way, and showed me how the post-mortem people had disfigured him. Of course it was a little tough to be mutilated by an inquest, but that's no reason why he should come back there and occupy a room that I was paying for so that I could be alone. He showed me how he blew out the gas, and told me how a man could successfully blow down the muzzle of a shot-gun or a gas jet, but both of these weapons had a way of blowing back.
There are quite a few associations tied to these keys, like tags. They connect to the rooms they belong to. Here’s a hefty one that unlocked room number 33-1/2 in the Synagogue hotel. It was a bright room, where the bellboy mentioned that an old man had suffocated himself with gas the week before. I had never met the old man before, but that night, around 1 A.M., I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting him. He entered in a sad and accusatory manner, showing me how the autopsy team had disfigured him. Of course, it was a bit rough to be harmed by an inquest, but that doesn’t mean he should come back there and use a room I was paying for just so I could have some solitude. He demonstrated how he turned off the gas and explained how a person could successfully blow down the barrel of a shotgun or a gas jet, but both of those methods had a tendency to backfire.
I have a key that brings back to me the memory of a room that I lived in two days at one time. I do not mean that I lived the two days at once, but that at one period I occupied that room, partially, for two days and two nights, I say I partially occupied it, because I used to occupy it days and share it nights with others; that is, I tried to occupy it nights. I tried to get the clerk to throw off something because I didn't have the exclusive use of the room. He wouldn't throw off anything. He even wanted to fight me because I said that the room was occupied before I got it and after I left it. Finally, I told him that if he would throw a bed quilt over his diamond, so I could see him, I would fight him with buckwheat cakes at five-hundred miles. I took my position the next morning at the place appointed, but he did not appear.
I have a key that reminds me of a room I stayed in for two days at one time. I don't mean I lived those two days at once, but that for a short period, I occupied that room, partially, for two days and two nights. I say I partially occupied it because I stayed there during the day and shared it at night with others; that is, I tried to stay there at night. I asked the clerk to give me a discount since I didn’t have exclusive use of the room. He wouldn’t offer any discount. He even wanted to fight me because I said that the room was occupied before I got it and after I left. In the end, I told him that if he would cover his diamond with a bed quilt so I could see him, I would fight him with buckwheat cakes five hundred miles away. I showed up the next morning at the agreed place, but he didn’t come.
Extracts from a Queen's Diary.
January 1.—I awoke late this forenoon with a pain through the head and a taste of ennui in the mouth, which I can hardly account for. Can it be a result of the party last evening? I ween it may be so. We had a lovely card party last evening. It was very enjoyable, indeed. Whist was the game.
January 1.—I woke up late this morning with a headache and a feeling of boredom that I can hardly explain. Could it be because of the party last night? I think it might be. We had a great card party last night. It was really fun. We played whist.
January 3.—Yesterday all day I was unable to leave my room, owing to a headache and nervous prostration, caused by late hours and too much company, the doctor said. It is too bad, and yet I do so much enjoy our card parties and the excitement of the game. To-night I am to take part in a little quiet game of draw poker, I think they call it. I have not had any experience heretofore in the game, but trust I shall soon learn it. There has been some talk about £1 ante and £5 limit. I do not exactly understand the terms. I hope it does not mean anything wrong.
January 3.—Yesterday, I couldn't leave my room all day because I had a headache and felt really run down, according to the doctor, from staying up late and being around too many people. It's such a shame because I really enjoy our card parties and the thrill of the game. Tonight, I'm supposed to join a small, low-key game of draw poker, or so I think they call it. I haven't played before, but I hope to pick it up quickly. There’s been some chatter about a £1 ante and a £5 limit. I'm not really sure what those terms mean. I hope they’re not anything bad.
January 4.—Poker is an odd game, indeed. I think it quite exciting, though at first the odd terms rather confused me. I had not been accustomed to such phrases as “show down,” “bob-tail flush,” and “King full.” I must ask Brown, as soon as his knees are able to be out, to explain the meaning of these terms a little more fully to me. If poor Brown's knees are not better soon, I shall be on kneesy about him. {Here the diary has the appearance of being blurred with tears.} A bob-tail flush, I learn, is something very disagreeable to have. One gentleman said last evening that another bob-tail flush would certainly paralyze him. I gather from that that it is something like a hectic flush. I can understand the game called “old sledge,” and have become quite familiar with such terms as “beg,” “gimmeone,” “I've got the thin one,” “how high is that?” “one horse on me,” “saw-off,” etc., etc., but poker is full of surprises. It seems so odd to see a gentleman “show out on a pair of deuces” and gather in upward of two pounds with great merriment, while the remainder of the party seem quite bored. One gentleman last evening showed out on a full hand with “treys at the head,” putting £3 12s. in his purse with great glee, while another one of the party who had not shown up, but I am positive had a better hand, became so angered that he got up and kicked four front teeth out of the mouth of a favorite dog worth £20. I took part in a spade flush during the evening and was quite successful, so that I can easily pay my traveling expenses and have a few shillings to buy ointment for poor Brown. It was my first winning, and made me quiver all over with excitement. The game is already very fascinating to me, and I am becoming passionately fond of it.
January 4.—Poker is a really strange game. I find it quite thrilling, although at first the unusual terms threw me off a bit. I wasn't used to phrases like “show down,” “bob-tail flush,” and “King full.” I need to ask Brown, as soon as his knees are better, to explain these terms to me in more detail. If poor Brown's knees don't improve soon, I'll start to worry about him. {Here the diary appears to be smudged with tears.} I've learned that a bob-tail flush is something pretty undesirable. One guy said last night that another bob-tail flush would really get to him. I gather that it’s somewhat like a hectic flush. I can understand the game called “old sledge,” and I've become quite familiar with terms like “beg,” “gimmeone,” “I've got the thin one,” “how high is that?” “one horse on me,” “saw-off,” and so on, but poker is full of surprises. It's pretty odd to see a guy “show out on a pair of deuces” and walk away with over two pounds while the rest of the group looks bored. One guy last night showed out with a full hand with “treys at the head,” happily putting £3 12s. in his pocket, while another person in the group who didn't show up—I'm sure had a better hand—got so furious that he stood up and kicked four teeth out of a favorite dog worth £20. I got involved in a spade flush that evening and did pretty well, so now I can easily cover my travel expenses and still have some cash left for ointment for poor Brown. It was my first win, and it made me shake with excitement. The game is already really captivating to me, and I'm starting to love it.
January 6.—I have just learned fully what a bob-tail flush is. It cost me £50. I like information, but I do not like to buy it when it comes so high. I drew two to fill in a heart flush last evening, and advanced the money to back up my judgment; but one of the hearts I drew was a club, which was entirely useless to me. I have sent out a sheriff with a bulldog to ascertain if he can find the whereabouts of the party who started this poker game, I do not know when I have felt so bored. After that I was so timid that I allowed a friend to walk off with £2 on a pair of deuces. I said to him that I called that a deuced bore, and he laughed heartily.
January 6.—I've just found out exactly what a bob-tail flush is. It cost me £50. I enjoy gaining knowledge, but I don’t like having to pay so much for it. Last night, I drew two cards to complete a heart flush and put my money behind my decision; but one of the hearts I drew turned out to be a club, which was completely useless to me. I've sent a sheriff with a bulldog to see if he can locate the person who started this poker game. I can’t remember feeling this bored. After that, I became so nervous that I let a friend walk away with £2 on a pair of deuces. I told him that I considered that a major bore, and he laughed heartily.
I find that you should not be too ready to show by your countenance whether you are bored or pleased in poker. Tour opponent will take advantage of it and play accordingly. It cost me £8 10s. to acquire a knowledge of this fact. If all the information I ever got had cost me as much as this poker wisdom, I would not now have two pennies to jingle together in my purse. Still, we have had a good time, take it all in all, and I shall not soon forget the evenings we have spent here together buying knowledge regardless of cost. I think I shall try to control my wild thirst for information awhile, however, till I can get some more funds.
I think you shouldn't be too quick to let your face show whether you're bored or happy while playing poker. Your opponent will exploit that and play accordingly. It cost me £8 10s. to learn this lesson. If everything I ever learned had cost me as much as this poker insight, I wouldn't even have two pennies to rub together in my wallet. Still, we've had a great time overall, and I won't forget the nights we've spent here together, soaking up knowledge regardless of the price. I think I'll try to calm my eagerness for information for a while, though, until I can get some more money.
{Here the diary breaks off abruptly, and on turning the book over we find the royal signature at the foot of the last page, “The Queen of Spades."}
{Here the diary stops suddenly, and when we flip the book over, we see the royal signature at the bottom of the last page, “The Queen of Spades."}
Shorts.
A Colorado burro has been shipped across the Atlantic and presented to the Prince of Wales. It is a matter of profound national sorrow that this was not the first American jackass presented to his Tallness, the Prince.
A Colorado burro has been shipped across the Atlantic and given to the Prince of Wales. It’s a deep source of national sadness that this wasn’t the first American jackass presented to his Highness, the Prince.
At Omaha last week a barrel of sauer kraut rolled out of a wagon and struck O'Leary H. Oleson, who was trying to unload it, with such force as to kill him instantly and to flatten him out like a kiln-dried codfish. Still, after thousands of such instances on record, there are many scientists who maintain that sauer kraut is conducive to longevity.
At Omaha last week, a barrel of sauerkraut rolled out of a wagon and hit O'Leary H. Oleson, who was trying to unload it, with enough force to kill him instantly and leave him flattened like a kiln-dried codfish. Still, after thousands of similar incidents on record, there are many scientists who argue that sauerkraut promotes longevity.
As an evidence of the healthfulness of mountain climate, the people of Denver point to a man who came there in '77 without flesh enough to bait a trap, and now he puts sleeves in an ordinary feather-bed and pulls it on over his head for a shirt. People in poor health who wish to communicate with the writer in relation to the facts above stated, are requested to enclose two unlicked postage stamps to insure a reply.
As proof of the health benefits of the mountain climate, the people of Denver point to a man who arrived in '77 so thin that he couldn't even use enough meat to bait a trap, and now he uses sleeves from a regular feather bed and pulls it over his head like a shirt. Those in poor health who want to reach out to the writer about the facts mentioned above are asked to include two unlicked stamps to guarantee a response.
At Ubet, M.T., during the cold snap in January, one of the most inhuman outrages known in the annals of crime was perpetrated upon a young man who went West in the fall, hoping to make his pile in time to return in May and marry the New York heiress selected before he went.
At Ubet, M.T., during the cold snap in January, one of the most brutal crimes in history was committed against a young man who had gone West in the fall, hoping to make his fortune by May so he could return and marry the New York heiress he had chosen before leaving.
While stopping at the hotel, two frolicsome young women hired the porter to procure the young man's pantaloons at dead of night They then sewed up the bottoms of the legs, threw the doctored garment back through the transom and squealed “Fire!”
While staying at the hotel, two playful young women hired the porter to get the young man's pants in the middle of the night. They then sewed up the bottoms of the legs, threw the altered garment back through the transom, and yelled “Fire!”
When he got into the hall he was vainly trying to stab one foot through the limb of his pantaloons while he danced around on the other and joined in the general cry of “Fire!” The hall seemed filled with people, who were running this way and that, ostensibly seeking a mode of egress from the flames, but in reality trying to dodge the mad efforts of the young man, who was trying to insert himself in his obstinate pantaloons.
When he entered the hall, he was futilely trying to shove one foot into the leg of his pants while hopping around on the other foot and joining the general shout of “Fire!” The hall appeared to be packed with people, rushing in every direction, supposedly looking for a way out from the flames, but actually trying to avoid the frantic attempts of the young man, who was struggling to get into his stubborn pants.
He did not tumble, as it were, until the night watchman got a Babcock fire extinguisher and played on him. I do not know what he played on him. Very likely it was, “Sister, what are the wild waves saying?”
He didn't fall down, so to speak, until the night watchman grabbed a Babcock fire extinguisher and sprayed it on him. I’m not sure what he said while doing it. It was probably something like, “Sister, what are the wild waves saying?”
Anyway, he staggered into his room, and although he could hear the audience outside in their wild, tumultuous encore, he refused to come before the curtain, but locked his door and sobbed himself to sleep,
Anyway, he stumbled into his room, and even though he could hear the crowd outside in their wild, chaotic encore, he wouldn’t go out in front of them. Instead, he locked his door and cried himself to sleep,
How often do we forget the finer feelings of others and ignore their sorrow while we revel in some great joy.
How often do we overlook the deeper emotions of others and disregard their sadness while we indulge in our own happiness?
“We.”
The world is full of literary people to-day, and they are divided into three classes, viz: Those who have written for the press, those who are writing for the press, and those who want to write for the press. Of the first, there are those who tried it and found that they could make more in half the time at something else, and so quit the field, and those who failed to touch the great heart and pocketbook of the public, and therefore subsided. Those who are writing for the press now, whether putting together copy by the mile within the sound of the rumbling engine and press, or scattered through the country writing more at their leisure, find that they have to lay aside every weight and throw off all the incumbrances of the mossy past.
The world is full of literary people today, and they fall into three categories: those who have written for the press, those who are currently writing for the press, and those who want to write for the press. Among the first group, some tried it and realized they could earn more in half the time doing something else, so they left the field, while others couldn't connect with the public's interests or wallets, and consequently faded away. Those who are writing for the press now, whether cranking out articles next to the rumbling machinery of the printing press or working from various locations at a more relaxed pace, find they need to shed every burden and let go of the outdated constraints of the past.
One thing, however, still clings to the editor like a dab of paste on a white vest or golden fleck of scrambled egg on a tawny moustache. One relic of barbarism rears in gaunt form amid the clash and hurry and rush of civilization, and in the dazzling light of science and smartness.
One thing, however, still sticks to the editor like a bit of paste on a white shirt or a golden speck of scrambled egg on a brown mustache. One leftover from the past stands out in stark contrast amid the chaos and hustle of modern life, even in the bright light of science and sophistication.
It is “we.”
It's "we."
The budding editor of the rural civilizer for the first time peels his coat and sharpens his pencil to begin the work of changing the great current of public opinion. He is strong in his desire to knock error and wrong galley west. He has buckled on his armor to paralyze monopoly and purify the ballot He has hitched up his pantaloons with a noble resolve and covered his table with virgin paper.
The aspiring editor of the rural civilizer is finally rolling up his sleeves and sharpening his pencil to start the task of shifting public opinion. He is determined to challenge mistakes and injustices. He has put on his armor to combat monopolies and clean up the voting process. With a strong commitment, he has cinched his pants and filled his desk with fresh paper.
He is young, and he is a little egotistical, also. He wants to say, “I believe” so and so, but he can't. Perspiration breaks out all over him. He bites his pencil, and looks up with his clenched hand in his hair. The slimy demon of the editor's life is there, sitting on the cloth bound volume containing the report of the United States superintendent of swine diseases.
He’s young and a bit full of himself, too. He wants to say, “I believe” this or that, but he just can’t. Sweat starts pouring down him. He bites his pencil and looks up with his fist in his hair. The annoying reality of an editor’s life is right there, sitting on the hardcover book that has the report from the United States superintendent of swine diseases.
Wherever you find a young man unloading a Washington hand press to fill a long-felt want, there you will find the ghastly and venomous “we,” ready to look over the shoulder of the timid young mental athlete. Wherever you find a ring of printer's ink around the door knob, and the snowy towel on which the foreman wipes the pink tips of his alabaster fingers, you will find the slimy, scaly folds of “we” curled up in some neighboring corner.
Wherever there's a young guy setting up a Washington hand press to meet a long-awaited need, you'll spot the creepy and toxic "we," right there peeking over the shoulder of the nervous young thinker. Wherever you see printer's ink smudged on the doorknob, and the white towel that the foreman uses to clean the pink tips of his pale fingers, you'll notice the slimy, scaly form of "we" lurking in a nearby corner.
From the huge metropolitan journal, whose subscribers could make or bust a president, or make a blooming king wish he had never been born, down to the obscure and unknown dodger whose first page is mostly electrotype head, whose second and third pages are patent, whose news is eloquent of the dear dead past, whose fourth page ushers in a new baby, or heralds the coming of the circus, or promulgates the fact that its giant editor has a felon on his thumb, the trail of the serpent “we” is over them all. It is all we have to remind us of royalty in America, with the exception, perhaps, of the case now and then where a king full busts a bob-tail flush.
From the massive city newspaper, whose subscribers can make or break a president, or make a powerful king wish he had never been born, down to the obscure and unknown paper whose front page is mostly just a standard header, whose second and third pages are ads, whose news is a reminder of the long-gone past, and whose fourth page announces a new baby, a circus coming to town, or reveals that its oversized editor has a criminal record, the influence of "we" is everywhere. It's all we have to remind us of royalty in America, except maybe for the rare instance when a king completely goes bankrupt.
A Mountain Snowstorm.
September does not always indicate golden sunshine, and ripening corn, and old gold pumpkin pies on the half-shell. We look upon it as the month of glorious perfection in the handiwork of the seasons and the time when the ripened fruits are falling; when the red sun hides behind the bronze and misty evening, and says good night with reluctance to the beautiful harvests and the approaching twilight of the year.
September doesn't always mean bright sunshine, ripening corn, and old-fashioned pumpkin pies. We see it as the month of stunning beauty in nature's craftsmanship, a time when ripe fruits drop from the trees; when the red sun sets behind a bronze and misty evening, reluctantly bidding good night to the beautiful harvests and the coming twilight of the year.
It was on a red letter day of this kind, years ago, that Wheeler and myself started out under the charge of Judge Blair and Sheriff Baswell to visit the mines at Last Chance, and more especially the Keystone, a gold mine that the Judge had recently become president of. The soft air of second summer in the Rocky Mountains blew gently past our ears as we rode up the valley of the Little Laramie, to camp the first night at the head of the valley behind Sheep Mountain. The whole party was full of joy. Even Judge Blair, with the frosts of over sixty winters in his hair, broke forth into song. That's the only thing I ever had against Judge Blair. He would forget himself sometimes and burst forth into song.
It was on a bright, memorable day like this, years ago, that Wheeler and I set out with Judge Blair and Sheriff Baswell to visit the mines at Last Chance, especially the Keystone, a gold mine where the Judge had recently taken over as president. The warm air of late summer in the Rocky Mountains flowed gently around us as we rode up the Little Laramie Valley, planning to camp the first night at the valley's head behind Sheep Mountain. The whole group was filled with joy. Even Judge Blair, who had the wisdom of over sixty winters in his hair, broke into song. That’s the only thing I ever had against Judge Blair. Sometimes he would lose himself and just start singing.
The following day we crossed the divide and rode down the gulch into the camp on Douglass Creek, where the musical thunder of the stamp mills seemed to jar the ground, and the rapid stream below bore away on its turbid bosom the yellowish tinge of the golden quartz. It was a perfect day, and Wheeler and I blessed our stars and, instead of breathing the air of sour paste and hot presses in the newspaper offices, away in the valley, we were sprawling in the glorious sunshine of the hills, playing draw poker with the miners in the evening, and forgetful of the daily newspaper where one man does the work and the other draws the salary. It was heaven. It was such luxury that we wanted to swing our hats and yell like Arapahoes.
The next day we crossed the divide and rode down the gulch into the camp on Douglass Creek, where the loud noise of the stamp mills shook the ground, and the fast-moving stream below carried away the yellowish tint of the golden quartz. It was a perfect day, and Wheeler and I felt grateful, choosing to soak in the glorious sunshine of the hills instead of inhaling the stale smell of paste and hot presses in the newspaper offices down in the valley. In the evenings, we spread out in the sun, played draw poker with the miners, and forgot about the daily newspaper where one person does all the work while the other collects the paycheck. It felt like heaven. It was such a luxury that we wanted to throw our hats in the air and shout like Arapahoes.
The next morning we were surprised to find that it had snowed all night and was snowing still. I never saw such flakes of snow in my life. They came sauntering through the air like pure, white Turkish towels falling from celestial clothes-lines. We did not return that day. We played a few games of chance, but they were brief. We finally made it five cent ante, and, as I was working then for an alleged newspaper man who paid me $50 per month to edit his paper nights and take care of his children daytimes, I couldn't keep abreast of the Judge, the Sheriff and the Superintendent of the Keystone.
The next morning, we were surprised to discover that it had snowed all night and was still snowing. I had never seen such snowflakes in my life. They floated through the air like pure, white Turkish towels dropping from heavenly clotheslines. We didn’t head back that day. We played a few quick games of chance, but they didn’t last long. We eventually settled on a five-cent ante, and since I was working for a so-called newspaper guy who paid me $50 a month to edit his paper at night and look after his kids during the day, I couldn’t keep up with the Judge, the Sheriff, and the Superintendent of the Keystone.
The next day we had to go home. The snow lay ankle-deep everywhere and the air was chilly and raw. Wheeler and I tried to ride, but the mountain road was so rough that the horses could barely move through the snow, dragging the buggy after them. So we got out and walked on ahead to keep warm. We gained very fast on the team, for we were both long-legged and measured off the miles like a hired man going to dinner. I wore a pair of glove-fitting low shoes and lisle-thread socks. I can remember that yet. I would advise anyone going into the mines not to wear lisle-thread socks and low shoes. You are liable to stick your foot into a snow-bank or a mud hole and dip up too much water. I remember that after we had walked through the pine woods down the mountain road a few miles, I noticed that the bottoms of my pantaloons looked like those of a drowned tramp I saw many years ago in the morgue. We gave out after a while, waited for the team, but decided that it had gone the other road. All at once it flashed over us that we were alone in the woods and the storm, wet, nearly starved, ignorant of the road and utterly worn out!
The next day we had to head home. The snow was ankle-deep everywhere, and the air was cold and biting. Wheeler and I tried to ride, but the mountain road was so rough that the horses could barely move through the snow, dragging the buggy behind them. So we got out and walked ahead to keep warm. We caught up to the team quickly since we were both long-legged and covered the miles like someone heading to lunch. I wore a pair of snug low shoes and cotton socks. I still remember that. I’d advise anyone going into the mines not to wear cotton socks and low shoes. You might step into a snowbank or a mud puddle and get your feet soaked. After we had walked through the pine woods down the mountain road for a few miles, I noticed that the bottoms of my pants looked like those of a drowned drifter I saw many years ago in the morgue. We eventually got tired, waited for the team, but then figured it must have taken another route. All of a sudden, it hit us that we were alone in the woods and the storm, wet, almost starving, clueless about the road, and completely exhausted!
{Illustration: IT WAS TOUGH.}
{Illustration: IT WAS CHALLENGING.}
It was tough!
It was hard!
I never felt so blue, so wet, so hungry, or so hopeless in my life. We moved on a little farther. All at once we came out of the timber. There was no snow whatever! At that moment the sun burst forth, we struck a deserted supply wagon, found a two-pound can of Boston baked beans, got an axe from the load, chopped open the can, and had just finished the tropical fruit of Massachusetts when our own team drove up, and joy and hope made their homes once more in our hearts.
I’ve never felt so down, so soaked, so starving, or so hopeless in my life. We pushed on a bit further. Suddenly, we emerged from the woods. There wasn’t any snow at all! Just then, the sun came out, and we stumbled upon an abandoned supply wagon. We found a two-pound can of Boston baked beans, grabbed an axe from the load, chopped open the can, and had just finished the delicious fruit of Massachusetts when our own team arrived, and joy and hope filled our hearts once again.
We may learn from this a valuable lesson, but at this moment I do not know exactly what it is.
We can learn something important from this, but right now I’m not sure what it is.
Lost Money.
Most anyone could collect and tell a good many incidents about lost money that has been found, if he would try, but these cases came under my own observation and I can vouch for their truth.
Most people could gather and share several stories about lost money that has been found, if they tried, but these cases were ones I personally witnessed and I can confirm they are true.
A farmer in the Kinnekinnick Valley was paid $1,000 while he was loading hay. He put it in his vest pocket, and after he had unloaded the hay he discovered that he had lost it, and no doubt had pitched the whole load into the mow on top of it. He went to work and pitched it all out, a handful at a time, upon the barn floor, and when the hired man's fork tine came up with a $100 bill on it he knew they had struck a lead. He got it all.
A farmer in the Kinnekinnick Valley was paid $1,000 while he was loading hay. He stuffed it in his vest pocket, and after unloading the hay, he realized he had lost it, likely throwing the whole load into the barn loft on top of it. He started working and tossed it all out, a handful at a time, onto the barn floor, and when the hired man's fork came up with a $100 bill on it, he knew they had found something valuable. He recovered everything.
A man gave me two $5 bills once to pay a balance on some store teeth and asked me to bring the teeth back with me. The dentist was fifteen miles away and when I got there I found I had lost the money. That was before I had amassed much of a fortune, so I went to the tooth foundry and told the foreman that I had started with $10 to get a set of teeth for an intimate friend, but had lost the funds. He said that my intimate friend would, no doubt, have to gum it awhile. Owing to the recent shrinkage in values he was obliged to sell teeth for cash, as the goods were comparatively useless after they had been used one season. I went back over the same road the next day and found the money by the side of the road, although a hundred teams had passed by it.
A guy once gave me two $5 bills to settle a bill for some teeth at a store and asked me to bring the teeth back with me. The dentist was fifteen miles away, and when I got there, I realized I had lost the money. That was back when I hadn’t saved up much, so I went to the tooth factory and explained to the foreman that I had started with $10 to get a set of teeth for a close friend but had lost the cash. He said that my close friend would probably have to deal with it for a while. Because of the recent drop in value, he had to sell teeth for cash, as the products were pretty much worthless after being used for one season. The next day, I retraced my steps and found the money by the side of the road, even though a hundred vehicles had passed it.
A young man, one spring, plowed a pocket-book and $30 in greenbacks under, and by a singular coincidence the next spring it was plowed out, and, though rotten clear through, was sent to the Treasury, where it was discovered that the bills were on a Michigan National Bank, whither they were sent and redeemed.
A young man, one spring, accidentally plowed a wallet and $30 in cash into the ground, and by a strange coincidence the next spring it was unearthed, and although it was completely ruined, it was sent to the Treasury, where it was found that the bills were from a Michigan National Bank, which then processed and redeemed them.
I lost a roll of a hundred dollars the spring of '82, and hunted my house and the office through, in search for it, in vain. I went over the road between the office and the house twenty times, but it was useless. I then advertised the loss of the money, giving the different denominations of the bills and stating, as was the case, that there was an elastic band around the roll when lost. The paper had not been issued more than an hour before I got my money, every dollar of it. It was in the pocket of my other vest.
I lost a roll of a hundred dollars in the spring of '82 and searched my house and office for it, but I couldn't find it anywhere. I walked back and forth between the office and my house twenty times, but it was no use. I then put out an ad about the lost money, listing the different bill denominations and mentioning that there was an elastic band around the roll when I lost it. The ad had barely been out for an hour when I got my money back, every dollar of it. It was in the pocket of my other jacket.
This should teach us, first, the value of advertising, and, secondly, the utter folly of two vests at the same time.
This should teach us, first, the importance of advertising, and, secondly, the complete foolishness of wearing two vests at once.
Apropos of recent bank failures, I want to tell this one on James S. Kelley, commonly called “Black Jim.” He failed himself along in the fifties, and by a big struggle had made out to pay everybody but Lo Bartlett, to whom he was indebted in the sum of $18. He got this money, finally, and as Lo wasn't in town, Black Jim put it in a bank, the name of which has long ago sunk into oblivion. In fact, it began the oblivion business about forty-eight hours after Jim had put his funds in there.
Apropos of recent bank failures, I want to share a story about James S. Kelley, commonly known as “Black Jim.” He experienced his own failure back in the fifties, and after a tough struggle, he managed to pay back everyone except Lo Bartlett, to whom he owed $18. He eventually got the money and, since Lo wasn’t in town, Black Jim deposited it in a bank whose name has long since been forgotten. In fact, the bank started its decline about forty-eight hours after Jim deposited his funds.
Meeting Lo on the street, Jim said:
Meeting Lo on the street, Jim said:
“Your money is up in the Wild Oat Bank, Lo. I'll give you a check for it.”
“Your money is at the Wild Oat Bank, Lo. I’ll give you a check for it.”
“No use, old man, she's gone up.”
“No use, old man, she's gone up.”
“No!!”
"No!"
“Yes, she's a total wreck.”
“Yes, she's a complete mess.”
Jim went over to the president's room. He knocked as easy as he could, considering that his breath was coming so hard.
Jim went to the president's office. He knocked as gently as he could, given that he was breathing so heavily.
“Who's there?”
"Who's there?"
“It's Jim Kelley, Black Jim, and I'm in something of a hurry.”
“It's Jim Kelley, Black Jim, and I'm in a bit of a rush.”
“Well, I'm very busy, Mr. Kelley. Come again this afternoon.”
“Well, I'm really busy, Mr. Kelley. Come back this afternoon.”
“That will be too remote. I am very busy myself. Now is the accepted time. Will you open the door or shall I open it.”
"That will be too far away. I'm really busy too. This is the right time. Are you going to open the door, or should I do it?"
The president opened it because it was a good door and he wanted to preserve it.
The president opened it because it was a nice door and he wanted to keep it in good condition.
Black Jim turned the key in the door and sat down.
Black Jim turned the key in the door and sat down.
“What did you want of me?” says the president
“What did you want from me?” says the president.
“I wanted to see you about a certificate of deposit I've got here on your bank for eighteen dollars.”
“I wanted to talk to you about a certificate of deposit I have here at your bank for eighteen dollars.”
“We can't pay it. Everything is gone.”
“We can't pay it. Everything is gone.”
“Well, I am here to get $18 or to leave you looking like a giblet pie. Eighteen dollars will relieve you of this mental strain, but if you do not put up I will paper this wall with your classic features and ruin the carpet with what remains.”
“Well, I’m here to get $18 or to leave you looking like a giblet pie. Eighteen dollars will ease this mental strain, but if you don’t come up with it, I’ll cover this wall with your classic features and mess up the carpet with what’s left.”
The president hesitated a moment. Then he took a roll out of his boot and paid Jim eighteen dollars.
The president paused for a moment. Then he pulled a roll out of his boot and handed Jim eighteen dollars.
“You will not mention this on the street, of course,” said the president.
“You won't bring this up on the street, obviously,” said the president.
“No,” says Jim, “not till I get there.”
“No,” Jim says, “not until I get there.”
When the crowd got back, however, the president had fled and he has remained fled ever since. The longer he remained away and thought it over, the more he became attached to Canada, and the more of a confirmed and incurable fugitive he became.
When the crowd returned, however, the president had escaped and has stayed away ever since. The longer he was gone and reflected on it, the more he grew fond of Canada, and the more he became a committed and unredeemable fugitive.
I saw Black Jim last evening and he said he had passed through two bank failures, but had always realized on his certificates of deposit. One cashier told Jim that he was the homeliest man that ever looked through the window of a busted bank. He said Kelley looked like a man who ate bank cashiers on toast and directors raw with a slice of lemon on top.
I saw Black Jim last night, and he said he had gone through two bank failures but always cashed in his certificates of deposit. One cashier told Jim that he was the ugliest guy to ever look through the window of a failed bank. He said Kelley looked like someone who eats bank cashiers on toast and has raw directors with a slice of lemon on top.
Dr. Dizart's Dog.
A man whose mother-in-law had been successfully treated by the doctor, one day presented him with a beautiful Italian hound named Nemesis.
A man whose mother-in-law had been successfully treated by the doctor, one day gave him a stunning Italian hound named Nemesis.
When I say that the able physician had treated the mother-in-law successfully, I mean successfully from her son-in-law's standpoint, and not from her own, for the doctor insisted on treating her for small-pox when she had nothing but an attack of agnostics. She is now sitting on the front stoop of the golden whence.
When I say that the skilled doctor successfully treated the mother-in-law, I mean it was successful from her son-in-law's perspective, not her own, because the doctor insisted on treating her for smallpox when she only had a case of agnosticism. She is now sitting on the front steps of the golden whence.
So, after the last sad rites, the broken-hearted son-in-law presented the physician with a handsome hound with long, slender legs and a wire tail, as a token of esteem and regard.
So, after the last sad rites, the heartbroken son-in-law gave the physician a beautiful hound with long, slender legs and a wire tail, as a sign of respect and appreciation.
The dog was young and playful, as all young dogs are, so he did many little tricks which amused almost everyone.
The dog was young and playful, like all young dogs, so he did a bunch of little tricks that entertained almost everyone.
One day, while the doctor was away administering a subcutaneous injection of morphine to a hay-fever patient, he left Nemesis in the office alone with a piece of rag-carpet and his surging thoughts.
One day, while the doctor was out giving a subcutaneous injection of morphine to a hay fever patient, he left Nemesis alone in the office with a rag carpet and his racing thoughts.
At first Nemesis closed his eyes and breathed hard, then he arose and ate part of an ottoman, then he got up and scratched the paper off the office wall and whined in a sad tone of voice.
At first, Nemesis shut his eyes and breathed heavily, then he got up and ate part of an ottoman, then he stood up and scratched the paper off the office wall and whined in a sad tone.
A young Italian hound has a peculiarly sad and depressing song.
A young Italian hound has a strangely sad and gloomy song.
Then Nemesis got up on the desk and poured the ink and mucilage into one of the drawers on some bandages and condition-powders that the doctor used in his horse-practice.
Then Nemesis climbed up on the desk and poured the ink and glue into one of the drawers on some bandages and condition powders that the doctor used in his horse practice.
Nemesis then looked out of the window and wailed. He filled the room with robust wail and unavailing regret.
Nemesis then looked out of the window and cried out. He filled the room with a loud wail and deep regret.
After that he tried to dispel his ennui with one of the doctor's old felt hats that hung on a chair; but the hair oil with which it was saturated changed his mind.
After that, he tried to shake off his ennui with one of the doctor's old felt hats hanging on a chair; but the hair oil it was soaked in changed his mind.
The doctor had magenta hair, and to tone it down so that it would not raise the rate of fire insurance on his office, he used to execute some studies on it in oil—bear's oil.
The doctor had magenta hair, and to tone it down so it wouldn't increase the fire insurance rates on his office, he used to conduct some studies on it in oil—bear's oil.
This gave his hair a rich mahogany shade, and his hat smelled and looked like an oil refinery.
This gave his hair a deep mahogany color, and his hat smelled and looked like an oil refinery.
That is the reason Nemesis spared the hat, and ate a couple of porousplasters that his master was going to use on a case of croup.
That’s why Nemesis left the hat alone and ate a couple of band-aids that his owner was planning to use for a case of croup.
At that time the doctor came in, and the dog ran to him with a glad cry of pleasure, rubbing his cold nose against his master's hand. The able veterinarian spoke roughly to Nemesis, and throwing a cigar-stub at him, broke two of the animal's delicate legs.
At that moment, the doctor walked in, and the dog rushed over to him with a joyful yelp, nudging his cold nose against his owner's hand. The skilled veterinarian spoke harshly to Nemesis and, tossing a cigar stub at him, broke two of the animal's fragile legs.
{Illustration: BUSTLE AND CONFUSION.}
{Illustration: BUSY AND CHAOTIC.}
After that there was a low discordant murmur and the angry hum of medical works, lung-testers, glass jars containing tumors and other bric-a-brac, paper-weights and Italian grayhound bisecting the orbit of a redheaded horse-physician with dude shoes.
After that, there was a low, jarring murmur and the frustrated buzz of medical equipment, lung testers, glass jars filled with tumors and other assorted items, paperweights, and an Italian greyhound crossing the line of sight of a redheaded horse doctor wearing trendy shoes.
When the police came in, it was found that Nemesis had jumped through a glass door and escaped on two legs and his ear.
When the police arrived, they discovered that Nemesis had jumped through a glass door and escaped on two legs and one ear.
Out through the autumnal haze, across the intervening plateau, over the low foot-hills, and up the Medicine Bow Range, on and ever onward sped the timid, grieved and broken-hearted pup, accumulating with wonderful eagerness the intervening distance between himself and the cruel promoter of the fly-blister and lingering death.
Out through the autumn haze, across the flatlands, over the low hills, and up the Medicine Bow Range, the scared, sad, and heartbroken puppy raced on, eagerly closing the gap between himself and the cruel one behind the fly-blister and slow death.
How often do we thoughtlessly grieve the hearts of those who love us, and drive forth into the pitiless world those who would gladly lick our hands with their warm loving tongues, or warm their cold noses in the meshes of our necks.
How often do we unintentionally hurt the feelings of those who love us, pushing away the ones who would happily show us affection with their warm, loving gestures or seek comfort in our embrace.
How prone we are to forget the devotion of a dumb brute that thoughtlessly eats our lace lambrequins, and ere we have stopped to consider our mad course, we have driven the loving heart and the warm wet tongue and the cold little black nose out of our home-life, perhaps into the cold, cold grave or the bleak and relentless pound.
How easy it is for us to forget the loyalty of a dumb animal that mindlessly chews on our lace curtains, and before we have had a chance to think about our reckless actions, we have pushed the loving heart, the warm, wet tongue, and the little cold black nose out of our lives, perhaps into a cold, lonely grave or a harsh, unforgiving animal shelter.
Chinese Justice.
They do things differently in China. Here in America, when a man burgles your residence, you go and confide in a detective, who keeps your secret and gets another detective to help him. Generally that is the last of it. In China, not long ago, the house of a missionary was entered and valuables taken by the thieves. The missionary went to the authorities with his tale and told them whom he suspected. That's the last he heard of that for three weeks. Then he received a covered champagne basket from the Department of Justice. On opening it he found the heads of the suspected burglars packed in tinfoil and in a good state of preservation. These heads were not sent necessarily for publication, but as an evidence of good faith on the part of the Department of Unimpeded Justice. Mind you, there was no postponement of the preliminary examination, no dilatory motions and changes of venue, no pleas to the jurisdiction of the court, no legal delays and final challenges of jurors until an idiotic jury had been procured who hadn't read the papers, no ruling out of damaging testimony, and finally filing of bill of exceptions, no appeal and delay, or appeal afterward to another court which returned the defendant to the court of original jurisdiction for review, and years of waiting for the prosecuting witnesses to die of old age and thus release the defendant. There is nothing of that kind in China. You just hand in your orders to the judicial end of the administration, and then you retire. Later on, the delivery man brings in your package of heads, makes a salaam, and goes away.
They do things differently in China. Here in America, when someone breaks into your home, you talk to a detective, who keeps it confidential and gets another detective to assist. Usually, that's the end of it. In China, not long ago, a missionary's house was broken into, and valuables were stolen. The missionary reported it to the authorities and mentioned who he suspected. That was the last he heard about it for three weeks. Then, he received a covered champagne basket from the Department of Justice. When he opened it, he found the heads of the suspected burglars wrapped in tinfoil and well-preserved. These heads weren't necessarily meant for public display, but as proof of good faith from the Department of Unimpeded Justice. Keep in mind, there were no delays in the preliminary hearing, no lengthy motions or changes of venue, no jurisdiction challenges, no legal holdups or ridiculous juries who hadn’t read the news, no exclusion of incriminating evidence, and no lengthy appeals that dragged on for years until witnesses died of old age, releasing the defendant. None of that happens in China. You just submit your requests to the judicial side of the government, then you wait. Later, a delivery person brings your package of heads, bows, and leaves.
Now, this is swift and speedy justice for you. I don't know how the guilt of the defendants is arrived at, but there's nothing tedious about it. At least, there's nothing tedious to the complainant I presume they make it red-hot for the criminal.
Now, this is quick and fast justice for you. I don't know how they determine the guilt of the defendants, but there's nothing slow about it. At least, there's nothing slow for the complainant. I assume they make it intense for the criminal.
Still this style of justice has its drawbacks. For instance, you are at dinner. You have a large and select company dining with you. You are about to carve the roast There is a ring at the door. The servant announces that a judicial officer is at the drawbridge and desires to speak with you. You pull your napkin out of your bosom, lay the carving knife down on the virgin table cloth, and go to the door. There the minister of justice presents you with a champagne basket and retires. You return to the dining hall, leaving your basket on the sideboard. After a while you announce to your guests that you have just received a basket of Mumm's extra dry with the compliments of the government, and that you will, with the permission of those present, open a bottle. You arm yourself with a corkscrew, open the basket, and thoughtlessly tip it over, when two or three human heads, with a pained and grieved expression on the face, roll out on the table.
Still, this style of justice has its downsides. For example, you're at dinner. You have a large and distinguished group dining with you. You're about to carve the roast when there's a ring at the door. The servant announces that a judicial officer is at the drawbridge and wants to speak with you. You pull your napkin out of your pocket, set the carving knife down on the pristine tablecloth, and head to the door. There, the minister of justice hands you a champagne basket and leaves. You go back to the dining room, leaving the basket on the sideboard. After a bit, you tell your guests that you've just received a basket of Mumm's extra dry champagne as a gift from the government, and with everyone's permission, you plan to open a bottle. You grab a corkscrew, open the basket, and carelessly tip it over, when two or three human heads, with pained and sorrowful expressions, roll out onto the table.
When you are looking for a quart bottle of sparkling wine and find instead the cold, sad features and reproachful stare of the extremely deceased and hic jacet Chinaman, you naturally betray your chagrin. I like to see justice moderately swift, and, in fact I've seen it pretty forthwith in its movements two or three times; but I cannot say that I would be prepared for this style.
When you're searching for a quart bottle of sparkling wine and instead come across the cold, sad face and reproachful glare of the very deceased and hic jacet Chinaman, it's only natural to feel disappointed. I prefer justice to be served fairly quickly, and honestly, I've seen it happen pretty swiftly a couple of times; but I can't say I would be ready for this kind of situation.
Perhaps I'm getting a little nervous in my old age, and a small matter jars my equilibrium; but I'm sure a basket of heads handed in as I was seated at the table would startle me a little at first, and I might forget myself.
Perhaps I'm feeling a bit anxious in my old age, and a small thing throws me off balance; but I'm sure that a basket of heads presented to me while I was sitting at the table would shock me at first, and I might lose my composure.
A friend of mine, under such circumstances, made what the English would call “a doosed clevah” remark once in Shanghai. When he opened the basket he was horrified, but he was cool. He was old sang froid from Sangfroidville. He first took the basket and started for the back room, with the remark: “My friends, I guess you will have to ex-queuese me.” Then he pulled down his eyelids and laughed a hoarse English laugh.
A friend of mine, in that situation, made what the English would call “a really clever” remark once in Shanghai. When he opened the basket, he was horrified, but he stayed calm. He was like an old pro at keeping his cool. He first took the basket and headed for the back room, saying, “My friends, I guess you’ll have to excuse me.” Then he rolled his eyes and laughed a rough English laugh.
Answers to Correspondents.
Caller—Your calling cards should be modest as to size and neatly engraved, with an extra flourish.
Caller—Your business cards should be simple in size and neatly printed, with a little extra flair.
In calling, there are two important things to be considered: First, when to call, and, second, when to rise and hang on the door handle.
In calling, there are two important things to consider: First, when to call, and second, when to get up and grab the door handle.
Some make one-third of the call before rising, and then complete the call while airing the house and holding the door open, while others consider this low and vulgar, making at least one-fourth of the call in the hall, and one-half between the front door and the gate. Different authorities differ as to the proper time for calling. Some think you should not call before 3 or after 5 P.M., but if you have had any experience and had ordinary sense to start with, you will know when to call as soon as you look at your hand.
Some people make a third of their visit before stepping inside, then finish the visit while airing out the house and holding the door open, while others view this as low and tacky, engaging in at least a fourth of the visit in the hallway, and half between the front door and the gate. Different experts have varying opinions on the right time to visit. Some believe you shouldn’t drop by before 3 or after 5 PM, but if you’ve had any experience and have common sense, you'll know when to visit as soon as you look at your watch.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
Amateur Prize Fighter.—The boxing glove is a large upholstered buckskin mitten, with an abnormal thumb and a string by which it is attached to the wrist, so that when you feed it to an adversary he cannot swallow it and choke himself. There are two kinds of gloves, viz., hard gloves and soft gloves.
Amateur Prize Fighter.—The boxing glove is a large, padded buckskin mitt, with an oversized thumb and a string that connects it to the wrist, so that when you throw it at an opponent, they can't swallow it and choke themselves. There are two types of gloves, namely, hard gloves and soft gloves.
I once fought with soft gloves to a finish with a young man who was far my inferior intellectually, but he exceeded me in brute force and knowledge of the use of the gloves. He was not so tall, but he was wider than myself. Longitudinally he was my inferior, but latitudinally he outstripped me. We did not fight a regular prize-fight. It was just done for pleasure. But I do not think we should abandon ourselves entirely to pleasure. It is enervating, and makes one eye swell up and turn blue.
I once had a playful fight with a young man who was definitely not as smart as I was, but he was stronger and knew how to use the gloves better than I did. He wasn’t taller than me, but he was broader. In terms of height, he was at a disadvantage, but in width, he surpassed me. We didn’t have a formal match; it was just for fun. Still, I don’t think we should completely give in to pleasure. It can be exhausting and even cause some harmful effects, like making your eye swell and turn blue.
I still think that a young man ought to have a knowledge of the manly art of self-defense, and if I could acquire such a knowledge without getting into a fight about it I would surely learn how to defend myself.
I still believe that a young man should know how to defend himself, and if I could learn that skill without getting into a fight, I would definitely do it.
The boxing glove is worn on the hand of one party, and on the gory nose of the other party as the game progresses. Soft gloves very rarely kill anyone, unless they work down into the bronchial tubes and shut off the respiration.
The boxing glove is worn on one person's hand and ends up on the bloody nose of the other as the match goes on. Soft gloves hardly ever kill anyone, unless they somehow get into the bronchial tubes and stop breathing.
{Illustration: “HE EXCEEDED ME IN BRUTE FORCE."}
{Illustration: “HE OUTMATCHED ME IN RAW STRENGTH."}
Lecturer, New York City.—You need not worry so much about your costume until you have written your lecture, and it would be a good idea to test the public a little, if possible, before you do much expensive printing. Your idea seems to be that a man should get a fine lithograph of himself and a $100 suit of clothes, and then write his lecture to fit the lithograph and the clothes. That is erroneous.
Lecturer, New York City.—Don't stress too much about your outfit until you've finished writing your lecture. It might be a good idea to get some feedback from the audience first, if you can, before spending a lot on printing. It sounds like you think a guy should get a fancy lithograph of himself and a $100 suit, then write his lecture to match the lithograph and the suit. That's not the right approach.
You say that you have written a part of your lecture, but do not feel satisfied with it. In this you will no doubt find many people will agree with you.
You say you've written part of your lecture but aren't happy with it. Many people will definitely agree with you on this.
You could wear a full dress suit of black with propriety, or a Prince Albert coat, with your hand thrust into the bosom of it. I once lectured on the subject of phrenology in the southern portion of Utah, being at that time temporarily busted, but still hoping to tide over the dull times by delivering a lecture on the subject of “Brains, and how to detect their presence.” I was not supplied with a phrenological bust at that time, and as such a thing is almost indispensable, I borrowed a young man from Provost and induced him to act as bust for the evening. He did so with thrilling effect, taking the entire gross receipts of the lecture course from my coat pocket while I was illustrating the effect of alcoholic stimulants on the raw brain of an adult in a state of health.
You could wear a formal black suit properly, or a Prince Albert coat with your hand tucked into it. I once gave a talk on phrenology in southern Utah, as I was temporarily short on cash but still hoping to get through the tough times by lecturing on “Brains, and how to detect their presence.” I didn’t have a phrenological bust at the time, which is pretty essential for this kind of thing, so I borrowed a young guy from Provost and convinced him to be my bust for the night. He did a great job, even taking all the money from the lecture course out of my coat pocket while I was demonstrating the effects of alcohol on a healthy adult brain.
{Illustration: MAKING REPAIRS.}
{Illustration: MAKING REPAIRS.}
You can remove spots of egg from your full dress suit with ammonia and water, applied by means of a common nail brush. You do not ask for this recipe, but, judging from your style, I hope that it may be of use to you.
You can get egg stains out of your formal suit using ammonia and water with a regular nail brush. You might not have requested this tip, but based on your style, I hope it comes in handy for you.
Martin F. Tupper, Texas.—The poem to which you allude was written by Julia A. Moore, better known as the Sweet Singer of Michigan. The last stanza was something like this:
Martin F. Tupper, Texas.—The poem you mentioned was written by Julia A. Moore, who is better known as the Sweet Singer of Michigan. The last stanza went something like this:
“My childhood days are past and gone,
And it fills my heart with pain,
To think that youth will nevermore
Return to me again.
And now, kind friends, what I have wrote,
I hope you will pass o'er
And not criticise as some has hitherto here—
before done.”
“My childhood days are behind me,
And it brings me sadness,
To realize that youth will never
Come back to me again.
And now, dear friends, what I have written,
I hope you'll overlook
And not criticize as some have done before.” Miss Moore also wrote a volume of poems which the farmers of Michigan are still using on their potato bugs. She wrote a large number of poems, all more or less saturated with grief and damaged syntax. She is now said to be a fugitive from justice. We should learn from this that we cannot evade the responsibility of our acts, and those who write obituary poetry will one day be overtaken by a bob-tail sleuth hound or a Siberian nemesis with two rows of teeth.
Miss Moore also wrote a collection of poems that farmers in Michigan are still using to deal with their potato bugs. She produced a lot of poems, all of which are pretty much filled with sorrow and flawed grammar. It's now said that she's on the run from the law. We should take this as a lesson that we can't escape the consequences of our actions, and those who write sad poetry will eventually be caught by a determined investigator or a relentless force with a fierce presence.
Alonzo G., Smithville.—Yes, you can learn three card monte without a master. It is very easy. The book will cost you twenty-five cents and then you can practice on various people. The book is a very small item, you will find, after you have been practicing awhile. Three card monte and justifiable homicide go hand in hand. 2. You can turn a jack from the bottom of the pack in the old sledge, if you live in some States, but west of the Missouri the air is so light that men who have tried it have frequently waked up on the shore of eternity with a half turned jack in their hand, and a hole in the cerebellum the size of an English walnut.
Alonzo G., Smithville.—Yes, you can learn three card monte on your own without a teacher. It's really easy. The book will cost you twenty-five cents, and then you can practice on different people. The book is pretty inexpensive, you’ll realize after you've practiced for a while. Three card monte and justifiable homicide go hand in hand. 2. You can pull a jack from the bottom of the deck in some states, but west of Missouri, the air is so thin that people who have tried it often end up waking up on the other side with a half-turned jack in their hand and a hole in their skull the size of an English walnut.
You can get “Poker and Three Card Monte without a Master” for sixty cents, with a coroner's verdict thrown in. If you contemplate a career as a monte man, you should wear a pair of low, loose shoes that you can kick off easily, unless you want to die with your boots on.
You can get “Poker and Three Card Monte without a Master” for sixty cents, including a coroner's verdict. If you're thinking about becoming a monte man, make sure to wear a pair of low, loose shoes that you can easily kick off, unless you want to go down with your boots on.
Henry Ubet, Montana.—No, you are mistaken in your assumption that Socrates was the author of the maxim to which you allude. It is of more modern origin, and, in fact, the sentence of which you speak, viz: “What a combination of conflicting and paradoxical assertions is life? Of what use are logic and argument when we find the true inwardness of the bologna sausage on the outside?” were written by a philosopher who is still living. I am willing to give Socrates credit for what he has said and done, but when I think of a sentiment that is worthy to be graven on a monolith and passed on down to prosperity, I do not want to have it attributed to such men as Socrates.
Henry Ubet, Montana.—No, you’re wrong to think that Socrates came up with the saying you’re referring to. It actually comes from a more modern source. The line you mentioned, “What a mix of conflicting and contradictory statements is life? What good are logic and arguments when we see the real nature of the bologna sausage on the outside?” was written by a living philosopher. I appreciate what Socrates has contributed, but when I consider a thought that deserves to be carved on a monument and passed down through the ages, I don’t want it to be credited to someone like Socrates.
Leonora Vivian Gobb, Oleson's Forks, Ariz.—Yes. You can turn the front breadths, let out the tucks in the side plaiting and baste on a new dagoon where you caught the oyster stew in your lap at the party. You could also get trusted for a new dress, perhaps. But that is a matter of taste. Some dealers are wearing their open accounts long this winter and some are not. Do as you think best about cleaning the dress. Benzine will sometimes eradicate an oyster stew from dress goods. It will also eradicate everyone in the room at the same time. I have known a pair of rejuvenated kid gloves to break up a funeral that started out with every prospect of success. Benzine is an economical thing to use, but socially it is not up to the standard. Another idea has occurred to me, however. Why not riprap the skirt, calk the solvages, readjust the box plaits, cat stitch the crown sheet, file down the gores, sandpaper the gaiters and discharge the dolman. You could then wear the garment anywhere in the evening, and half the people wouldn't know anything had happened to it.
Leonora Vivian Gobb, Oleson's Forks, Ariz.—Yes. You can flip the front sections, let out the tucks in the side pleats, and sew on a new patch where you spilled the oyster stew in your lap at the party. You could also get approved for a new dress, maybe. But that’s a matter of style. Some retailers are keeping their accounts open longer this winter and some are not. Do what you think is best about cleaning the dress. Benzine can sometimes remove an oyster stew stain from fabric. It can also clear out everyone in the room at the same time. I’ve seen a pair of refreshed kid gloves ruin a funeral that seemed like it was going to be a success. Benzine is cost-effective, but socially it’s not great. However, another idea has come to me. Why not patch the skirt, fix the seams, readjust the box pleats, hand stitch the crown, trim down the gores, sand down the gaiters, and remove the dolman? You could then wear the outfit anywhere in the evening, and half the people wouldn’t even notice anything was off.
James, Owatonna, Minn.—You can easily teach yourself to play on the tuba. You know what Shakespeare says: “Tuba or not tuba? That's the question.”
James, Owatonna, Minn.—You can easily teach yourself to play the tuba. You know what Shakespeare says: “Tuba or not tuba? That’s the question.”
How true this is? It touches every heart. It is as good a soliliquy as I ever read. P.S.—Please do not swallow the tuba while practicing and choke yourself to death. It would be a shame for you to swallow a nice new tuba and cast a gloom over it so that no one else would ever want to play on it again.
How true is this? It touches every heart. It's as good a soliloquy as I've ever read. P.S.—Please don't swallow the tuba while practicing and choke yourself to death. It would be a shame for you to swallow a nice new tuba and ruin it so that no one else would ever want to play it again.
Florence.—You can stimulate your hair by using castor oil three ounces, brandy one ounce. Put the oil on the sewing machine, and absorb the brandy between meals. The brandy will no doubt fly right to your head and either greatly assist your hair or it will reconcile you to your lot. The great attraction about brandy as a hair tonic is, that it should not build up the thing. If you wish, you may drink the brandy and then breathe hard on the scalp. This will be difficult at first but after awhile it will not seem irksome.
Florence.—You can boost your hair by using three ounces of castor oil and one ounce of brandy. Apply the oil with a cotton ball, and sip the brandy between meals. The brandy will likely go straight to your head and either really help your hair or make you feel okay about your situation. The great thing about brandy as a hair tonic is that it won’t weigh your hair down. If you want, you can drink the brandy and then breathe deeply onto your scalp. This might be tough at first, but after a while, it won't seem bothersome.
Great Sacrifice of Bric-a-brac.
Parties desiring to buy a job-lot of garden tools, will do well to call and examine my stock. These implements have been but slightly used, and are comparatively as good as new. The lot consists in part of the following:
Parties looking to buy a bulk lot of garden tools should come by and check out my stock. These tools have barely been used and are almost as good as new. The lot includes the following:
One three-cornered hoe, Gothic in its architecture and in good running order. It is the same one I erroneously hoed up the carnation with, and may be found, I think, behind the barn, where I threw it when I discovered my error. Original cost of hoe, six bits. Will be closed out now at two bits to make room for new goods.
One three-cornered hoe, Gothic in its design and in good working condition. It's the same one I mistakenly used to weed the carnation, and it can probably be found behind the barn, where I tossed it when I realized my mistake. The original cost of the hoe was six bits. It will now be sold for two bits to make space for new inventory.
Also one garden rake, almost as good as new. One front tooth needs filling, and then it will be as good as ever. I sell this weapon, not so much to get rid of it, but because I do not want it any more. I shall not garden any next spring. I do not need to. I began it to benefit my health, and my health is now so healthy that I shall not require the open-air exercise incident to gardening any more. In fact, I am too robust, if anything. I will, therefore, acting upon the advice of my royal physician, close this rake out, since the failure of the Northwestern Car Company, at 50 cents on the dollar.
Also, I have a garden rake that's nearly new. One of my front teeth needs a filling, and then it will be good as new. I'm selling this tool not because I need to get rid of it, but because I no longer want it. I won't be gardening next spring. I don't need to. I started for my health, and I'm now so healthy that I won't need the outdoor exercise that comes with gardening anymore. In fact, I'm almost too healthy, if anything. So, taking my royal physician's advice, I'm selling this rake, given the failure of the Northwestern Car Company, at 50 cents on the dollar.
Also one lawn-mower, only used once. At that time I cut down what grass I had on my lawn, and three varieties of high-priced rose bushes. It is one of the most hardy open-air lawn-mowers now made. It will outlive any other lawn-mower, and be firm and unmoved when all the shrubbery has gone to decay. You can also mow your peony bed with it, if you desire. I tried it. This is also an easy running lawn-mower, I would recommend it to any man who would like to soak his lawn with perspiration. I mowed my lawn, and then pushed a street-car around in the afternoon to relax my over-strained muscles. I will sacrifice this lawn-mower at three-quarters of its original cost, owing to depression in the stock of the New Jerusalem gold mine, of which I am a large owner and cashier-at-large.
Also, I have a lawn mower that was only used once. Back then, I cut the grass on my lawn and trimmed three types of expensive rose bushes. It’s one of the most durable outdoor lawn mowers currently available. It will outlast any other mower and remain sturdy while all the plants around it have withered away. You can even use it to mow your peony bed if you want—I’ve tried it. This mower runs smoothly, and I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys sweating while working on their lawn. After mowing, I even pushed a streetcar around in the afternoon to ease my sore muscles. I’m willing to part with this lawn mower for three-quarters of its original price due to the downturn in shares of the New Jerusalem gold mine, where I’m a major shareholder and cashier-at-large.
Will also sell a bright new spade, only used two hours spading for angle-worms. This is a good, early-blooming and very hardy angle-worm spade, built in the Doric style of architecture. Persons desiring a spade flush, and lacking one spade to “fill,” will do well to give me a call. No trouble to show the goods.
Will also sell a shiny new spade, only used for two hours digging for angle-worms. This is a great, early-blooming, and very durable angle-worm spade, designed in the Doric style of architecture. Anyone looking for a flush spade and missing one to "fill" should definitely reach out to me. Happy to show the goods.
I will also part with a small chest of carpenter's tools, only slightly used. I had intended to do a good deal of amateur carpenter work this summer, but, as the presidential convention occurs in June, and I shall have to attend to that, and as I have already sawed up a Queen Anne chair, and thoughtlessly sawed into my leg, I shall probably sacrifice the tools. These tools are all well made, and I do not sell them to make money on them, but because I have no use for them. I feel as though these tools would be safer in the hands of a carpenter. I'm no carpenter. My wife admitted that when I sawed a board across the piano-stool and sawed the what-do-you-call-it all out of the cushion.
I will also get rid of a small chest of carpentry tools that are only lightly used. I had planned to do quite a bit of amateur carpentry this summer, but since the presidential convention is happening in June and I have to attend that, and since I already sawed up a Queen Anne chair and accidentally cut my leg, I’ll probably let go of the tools. These tools are all well-made, and I'm not selling them to make money; I’m just not going to use them. I feel like these tools would be safer in the hands of a professional carpenter. I’m no carpenter. My wife pointed that out when I sawed a board across the piano stool and cut the thingamajig right out of the cushion.
{Illustration: OPEN-AIR EXERCISE.}
{Illustration: OUTDOOR WORKOUT.}
Anyone desiring to monkey with the carpenter's trade, will do well to consult my catalogue and price-list. I will throw in a white holly corner-bracket, put together with fence nails, and a rustic settee that looks like the Cincinnati riot. Young men who do not know much, and invalids whose minds have become affected, are cordially invited to call and examine goods. For a cash trade I will also throw in arnica, court-plaster and salve enough to run the tools two weeks, if ordinary care be taken.
Anyone looking to mess around with the carpenter's trade should definitely check out my catalog and price list. I'll include a white holly corner bracket, put together with fence nails, and a rustic bench that resembles the Cincinnati riot. Young men who aren’t very knowledgeable, and those whose minds aren’t quite right, are warmly invited to come by and look at the products. For cash transactions, I'll also include arnica, court-plaster, and enough salve to keep the tools running for two weeks if you take ordinary care.
If properly approached, I might also be wheedled into sacrificing an easy-running domestic wheelbarrow. I have domesticated it myself and taught it a great many tricks.
If approached the right way, I might also be persuaded to give up my smooth-running backyard wheelbarrow. I’ve tamed it myself and taught it quite a few tricks.
A Convention.
The officers and members of the Home for Disabled Butter and Hoary-headed Hotel Hash met at their mosque last Saturday evening, and, after the roll call, reading of the moments of the preceding meeting by the Secretary, singing of the ode and examination of all present to ascertain if they were in possession of the quarterly password, explanation and signs of distress, the Most Esteemed Toolymuckahi, having reached the order of communications and new business and good of the order, stated that the society was now ready to take action, or, at least, to discuss the feasibility of holding a series of entertainments at the rink. These entertainments had been proposed as a means of propping up the tottering finances of the society, and procuring much-needed funds for the purpose of purchasing new regalia for the Most Esteemed Duke of the Dishrag and the Most Esteemed Hired Man, each of whom had been wearing the same red calico collar and cheese-cloth sash since the organization of the society. Funds were also necessary to pay for a brother who had walked through a railroad trestle into the shoreless sea of eternity, and whose widow had a policy of $135.25 against this society on the life of her husband.
The officers and members of the Home for Disabled Butter and Hoary-headed Hotel Hash gathered at their mosque last Saturday evening. After taking attendance, the Secretary read the minutes from the previous meeting, followed by singing an ode and checking to see if everyone present had the quarterly password, as well as the signs of distress. The Most Esteemed Toolymuckahi, having reached the section for communications, new business, and the good of the order, announced that the society was ready to take action or at least discuss the possibility of hosting a series of events at the rink. These events had been suggested as a way to boost the society's struggling finances and raise much-needed funds to purchase new regalia for the Most Esteemed Duke of the Dishrag and the Most Esteemed Hired Man, both of whom had been wearing the same red calico collar and cheesecloth sash since the society's founding. Funds were also needed to cover expenses for a brother who had tragically walked through a railroad trestle and into the endless sea of eternity, whose widow held a policy worth $135.25 with this society on her husband's life.
Various suggestions were made; among them was the idea advanced by the Most Highly Esteemed Inside Door-Slammer that, as the society's object was, of course, to obtain funds, would it not be well to consider, in the first place, whether it would not be as well for the Most Esteemed Toolymuckahi to appoint six brethren in good standing to arm themselves with great care, gird up their loins and muzzle the pay-car as it started out on its mission. He simply offered this as a suggestion, and, as it was a direct method of securing the coin necessary, he would move that such a committee be appointed by the Chair to wait on the pay-car and draw on it at sight.
Various suggestions were made; among them was the idea put forth by the Most Highly Esteemed Inside Door-Slammer that, since the society's goal was obviously to raise funds, wouldn’t it be better to first consider whether it might be a good idea for the Most Esteemed Toolymuckahi to appoint six members in good standing to carefully prepare themselves, get ready, and intercept the pay-car as it set out on its mission. He merely offered this as a suggestion, and since it was a straightforward way to secure the necessary funds, he would propose that the Chair appoint such a committee to approach the pay-car and collect funds on demand.
The Most Esteemed Keeper of the Cork-screw seconded the motion, in order, as he said, to get it before the house. This brought forward very hot discussion, pending which the presiding officer could see very plainly that the motion was unpopular.
The Most Esteemed Keeper of the Cork-screw supported the motion, as he said, to bring it before the group. This started a heated debate, during which the presiding officer could clearly see that the motion wasn't well-received.
A visiting brother from Yellowstone Park Creamery No. 17, stated that in their society “an entertainment of this kind had been given for the purpose of pouring a flood of wealth into the coffers of the society, and it had been fairly successful. Among the attractions there had been nothing of an immoral or lawless nature whatever. In the first place, a kind of farewell oyster gorge had been given, with cove oysters as a basis, and $2 a couple as an after-thought. A can of cove oysters entertained thirty people and made $30 for the society. Besides, it was found after the party had broken up that, owing to the adhesive properties of the oysters, they were not eaten; but the juice, as it were, had been scooped up and the puckered and corrugated gizzards of the sea had been preserved. Acting upon this suggestion, the society had an oyster patty debauch the following evening at $2 a couple. Forty suckers came and put their means into the common fund. We didn't have enough oysters to quite go around, so some of us cut a dozen out of an old boot leg, and the entertainment was a great success. We also had other little devices for making money, which worked admirably and yielded much profit to the society. Those present also said that they had never enjoyed themselves so much before. Many little games were played, which produced great merriment and considerable coin. I could name a dozen devices for your society, if desired, by which money could be made for your treasury, without the risk or odium necessarily resulting from robbing the pay-car or a bank, and yet the profit will be nearly as great in proportion to the work done.”
A visiting brother from Yellowstone Park Creamery No. 17 said that in their society, “an event like this was held to bring in a lot of money for the group, and it was pretty successful. None of the attractions were immoral or illegal. First, they hosted a sort of farewell oyster feast, featuring cove oysters, charging $2 a pair as an afterthought. A can of cove oysters entertained thirty people and made $30 for the society. After the party ended, it turned out that because of the sticky nature of the oysters, they weren’t eaten; instead, the juice was scooped up, and the wrinkled and ridged insides of the sea creatures were saved. Following this idea, the society held an oyster patty event the next night at $2 a couple. Forty folks showed up and contributed to the group fund. We didn’t have enough oysters to go around, so some of us cut a dozen from an old bootleg, and the event was a huge success. We also had other small tricks for making money that worked incredibly well and brought in a lot for the society. Those who attended said they had never had so much fun before. Many games were played, leading to great laughter and a decent amount of cash. I could suggest a dozen ideas for your society that would help bring in money for your treasury, without the risks or shame of robbing a pay-car or a bank, and yet the profits could be almost as high relative to the work involved.”
Here the gavel of the Most Esteemed Toolymuckahi fell with a sickening thud, and the visiting brother was told that the time assigned to communications, new business and good of the order had expired, but that the discussion would be taken up at the next session, in one week, at which time it was the purpose of the chair to hear and note all suggestions relative to an entertainment to be given at a future date by the society for the purpose of obtaining the evanescent scad and for the successful flash of the reluctant boodle.
Here, the gavel of the Most Esteemed Toolymuckahi dropped with a heavy thud, and the visiting brother was informed that the time allocated for communications, new business, and the good of the order had run out. However, the discussion would continue at the next meeting in one week. During that time, the chair intended to listen to and record all suggestions regarding an event that the society would hold in the future to raise some quick cash and successfully attract the hesitant funds.
Come Back.
Personal.—Will the young woman who used to cook in our family, and who went away ten pounds of sugar and five and a half pounds of tea ahead of the game, please come back, and all will be forgiven.
Personal.—Will the young woman who used to cook for our family, and who left with ten pounds of sugar and five and a half pounds of tea in her possession, please come back, and we will forgive everything.
If she cannot return, will she please write, stating her present address, and also give her reasons for shutting up the cat in the refrigerator when she went away?
If she can't come back, could she please write and share her current address, and also explain why she put the cat in the refrigerator when she left?
If she will only return, we will try to forget the past, and think only of the glorious present and the bright, bright future.
If she just comes back, we’ll try to forget the past and focus only on the amazing present and the shining, bright future.
Come back, Sarah, and jerk the waffle-iron for us once more.
Come back, Sarah, and shake the waffle maker for us one more time.
Your manners are peculiar, but we yearn for your doughnuts, and your style of streaked cake suits us exactly.
Your manners are a bit odd, but we really want your doughnuts, and your striped cake style is just right for us.
You may keep the handkerchiefs and the collars, and we will not refer to the dead past.
You can keep the handkerchiefs and the collars, and we won’t talk about the past.
We have arranged it so that when you snore it will not disturb the night police, and if you do not like our children we will send them away.
We’ve set it up so that when you snore, it won’t disturb the night patrol, and if you don’t like our kids, we’ll send them away.
We realize that you do not like children very well, and our children especially gave you much pain, because they were not so refined as you were.
We understand that you're not very fond of children, and our kids in particular caused you a lot of discomfort since they weren't as sophisticated as you.
We have often wished, for your sake, that we had never had any children; but so long as they are in our family, the neighbors will rather expect us to take care of them.
We have often wished, for your sake, that we had never had any kids; but as long as they're in our family, the neighbors will definitely expect us to take care of them.
Still, if you insist upon it, we will send them away. We don't want to seem overbearing with our servants.
Still, if you really want it, we'll send them away. We don't want to come off as too bossy with our staff.
We would be willing, also, to give you more time for mental relaxation than you had before. The intellectual strain incident to the life of one who makes gravy for a lost and undone world must be very great, and tired nature must at last succumb. We do not want you to succumb. If anyone has got to succumb, let us do it.
We’re also open to giving you more time to relax than you had before. The mental pressure that comes with the job of making gravy for a lost and broken world must be really intense, and eventually, even the strongest nature can break down. We don’t want you to break down. If anyone has to break down, let it be us.
All we ask is that you will let us know when you are going away, and leave the crackers and cheese where we can find them.
All we ask is that you let us know when you’re leaving and keep the crackers and cheese somewhere we can find them.
It was rather rough on us to have you go away when we had guests in the house, but if you had not taken the key to the cooking department we could have worried along.
It was pretty tough for us to have you leave while we had guests over, but if you hadn’t taken the key to the kitchen, we could have managed.
You ought to let us have company at the house sometimes if we will let you have company when you want to. Still, you know best, perhaps. You are older than we are, and you have seen more of the world.
You should let us have friends over at the house sometimes if you’ll let us have friends over when you want to. But you probably know best. You’re older than us, and you’ve experienced more of the world.
We miss your gentle admonitions and your stern reproofs sadly. Come back and reprove us again. Come back and admonish us once more, at so much per admonish and groceries.
We really miss your kind advice and your serious scoldings. Please come back and scold us again. Come back and give us advice one more time, at a price per advice and groceries.
{Illustration: “WE HOPE YOU WILL DO THE SAME BY US."}
{Illustration: “WE HOPE YOU WILL DO THE SAME BY US."}
We will agree to let you select the tender part of the steak, and such fruit as seems to strike you favorably, just as we did before. We did not like it when you were here, but that is because we were young and did not know what the custom was.
We’ll let you choose the tender part of the steak and any fruit that catches your eye, just like we did before. We didn’t like it when you were here, but that was because we were young and didn’t know what the custom was.
If a life-time devoted to your welfare can obliterate the injustice we have done you, we will be glad to yield it to you.
If a lifetime dedicated to your well-being can erase the wrongs we've done to you, we would be happy to give it to you.
If you could suggest a good place for us to send the children, where they would be well taken care of, and where they would not interfere with some other cook who is a friend of yours, we would be glad to have you write us.
If you could recommend a good place for us to send the kids, where they'll be well taken care of and won't interrupt another cook who's a friend of yours, we would appreciate it if you could write to us.
My wife says she hopes you will feel perfectly free to use the piano whenever you are lonely or sad, and when you or the bread feel depressed you will be welcome to come into the parlor and lean up against either one of us and sob.
My wife says she hopes you’ll feel completely free to use the piano whenever you’re feeling lonely or sad, and when you or the bread are feeling down, you’re welcome to come into the parlor and lean against either of us and cry.
We all know that when you were with us before we were a little reserved in our manner toward you, but if you come back it will be different.
We all know that when you were with us before, we were a bit reserved in how we acted around you, but if you come back, it’ll be different.
We will introduce you to more of our friends this time, and we hope you will do the same by us. Young people are apt to get above their business, and we admit that we were wrong.
We’re excited to introduce you to more of our friends this time, and we hope you’ll share some of yours with us too. Young people often think too highly of themselves, and we acknowledge that we were mistaken.
Come back and oversee our fritter bureau once more.
Come back and manage our fritter shop again.
Take the portfolio of our interior department.
Take a look at the portfolio of our interior department.
Try to forget our former coldness.
Try to overlook how distant we used to be.
Return, oh, wanderer, return!
Come back, oh, wanderer!
A New Play.
The following letter was written, recently, in reply to a dramatist who proposed the matter of writing a play jointly.
The following letter was written recently in response to a playwright who suggested co-writing a play.
Hudson, Wis., Nov. 13, 1886.
Hudson, WI, Nov. 13, 1886.
Scott Marble, Esq.—Dear Sir: I have just received your favor of yesterday, in which you ask me to unite with you in the construction of a new play.
Scott Marble, Esq.—Dear Sir: I just received your message from yesterday, in which you ask me to join you in creating a new play.
This idea has been suggested to me before, but not in such a way as to inaugurate the serious thought which your letter has stirred up in my seething mass of mind.
This idea has been brought up to me before, but not in a way that sparked the deep thinking your letter has prompted in my busy mind.
I would like very much to unite with you in the erection of such a dramatic structure that people would cheerfully come to this country from Europe, and board with us for months in order to see this play every night.
I would really love to team up with you to create such a dramatic venue that people would happily travel from Europe to our country and stay with us for months just to watch this play every night.
You will surely agree with me that someone ought to write a play. Why it has not been done long ago, I cannot understand. A well known comedian told me a year ago that he hadn't been able to look into a paper for sixteen months. He could not even read over the proof of his own press notices and criticisms, to ascertain whether the printer had set them up as he wrote them or not, simply because it took all his spare time off the stage to examine the manuscripts of plays that had been submitted to him.
You have to agree that someone should write a play. I can’t understand why it hasn’t happened sooner. A well-known comedian told me a year ago that he hadn’t been able to look at a newspaper for sixteen months. He couldn’t even read his own press reviews and critiques to see if the printer had set them up correctly, simply because all his free time offstage went into going through the scripts of plays that had been sent to him.
But I think we could arrange it so that we might together construct something in that line which would at least attract the attention of our families.
But I think we could come up with a way to create something along those lines that would at least grab the attention of our families.
Would you mind telling me, for instance, how you write a play? You have been in the business before, and you could tell me, of course, some of the salient points about it. Do you write it with a typewriter, or do you dictate your thoughts to someone who does not resent being dictated to?
Would you mind telling me, for example, how you write a play? You’ve been in the game before, and you could definitely share some key points about it. Do you write it on a typewriter, or do you dictate your thoughts to someone who's fine with that?
Do you write a play and then dramatize it, or do you write the drama and then play on it? Would it not be a very good idea to secure a plot that would cost very little, and then put the kibosh on it, or would you put up the lines first, and then hang the plot or drama, or whatever it is, on the lines? Is it absolutely necessary to have a prologue? If so, what is a prologue? Is it like a catalogue?
Do you write a play and then perform it, or do you create the story first and then adapt it? Wouldn't it be a smart move to choose a plot that doesn't cost much, and then scrap it, or would you write the lines first and then build the plot or story around those lines? Is it really necessary to have a prologue? If it is, what exactly is a prologue? Is it like a catalog?
I have a great many crude ideas, but you see I am not practical. One of my crude ideas is to introduce into the play an artist's studio. This would not cost much, for we could borrow the studio evenings and allow the artist to use it daytimes. Then we would introduce into the studio scene the artist's living model. Everybody would be horrified, but they would go. They would walk over each other to attend the drama, and we would do well. Our living model in the studio act would be made of common wax, and if it worked well, we would discharge other members of the company and substitute wax. Gradually we could get it down to where the company would be wax, with the exception of a janitor with a feather duster. Think that over.
I have a lot of rough ideas, but as you can see, I'm not very practical. One of my rough ideas is to include an artist's studio in the play. This wouldn't cost much since we could borrow the studio in the evenings and let the artist use it during the day. Then, we would add a live model to the studio scene. Everyone would be shocked, but they'd still come. They would compete to attend the show, and it would do well. Our live model in the studio scene would actually be made of regular wax, and if that worked out, we could let go of other cast members and replace them with wax figures. Eventually, we could get it down to where the whole cast would be wax, except for a janitor with a feather duster. Think about it.
But seriously, a play, it seems to me, should embody an idea. Am I correct in that theory or not? It ought to convey some great thought, some maxim or aphorism, or some such a thing as that. How would it do to arrange a play with the idea of impressing upon the audience that “the fool and his money are soon parted?” Are you using a hero and a heroine in your plays now? If so, would you mind writing their lines for them, while I arrange the details and remarks for the young man who is discovered asleep on a divan when the curtain rises, and who sleeps on through the play with his mouth slightly ajar till the close—the close of the play, not the close of his mouth—when it is discovered that he is dead. He then plays the cold remains in the closing tableau, and fills a new-made grave at $9 per week.
But seriously, a play should have a central idea. Am I right about that? It should communicate some important thought, a principle or saying, or something along those lines. What if we created a play centered around the idea that “the fool and his money are soon parted?” Are you still using a hero and a heroine in your plays? If so, would you mind writing their lines while I handle the details and dialogue for the young man who is found asleep on a couch when the curtain rises? He stays asleep throughout the play with his mouth slightly open until the end—when it’s revealed that he’s actually dead. He would then play the lifeless role in the final scene and be buried for $9 a week.
I could also write the lines, I think, for the young man who comes in wearing a light summer cane and a seersucker coat so tight that you can count his vertebrae. I could write what he would say without great mental strain, I think. I must avoid mental strain or my intellect might split down the back and I would be a mental wreck, good for nothing but to strew the shores of time with myself.
I guess I could also think up the lines for the young guy who walks in wearing a light summer hat and a seersucker coat so tight you can see his spine. I could easily come up with what he’d say without too much effort, I believe. I need to steer clear of overthinking or my mind might just crack apart and I’d end up a total mess, useless and scattered along the shores of time.
Various other crude ideas present themselves to my mind, but they need to be clothed. You will say that this is unnecessary. I know you will at once reply that, for the stage, the less you clothe an idea the more popular it will be, but I could not consent to have even a bare thought of mine make an appearance night after night before a cultivated audience.
Various other rough ideas come to my mind, but they need to be dressed up. You might say that this isn’t needed. I know you'll quickly respond that, for the stage, the less you dress an idea, the more popular it’ll be, but I can't agree to have even a bare thought of mine perform night after night in front of a cultured audience.
What do you think of introducing a genuine case of small-pox on the stage? You say in your letter that what the American people clamor for is something “catchy.” That would be catchy, and it would also introduce itself.
What do you think about bringing a real case of smallpox onto the stage? You mentioned in your letter that what the American public is craving is something “catchy.” That would definitely be catchy, and it would also grab attention.
I wish you would also tell me what kind of diet you confine yourself to while writing a play, and how you go to work to procure it. Do you live on a mixed diet, or on your relatives? Would you soak your head while writing a play, or would you soak your overcoat? I desire to know all these things, because, Mr. Marble, to tell you the truth, I am as ignorant about this matter as the babe unborn. In fact, posterity would have to get up early in the morning to know less about play-writing than I have succeeded in knowing.
I wish you would tell me what kind of diet you stick to while writing a play, and how you go about getting it. Do you eat a mixed diet, or rely on your relatives? Would you soak your head while writing, or would you soak your overcoat? I want to know all of this because, to be honest, Mr. Marble, I’m as clueless about it as an unborn baby. In fact, future generations would need to wake up really early to know less about playwriting than I do.
If we are to make a kind of comedy, my idea would be to introduce something facetious in the middle of the comedy. No one will expect it, you see, and it will tickle the audience almost to death.
If we're going to create a type of comedy, my suggestion would be to add something funny in the middle of it. No one will see it coming, and it will have the audience laughing like crazy.
A friend of mine suggests that it would be a great hit to introduce, or rather to reproduce, the Hell Gate explosion. Many were not able to be there at the time, and would willingly go a long distance to witness the reproduction.
A friend of mine suggests that it would be a huge success to recreate the Hell Gate explosion. Many people weren’t able to be there when it happened and would gladly travel a long distance to see it happen again.
I wish that you would reply to this letter at an early date, telling me what you think of the schemes suggested. Feel perfectly free to express yourself fully. I am not too proud to receive your suggestions.
I hope you can respond to this letter soon and share your thoughts on the proposed ideas. Please feel free to express yourself completely. I'm open to your suggestions.
The Silver Dollar.
It would seem at this time, while so little is being said on the currency question, and especially by the men who really control the currency, that a word from me would not be out of place. Too much talking has been done by those only who have a theoretical knowledge of money and its eccentric habits. People with a mere smattering of knowledge regarding national currency have been loquacious, while those who have made the matter a study, have been kept in the background.
It seems that right now, while not much is being said about the currency issue, especially by the people who actually control it, my input would be timely. There's been too much chatter from those who only have a superficial understanding of money and its quirks. People with just a little bit of knowledge about national currency have been very vocal, while those who have really studied the topic have been sidelined.
At this period in the history of our country, there seems to be a general stringency, and many are in the stringency business who were never that way before. Everything seems to be demonetized. The demonetization of groceries is doing as much toward the general wiggly palsy of trade as anything I know of.
At this time in our country's history, there seems to be a widespread financial squeeze, and many people who were never in that situation before are now feeling it. Everything seems to have lost its value. The decline in grocery prices is contributing significantly to the overall chaotic state of trade more than anything else I can think of.
But I may say, in alluding briefly to the silver dollar, that there are worse calamities than the silver dollar. Other things may occur in our lives, which, in the way of sadness and three-cornered gloom, make the large, robust dollar look like an old-fashioned half-dime.
But I can say, while briefly mentioning the silver dollar, that there are worse disasters than the silver dollar. Other things can happen in our lives that, in terms of sadness and despair, make the big, sturdy dollar seem like an outdated half-dime.
I met a man the other day, who, two years ago, was running a small paper at Larrabie's Slough. He was then in his meridian as a journalist, and his paper was frequently quoted by such widely-read publications as the Knight of Labor at Work, a humorous semi-monthly journal. He boldly assailed the silver dollar, and with his trenchant pen he wrote such burning words of denunciation that the printer had to set them on ice before he could use the copy.
I met a guy the other day who, two years ago, was running a small newspaper at Larrabie's Slough. He was at the peak of his career as a journalist, and his paper was often cited by well-known publications like the Knight of Labor at Work, a lighthearted bi-weekly magazine. He fearlessly criticized the silver dollar, and with his sharp writing, he wrote such intense words of condemnation that the printer had to cool them down before he could use the text.
Last week I met him on a Milwaukee & St. Paul train. He was very thin in flesh, and the fire of defiance was no longer in his eye. I asked him how he came on with the paper at Larrabie's Slough. He said it was no more.
Last week I ran into him on a Milwaukee & St. Paul train. He looked really thin, and the spark of defiance was gone from his eye. I asked him how things were going with the paper at Larrabie's Slough. He said it was gone.
“It started out,” said he, “in a fearless way, but it was not sustained.”
“It started out,” he said, “in a bold way, but it wasn’t sustained.”
He then paused in a low tone of voice, gulped, and proceeded:
He then paused, spoke in a hushed voice, gulped, and continued:
“Folks told me when I began that I ought to attack almost everything. Make the paper non-partisan, but aggressive, that was their idea. Sail into everything, and the paper would soon be a power in the land. So I aggressed.
“People told me when I started that I should challenge just about everything. Make the paper unbiased, but bold, that was their thinking. Go after everything, and the paper would quickly become influential. So I dove in.”
“Friends came in very kindly and told me what to attack. They would neglect their own business in order to tell me of corruption in somebody else. I went on that way for some time in a defiant mood, attacking anything that happened to suggest itself.
“Friends came in and kindly told me what to go after. They would ignore their own issues to point out corruption in someone else. I carried on like that for a while, feeling defiant, criticizing anything that came to mind.”
“Finally I thought I would attack the silver dollar. I did so. I thought that friends would come to me and praise me for my manly words, and that I could afford to lose the friendship of the dollar provided I could win friends.
“Finally, I figured I would go after the silver dollar. I did just that. I thought my friends would come to me and praise my brave words, and that losing the dollar wouldn’t matter if I could gain friends instead.”
“In six months I took an unexpired annual pass over our Larrabie Slough Narrow-Gauge, or Orphan Road, and with nothing else but the clothes I wore, I told the plaintiff how to jerk the old Washington press and went away. The dear old Washington press that had more than once squatted my burning words into the pure white page. The dear old towel on which I had wiped my soiled hands for years, until it had almost become a part of myself, the dark blue Gordon press with its large fly wheel and intermittent chattel mortgage, a press, to which I had contributed the first joint of my front finger; the editor's chair; the samples of large business cards printed in green with an inflamed red border, which showed that we could do colored work at Larrabie's Slough just as well as they could in the large cities; the files of our paper; the large wilted potato that Mr. Alonzo G. Pinkham of Erin Corners kindly laid on our table-all, all had to go.
“In six months, I grabbed an unused annual pass for our Larrabie Slough Narrow-Gauge, or Orphan Road, and with nothing but the clothes on my back, I told the plaintiff how to operate the old Washington press and walked away. That dear old Washington press had turned my fiery words into clean, white pages more than once. The beloved towel I had used to wipe my dirty hands for years, which had almost become part of me, the dark blue Gordon press with its big flywheel and occasional chattel mortgage, a press to which I had lost the first joint of my front finger; the editor's chair; the samples of large business cards printed in green with a bright red border, which proved we could do colored work at Larrabie's Slough just as well as they could in the big cities; the files of our paper; the large wilted potato that Mr. Alonzo G. Pinkham of Erin Corners kindly placed on our table—all of it had to go.”
“I fled out into the great, hollow, mocking world of people who had requested me to aggress. They were people who had called my attention to various things which I ought to attack. I had attacked those things. I had also attacked the Larrabie Slough Narrow-Gauge Railroad, but the manager did not see the attack, and so my pass was good.
“I ran out into the vast, empty, mocking world of people who had asked me to be aggressive. They were people who had pointed out various issues that I should confront. I had confronted those issues. I had also gone after the Larrabie Slough Narrow-Gauge Railroad, but the manager didn’t notice the attack, so my pass was still valid.”
“What could I do?
"What can I do?"
“I had attacked everything, and more especially the silver dollar, and now I was homeless. For fourteen weeks I rode up the narrow-gauge road one day and back the next, subsisting solely on the sample of nice pecan meat that the newsboy puts in each passenger's lap.
“I had gone after everything, especially the silver dollar, and now I was without a home. For fourteen weeks, I traveled up the narrow-gauge road one day and back the next, living only on the sample of nice pecan meat that the newsboy places in each passenger's lap.
“You look incredulous, I see, but it is true.
"You look skeptical, but it's true."
“I feel differently toward the currency now, and I wish I could undo what I have done. Were I called up again to jerk the Archimedean lever, I would not be so aggressive, especially as regards the currency. Whether it is inflated or not, silver dollars, paper certificates of deposit or silver bullion, it does not matter to me.
“I feel differently about the currency now, and I wish I could take back what I’ve done. If I were asked to pull the Archimedean lever again, I wouldn't be so aggressive, especially when it comes to the currency. Whether it's inflated or not, silver dollars, paper certificates of deposit, or silver bullion, it doesn't matter to me.”
“I yearn for two or three adult doughnuts and one of those thick, dappled slabs of gingerbread, or slat of pie with gooseberries in it. I presume that I could write a scathing editorial on the abuses of our currency yet, but I am not so much in the scathe business as I used to be.
“I crave two or three grown-up doughnuts and one of those thick, spotted pieces of gingerbread, or a slice of pie with gooseberries in it. I suppose I could write a harsh editorial about the misuse of our currency, yet I’m not as interested in being critical as I used to be.”
“I wish you would state, if you will, through some great metropolitan journal, that my views in relation to the silver coinage and the currency question have undergone a radical change, and that any plan whatever, by which to make the American dollar less skittish, will meet with my hearty approval.
“I wish you would say, if you don’t mind, through some major city newspaper, that my views on silver coinage and the currency issue have changed completely, and that any plan aimed at making the American dollar more stable will have my full support."
“If I have done anything at all through my paper to injure or repress the flow of our currency, and I fear I have, I now take this occasion to cheerfully regret it.”
“If I have done anything through my paper to harm or hold back the flow of our currency, and I worry I have, I want to take this opportunity to sincerely apologize.”
He then wrung my hand and passed from my sight.
He then shook my hand and walked out of my view.
Polygamy as a Religious Duty.
During the past few years in the history of our republic, we have had leprosy, yellow fever and the dude, and it seemed as though each one would wreck the whole national fabric at one time. National and international troubles of one kind and another have gradually risen, been met and mastered, but the great national abscess known as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints still obstinately refuses to come to a head.
During the last few years in the history of our country, we've dealt with leprosy, yellow fever, and various societal issues, and it felt like each one could potentially damage our entire nation. National and international challenges of all sorts have gradually emerged, been addressed, and overcome, but the significant issue known as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints still stubbornly refuses to resolve itself.
I may be a radical monogamist and a rash enthusiast upon this matter, but I still adhere to my original motto, one country, one flag and one wife at a time. Matrimony is a good thing, but it can be overdone. We can excuse the man who becomes a collection of rare coins, stamps, or autographs, but he who wears out his young life making a collection of wives, should be looked upon with suspicion.
I might be an extreme believer in monogamy and a bit impulsive about this topic, but I still stick to my original motto: one country, one flag, and one wife at a time. Marriage is a good thing, but it can be taken too far. We can understand a guy who collects rare coins, stamps, or autographs, but someone who spends their youth collecting wives should definitely raise some eyebrows.
After all, however, this matter has always been, and still is, treated with too much levity. It seems funny to us, at a distance of 1,600 miles, that a thick-necked patriarch in the valley of the Jordan should be sealed to thirteen or fourteen low-browed, half human females, and that the whole mass of humanity should live and multiply under one roof.
After all, this issue has always been—and still is—taken too lightly. It seems amusing to us, from 1,600 miles away, that a bulky patriarch in the Jordan Valley is linked to thirteen or fourteen simple-minded, half-human women, and that the entire group of people lives and grows under one roof.
Those who see the wealthy polygamists of Salt Lake City, do not know much of the horrors of trying to make polygamy and poverty harmonize in the rural districts. In the former case, each wife has a separate residence or suite of rooms, perhaps; but in the latter is the aggregation of vice and depravity, doubly horrible because, instead of the secluded character which wickedness generally assumes, here it is the common heritage of the young and at once fails to shock or horrify.
Those who look at the wealthy polygamists in Salt Lake City don’t really understand the struggles of trying to make polygamy work alongside poverty in the rural areas. In the former situation, each wife has her own place or a set of rooms; however, in the latter, there’s a mix of vice and degradation that’s even worse because, instead of the hidden nature that immorality usually has, it becomes a shared reality for the youth and ultimately loses its ability to shock or disturb.
Under the All-seeing eye, and the Bee Hive, and the motto, “Holiness to the Lord,” with a bogus Bible and a red-nosed prophet, who couldn't earn $13. per month pounding sand, this so called church hanging on to the horns of the altar, as it were, defies the statutes, and while in open rebellion against the laws of God and man, refers to the constitution of the United States as protecting it in its “religious belief.”
Under the All-seeing eye, the Bee Hive, and the motto "Holiness to the Lord," with a fake Bible and a prophet with a red nose who couldn’t make $13 a month doing menial work, this so-called church, clinging desperately to its position, openly defies the laws and is in rebellion against both God's and man's laws while claiming that the Constitution of the United States protects its "religious belief."
In a poem, the patient Mormon in the picturesque valley of the Great Salt Lake, where he has “made the desert blossom as the rose,” looks well. With the wonderful music of the great organ at the tabernacle sounding in your ears, and the lofty temple near by towering to the sky, you say to yourself, there is, after all, something solemn and impressive in all this; but when a greasy apostle in an alapaca duster, takes his place behind the elevated desk, and with bad grammar and slangy sentences, asks God in a businesslike way to bless this buzzing mass of unclean, low-browed, barbarous scum of all foreign countries, and the white trash and criminals of our own, you find no reverence, and no religious awe.
In a poem, the patient Mormon in the scenic valley of the Great Salt Lake, where he has “made the desert bloom like a rose,” looks good. With the beautiful music of the grand organ at the tabernacle filling the air, and the impressive temple nearby reaching up to the sky, you think to yourself, there is, after all, something serious and striking about all this; but when a disheveled apostle in a cheap coat takes his place behind the raised desk, and with poor grammar and casual phrases, asks God in a businesslike manner to bless this buzzing crowd of unrefined, dull-witted, barbaric people from all over the world, along with the white trash and criminals from our own country, you feel no reverence, and no religious awe.
The same mercenary, heartless lunacy that runs through the sickly plagiarism of the Book of Mormon, pervades all this, and instead of the odor of sanctity you notice the flavor of bilge water, and the emigrant's own hailing sign, the all-pervading fragrance of the steerage.
The same ruthless insanity that flows through the twisted copying of the Book of Mormon is everywhere in this, and instead of a sense of holiness, you pick up a smell like sewage, along with the unmistakable scent of steerage that the immigrant carries with them.
Education is the foe of polygamy, and many of the young who have had the means by which to complete their education in the East, are apostate, at least so far as polygamy is concerned. Still, to the great mass of the poor and illiterate of Mormondom this is no benefit. The rich of the Mormon Church are rich because their influence with this great fraud has made them so; and it would, as a matter of business, injure their prospects to come out and bolt the nomination.
Education opposes polygamy, and many young people who were able to complete their education in the East have turned away from polygamy. However, this doesn't help the majority of the poor and uneducated in the Mormon community. The wealthy in the Mormon Church are rich because their influence within this significant deception has made them so; it would harm their business prospects to reject the nomination publicly.
{Illustration: THE FAMILY WASH.}
{Illustration: THE FAMILY LAUNDRY.}
Utah, even with the Edmunds bill, is hopelessly Mormon; all adjoining States and Territories are already invaded by them, and the delegate in Congress from Wyoming is elected by the Mormon vote.
Utah, even with the Edmunds bill, is still overwhelmingly Mormon; all nearby states and territories are already taken over by them, and the delegate in Congress from Wyoming is elected by the Mormon vote.
I believe that I am moderately liberal and free upon all religious matters, but when a man's confession of faith involves from three to twenty-seven old corsets in the back yard every spring, and a clothes line every Monday morning that looks like a bridal trousseau emporium struck by a cyclone, I must admit that I am a little bit inclined to be sectarian in my views.
I think I'm pretty open-minded and free when it comes to religion, but when someone's expression of faith means having three to twenty-seven old corsets in the backyard every spring, and a clothesline every Monday morning that looks like a bridal shop got hit by a tornado, I have to admit that I lean a bit toward being narrow-minded in my opinions.
It's bad enough to be slapped across the features by one pair of long wet hose on your way to the barn, but to have a whole bankrupt stock of cold, wet garments every week fold their damp arms around your neck, as you dodge under the clothes line to drive the cow out of the yard, is wrong.
It's bad enough to get smacked in the face by a long, wet hose on your way to the barn, but to have a whole load of cold, wet clothes every week wrap their damp arms around your neck as you duck under the clothesline to herd the cow out of the yard is just unfair.
It is not good for man to be alone, of course, but why should he yearn to fold a young ladies' seminary to his bosom? Why should this morbid sentiment prompt him to marry a Female Suffrage Mass Meeting? I do not wish to be considered an extremist in religious matters, but the doctrine that requires me to be sealed to a whole emigrant train, seems unnatural and inconsistent.
It’s definitely not healthy for a man to be alone, but why should he feel the need to embrace a young ladies' school? Why should this strange feeling drive him to marry a Female Suffrage Mass Meeting? I don’t want to be seen as an extreme person when it comes to religion, but the belief that I should be bound to an entire group of emigrants feels unnatural and inconsistent.
The Newspaper.
An Address Delivered Before the Wisconsin State Press Association, at White-Water, Wis., August 11, 1886.
An Address Given to the Wisconsin State Press Association, at Whitewater, WI, August 11, 1886.
Mr. President and Gentlemen of the Press of Wisconsin:
Mr. President and members of the Wisconsin press:
I am sure that when you so kindly invited me to address you to-day, you did not anticipate a lavish display of genius and gestures. I accepted the invitation because it afforded me an opportunity to meet you and to get acquainted with you, and tell you personally that for years I have been a constant reader of your valuable paper and I like it. You are running it just as I like to see a newspaper run.
I’m sure that when you kindly invited me to speak to you today, you didn’t expect a grand show of brilliance and theatrics. I accepted the invitation because it gave me a chance to meet you, get to know you, and personally tell you that for years I’ve been an avid reader of your valuable paper and I really appreciate it. You are managing it exactly how I like to see a newspaper run.
I need not elaborate upon the wonderful growth of the press in our country, or refer to the great power which journalism wields in the development of the new world. I need not ladle out statistics to show you how the newspaper has encroached upon the field of oratory and how the pale and silent man, while others sleep, compiles the universal history of a day and tells his mighty audience what he thinks about it before he goes to bed.
I don’t need to go into detail about the amazing growth of the press in our country or mention the significant influence journalism has in shaping the modern world. I don’t have to throw out statistics to show you how newspapers have taken over the realm of public speaking and how the quiet, unseen person, while others are asleep, gathers the world’s news of the day and shares his thoughts with a huge audience before heading to bed.
Of course, this is but the opinion of one man, but who has a better opportunity to judge than he who sits with his finger on the electric pulse of the world, judging the actions of humanity at so much per judge, invariably in advance?
Of course, this is just one person's opinion, but who has a better chance to judge than someone who has their finger on the electric pulse of the world, evaluating humanity’s actions at such a rate per evaluation, usually ahead of time?
I need not tell you all this, for you certainly know it if you read your paper, and I hope you do. A man ought to read his own paper, even if he cannot endorse all its sentiments.
I don't need to explain all this to you, since you probably already know it if you read your paper, and I hope you do. A person should read their own paper, even if they can't agree with everything it says.
So necessary has the profession of journalism become to the progress and education of our country, that the matter of establishing schools where young men may be fitted for an active newspaper life, has attracted much attention and discussion. It has been demonstrated that our colleges do not fit a young man to walk at once into the active management of a paper. He should at least know the difference between a vile contemporary and a Gothic scoop.
The role of journalism has become so essential to the growth and education of our country that the idea of creating schools to prepare young people for a career in newspapers has gained a lot of attention and discussion. It's clear that our colleges don't fully prepare young people to step into the active management of a newspaper right away. They should at least understand the difference between a lousy current event and a significant exclusive story.
It is difficult to map out a proper course for the student in a school of journalism, there are so many things connected with the profession which the editor and his staff should know and know hard. The newspaper of to-day is a library. It is an encyclopaedia, a poem, a biography, a history, a prophecy, a directory, a time-table, a romance, a cook book, a guide, a horoscope, an art critic, a political resume, a multum in parvo. It is a sermon, a song, a circus, an obituary, a picnic, a shipwreck, a symphony in solid brevier, a medley of life and death, a grand aggregation of man's glory and his shame. It is, in short, a bird's-eye-view of all the magnanimity and meanness, the joys and griefs, the births and deaths, the pride and poverty of the world, and all for two cents—sometimes.
It's hard to create a clear path for students in a journalism school because there are so many aspects of the profession that editors and their teams need to understand thoroughly. Today's newspaper functions as a library. It's an encyclopedia, a poem, a biography, a history, a prophecy, a directory, a timetable, a romance, a cookbook, a guide, a horoscope, an art critique, a political summary, a multum in parvo. It serves as a sermon, a song, a circus, an obituary, a picnic, a shipwreck, a symphony in solid print, a mix of life and death, a vast collection of human triumphs and failures. In short, it provides a quick glimpse into all the kindness and cruelty, the joys and sorrows, the births and deaths, the pride and poverty of the world, all for two cents—sometimes.
I could tell you some more things that the newspaper of to-day is, if you had time to stay here and your business would not suffer in your absence. Among others it is a long felt want, a nine-column paper in a five-column town, a lying sheet, a feeble effort, a financial problem, a tottering wreck, a political tool and a sheriff's sale.
I could share more about what today’s newspaper is, if you had time to stick around and if your work wouldn’t be impacted by your absence. Among other things, it’s a long-awaited necessity, a nine-column paper in a five-column town, a misleading publication, a weak attempt, a financial issue, a crumbling mess, a political weapon, and a sheriff's sale.
If I were to suggest a curriculum for the young man who wished to take a regular course in a school of journalism, preferring that to the actual experience, I would say to him, devote the first two years to meditation and prayer. This will prepare the young editor for the surprise and consequent temptation to profanity which in a few years he may experience when he finds that the name of the Deity in his double-leaded editorial is spelled with a little “g,” and the peroration of the article is locked up between a death notice and the advertisement of a patent moustache coaxer, which is to follow pure reading matter every day in the week and occupy the top of column on Sunday tf.
If I were to recommend a program for a young man wanting to enroll in a journalism school instead of gaining hands-on experience, I would advise him to spend the first two years in reflection and prayer. This will prepare the young editor for the shock and subsequent temptation to use profanity that he might face in a few years when he discovers that the name of God in his prominent editorial is spelled with a lowercase "g," and that the conclusion of his article is sandwiched between an obituary and an ad for a hair product, which appears every day of the week and takes up the top of the column on Sundays.
The ensuing five years should be devoted to the peculiar orthography of the English language.
The next five years should focus on the unique spelling of the English language.
Then put in three years with the dumb bells, sand bags, slung shots and tomahawk. In my own journalistic experience I have found more cause for regret over my neglect of this branch than anything else. I usually keep on my desk during a heated campaign, a large paper weight, weighing three or four pounds, and in several instances I have found that I could feed that to a constant reader of my valuable paper instead of a retraction.
Then I spent three years training with dumbbells, sandbags, slingshots, and a tomahawk. In my journalistic career, I've often regretted neglecting this area more than anything else. I usually keep a large paperweight weighing three or four pounds on my desk during a heated campaign, and in several instances, I’ve realized I could give that to a loyal reader of my important paper instead of making a correction.
Fewer people lick the editor though, now, than did so in years gone by. Many people—in the last two years—have gone across the street to lick the editor and never returned. They intended to come right back in a few moments, but they are now in a land where a change of heart and a palm leaf fan is all they need.
Fewer people visit the editor these days than in the past. Many people—in the last two years—have crossed the street to visit the editor and never came back. They meant to return in just a moment, but now they’re in a place where all it takes is a change of mind and a palm leaf fan.
Fewer people are robbing the editor now-a-days, too, I notice with much pleasure. Only a short time ago I noticed that a burglar succeeded in breaking into the residence of a Dakota journalist, and after a long, hard struggle the editor succeeded in robbing him.
Fewer people are robbing the editor these days, which I notice with much pleasure. Not long ago, I saw that a burglar managed to break into the home of a Dakota journalist, and after a long, tough struggle, the editor managed to rob him.
After the primary course, mapped out already, an intermediate course of ten years should be given to learning the typographical art, so that when visitors come in and ask the editor all about the office, he can tell them of the mysteries of making a paper, and how delinquent subscribers have frequently been killed by a well-directed blow with a printer's towel.
After completing the main course, which is already planned, there should be an intermediate course lasting ten years dedicated to learning the art of typesetting. This way, when visitors come in and inquire about the office, the editor can share the secrets of how a paper is made, and how problematic subscribers have often been dealt with using a well-aimed hit from a printer's towel.
Five years should be devoted to a study of the art of proof-reading. In that length of time the young journalist can perfect himself to such a degree that it will take another five years for the printer to understand his corrections and marginal notes.
Five years should be spent learning the art of proofreading. In that time, a young journalist can improve to the point that it will take another five years for the printer to make sense of his corrections and notes in the margins.
Fifteen years should then be devoted to the study of American politics, especially civil service reform, looking at it from a non-partisan standpoint. If possible, the last five years should be spent abroad. London is the place to go if you wish to get a clear, concise view of American politics, and Chicago or Milwaukee would be a good place for the young English journalist to go and study the political outlook of England.
Fifteen years should be dedicated to studying American politics, particularly civil service reform, from a non-partisan perspective. If feasible, the last five years should be spent overseas. London is the ideal location to gain a clear, succinct understanding of American politics, while Chicago or Milwaukee would be great places for a young English journalist to explore the political landscape of England.
The student should then take a medical and surgical course, so that he may be able to attend to contusions, fractures and so forth, which may occur to himself or to the party who may come to his office for a retraction and by mistake get his spinal column double-leaded.
The student should then take a medical and surgical course, so that he can handle bruises, fractures, and other issues that may happen to himself or to someone who comes to his office for a retraction and accidentally gets their spinal column messed up.
Ten years should then be given to the study of law. No thorough, metropolitan editor wants to enter upon the duties of his profession without knowing the difference between a writ of mandamus and other styles of profanity. He should thoroughly understand the entire system of American jurisprudence, so that in case a certiorari should break out in his neighborhood he would know just what to do for it.
Ten years should be dedicated to studying law. No serious editor in a big city wants to take on their job without knowing the difference between a writ of mandamus and other types of insults. They should have a complete understanding of the American legal system, so if a certiorari pops up in their area, they'll know exactly what to do about it.
The student will, by this time, begin to see what is required of him and enter with great zeal upon the further study of his profession.
The student will, by this point, start to understand what is expected of him and dive into the further study of his profession with great enthusiasm.
He will now enter upon a theological course of ten years and fit himself thoroughly to speak intelligently of the various creeds and religions of the world. Ignorance or the part of an editor is almost a crime, and when he closes a powerful editorial with the familiar quotation, “It is the early bird that catches the worm,” and attributes it to St. Paul instead of Deuteronomy, it makes me blush for the profession.
He is about to begin a ten-year theology program to equip himself to intelligently discuss the different beliefs and religions around the world. Ignorance on an editor’s part is nearly unforgivable, and when he ends a strong editorial with the well-known saying, “The early bird catches the worm,” and mistakenly credits it to St. Paul instead of Deuteronomy, I feel embarrassed for the profession.
The last ten years may be profitably devoted to the acquisition of a practical knowledge of cutting cordwood, baking beans, making shirts, lecturing, turning double handsprings, being shot out of a catapult at a circus, learning how to make a good adhesive paste that will not sour in hot weather, grinding scissors, punctuating, capitalization, condemnation, syntax, plain sewing, music and dancing, sculpting, etiquette, prosody, how to win the affections of the opposite sex and evade a malignant case of breach of promise, the ten commandments, every man his own tooter on the flute, croquet, rules of the prize ring, rhetoric, parlor magic, calisthenics, penmanship, how to run a jack from the bottom of the pack without getting shot, civil engineering, decorative art, kalsomining, bicycling, base ball, hydraulics, botany, poker, international law, high-low-jack, drawing and painting, faro, vocal music, driving, breaking team, fifteen ball pool, how to remove grease spots from last year's pantaloons, horsemanship, coupling freight cars, riding on a rail, riding on a pass, feeding threshing machines, how to wean a calf from the parent stem, teaching school, bull-whacking, plastering, waltzing, vaccination, autopsy, how to win the affections of your wife's mother, every man his own washerwoman, or how to wash underclothes so they will not shrink, etc., etc.
The last ten years can be well spent learning practical skills like cutting firewood, baking beans, making shirts, giving speeches, doing double handsprings, getting launched from a catapult at a circus, figuring out how to make a good adhesive that won’t spoil in the heat, sharpening scissors, punctuation, capitalization, grammar, plain sewing, music and dance, sculpting, etiquette, poetry, how to charm the opposite sex while avoiding a nasty breach of promise lawsuit, the ten commandments, playing the flute, croquet, boxing rules, rhetoric, magic tricks, exercise routines, handwriting, how to draw a jack from the bottom of the deck without getting caught, civil engineering, decorative arts, wallpapering, cycling, baseball, hydraulics, botany, poker, international law, high-low-jack, drawing and painting, faro, singing, driving, breaking a team, playing pool, how to remove grease stains from last year's pants, horsemanship, coupling freight cars, riding on a train, using a pass, feeding thrashing machines, how to wean a calf, teaching school, driving oxen, plastering, waltzing, vaccinations, autopsy, how to win over your mother-in-law, everyone doing their own laundry, or how to wash undergarments without them shrinking, etc., etc.
But time forbids anything like a thorough list of what a young man should study in order to fully understand all that he may be called upon to express an opinion about in his actual experience as a journalist. There are a thousand little matters which every editor should know; such, for instance, as the construction of roller composition. Many newspaper men can write a good editorial on Asiatic cholera, but their roller composition is not fit to eat.
But time doesn’t allow for a complete list of what a young man should study to really understand everything he might need to give his opinion on in his real experience as a journalist. There are countless small details that every editor should know; for example, how to make roller composition. Many newspaper professionals can write a solid editorial on Asiatic cholera, but their roller composition is not fit to eat.
With the course of study that I have mapped out, the young student would emerge from the college of journalism at the age of 95 or 96, ready to take off his coat and write an article on almost any subject. He would be a little giddy at first, and the office boy would have to see that he went to bed at a proper time each night, but aside from that, he would be a good man to feed a waste paper basket.
With the study plan I've outlined, the young student would graduate from journalism school at around 95 or 96, ready to take off his coat and write an article on nearly any topic. He might feel a bit dizzy at first, and the office assistant would need to ensure he got to bed at a decent hour each night, but other than that, he would be great at filling a wastepaper basket.
Actual experience is the best teacher in this peculiarly trying profession. I hope some day to attend a press convention where the order of exercise will consist of five-minute experiences from each one present It would be worth listening to.
Actual experience is the best teacher in this particularly challenging profession. I hope to someday attend a press convention where everyone shares five-minute experiences. It would be worth listening to.
My own experience was a little peculiar. It was my intention at first to practice law, when I went to the Rocky Mountains, although I had been warned by the authorities not to do so. Still, I did practice in a surreptitious kind of a way, and might have been practicing yet if my client hadn't died. When you have become attached to a client and respect and like him, and then when, without warning, like a bolt of electricity from a clear sky, he suddenly dies and takes the bread right out of your mouth, it is rough.
My experience was a bit unusual. At first, I intended to practice law when I went to the Rocky Mountains, even though the authorities had warned me against it. Still, I practiced in a sneaky way and might have continued if my client hadn't died. When you form a bond with a client and respect and like them, and then, out of nowhere, like a lightning strike on a clear day, they suddenly die and take your livelihood with them, it's tough.
Then I tried the practice of criminal law, but my client got into the penitentiary, where he was no use to me financially or politically. Finally, when the judge was in a hurry, he would appoint me to defend the pauper criminals. They all went to the penitentiary, until people got to criticising the judge, and finally they told him that it was a shame to appoint me to defend an innocent man.
Then I tried practicing criminal law, but my client ended up in prison, where he was no help to me either financially or politically. Eventually, when the judge was in a rush, he would assign me to defend the poor criminals. They all went to prison until people started criticizing the judge, and finally, they told him it was a disgrace to appoint me to defend an innocent person.
My first experience in journalism was in a Western town, in which I was a total stranger. I went there with thirty-five cents, but I had it concealed in the lining of my clothes so that no one would have suspected it if they had met me. I had no friends, and I noticed that when I got off the train the band was not there to meet me. I entered the town just as any other American citizen would. I had not fully decided whether to become a stage robber or a lecturer on phrenology. At that time I got a chance to work on a morning paper. It used to go to press before dark, so I always had my evenings to myself and I liked that part of it first-rate. I worked on that paper a year and might have continued if the proprietors had not changed it to an evening paper.
My first experience in journalism was in a Western town where I was a complete outsider. I arrived with thirty-five cents, but I hid it in the lining of my clothes so no one would have guessed it if they met me. I had no friends, and I noticed that when I got off the train, there was no band to welcome me. I entered the town just like any other American citizen. I hadn’t fully decided whether to become a stage robber or a lecturer on phrenology. At that time, I got a chance to work for a morning paper. It used to go to press before dark, so I always had my evenings free, which I really appreciated. I worked at that paper for a year and might have stayed longer if the owners hadn’t switched it to an evening publication.
Then a company incorporated itself and started a paper, of which I took charge. The paper was published in the loft of a livery stable. That is the reason they called it a stock company. You could come up the stairs into the office or you could twist the tail of the iron-gray mule and take the elevator.
Then a company got organized and launched a newspaper, which I oversaw. The newspaper was published in the attic of a stable. That’s why they called it a stock company. You could walk up the stairs to the office, or you could tug on the tail of the iron-gray mule and use the elevator.
It wasn't much of a paper, but it cost $16,000 a year to run it, and it came out six days in the week, no matter what the weather was. We took the Associated Press news by telegraph part of the time and part of the time we relied on the Cheyenne morning papers, which we got of the conductor on the early morning freight. We got a great many special telegrams from Washington in that way, and when the freight train got in late, I had to guess at what congress was doing and fix up a column of telegraph the best I could. There was a rival evening paper there, and sometimes it would send a smart boy down to the train and get hold of our special telegrams, and sometimes the conductor would go away on a picnic and take our Cheyenne paper with him.
It wasn't much of a newspaper, but it cost $16,000 a year to operate, and it came out six days a week, no matter the weather. We sometimes got news from the Associated Press via telegraph, but other times we relied on the Cheyenne morning papers that we picked up from the conductor on the early morning freight. We received a lot of special telegrams from Washington this way, and when the freight train was late, I had to guess what Congress was doing and put together a column of telegrams as best I could. There was a competing evening paper in town, and sometimes they'd send a savvy reporter to the train to grab our special telegrams, and other times the conductor would go off on a picnic and take our Cheyenne paper with him.
All these things are annoying to a man who is trying to supply a long felt want. There was one conductor, in particular, who used to go away into the foot-hills shooting sage hens and take our cablegrams with him. This threw too much strain on me. I could guess at what congress was doing and make up a pretty readable report, but foreign powers and reichstags and crowned heads and dynasties always mixed me up. You can look over what congress did last year and give a pretty good guess at what it will do this year, but you can't rely on a dynasty or an effete monarchy in a bad state of preservation. It may go into executive session or it may go into bankruptcy.
All these things are frustrating for someone trying to meet a long-standing need. There was one conductor, in particular, who would head off into the foothills to hunt sage hens and take our cablegrams with him. This put way too much pressure on me. I could guess what Congress was doing and write a pretty decent report, but foreign powers, parliaments, and royal families always confused me. You can look at what Congress did last year and make a pretty good prediction about what it will do this year, but you can't count on a monarchy or a failing regime in poor condition. It might go into a closed session or it might go bankrupt.
Still, at one time we used to have considerable local news to fill up with. The north and middle parks for a while used to help us out when the mining camps were new. Those were the days when it was considered perfectly proper to kill off the board of supervisors if their action was distasteful. At that time a new camp generally located a cemetery and wrote an obituary; then the boys would start out to find a man whose name would rhyme with the rest of the verse. Those were the days when the cemeteries of Colorado were still in their infancy and the song of the six-shooter was heard in the land.
Still, there was a time when we had plenty of local news to report. For a while, the northern and central parks helped us out when the mining camps were new. Back then, it was seen as totally acceptable to eliminate the board of supervisors if their decisions were unpopular. At that time, a new camp would usually set up a cemetery and write an obituary; then the guys would go out looking for a man whose name would rhyme with the rest of the poem. Those were the days when Colorado’s cemeteries were just getting started and the sound of gunfire was common in the area.
Sometimes the Indians would send us in an item. It was generally in the obituary line. With the Sioux on the north and the peaceful Utes on the south, we were pretty sure of some kind of news during the summer. The parks used to be occupied by white men winters and Indians summers. Summer was really the pleasantest time to go into the parks, but the Indians had been in the habit of going there at that season, and they were so clannish that the white men couldn't have much fun with them, so they decided they would not go there in the summer. Several of our best subscribers were killed by the peaceful Utes.
Sometimes the Native Americans would send us a news item. It was usually about someone's passing. With the Sioux to the north and the friendly Utes to the south, we could count on some kind of news during the summer. The parks were typically occupied by white people in the winter and Native Americans in the summer. Summer was actually the best time to visit the parks, but the Native Americans had a tradition of going there during that season, and they were so tight-knit that the white people couldn’t really have much fun with them, so they decided not to go there in the summer. Several of our best subscribers were killed by the friendly Utes.
There were two daily and three weekly papers published in Laramie City av that time. There were between two and three thousand people and our local circulation ran from 150 to 250, counting dead-heads. In our prospectus we stated that we would spare no expense whatever in ransacking the universe for fresh news, but there were times when it was all we could do to get our paper out on time. Out of the express office, I mean.
There were two daily and three weekly newspapers published in Laramie City at that time. The population was between two and three thousand people, and our local circulation ranged from 150 to 250, including complimentary copies. In our prospectus, we promised we would spare no expense to gather fresh news from around the world, but sometimes it felt like all we could manage was to get our paper out on time. I mean out of the express office.
One of the rival editors used to write his editorials for the paper in the evening, jerk the Washington hand-press to work them off, go home and wrestle with juvenile colic in his family until daylight and then deliver his papers on the street. It is not surprising that the great mental strain incident to this life made an old man of him, and gave a tinge of extreme sadness to the funny column of his paper.
One of the competing editors used to write his editorials for the paper in the evening, run the Washington hand-press to print them, go home and deal with his family’s sleepless night until morning, and then deliver the papers on the street. It’s no surprise that the intense mental strain from this lifestyle aged him quickly and added a sense of deep sadness to the humorous column of his paper.
In an unguarded moment, this man wrote an editorial once that got all his subscribers mad at him, and the same afternoon he came around and wanted to sell his paper to us for $10,000. I told him that the whole outfit wasn't worth ten thousand cents.
In a careless moment, this guy wrote an editorial that upset all his subscribers, and that same afternoon he came to us wanting to sell his paper for $10,000. I told him that the whole thing wasn't worth ten thousand cents.
“I know that,” said he, “but it is not the material that I am talking about. It is the good will of the paper.”
“I know that,” he said, “but it’s not the material I'm talking about. It’s the goodwill of the paper.”
We had a rising young horsethief in Wyoming in those days, who got into jail by some freak of justice, and it was so odd for a horsethief to get into jail that I alluded to it editorially. This horsethief had distinguished himself from the common, vulgar horsethieves of his time, by wearing a large mouth—a kind of full-dress, eight-day mouth. He rarely smiled, but when he did, he had to hold the top of his head on with both hands. I remember that I spoke of this in the paper, forgetting that he might criticise me when he got out of jail. When he did get out again, he stated that he would shoot me on sight, but friends advised me not to have his blood on my hands, and I took their advice, so I haven't got a particle of his blood on either of my hands.
We had a rising young horse thief in Wyoming back then, who ended up in jail due to some strange twist of justice. It was so unusual for a horse thief to land behind bars that I mentioned it in my editorial. This horse thief set himself apart from the typical, run-of-the-mill horse thieves of his time by having an unusually large mouth—a sort of full-dress, eight-day mouth. He rarely smiled, but when he did, he had to hold his head together with both hands. I remember mentioning this in the newspaper, not realizing he might come after me once he got out of jail. When he finally did get released, he said he would shoot me on sight, but friends told me not to have his blood on my hands, and I took their advice, so I haven't got a drop of his blood on either of my hands.
For two or three months I didn't know but he would drop into the office any minute and criticise me, but one day a friend told me that he had been hung in Montana. Then I began to mingle in society again, and didn't have to get in my coal with a double barrel shot gun any more.
For two or three months, I had no idea, but he could show up at the office any time and criticize me. Then, one day, a friend told me that he had been hanged in Montana. After that, I started socializing again and didn’t need to load up on coal with a double-barreled shotgun anymore.
After that I was always conservative in relation to horsethieves until we got the report of the vigilance committee.
After that, I was always cautious about horse thieves until we got the report from the vigilance committee.
Wrestling with the Mazy.
Very soon now I shall be strong enough on my cyclone leg to resume my lessons in waltzing. It is needless to say that I look forward with great pleasure to that moment. Nature intended that I should glide in the mazy. Tall, lithe, bald-headed, genial, limber in the extreme, suave, soulful, frolicsome at times, yet dignified and reserved toward strangers, light on the foot—on my own foot, I mean—gentle as a woman at times, yet irresistible as a tornado when insulted by a smaller, I am peculiarly fitted to shine in society. Those who have observed my polished brow, when under a strong electric light, say they never saw a man shine so in society as I do.
Very soon, I’ll be strong enough on my cyclone leg to get back to my waltzing lessons. I can’t wait for that moment. Nature meant for me to glide gracefully. Tall, agile, bald-headed, friendly, extremely flexible, smooth, soulful, playful at times yet dignified and reserved around strangers, light on my feet—well, on my own foot, I mean—gentle like a woman at times, yet unstoppable like a tornado when provoked by someone smaller, I’m uniquely suited to shine in social situations. Those who have noticed my polished forehead under bright electric lights say they’ve never seen anyone shine in society like I do.
My wife taught me how to waltz. She would teach me on Saturdays and repair her skirts during the following week. I told her once that I thought I was too brainy to dance. She said she hadn't noticed that, but she thought I seemed to run too much to legs. My wife is not timid about telling me anything that she thinks will be for my good. When I make a mistake she is perfectly frank with me, and comes right to me and tells me about it, so that I won't do so again.
My wife taught me how to waltz. She would give me lessons on Saturdays and fix her skirts during the week. I once told her that I thought I was too smart to dance. She said she hadn't noticed that, but she thought I relied too much on my legs. My wife isn't shy about saying anything she thinks is for my benefit. When I mess up, she's completely honest with me and comes right over to point it out so I won't make the same mistake again.
I had just learned how to reel around a ballroom to a little waltz music, when I was blown across the State of Mississippi in September last by a high wind, and broke one of my legs which I use in waltzing. When this accident occurred I had just got where I felt at liberty to choose a glorious being with starry eyes and fluffy hair, and magnificently modeled form, to steer me around the rink to the dreamy music of Strauss. One young lady, with whom I had waltzed a good deal, when she heard that my leg was broken, began to attend every dancing party she could hear of, although she had declined a great many previous to that. I asked her how she could be so giddy and so gay when I was suffering. She said she was doing it to drown her sorrow, but her little brother told me on the quiet that she was dancing while I was sick because she felt perfectly safe. A friend of mine says I have a pronounced and distinctly original manner of waltzing, and that he never saw anybody, with one exception, who waltzed as I did, and that was Jumbo. He claimed that either one of us would be a good dancer if he could have the whole ring to himself. He said that he would like to see Jumbo and me waltz together if he were not afraid that I would step on Jumbo and hurt him. You can see what a feeling of jealous hatred it arouses in some small minds when a man gets so that he can mingle in good society and enjoy himself.
I had just learned how to glide around a ballroom to some waltz music when I was swept across the State of Mississippi in September by a strong wind and broke one of my legs that I use for waltzing. When this accident happened, I had finally felt free to choose a beautiful partner with starry eyes, fluffy hair, and a perfectly shaped figure to lead me around the dance floor to the dreamy music of Strauss. One young lady, with whom I had danced quite a bit, started attending every dance party she could find as soon as she heard about my leg injury, even though she had turned down many invites before that. I asked her how she could be so carefree and joyful while I was suffering. She said she was doing it to distract herself from her sorrow, but her little brother quietly informed me that she was dancing while I was sick because she felt completely secure. A friend of mine says I have a unique and distinctly original style of waltzing and that he has never seen anyone, except for one person, who waltzed like I do, and that was Jumbo. He claimed that either of us would be great dancers if we could have the entire floor to ourselves. He mentioned he would love to see Jumbo and me waltz together, but he feared I might step on Jumbo and hurt him. You can see how much jealousy it stirs in some small-minded people when a man is able to socialize and enjoy himself in good company.
{Illustration: WALTZING WITH JUMBO.}
{Illustration: DANCING WITH JUMBO.}
I could waltz more easily if the rules did not require such a constant change of position. I am sedentary in my nature, slow to move about, so that it takes a lady of great strength of purpose to pull me around on time.
I could dance the waltz more easily if the rules didn’t require me to change positions so often. I’m more of a homebody, slow to get moving, so it takes a strong-willed lady to get me to move on time.
Anecdotes of the Stage.
Years ago, before Laramie City got a handsome opera house, everything in the theatrical and musical line of a high order was put on the stage of Blackburn's Hall. Other light dramas on the stage, and thrilling murders in the audience, used to occur at Alexander's Theater, on Front street. Here you could get a glass of Laramie beer, made of glucose, alkali water, plug tobacco, and Paris green, by paying two bits at the bar, and, as a prize, you drew a ticket to the olio, specialties, and low gags of the stage. The idea of inebriating a man at the box office, so that he will endure such a sham, is certainly worthy of serious consideration. I have seen shows at Alexander's, and also at McDaniel's, in Cheyenne, however, where the bar should have provided an ounce of chloroform with each ticket in order to allay the suffering.
Years ago, before Laramie City got a nice opera house, all high-quality theater and music performances were held at Blackburn's Hall. Other light dramas were staged, and there were thrilling murders happening in the audience at Alexander's Theater on Front Street. There, you could buy a glass of Laramie beer, made from glucose, alkali water, plug tobacco, and Paris green, for two bits at the bar. As a bonus, you received a ticket for the olio, specialties, and cheesy jokes on stage. The idea of getting someone drunk at the box office so they can tolerate such a farce is definitely something to think about. I've seen shows at Alexander's and also at McDaniel's in Cheyenne, but I felt the bar should have handed out an ounce of chloroform with each ticket to ease the pain.
Here you could sit down in the orchestra and take the chances of getting hit when the audience began to shoot at the pianist, or you could go up into the boxes and have a quiet little conversation with the timid beer-jerkers. The beer-jerker was never too proud to speak to the most humble, and if she could sell a grub-staker for $5 a bottle of real Piper Heidsick, made in Cheyenne and warranted to remove the gastric coat, pants and vest from a man's stomach in two minutes, she felt pleased and proud.
Here you could sit in the orchestra and risk getting hit when the audience started shooting at the pianist, or you could go up to the boxes and have a quiet chat with the shy beer vendors. The beer vendor was never too proud to talk to anyone, and if she could sell a backer for $5 a bottle of actual Piper Heidsieck, made in Cheyenne and guaranteed to clear a man’s stomach of pants and vest in two minutes, she felt satisfied and proud.
A room-mate of mine, whose name I will not give, simply because he was and still is the best fellow in the United States, came home from the “theater” one night with his hair parted in the middle. He didn't wear it that way generally, so it occasioned talk in social circles. He still has a natural parting of the hair about five inches long, that he acquired that night. He said it was accidental so far as he was concerned, but unless the management could keep people from shooting the holders of reserved seats between the acts or any other vital spot, he would withdraw his patronage. And he was right about it. I think that any court in the land would protect a man who had purchased a seat in good faith, and with his hat on and both feet on the back of the seat in front of him, sits quietly in said seat, smoking a Colorado Maduro cigar and watching the play.
A roommate of mine, whose name I won't reveal, simply because he was and still is the best guy in the United States, came home from the "theater" one night with his hair parted down the middle. He didn't usually wear it that way, so it caused quite a stir in social circles. He still has a natural parting about five inches long that he got that night. He claimed it was an accident for him, but unless the management could prevent people from shooting the holders of reserved seats between acts or any other important spot, he would stop going. And he was right about that. I believe any court in the country would support a man who purchased a seat in good faith, sitting quietly with his hat on and both feet on the back of the seat in front of him, smoking a Colorado Maduro cigar and enjoying the show.
Several such accidents occurred at the said theater. Among them was a little tableau in which Joe Walker and Centennial Bob took the leading parts. Bob went to the penitentiary, and Joe went to his reward with one of his lungs in his coat pocket. There was a little difference between them as to the regularity of a “draw” and “show down,” so Bob went home from the theater and loaded a double-barrel shot-gun with a lot of scrap-iron, and, after he had introduced the collection into Joe's front breadth, the latter's system was so lacerated that it wouldn't retain ground feed.
Several accidents happened at that theater. One of them involved a small performance where Joe Walker and Centennial Bob played the leads. Bob ended up in prison, and Joe paid the price, losing one of his lungs in the process. They had a disagreement about the fairness of a "draw" and a "show down," so Bob went home from the theater and loaded a double-barrel shotgun with scrap metal. After he shot Joe with it, Joe’s body was so injured that it couldn’t hold food.
There were other little incidents like that which occurred in and around the old theater, some growing out of the lost love of a beer-jerker, some from an injudicious investment in a bob-tail flush that never got ripe enough to pick, and some from the rarified mountain air, united with an epidemic known as mania rotguti.
There were other small incidents like that which happened in and around the old theater, some stemming from the unrequited love of a bartender, some from a bad bet on a low-stakes poker hand that never paid off, and some from the thin mountain air, combined with an outbreak known as mania rotguti.
A funny incident of the stage occurred not long ago to a friend of mine, who is traveling with a play in which a stage cow appears. He is using what is called a profile cow now, which works by machinery. Last winter this cow ran down while in the middle of the stage, and forgot her lines. The prompter gave the string a jerk in order to assist her. This broke the cow in two, and the fore-quarters walked off to the left into one dressing-room, while the behind-quarters and porter-house steak retired to the outer dressing-room. The audience called for an encore; but the cow felt as though she had made a kind of a bull of the part, and would not appear. Those who may be tempted to harshly criticise this last remark, are gently reminded that the intense heat of the past month is liable to effect anyone's mind. Remember, gentle reader, that your own brain may some day soften also, and then you will remember how harsh you were toward me.
A funny incident happened recently to a friend of mine who is touring with a play that features a mechanical stage cow. He’s currently using a profile cow, which operates with machinery. Last winter, this cow malfunctioned in the middle of the stage and forgot its lines. The prompter pulled the string to help it out, but that broke the cow in two. The front half walked off to the left into one dressing room, while the back half and the porterhouse steak went to the outer dressing room. The audience called for an encore, but the cow felt like it had messed up its performance and wouldn’t come out. Those who might want to criticize this last remark are gently reminded that the intense heat we've had lately can affect anyone’s mind. Remember, dear reader, that your own mind could soften one day too, and you might look back and regret how harsh you were to me.
Prior to the profile cow, the company ran a wicker-work cow, that was hollow and admitted of two hired-men, who operated the beast at a moderate salary. These men drilled a long time on what they called a heifer dance—a beautiful spectacular, and highly moral and instructive quadruped clog, sirloin shuffle, and cow gallop, to the music of a piano-forte. The rehearsals had been crowned with success, and when the cow came on the stage she got a bouquet, and made a bran mash on one of the ushers.
Before the profile cow, the company used a wicker cow that was hollow and could fit two hired guys who operated it for a reasonable salary. These guys practiced for a long time on what they called a heifer dance—a stunning performance that was also very moral and educational, featuring a quadruped clog, sirloin shuffle, and cow gallop, all to the sound of a piano. The rehearsals went really well, and when the cow appeared on stage, she received a bouquet and spilled bran mash on one of the ushers.
She danced up and down the stage, perfectly self-possessed, and with that perfect grace and abandon which is so noticeable in the self-made cow. Finally she got through, the piano sounded a wild Wagnerian bang, and the cow danseuse ambled off. She was improperly steered, however, and ran her head against a wing, where she stopped in full view of the audience. The talent inside of the cow thought they had reached the dressing-room and ran against the wall, so they felt perfectly free to converse with each other. The cow stood with her nose jammed up against the wing, wrapped in thought, Finally, from her thorax the audience heard a voice say:
She danced back and forth on the stage, completely in control, and with that perfect grace and freedom that's so evident in the self-made cow. Eventually, she finished, the piano erupted with a dramatic Wagnerian crash, and the cow dancer strolled off. Unfortunately, she was misdirected and bumped her head against a wing, where she paused right in front of the audience. The talent inside the cow thought they had made it to the dressing room and hit the wall, so they felt totally free to chat with one another. The cow stood there with her nose pressed against the wing, lost in thought. Finally, from her chest, the audience heard a voice say:
“Jim, you blamed galoot, that ain't the step we took at rehearsal no more'n nuthin'. If you're going to improvise a new cow duet, I wish you wouldn't take the fore-quarters by surprise next time.”
“Jim, you clumsy fool, that’s not the move we practiced at rehearsal, not at all. If you’re going to improvise a new cow duet, I wish you wouldn’t catch the front half off guard next time.”
It is not now known what the reply was, for just then the prompter came on the stage, rudely twisted the tail of the cow, rousing her from her lethargy, and harshly kicking her in the pit of the stomach, he drove her off the stage, The audience loudly called for a repetition, but the cow refused to come in.
It’s not clear what the response was, because at that moment the prompter came on stage, roughly tugged at the cow's tail, waking her from her stupor, and roughly kicked her in the belly, forcing her off the stage. The audience loudly called for a repeat, but the cow wouldn't come back.
George the Third.
George III was born in England June 4, 1738, and ran for king in 1760. He was a son of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and held the office of king for sixty years. He was a natural born king and succeeded his grandfather, George II. Look as you will a-down the long page of English history, and you will not fail to notice the scarcity of self-made kings. How few of them were poor boys and had to skin along for years with no money, no influential friends and no fun.
George III was born in England on June 4, 1738, and became king in 1760. He was the son of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and reigned for sixty years. He was a natural-born king, succeeding his grandfather, George II. If you look back through English history, you'll see that self-made kings are quite rare. How many of them started out as poor boys, struggling for years without money, influential friends, or any enjoyment?
Ah, little does the English king know of hard times and carrying two or three barrels of water to a tired elephant in order that he may get into the afternoon performance without money. When he gets tired of being prince, all he has to do is just to be king all day at good wages, and then at night take off his high-priced crown, hang it up on the hat-rack, put on a soft hat and take in the town.
Ah, the English king has no idea about tough times or having to carry a couple of barrels of water to a worn-out elephant just to get into the afternoon show for free. When he gets fed up with being a prince, all he has to do is be king during the day for a good salary, and then at night, he can take off his fancy crown, hang it up on the rack, put on a casual hat, and enjoy the town.
George III quit being prince at the age of 22 years, and began to hold down the English throne. He would reign along for a few years, taking it kind of quiet, and then all at once he would declare war and pick out some people to go abroad and leave their skeletons on some foreign shore. That was George's favorite amusement. He got up the Spanish war in two years after he clome the throne; then he had an American revolution, a French revolution, an Irish rebellion and a Napoleonic war. He dearly loved carnage, if it could be prepared on a foreign strand. George always wanted imported carnage, even if it came higher. It was in 1765, and early in George's reign, that the American stamp act passed the Legislature and the Goddess of Liberty began to kick over the dashboard.
George III became king at the age of 22 and took on the English throne. He ruled quietly for a few years, and then suddenly declared war, sending people overseas to leave their bodies on foreign shores. That was George's favorite pastime. He started the Spanish War two years after he took the throne, followed by the American Revolution, the French Revolution, the Irish Rebellion, and the Napoleonic Wars. He had a strong affinity for carnage, especially if it happened abroad. George always preferred imported carnage, even if it came at a higher cost. In 1765, early in George's reign, the American Stamp Act was passed by the Legislature, and the Goddess of Liberty began to rebel.
George was different from most English kings, morally. When he spit on his hand and grasped the sceptre, he took his scruples with him right onto the throne. He was not talked about half so much as other kings before or since his time. Nine o'clock most always found George in bed, with his sceptre under the window-sash, so that he could get plenty of fresh air. As it got along toward 9 o'clock, he would call the hired girl, tell her to spread a linen lap-robe on the throne till morning, issue a royal ukase directing her to turn out the cat, and instructing the cook to set the pancake batter behind the royal stove in the council chamber, then he would wind the clock and retire. Early in the morning George would be up and dressed, have all his chores done and the throne dusted off ready for another hard day's reign.
George was different from most English kings when it came to morals. When he spit on his hand and took the scepter, he brought his principles right onto the throne with him. People didn’t gossip about him as much as they did about other kings before or after his time. By nine o'clock, George was usually in bed, with his scepter under the window to get plenty of fresh air. As it approached nine, he would call the maid, tell her to spread a linen lap blanket on the throne for the night, give her a royal order to let the cat out, and instruct the cook to put the pancake batter behind the royal stove in the council chamber. Then he would wind the clock and go to bed. Early in the morning, George would be up and dressed, have all his tasks completed, and the throne dusted off, ready for another demanding day of ruling.
{Illustration: WRAPPED IN SLUMBER.}
{Illustration: WRAPPED IN SLEEP.}
George III is the party referred to in the Declaration of Independence the present king of Great Britain, and of whom many bitter personal remarks were made by American patriots. On this side of the water George was not highly esteemed. If he had come over here to spend the summer with friends in Boston, during the days of the stamp act excitement, he could have gone home packed in ice, no doubt, and with a Swiss sunset under each eye.
George III is the party mentioned in the Declaration of Independence, the current king of Great Britain, and about whom many harsh personal comments were made by American patriots. On this side of the ocean, George wasn’t well-liked. If he had visited here to spend the summer with friends in Boston during the stamp act uproar, he likely would have returned home packed in ice, with a Swiss sunset under each eye.
George's mind was always a little on the bias, and in 1810 he went crazy for the fifth time. Always before that he had gone right ahead with his reign, whether he was crazy or not, but with the fifth attack of insanity, coupled with suggestion of the brain and blind staggers, it was decided to tie him up in the barn and let someone else reign awhile. The historian says that blindness succeeded this attack, and in 1811 the Prince of Wales became regent.
George's mind was always a bit off, and in 1810 he went crazy for the fifth time. Before that, he had continued his reign, whether he was sane or not, but with the fifth episode of insanity, along with brain suggestions and severe unsteadiness, it was decided to restrain him in the barn and let someone else take over for a while. The historian notes that he became blind after this episode, and in 1811 the Prince of Wales became regent.
George III died at Windsor in 1820, with the consent of a joint committee of both houses of congress, at the age of 82 years. He made the longest run as king, without stopping for feed or water, of any monarch in English history. Sixty years is a long time to be a monarch and look under the bed every night for a Nihilist loaded with a cut-glass bomb and Paris green. Sixty years is a long while to jerk a sceptre over a nation and keep on the right side, politically, all the time.
George III died at Windsor in 1820, with the approval of a joint committee from both houses of Congress, at the age of 82. He had the longest reign as king, without taking a break for food or water, of any monarch in English history. Sixty years is a long time to be a ruler and check under the bed every night for a Nihilist carrying a glass bomb and Paris green. Sixty years is quite a stretch to wield a scepter over a nation and stay politically aligned the entire time.
George was of an inventive turn of mind, and used to be monkeying with some kind of a patent, evenings, after he had peeled his royal robes. Most of his patents related to land, however, and some of the most successful soil in Massachusetts was patented by George.
George was naturally inventive and often tinkered with some kind of patent in the evenings after he changed out of his royal robes. Most of his patents were related to land, and some of the most successful soil in Massachusetts was patented by George.
He was always trying some scheme to make a pile of money easy, so that he wouldn't have to work; but he died poor and crazy at last, in England. He was not very smart, but he attended to business all the time, and did not get up much of a reputation as a moral leper. He said that as king of Great Britain and general superintendent of Cork he did not aim to make much noise, but he desired to attract universal attention by being so moral that he would be regarded as eccentric by other crowned heads.
He was always coming up with some plan to make easy money so he wouldn't have to work, but in the end, he died poor and insane in England. He wasn't particularly bright, but he was always focused on business and didn't earn a bad reputation. He claimed that as the king of Great Britain and the general superintendent of Cork, he wasn't trying to make a lot of noise, but he wanted to grab everyone's attention by being so virtuous that other kings would see him as eccentric.
The Cell Nest.
To the Members of the Academy of Science, at Wrin Prairie, Wisconsin:
To the Members of the Academy of Science, at Wrin Prairie, Wisconsin:
Gentlemen:—I beg leave to submit herewith my microscopic report on the several sealed specimens of proud flesh and other mementoes taken from the roof of Mr. Flannery's mouth. As Mr. Flannery is the mayor of Erin Prairie, and therefore has a world-wide reputation, I deemed it sufficiently important to the world at large, and pleasing to Mr. Flannery's family, to publish this report in the medical journals of the country, and have it telegraphed to the leading newspapers at their expense. Knowing that the world at large is hungry to learn how the laudable pus of an eminent man appears under the microscope, and what a pleasure it must be to his family to read the description after his death, I have just opened a new box of difficult words and herewith transmit a report which will be an ornament not only to the scrap-book of Mr. Flannery's immediate family after his death, but a priceless boon to the reading public at large.
Gentlemen:—I would like to submit my detailed report on the various sealed samples of proud flesh and other keepsakes taken from the roof of Mr. Flannery's mouth. Since Mr. Flannery is the mayor of Erin Prairie and has a worldwide reputation, I thought it was important enough for the public and would be appreciated by Mr. Flannery's family, so I’ve decided to publish this report in the country’s medical journals and have it sent to the major newspapers at their expense. Understanding the public's curiosity about how the noteworthy pus of a prominent individual looks under the microscope, and considering how meaningful it will be for his family to read this description after his passing, I’ve just opened a new collection of complex words and am sending a report that will not only be a keepsake for Mr. Flannery's family after his death but also a valuable gift to the general public.
Removing the seals from the jars as soon as I had returned from the express office, I poured off the alcohol and recklessly threw it away. A true scientist does not care for expense.
Removing the seals from the jars as soon as I got back from the express office, I poured out the alcohol and carelessly tossed it away. A true scientist doesn't worry about cost.
The first specimen was in a good state of preservation on its arrival. I never saw a more beautiful or robust proliferation epitherial cell nest in my life. It must have been secured immediately after the old epitherial had left the nest, and it was in good order on its arrival. The whole lobule was looking first-rate. You might ride for a week and not run across a prettier lobule or a more artistic aggregation of cell nests outside a penitentiary.
The first specimen arrived in excellent condition. I’ve never seen a more beautiful or robust cluster of epithelial cell nests in my life. It must have been collected right after the old epithelial had left the nest, and it was in great shape when it got here. The entire lobule looked fantastic. You could travel for a week and not come across a prettier lobule or a more artistic collection of cell nests outside of a prison.
Only one cell nest had been allowed to dry up on the way, and this looked a good deal fatigued. In one specimen I noticed a carneous degeneration, but this is really no reflection on Mr. Flannery personally. While he has been ill it is not surprising that he should allow his cell nests to carneously degenerate. Such a thing might happen to almost any of us.
Only one cell nest had dried up on the way, and it looked pretty worn out. In one example, I noticed some serious deterioration, but this isn't really a judgment on Mr. Flannery personally. Given that he has been ill, it's not surprising he would let his cell nests deteriorate. This could happen to almost any of us.
One of the scrapings from the sore on the right posterior fauces, I found on its arrival, had been seriously injured, and therefore not available. I return it herewith.
One of the samples taken from the sore on the right back of the throat was damaged upon arrival and is therefore not usable. I am returning it with this note.
From an examination, which has been conducted with great care, I am led to believe that the right posterior rafter of Mr. Flannery's mouth is slightly indurated, and it is barely possible that the northeast duplex and parotid gable end of the roof of his mouth may become involved.
From a careful examination, I believe that the right back rafter of Mr. Flannery's mouth is a bit hardened, and it's possible that the northeast duplex and parotid gable end of the roof of his mouth might be affected.
I wish you would ask Mr. Flannery's immediate relatives, if you can do so without arousing alarm in the breast of the patient, if there has ever been a marked predisposition on the part of his ancestors to tubercular gumboil. I do not wish to be understood as giving this diagnosis as final at all, but from what I have already stated, taken together with other clinical and pathological data within my reach, and the fact that minute, tabulated gumboil bactinae were found floating through some of the cell nests, I have every reason to fear the worst. I would be glad to receive from you for microscopic examination a fragment of Mr. Flannery's malpighian layer, showing evidences of cell proliferation. I only suggest this, of course, as practicable in case there should be a malpighian layer which Mr. Flannery is not using. Do not ask him to take a malpighian layer off her cell nest just to please me.
I wish you could ask Mr. Flannery's close relatives, if it's possible without causing worry for the patient, whether there's ever been a strong tendency in his family for tubercular gumboil. I don't want to be understood as giving this diagnosis as definitive, but based on what I've already said, along with other clinical and pathological data I have, and the fact that tiny, identified gumboil bacteria were found in some of the cell clusters, I have strong reasons to be concerned. I would appreciate it if you could send me a sample of Mr. Flannery's malpighian layer for microscopic examination, showing signs of cell growth. I'm only suggesting this if there happens to be a malpighian layer that Mr. Flannery isn't using. Please don’t ask him to remove a malpighian layer from her cell nest just to accommodate me.
From one microscopic examination I hardly feel justified in giving a diagnosis, nor care to venture any suggestion as to treatment, but it might be well to kalsomine the roof of Mr. Flannery's mouth with gum-arabic, white lime and glue in equal parts.
From one microscopic examination, I don't really feel justified in making a diagnosis, nor do I want to suggest any treatment, but it might be a good idea to coat the roof of Mr. Flannery's mouth with equal parts of gum arabic, white lime, and glue.
There has already been some extravatations and a marked multiformity. I also noticed an inflamed and angry color to the stroma with trimmings of the same. This might only indicate that Mr. Flannery had kept his mouth open too much during the summer, and sunburned the roof of his mouth, were it not that I also discovered traces of gumboil microbes of the squamous variety. This leads me to fear the worst for Mr. Flannery. However, if the gentlemanly, courteous and urbane members of the Academy of Science, of Erin Prairie, to whom I am already largely indebted for past favors, will kindly forward to me, prepaid, another scraping from the mansard roof of Mr. Flannery's mouth next week, I will open another keg of hard words and trace this gumboil theory to a successful termination, if I have to use up the whole ceiling of the patient's mouth.
There have already been some leaks and a noticeable variety. I also noticed that the tissues were inflamed and had a red, angry color, with some areas the same. This might just mean that Mr. Flannery kept his mouth open too much over the summer and sunburned the roof of his mouth, if it weren't for the fact that I also found signs of gumboil bacteria of the squamous type. This makes me worried about Mr. Flannery. However, if the gentlemanly, polite, and cultured members of the Academy of Science, of Erin Prairie, whom I am already greatly grateful to for past help, could please send me, prepaid, another sample from the roof of Mr. Flannery's mouth next week, I will dig deeper into this gumboil theory and see it through to a successful conclusion, even if I have to examine the entire ceiling of the patient's mouth.
Yours, with great sincerity, profundity and verbosity,
Yours sincerely, deeply, and at great length,
Bill Nye, Microscopist, Lobulist and Microbist.
Bill Nye, microscopist, lobulist, and microbist.
Hudson, Wis., May 3.
Hudson, WI, May 3.
Parental Advice.
The past fifty years have done much for the newspaper and periodical readers of the United States. That period has been fruitful of great advancement and a great reduction in price, but these are not all. Fifty years and less have classified information so that science and sense are conveniently found, and humor and nonsense have their proper sphere. All branches are pretty full of lively and thoroughly competent writers, who take hold of their own special work even as the thorough, quick-eyed mechanic takes hold of his line of labor and acquits himself in a creditable manner. The various lines of journalism may appear to be crowded, but they are not. There may be too much vagabond journalism, but the road that is traveled by the legitimate laborer is not crowded. The clean, Caucasian journalist, as he climbs the hill, is not crowded very much. He can make out to elbow his way toward the front, if he tries very hard. There may be too much James Crow science, and too much editorial vandalism and gush, and too much of the journalism for revenue only. There may be too much ringworm humor also, but there is still a demand for the scientific work of the true student. There is still a good market for honest editorial opinion, reliable news and fearless and funny paragraph work and character sketches, as the song and dance men would say.
The past fifty years have greatly benefited newspaper and magazine readers in the United States. This time has seen significant advancements and a notable drop in prices, but that’s not all. In the last fifty years or so, information has been categorized so that science and facts are easy to find, while humor and nonsense have their own space. There are many vibrant and capable writers in various fields, who tackle their specific tasks much like a skilled, observant mechanic does their job, and they do it well. The different areas of journalism might seem crowded, but they really aren’t. There might be too much superficial journalism, but the path taken by serious professionals isn’t congested. The diligent journalist, as they ascend their career, isn’t squeezed too tightly. With enough effort, they can push their way toward the forefront. There may be an excess of low-quality science, excessive editorial nonsense, and journalism driven solely by profit. There could also be an overload of silly humor, but there's still a strong demand for the genuine work of dedicated scholars. There remains a solid market for trustworthy editorial insights, dependable news, and both bold and entertaining writing, as performers would say.
All this, however, points in one direction. It all has one hoarse voice, and in the tones of the culverin, whatever that is, it says that to the young man who is starting out with the intention of filling the tomb of a millionaire, “Learn to do something well.”
All of this, however, points in one direction. It all has one rough voice, and in the sounds of the culverin, whatever that is, it tells the young man who's setting out with the goal of filling the tomb of a millionaire, “Learn to do something well.”
Lots of people rather disliked the famous British hangman, and thought he hadn't made a great record for himself, but he performed a duty that had to be done by someone, and no one ever complained much about Marwood's work. He warranted every job and told everyone that if they were dissatisfied he would refund their money at the door. No man ever came back to Marwood and said, “Sir, you broke my neck in an unworkmanlike manner.”
Lots of people really disliked the famous British hangman and thought he hadn't built a great reputation for himself, but he did a job that needed to be done by someone, and no one ever complained much about Marwood's work. He stood by every execution and told everyone that if they were unhappy, he would give them their money back at the door. No one ever returned to Marwood and said, “Hey, you broke my neck in a shoddy way.”
It is better to be a successful hangman than to be the banished, abused and heart-broken, cast-off husband of a great actress. Learn to take hold of some business and jerk it bald-headed. Learn to dress yourself first. This will give you self-assurance, so that you can go away from home and not be dependent on your mother. Teach yourself to be accurate and careful in all things. It is better to turn the handle of a sausage grinder and make a style of sausage that is free from hydrophobia, than to be the extremely hence cashier of a stranded bank, fighting horseflies in the solemn hush of a Canadian forest.
It's better to be a successful executioner than to be the rejected, mistreated, and heartbroken ex-husband of a famous actress. Learn to take charge of some work and handle it confidently. Start by dressing well. This will boost your self-esteem so that you can leave home without relying on your mother. Train yourself to be precise and attentive in everything you do. It's better to operate a sausage maker and create a sausage that's safe than to be the completely irrelevant cashier of a failed bank, swatting flies in the quiet of a Canadian forest.
People have wrong ideas of the respective merits of different avocations. It is better to be the successful driver of a dray than to be the unsuccessful inventor of a still-born motor. I would rather discover how to successfully wean a calf from the parent stem without being boosted over a nine rail fence, than to discover a new star that had never been used, and the next evening find that it had made an assignment.
People have the wrong idea about the value of different jobs. It’s better to be a successful truck driver than to be an unsuccessful inventor of a failed engine. I’d rather figure out how to successfully wean a calf without getting thrown over a fence than to discover a new star that ends up being a total flop by the next evening.
Boys, oh, boys! How I wish I could take each of you by the ear and lead you away by yourselves, and show you how many ruins strew the road to success, and how life is like a mining boom. We only hear of those who strike it rich. The hopeful, industrious prospector who failed to find the contact and finally filled a nameless grave, is soon forgotten when he is gone, but a million tongues tell to forty million listening ears of the man who struck it rich and went to Europe.
Guys, oh man! I wish I could grab each of you by the ear and take you aside, and show you how many obstacles line the path to success, and how life is a lot like a mining boom. We only hear about those who hit the jackpot. The hopeful, hardworking prospector who didn’t find their fortune and ended up in a nameless grave is quickly forgotten, while a million people share stories about the guy who got rich and went to Europe.
Therefore make haste to advance slowly and surely. I am aware that your ears ache with the abundance wherewith ye are advised, but if ye seek not to brace up while yet it is called to-day, and file away information for future reference and cease to look upon the fifteen-ball pool game when it moveth itself aright, at such time as ye think not ye shall be in pecuniary circumstances and there shall be none to indorse for you—nay, not one.
Therefore, hurry up to move forward slowly and confidently. I know your ears are ringing from all the advice you're getting, but if you don't take action while you still can and save knowledge for later, and stop seeing the fifteen-ball pool game as if it’s moving correctly, when you least expect it, you might find yourself in financial trouble with no one to back you up—not a single person.
Early Day Justice.{2}
{Footnote 2: From the Chicago Rambler.}
{Footnote 2: From the Chicago Rambler.}
Those were troublesome times, indeed. All wool justice in the courts was impossible. The vigilance committee, or Salvation Army as it called itself, didn't make much fuss about it, but we all knew that the best citizens belonged to it and were in good standing.
Those were truly difficult times. Getting fair justice in the courts was impossible. The vigilance committee, which called itself the Salvation Army, didn't make a big deal about it, but we all knew that the most respected citizens were part of it and were in good standing.
It was in those days when young Stewart was short-handed for a sheep herder, and had to take up with a sullen, hairy vagrant, called by the other boys “Esau.” Esau hadn't been on the ranch a week before he made trouble with the proprietor and got the red-hot blessing from Stewart he deserved.
It was during those days when young Stewart was short on sheep herders and had to work with a grumpy, hairy drifter, known by the other boys as "Esau." Esau hadn’t been at the ranch for a week before he stirred up trouble with the owner and received the fiery reprimand from Stewart that he had coming.
Then Esau got madder and sulked away down the valley among the little sage brush hummocks and white alkali waste land to nurse his wrath. When Stewart drove into the corral at night, from town, Esau raised up from behind an old sheep dip tank, and without a word except what may have growled around in his black heart, he raised a leveled Spencer and shot his young employer dead.
Then Esau got even angrier and sulked down the valley among the small sagebrush mounds and the white alkali wasteland to brood over his anger. When Stewart drove into the corral at night after coming from town, Esau stood up from behind an old sheep dip tank, and without saying a word—other than whatever might have been brewing in his dark heart—he aimed a Spencer rifle and shot his young boss dead.
That was the tragedy of the week only. Others had occurred before and others would probably occur again. It was getting too prevalent for comfort. So, as soon as a quick cayuse and a boy could get down into town, the news spread and the authorities began in the routine manner to set the old legal mill to running. Someone had to go down to “The Tivoli” and find the prosecuting attorney, then a messenger had to go to “The Alhambra” for the justice of the peace. The prosecuting attorney was “full” and the judge had just drawn one card to complete a straight flush, and had succeeded.
That was the only tragedy of the week. There had been others before, and there would likely be more in the future. It was becoming too common for comfort. So, as soon as a quick horse and a kid could get down to town, the news spread, and the authorities began their usual process to get things moving. Someone had to go to “The Tivoli” to find the prosecutor, and then a messenger had to head to “The Alhambra” to get the justice of the peace. The prosecutor was “busy,” and the judge had just drawn one card to complete a straight flush and had managed to do it.
In the meantime the Salvation Army was fully half way to Clugston's ranch. They had started out, as they said, “to see that Esau didn't get away.” They were going out there to see that Esau was brought into town.
In the meantime, the Salvation Army was halfway to Clugston's ranch. They had set out, as they put it, "to make sure Esau didn’t escape." They were heading out there to ensure that Esau was brought back to town.
{Illustration: THE SALVATION ARMY.}
{Illustration: THE SALVATION ARMY.}
What happened after they got there I only know from hearsay, for I was not a member of the Salvation Army at that time. But I got it from one of those present, that they found Esau down in the sage brush on the bottoms that lie between the abrupt corner of Sheep Mountain and the Little Laramie River. They captured him, but he died soon after, as it was told me, from the effects of opium taken with suicidal intent. I remember seeing Esau the next morning and I thought there were signs of ropium, as there was a purple streak around the neck of deceased, together with other external phenomena not peculiar to opium.
What happened after they got there, I only know from hearsay because I wasn't a member of the Salvation Army at that time. But I heard from someone who was there that they found Esau lying in the sagebrush in the area between the sharp corner of Sheep Mountain and the Little Laramie River. They captured him, but he died soon after, as I was told, from the effects of opium taken with suicidal intent. I remember seeing Esau the next morning, and I thought there were signs of opium use, as there was a purple mark around the neck of the deceased, along with other symptoms that aren’t unique to opium.
But the great difficulty with the Salvation Army was that it didn't want to bring Esau into town. A long, cold night ride with a person in Esau's condition was disagreeable. Twenty miles of lonely road with a deceased murderer in the bottom of the wagon is depressing. Those of my readers who have tried it will agree with me that it is not calculated to promote hilarity. So the Salvation Army stopped at Whatley's ranch to get warm, hoping that someone would steal the remains and elope with them. They stayed some time and managed to “give away” the fact that there was a reward of $5,000 out for Esau, dead or alive. The Salvation Army even went so far as to betray a great deal of hilarity over the easy way it had nailed the reward, or would as soon as said remains were delivered up and identified.
But the real problem with the Salvation Army was that they didn't want to bring Esau into town. A long, cold night ride with someone like Esau was just unpleasant. Twenty miles on a lonely road with a dead murderer in the back of the wagon is pretty depressing. Anyone who's experienced that will agree that it doesn't exactly lift your spirits. So the Salvation Army stopped at Whatley's ranch to warm up, hoping that someone would steal the body and run off with it. They hung around for a while and managed to let it slip that there was a $5,000 reward for Esau, dead or alive. The Salvation Army even got a bit carried away, laughing about how easy it would be to claim the reward, or at least they would as soon as the remains were turned in and confirmed.
Mr. Whatley thought that the Salvation Army was having a kind of walkaway, so he slipped out at the back door of the ranch, put Esau into his own wagon and drove away to town. Remember, this is the way it was told to me.
Mr. Whatley thought the Salvation Army was having a sort of walkaway, so he sneaked out the back door of the ranch, loaded Esau into his wagon, and drove off to town. Just keep in mind, this is how it was told to me.
Mr. Whatley hadn't gone more than half a mile when he heard the wild and disappointed yells of the Salvation Army. He put the buckskin on the backs of his horses without mercy, driven on by the enraged shouts and yells of his infuriated pursuers. He reached town about midnight, and his pursuers disappeared. But what was he to do with Esau?
Mr. Whatley had barely gone half a mile when he heard the wild and frustrated shouts of the Salvation Army. He put the buckskin on the backs of his horses without hesitation, motivated by the angry cries and shouts of his furious pursuers. He arrived in town around midnight, and his pursuers vanished. But what was he supposed to do with Esau?
He drove around all over town, trying to find the official who signed for the deceased. Mr. Whatley went from house to house like a vegetable man, seeking sadly for the party who would give him a $5,000 check for Esau. Nothing could be more depressing than to wake up one man after another out of a sound sleep and invite him to come out to the buggy and identify the remains. One man went out and looked at him. He said he didn't know how others felt about it, but he allowed that anybody who would pay $5,000 for such a remains as Esau's could not have very good taste.
He drove all around town, trying to find the official who signed for the deceased. Mr. Whatley went from house to house like a vendor, sadly looking for someone who would give him a $5,000 check for Esau. There was nothing more depressing than waking up one man after another from a deep sleep and inviting him to come out to the buggy to identify the body. One man stepped outside, looked at him, and said he didn’t know how others felt about it, but he thought anyone willing to pay $5,000 for a body like Esau's must have terrible taste.
Gradually it crept through Mr. Whatley's wool that the Salvation Army had been working him, so he left Esau at the engine house and went home. On his ranch he nailed up a large board on which had been painted in antique characters with a paddle and tar the following stanzas:
Gradually, Mr. Whatley realized that the Salvation Army had been taking advantage of him, so he left Esau at the engine house and went home. On his ranch, he put up a large board that had been painted in old-fashioned letters with a paddle and tar, displaying the following stanzas:
Vigilance Committees, Salvation Armies, Morgues, or young physicians who may have deceased people on their hands, are requested to refrain from conferring them on to the undersigned. People who contemplate shuffling off their own or other people's mortal coils, will please not do so on these grounds. The Salvation Army of the Rocky Mountains is especially hereby warned to keep off the grass! James Whatley.
Vigilance Committees, Salvation Armies, morgues, or young doctors who may have deceased individuals in their care are asked to refrain from referring them to the undersigned. Individuals thinking about ending their own lives or those of others, please do not do so on this property. The Salvation Army of the Rocky Mountains is specifically warned to stay off the grass! James Whatley.
The Indian Orator.
I like to read of the Indian orator in the old school books. Most everyone does. It is generally remarkable that the American Demosthenes, so far, has dwelt in the tepee, and lived on the debris of the deer and the buffalo. I mean to say that the school readers have impressed us with the great magnetism of the crude warrior who dwelt in the wilderness and ate his game, feathers and all, while he studied the art of swaying the audience by his oratorical powers.
I enjoy reading about the Indian orator in the old school books. Most people do. It's pretty fascinating that the American Demosthenes has mostly lived in a tepee and survived on the remains of deer and buffalo. What I’m saying is that school readers have shown us the incredible charisma of the rough warrior who lived in the wild and consumed his game, feathers and all, while learning the skill of captivating an audience with his speaking abilities.
I am inclined to think that Black Hawk and Logan must have been fortunate in securing mighty able private secretaries, or that they stood in with the stenographers of their day. At least, the Blue Juniata warriors of our time, from Little Crow, Red Iron, Standing Buffalo, Hole-in-the-Day and Sitting Bull, to Victoria, Colorow, Douglas, Persume, Captain Jack and Shavano, seem to do better as lobbyists than they do as orators. They may be keen, logical and shrewd, but they are not eloquent. In some minds, Black Hawk will ever appear as the Patrick Henry of his people; but I prefer to honor his unknown, unhonored and unsung amanuensis. Think what a godsend such a man would have been to Senator Tabor.
I tend to think that Black Hawk and Logan must have been lucky to have really capable private secretaries, or they had good connections with the stenographers of their time. At least, the Blue Juniata warriors of today, from Little Crow, Red Iron, Standing Buffalo, Hole-in-the-Day, and Sitting Bull, to Victoria, Colorow, Douglas, Persume, Captain Jack, and Shavano, seem to be more effective as lobbyists than as speakers. They might be sharp, logical, and clever, but they aren’t particularly eloquent. Some people might always see Black Hawk as the Patrick Henry of his people; however, I prefer to honor his unknown, unrecognized, and unsung assistant. Just imagine how valuable such a person would have been to Senator Tabor.
The Indian orator of to-day is not scholarly and grand. He is soiled, ignorant and sedentary in his habits. An orator ought to take care of his health. He cannot overload his stomach and make a bronze Daniel Webster of himself. He cannot eat a raw buffalo for breakfast and at once attack the question of tariff for revenue only. His brain is not clear enough. He cannot digest the mammalia of North America and seek out the delicate intricacies of the financial problem at the same time. All scientists and physiologists will readily see why this is true.
The Indian speaker today isn't very scholarly or impressive. He's unrefined, uninformed, and stuck in his ways. A speaker needs to look after his health. He can't overindulge and expect to be like a bronze statue of Daniel Webster. He can't have a massive breakfast and then immediately dive into complex issues like tariffs for revenue only. His mind just isn't clear enough for that. He can't process the heavy foods of North America and figure out the nuances of financial issues at the same time. All scientists and physiologists would easily understand why this is the case.
It is quite popular to say that the modern Indian has seen too much of civilization. This may be true. Anyhow, civilization has seen too much of him. I hope the day will never come when the pale face and the White Father will have to stay on their reservation, whether the red man does or not.
It’s commonly said that the modern Indian has experienced too much of civilization. This might be true. Regardless, civilization has experienced too much of him. I hope the day never arrives when the pale face and the White Father are confined to their reservation, whether the red man is or isn’t.
Indian eloquence, toned down by the mellow haze of a hundred years, sounds very well, but the clarion voice of the red orator has died away. The stony figure, the eagle eye, the matchless presence, have all ceased to palpitate.
Indian eloquence, softened by the gentle haze of a hundred years, sounds great, but the powerful voice of the Native speaker has faded away. The stony figure, the piercing gaze, the extraordinary presence, have all stopped resonating.
He does not say: “I am an aged hemlock. I am dead at the top. The forest is filled with the ghosts of my people. I hear their moans on the night winds and in the sighing pines.” He does not talk in the blank verse of a century ago. He uses a good many blanks, but it is not blank verse. Even the Indian's friend would admit that it was not blank verse. Perhaps it might be called blankety verse.
He doesn’t say, “I’m an old hemlock. I’m dead at the top. The forest is filled with the ghosts of my people. I hear their moans in the night winds and in the sighing pines.” He doesn’t speak in the blank verse of a century ago. He uses a lot of gaps, but it’s not blank verse. Even the Indian's friend would agree that it isn’t blank verse. Maybe it could be called blankety verse.
Once he pleaded for the land of his fathers. Now he howls for grub, guns and fixed ammunition.
Once he begged for the land of his ancestors. Now he cries out for food, weapons, and ammunition.
I tried to interview a big Crow chief once. I had heard some Sioux, and learned a few irrelevant and disconnected Ute phrases. I connected these with some Spanish terms and hoped to get a reply, and keep up a kind of running conversation that might mislead a friend who was with me, into the belief that I was as familiar with the Indian tongue as with my own. I began conversing with him in my polyglot manner. I did not get a reply. I conversed with him some more in a desultory way, for I had heard that he was a great orator in his tribe, and I wanted to get his views on national affairs. Still he was silent. He would not even answer me. I got hostile and used some badly damaged Spanish on him. Then I used some sprained and dislocated German on him, but he didn't seem to wot whereof I spoke.
I once tried to interview a big Crow chief. I had picked up some Sioux and learned a few random Ute phrases. I combined these with some Spanish terms and hoped to get a response, trying to keep up a sort of ongoing conversation that would trick a friend with me into thinking I was as fluent in the Native language as I was in my own. I started chatting with him in my mix of languages. He didn’t reply. I continued talking to him aimlessly because I had heard he was a great speaker in his tribe, and I wanted to hear his thoughts on national issues. Still, he remained silent. He wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I grew frustrated and tried some broken Spanish, but he didn’t seem to understand. Then I tried some awkward German, but he didn’t seem to get what I was saying.
Then my friend, with all the assurance of a fresh young manhood, began to talk with the great warrior in the English language, and incidentally asked him about a new Indian agent, who had the name of being a bogus Christian with an eye to the main chance.
Then my friend, full of the confidence of youth, started speaking with the great warrior in English and casually asked him about a new Indian agent who was known for being a fake Christian focused on personal gain.
My friend talked very loud, with the idea that the chieftain could understand any language if spoken so that you could hear it in the next Territory. At the mention of the Indian agent's name, the Crow statesman brightened up and made a remark. He simply said: “Ugh! too much God and no flour.”
My friend spoke really loudly, thinking that the chieftain could understand any language if it was loud enough to be heard in the next Territory. When the name of the Indian agent came up, the Crow politician perked up and said, “Ugh! too much God and no flour.”
You Heah Me, Sah!
Col. Visscher, of Denver, who is delivering his lecture, “Sixty Minutes in the War,” tells a good story on himself of an episode, or something of that nature, that occurred to him in the days when he was the amanuensis of George D. Prentice.
Col. Visscher from Denver, who is giving his lecture “Sixty Minutes in the War,” shares an amusing story about an incident that happened to him when he was the secretary for George D. Prentice.
Visscher, in those days, was a fair-haired young man, with pale blue eyes, and destitute of that wealth of brow and superficial area of polished dome which he now exhibits on the rostrum. He was learning the lesson of life then, and every now and then he would bump up against an octagonal mass of cold-pressed truth of the never-dying variety that seemed to kind of stun and concuss him.
Visscher, back then, was a light-haired young guy with pale blue eyes and lacking the rich forehead and shiny dome he now shows off on stage. He was learning about life, and every so often, he would run into a hard truth that really knocked him for a loop.
One day Mr. Visscher wandered into a prominent hotel in Louisville, and, observing with surprise and pleasure that “boiled lobster” was one of the delicacies on the bill of fare, he ordered one.
One day, Mr. Visscher walked into a well-known hotel in Louisville and, noticing with surprise and delight that "boiled lobster" was one of the specialties on the menu, he ordered one.
He never had seen lobster, and a rare treat seemed to be in store for him. He breathed in what atmosphere there was in the dining-room, and waited for his bird. At last it was brought in. Mr. Visscher took one hasty look at the great scarlet mass of voluptuous limbs and oceanic nippers, and sighed. The lobster was as large as a door mat, and had a very angry and inflamed appearance. Visscher ordered in a powerful cocktail to give him courage, and then he tried to carve off some of the breast.
He had never seen a lobster, and a rare treat seemed to be in store for him. He inhaled the atmosphere in the dining room and waited for his meal. Finally, it was brought to him. Mr. Visscher quickly glanced at the large, bright red mass of tempting claws and limbs, and sighed. The lobster was as big as a doormat and looked very angry and swollen. Visscher ordered a strong cocktail to give him some courage, and then he tried to carve off some of the meat from the breast.
The lobster is honery even in death. He is eccentric and trifling. Those who know him best are the first to evade him and shun him. Visscher had failed to straddle the wish bone with his fork properly, and the talented bird of the deep rolling sea slipped out of the platter, waved itself across the horizon twice, and buried itself in the bosom of the eminent and talented young man. The eminent and talented young man took it in his napkin, put it carefully on the table, and went away.
The lobster is feisty even in death. It’s quirky and trivial. Those who know it best are the first to avoid it and steer clear. Visscher didn’t manage to properly straddle the wishbone with his fork, and the skillful creature of the deep ocean slipped off the platter, waved itself across the horizon twice, and nestled into the arms of the notable and talented young man. The notable and talented young man picked it up in his napkin, set it carefully on the table, and walked away.
As he passed out, the head waiter said:
As he lost consciousness, the head waiter said:
“Mr. Visscher, was there anything the matter with your lobster?”
“Mr. Visscher, was there something wrong with your lobster?”
Visscher is a full-blooded Kentuckian, and answered in the courteous dialect of the blue-grass country.
Visscher is a true Kentuckian and responded in the polite accent of the bluegrass region.
“Anything the matter with my lobster, sah? No, sah. The lobster is very vigorous, sah. If you had asked me how I was, sah, I should have answered you very differently, sah. I am not well at all, sah. If I were as well, and as ruddy, and as active as that lobster, sah, I would live forever, sah. You heah me, sah?
“Is there something wrong with my lobster, sir? No, sir. The lobster is very lively, sir. If you had asked me how I was doing, sir, I would have given you a very different answer, sir. I’m not well at all, sir. If I were as healthy, flush, and active as that lobster, sir, I would live forever, sir. You hear me, sir?”
“Why, of course, I am not familiar with the habits of the lobster, sah, and do not know how to kearve the bosom of the bloomin' peri of the summer sea, but that's no reason why the inflamed reptile should get up on his hind feet and nestle up to me, sah, in that earnest and forthwith manner, sah.
“Of course, I’m not familiar with the habits of the lobster, sir, and I don’t know how to carve the chest of the beautiful pearl of the summer sea, but that’s no reason for the agitated creature to get up on its hind legs and approach me, sir, in such an earnest and immediate way, sir."
“I love dumb beasts, sah, and they love me, sah; but when they are dead, sah, and I undertake to kearve them, sah, I desiah, sah, that they should remain as the undertakah left them, sah. You doubtless heah me, sah!”
"I love dumb animals, sir, and they love me, sir; but when they are dead, sir, and I have to carve them, sir, I desire, sir, that they should stay as the undertaker left them, sir. You surely hear me, sir!"
Plato.
Plato was a Greek philosopher who flourished about 426 B.C., and kept on flourishing for eighty-one years after that, when he suddenly ceased do so. He early took to poetry, but when he found that his poems were rejected by the Greek papers, he ceased writing poetry and went into the philosophy business. At that time Greece had no regular philosopher, and so Plato soon got all he could do.
Plato was a Greek philosopher who thrived around 426 B.C. and continued to do so for eighty-one years until his sudden death. He initially pursued poetry, but when his poems were rejected by Greek publications, he stopped writing poetry and switched to philosophy. At that time, Greece didn’t have a regular philosopher, so Plato quickly found himself in high demand.
Plato was a pupil of Socrates, who was himself no slouch of a philosopher. Many and many a day did Socrates take his little class of kindergarten philosophers up the shady banks of the Ilissus, and sit all day discoursing to his pupils on deep and difficult doctrines, while his unsandaled feet were bathed in the genial tide. Many happy hours were thus spent. Socrates would take his dinner or tell some wonderful tale to his class, whereby he would win their dinner himself. Then in the deep Athenian shade, with his bare, Gothic feet in the clear, calm waters of the Ilissus, he would eat the Grecian doughnut of his pupils, and while he spoke in poetic terms of his belief, he would dig his heel in the mud and heave a heart-broken sigh.
Plato was a student of Socrates, who was no lightweight when it came to philosophy. Many days, Socrates would take his small group of young philosophers to the shady banks of the Ilissus, sitting with them all day, discussing complex and profound ideas while his bare feet were splashed by the pleasant waters. They spent many joyful hours this way. Socrates would have his dinner or share incredible stories with his class, which often led to him getting his own meal. Then, in the cool shade of Athens, with his bare, rugged feet in the clear, calm waters of the Ilissus, he would enjoy the snacks of his students, and while speaking in poetic language about his beliefs, he would dig his heel into the mud and let out a heartfelt sigh.
Such was Socrates, the great teacher. He got a small salary, and went barefoot till after Thanksgiving. He was a great tutor, and boarded around, teaching in the open air while the mosquitos bit his bare feet. No tutor ever tuted with a more unselfish purpose or a smaller salary.
Such was Socrates, the great teacher. He had a small salary and went barefoot until after Thanksgiving. He was a fantastic tutor and moved from place to place, teaching outdoors while mosquitoes bit his bare feet. No tutor ever taught with a more selfless purpose or a smaller paycheck.
Plato maintained, among other things, that evil is connected with matter, and aside from matter we do not find evil existing. That is true. At least, such evil as we might find apart from matter would be outside the jurisdiction of a police court. I think Plato was correct. Evil and matter are inseparable. That's what's the matter.
Plato argued, among other things, that evil is linked to matter, and without matter, we don’t find evil. That’s true. At least, any evil we might find without matter would be outside the reach of a police court. I think Plato was right. Evil and matter are intertwined. That’s the issue.
It is quite common for us to say that virtue is its own reward. Plato held that, while it was better to be virtuous as a matter of economy and ultimate peace than not to be virtuous at all, he believed in being virtuous for a higher reason. Probably it was notoriety. He would rather be right than be president. He believed in being good just for the excitement of it, and the notice it would attract, and not because it paid. Plato was a great virtuoso.
It’s pretty common for us to say that virtue is its own reward. Plato believed that while it’s better to be virtuous for the sake of well-being and lasting peace than to be unvirtuous, he thought we should be virtuous for an even greater reason. Most likely, it was for the recognition. He would prefer to be right than to be in charge. He believed in being good just for the thrill of it and the attention it would bring, not because it was rewarding. Plato was a true virtuoso.
Socrates would have been called a crank if he had lived in our day and age, and if Plato were to go into London or New York and talk of organizing a society for the encouragement of virtue among adult male taxpayers he would have a lonesome time of it. Be virtuous and you will be happy was a favorite motto with Plato. The legend is still quoted by those who love to ransack the dead past.
Socrates would be seen as a weirdo if he lived today, and if Plato went to London or New York and tried to start a group aimed at promoting virtue among adult male taxpayers, he'd have a pretty lonely experience. "Be virtuous and you will be happy" was one of Plato's favorite sayings. People still reference this saying from the past, especially those who enjoy digging through history.
{Illustration: NEPTUNE TAKING A RIDE.}
{Illustration: NEPTUNE GOES FOR A RIDE.}
Pluto was quite another party, and some get him mixed up with Plato. They were not related in any way, Pluto being a son of Saturn and Rhea, who flourished at about the same time as Plato. Pluto was a brother of Jupiter and Neptune, and when the estate of Saturn was wound up, Jupiter wanted the earth, and he got it. Neptune wanted the codfish conservatory and the mermaid's home, so he took the deep, deep sea, and even yet he rides around in a gold spangled stone boat on the pale green billows of the summer sea, jabbing a pickerel ever and anon with a three pronged fork. He leads a gay life, going to picnics with the mermaids in their coral caves, or attending their full evening dress parties, clad in a trident and a fall beard. He loves the sea, the lone, blue sea, and those who have seen him turning handsprings on a sponge lawn, or riding in his water-tight chariot with his feet over the dash-board, beside a slim young mermaid with Paris green hair, and dressed in a tight-fitting, low-neck dorsal fin, say he is a lively old party.
Pluto was a completely different character, and some confuse him with Plato. They aren’t related at all; Pluto was the son of Saturn and Rhea, and he existed around the same time as Plato. Pluto was the brother of Jupiter and Neptune. When Saturn's estate was settled, Jupiter wanted the earth, and he got it. Neptune wanted the fish and the mermaid's home, so he took the deep, deep sea, and even now he sails around in a gold-spangled stone boat on the pale green waves of the summer ocean, occasionally spearing a pickerel with a three-pronged fork. He lives an adventurous life, going to picnics with mermaids in their coral caves or attending their formal evening parties, dressed in a trident and a flowing beard. He loves the ocean, the vast blue sea, and those who have seen him doing cartwheels on a sponge lawn, or riding in his water-tight chariot with his feet propped up on the dashboard next to a slender young mermaid with hair the color of Paris green, wearing a snug, low-cut dorsal fin, say he’s quite the lively old fellow.
But Pluto was different. He stood around till the estate was all closed up, and it looked as though he had got left. Just then the administrator says: “Why, here's Pluto. He is going to come out of the little end of the horn. He will have to hustle for himself,” Pluto resented this and clinched with the administrator. They fought till each had a watch pocket on the brow and an Irish sunset symphony in green under the eye, while Jupiter and Neptune stood by and encouraged the fight. Jupiter rather took sides with his brother, and Neptune stood in with the administrator. In the midst of the confusion Jupiter speaks up and says: “Swat him under the ear, Pluto.” Whereupon Neptune says to the administrator. “Give him—hail.” The administrator paused and said that was a good suggestion. He would do so. And so he forgave Pluto and gave him—sheol.
But Pluto was different. He hung around until the estate was all closed up, and it looked like he had been forgotten. Just then, the administrator said, “Look, there's Pluto. He’s about to come out of the end of the horn. He’ll have to fend for himself,” Pluto didn’t like that and got into it with the administrator. They fought until both had a bruise on their forehead and a nasty mark under their eye, while Jupiter and Neptune watched and cheered them on. Jupiter was on his brother's side, and Neptune was backing the administrator. In the middle of all the chaos, Jupiter shouted, “Hit him under the ear, Pluto.” Then Neptune said to the administrator, “Give him—hail.” The administrator paused and said that was a good idea. He agreed to it. And so he forgave Pluto and gave him—sheol.
The Expensive Word.
Much that is annoying in this life is occasioned by the use of a high priced word where a cheaper one would do. In these days of failure, shortage at both ends and financial stringency generally, I often wonder that some people should go on, day after day, using just as extravagant language as they did during the flush times. When I get hard up the first thing I do is to economize in my expressions in every day conversation. If there is a marked stringency in business, I lay aside first, my French, then my Latin, and finally my German. Should the times become greatly depressed and failures and assignments become frequent, I begin to lop off the large words in my own language, beginning with “incomprehensibility,” “unconstitutionally,” etc., etc.
A lot of what’s annoying in life comes from using fancy words when simple ones would do. In these tough times of financial strain and scarcity, I often wonder how some people can still use the same extravagant language they used during better days. When I get short on cash, the first thing I do is cut back on how I express myself in everyday conversations. If business is tight, I start by ditching my French, then my Latin, and finally my German. If things get really bad and failures become common, I start eliminating the big words in my own language, starting with “incomprehensibility,” “unconstitutionally,” and so on.
Julius Caesar's motto used to be, “Avoid an unusual word as you would a rock at sea,” and Jule was right about it, too. Large and unusual words, especially in the mouths of ignorant people, are worse than “Rough on Rats” in a boarding-house pie.
Julius Caesar's motto used to be, “Stay away from unusual words like you would from a rock at sea,” and Jule was spot on. Large and unusual words, especially when spoken by ignorant people, are worse than “Rough on Rats” in a boarding-house pie.
Years ago there used to be a pompous cuss in southern Wisconsin, who was a self-made man. Extremely so. Those who used to hear him assert again and again that he was a self-made man always felt renewed confidence in the Creator.
Years ago, there was a boastful guy in southern Wisconsin who was a self-made man. Very much so. Anyone who heard him repeatedly claim that he was a self-made man always felt a renewed faith in the Creator.
He rose one evening in a political meeting, and swelling out his bosom, as his eagle eye rested on the chairman, he said:
He stood up one evening at a political meeting, puffed out his chest, and as his sharp gaze landed on the chairman, he said:
“Mr. Cheerman! I move you that the cheer do appoint a committee of three to attend to the matter under discussion, and that sayed committee be clothed by the cheer with ominiscient and omnipotent powers.”
“Mr. Chairman! I propose that the group appoint a committee of three to handle the issue at hand, and that this committee be given all-encompassing and ultimate authority by the group.”
The motion was duly seconded and the cheerman said he guessed that it wouldn't be necessary to put it to a vote.
The motion was seconded, and the chairman said he thought it wouldn't be necessary to vote on it.
“I guess it will be all right, Mr. Pinkham. I guess there'll be no declivity to that.”
“I think it will be fine, Mr. Pinkham. I don't see any issues with that.”
And so the committee was appointed and clothed with omniscient and omnipotent powers, there being no declivity to it.
And so the committee was formed and given all-knowing and all-powerful authority, with no limits to their control.
We had a self-made lawyer at one time in the northern part of the State who would rather find a seventy-five cent word and use it in a speech where it did not belong than to eat a good square meal. He was more fatal to the King's English than O'Dynamite Rossa. One day he was telling how methodical one of the county officials was.
We once had a DIY lawyer in the northern part of the State who would rather find a seventy-five cent word to use in a speech where it didn't fit than eat a decent meal. He was more damaging to the King's English than O'Dynamite Rossa. One day, he was talking about how organized one of the county officials was.
“Why,” said he, “I never saw a man do so much and do it so easy. But the secret of it is plain enough. You see, he has a regular rotunda of business every day.”
“Why,” he said, “I’ve never seen anyone accomplish so much so effortlessly. But the secret is pretty simple. You see, he has a structured routine of work every day.”
If he meant anything, I suppose he meant a routine of business, but a man would have to be a mind reader to follow him some days when he had about six fingers of cough medicine aboard and began to paw around in the dark and musty garret of his memory for moth-eaten words that didn't mean anything.
If he meant anything, I guess he meant a regular schedule, but you'd have to be a mind reader to keep up with him some days when he'd taken about six shots of cough medicine and started fumbling around in the dark, dusty corners of his memory for old words that didn't really mean anything.
A neighbor of mine went to Washington during the Guiteau trial and has been telling us about it ever since. He is one of those people who don't want to be close and stingy about what they know. He likes to go through life shedding information right and left. He likes to get a crowd around him and then tell how he was in Washington at the time of the “post mortise examination.” “Boys, you may talk all your a mind to, but the greatest thing I saw in Washington,” said he, “was Dr. Mary Walker on the street every morning riding one of these philosophers.”
A neighbor of mine went to Washington during the Guiteau trial and has been telling us about it ever since. He’s the type of person who doesn’t hold back and shares what he knows. He enjoys going through life sharing information freely. He loves to get a crowd around him and talk about how he was in Washington during the “post-mortem examination.” “Guys, you can chat all you want,” he said, “but the most amazing thing I saw in Washington was Dr. Mary Walker riding one of these philosophers on the street every morning.”
{Illustration: HE PAINTED THE FENCE GREEN.}
{Illustration: HE PAINTED THE FENCE GREEN.}
He painted the top of his fence green, last year, so it would “kind of combinate with his blinds.”
He painted the top of his fence green last year so it would "kind of match with his blinds."
If he would make his big words “combinate” with what he means a little better, he would not attract so much attention. But he don't care. He hates to see a big, fat word loafing around with nothing to do, so he throws one in occasionally for exercise, I guess.
If he could get his big words to better match what he means, he wouldn’t draw so much attention. But he doesn’t care. He hates seeing a big, fat word just lounging around with nothing to do, so he throws one in every now and then for some exercise, I guess.
In the Minnesota legislature, in 1867, they had under discussion a bill to increase the per diem of members from three dollars to five dollars. A member of the lower house, who voted for the measure, was hauled over the coals by one of his constituents and charged with corruption in no unmeasured terms. To all this the legislator calmly answered that when he got down to the capital and found out the awful price of board, he concluded that his “per diadem” ought to be increased, and so he supported the measure. Then the belligerent constituent said:
In the Minnesota legislature in 1867, they were discussing a bill to raise the daily pay for members from three dollars to five dollars. A member of the lower house, who voted for the bill, was strongly criticized by one of his constituents and accused of corruption in no uncertain terms. In response, the legislator calmly explained that when he arrived at the capital and saw the outrageous cost of living, he realized that his “per diem” needed to be increased, so he supported the bill. Then the angry constituent said:
“I beg your pardon and acquit you of all charges of corruption, for a legislator who does not know the difference between a crown of glory and the price of a day's work is too big a blankety blanked fool to be convicted of an intentional wrong.”
“I apologize and absolve you of all allegations of corruption, because a lawmaker who can't distinguish between a crown of glory and the value of a day's labor is too much of a complete fool to be found guilty of any deliberate wrongdoing.”
Petticoats at the Polls.
There have been many reasons given, first and last, why women should not vote, but I desire to say, in the full light of a ripe experience, that some of them are fallacious. I refer more particularly to the argument that it will degrade women to go to the polls and vote like a little man. While I am not and have never been a howler for female suffrage, I must admit that it is much more of a success than prohibition and speculative science.
There have been many reasons given, both in the past and present, for why women shouldn't vote, but I want to say, based on my own experience, that some of those reasons are misleading. I'm specifically referring to the argument that voting will lower women’s status, making them act like little men at the polls. While I am not and have never been a loud advocate for women's suffrage, I have to admit that it has been much more successful than prohibition and speculative science.
My wife voted eight years with my full knowledge and consent, and to-day I cannot see but that she is as docile and as tractable as when she won my trusting heart.
My wife voted for eight years with my full knowledge and agreement, and today I can’t help but see that she is just as gentle and accommodating as when she captured my trusting heart.
Now those who know me best will admit that I am not a ladies' man, and, therefore, what I may say here is not said to secure favor and grateful smiles. I am not attractive and I am not in politics. I believe that I am homelier this winter than usual. There are reasons why I believe that what I may say on this subject will be sincere and not sensational or selfish.
Now, the people who know me well will agree that I'm not exactly a ladies' man, so whatever I say here isn't meant to win favor or get appreciative smiles. I'm not attractive, and I'm not involved in politics. I think I look more ordinary this winter than usual. There are reasons why I believe what I have to say on this topic will be honest and not exaggerated or self-serving.
It has been urged that good women do not generally exercise the right of suffrage, when they have the opportunity, and that only those whose social record has been tarnished a good deal go to the polls. This is not true.
It has been claimed that decent women typically don't use their right to vote when they can, and that only those with a questionable social history head to the polls. This isn't true.
It is the truth that a good full vote always shows a list of the best women and the wives of the best men. A bright day makes a better showing of lady voters than a bad one, and the weather makes a more perceptible difference in the female vote than the male, but when things are exciting and the battle is red-hot, and the tocsin of war sounds anon, the wife and mother puts on her armor and her sealskin sacque and knocks things cross-eyed.
It’s true that a strong turnout always reflects a group of the best women and the wives of the best men. A sunny day encourages more women to vote than a cloudy one, and the weather has a bigger impact on female voters than male ones. However, when the situation gets intense and the competition heats up, and the alarm of battle rings out, the wife and mother gears up in her armor and stylish coat and goes all in.
It is generally supposed that the female voter is a pantaloonatic, a half horse, half alligator kind of woman, who looks like Dr. Mary Walker and has the appearance of one who has risen hastily in the night at the alarm of fire and dressed herself partially in her own garments and partially in her husband's. This is a popular error. In Wyoming, where female suffrage has raged for years, you meet quiet, courteous and gallant gentlemen, and fair, quiet, sensible women at the polls, where there isn't a loud or profane word, and where it is an infinitely more proper place to send a young lady unescorted than to the postoffice in any city in the Union. You can readily see why this is so. The men about the polls are always candidates and their friends. That is the reason that neither party can afford to show the slightest rudeness toward a voter. The man who on Wednesday would tell her to go and soak her head, perhaps, would stand bareheaded to let her pass on Tuesday. While she holds a smashed ballot shoved under the palm of her gray kid glove she may walk over the candidate's prostrate form with impunity and her overshoes if she chooses to.
It’s commonly thought that female voters are a bit eccentric, like a woman who’s part horse and part alligator, resembling Dr. Mary Walker and looking like someone who hastily got out of bed during a fire alarm, half-dressed in her own clothes and half in her husband's. This is a widespread misconception. In Wyoming, where women have been voting for years, you'll find polite, respectful men and sensible, composed women at the polls, where there’s no loud or vulgar language, and it’s far more acceptable to send a young woman alone there than to a post office in any city in the country. It’s easy to see why. The men at the polls are usually candidates and their backers. That’s why neither side can afford to show any disrespect to a voter. The man who might tell her to go deal with her problems on Wednesday would tip his hat to let her pass on Tuesday. While she holds a crumpled ballot in her gray kidskin glove, she can walk over the candidate’s fallen form without any concern, even in her overshoes if she wants.
Weeks and months before election in Wyoming, the party with the longest purse subsidizes the most livery stables and carriages. Then, on the eventful day, every conveyance available is decorated with a political placard and driven by a polite young man who is instructed to improve the time. Thus every woman in Wyoming has a chance to ride once a year, at least. Lately, however, many prefer to walk to the polls, and they go in pairs, trios and quartettes, voting their little sentiments and calmly returning to their cookies and crazy quilts as though politics didn't jar their mental poise a minute.
Weeks and months before the election in Wyoming, the party with the most money supports the most livery stables and carriages. Then, on the big day, every available ride is decorated with a political sign and driven by a friendly young man who's told to make the trip enjoyable. This way, every woman in Wyoming gets a chance to ride at least once a year. Recently, though, many prefer to walk to the polls, going in pairs, threes, and fours, casting their votes and calmly returning to their cookies and quilts as if politics didn’t shake their peace of mind at all.
It is possible, and even probable, that a man and his wife may disagree on politics as they might on religion. The husband may believe in Andrew Jackson and a relentless hell, while his wife may be a stalwart and rather liberal on the question of eternal punishment. If the husband manages his wife as he would a clothes-wringer, and turns her through life by a crank, he will, no doubt, work her politically; but if she has her own ideas about things, she will naturally act upon them, while the man who is henpecked in other matters till he can't see out of his eyes, will be henpecked, no doubt, in the matter of national and local politics.
It’s likely, and maybe even expected, that a husband and wife can disagree on politics just like they might on religion. The husband might strongly support Andrew Jackson and have a strict view on hell, while his wife could be more open-minded and liberal about eternal punishment. If the husband treats his wife like a piece of machinery, constantly cranking her around in life, he might be able to influence her politically; but if she has her own opinions, she’ll go with them. Meanwhile, a man who’s dominated by his wife in other areas will probably be dominated by her when it comes to national and local politics too.
These are a few facts about the actual workings of female suffrage, and I do not tackle the great question of the ultimate results upon the political machinery if woman suffrage were to become general. I do not pretend to say as to that. I know a great deal, but I do not know that. There are millions of women, no doubt who are better qualified to vote, and yet cannot, than millions of alleged men who do vote; but no one can tell now what the ultimate effect of a change might be.
These are some facts about how female suffrage actually works, and I’m not addressing the big question of what would happen to the political system if women were to gain the right to vote universally. I don’t claim to have the answers on that. I know a lot, but I don't know that. There are definitely millions of women who are more qualified to vote but can’t, compared to many men who do vote but may not be as qualified; yet, no one can predict the ultimate impact of such a change.
So far as Wyoming is concerned, the Territory is prosperous and happy. I see, also, that a murderer was hung by process of law there the other day. That looks like the onward march of reform, whether female suffrage had anything to do with it or not. And they're going to hang another in March if the weather is favorable and executive clemency remains dormant, as I think it will.
As for Wyoming, the Territory is thriving and content. I also noticed that a murderer was executed by legal means there recently. That seems like progress, regardless of whether women's suffrage played a role. They're planning to execute another one in March if the weather cooperates and the governor doesn't intervene, which I believe he won't.
All these things look hopeful. We can't tell what the Territory would have been without female suffrage, but when they begin to hang men by law instead of by moonlight, the future begins to brighten up. When you have to get up in the night to hang a man every little while and don't get any per diem for it, you feel as though you were a good way from home.
All these things seem promising. We can't know what the Territory would have been like without women having the right to vote, but when they start executing men legally instead of under the cover of darkness, the future starts to look better. When you have to wake up in the middle of the night to execute someone every now and then and don’t get any extra pay for it, it feels like you're pretty far from home.
The Sedentary Hen.
Though generally cheerful and content with her lot, the hen at times becomes moody, sullen and taciturn. We are often called upon to notice and profit by the genial and sunny disposition of the hen, and yet there are times in her life when she is morose, cynical, and the prey of consuming melancholy. At such times not only her own companions, but man himself shuns the hen.
Though usually cheerful and happy with her situation, the hen sometimes becomes irritable, gloomy, and quiet. We often have to recognize and appreciate the friendly and upbeat nature of the hen, but there are moments in her life when she is downhearted, skeptical, and overwhelmed by sadness. During these times, not only do her fellow hens avoid her, but humans do too.
At first she seems to be preoccupied only. She starts and turns pale when suddenly spoken to. Then she leaves her companions and seems to be the victim of hypochondria. Then her mind wanders. At last you come upon her suddenly some day, seated under the currant bushes. You sympathize with her and you seek to fondle her. She then picks a small memento out of the back of your hand. You then gently but firmly coax her out of there with a hoe, and you find that she has been seated for some time on an old croquet ball, trying to hatch out a whole set of croquet balls. This shows that her mind is affected. You pick up the croquet ball, and find it hot and feverish, so you throw it into the shade of the woodshed. Anon, you find your demented hen in the loft of the barn hovering over a door knob and trying by patience and industry to hatch out a hotel.
At first, she seems just distracted. She jumps and turns pale when someone suddenly speaks to her. Then she leaves her friends and appears to be dealing with some anxiety. Her thoughts start to drift. Eventually, one day, you come across her sitting under the currant bushes. You feel for her and try to comfort her. She then picks a small reminder off the back of your hand. You gently but insistently coax her out of there with a hoe, and you discover that she has been sitting on an old croquet ball for a while, trying to hatch a whole set of croquet balls. This indicates that her mind is not quite right. You pick up the croquet ball and find it warm and feverish, so you toss it into the shade of the woodshed. Soon, you find your confused hen in the barn loft, hovering over a doorknob and patiently trying to hatch a hotel.
When a hen imagines that she is inspired to incubate, she at once ceases to be an ornament to society and becomes a crank. She violates all the laws and customs of nature and society in trying to hatch a conservatory by setting through the long days and nights of summer on a small flower pot.
When a hen thinks she's inspired to hatch eggs, she instantly stops being a decorative part of society and turns into a weirdo. She breaks all the natural and social rules by trying to hatch a garden while sitting on a flower pot day and night during the summer.
Man may win the affections of the tiger, the lion, or the huge elephant, and make them subservient to his wishes, but the setting hen is not susceptible to affection. You might as well love the Manitoba blizzard or try to quell the cyclone by looking calmly in its eye. The setting hen is filled with hatred for every living thing. She loves to brood over her wrongs or anything else she can find to squat on.
A man can win the affection of a tiger, a lion, or a massive elephant and make them obey his commands, but a hen that's nesting isn't open to love. You might as well try to love a Manitoba blizzard or calm a cyclone by staring it down. The nesting hen is filled with disdain for everything alive. She prefers to dwell on her grievances or anything else she can sit on.
I once owned a hen that made a specialty of setting. She never ceased to be the proud anonymous author of a new, warm egg, but she yearned to be a parent. She therefore seated herself on a nest where other hens were in the habit of leaving their handiwork for inspection. She remained there during the summer hatching steadily on while the others laid, until she filled my barnyard with little orphaned henlets of different ages. She remained there night and day, patiently turning out poultry for me to be a father to. I brought up on the bottle about one hundred that summer that had been turned out by this morbidly maternal hen. All she seemed to ask in return was my kind regards and esteem. I fed her upon the nest and humored her in every way. Every day she became a parent, and every day added to my responsibility.
I once had a hen that was really good at laying eggs. She was always the proud, uncredited creator of a new, warm egg, but she wanted to be a mother. So, she settled on a nest where other hens usually dropped off their eggs for me to check. She stayed there all summer, consistently hatching while the others kept laying, until my barnyard was filled with little orphaned chicks of different ages. She remained there day and night, patiently producing chicks for me to take care of. I raised about a hundred of them that summer, all thanks to this overly maternal hen. All she really wanted in return was my affection and respect. I fed her on the nest and accommodated her in every possible way. Every day she became a mother, and every day my responsibilities grew.
{Illustration: SUCCESS WITH CHICKENS.}
{Illustration: SUCCESS WITH CHICKENS.}
One day I noticed that she seemed weak and there was a far away look in her eye. For the first time the horrible truth burst upon my mind. I buried my face in the haymow and I am not ashamed to say that I wept. Strong man as I am, I am not too proud to say that I soaked that haymow through with unavailing tears.
One day, I noticed that she looked weak and had a distant expression in her eyes. For the first time, the awful truth hit me. I buried my face in the hay and I’m not ashamed to say that I cried. Strong man that I am, I’m not too proud to admit that I soaked that hay with futile tears.
My hen was dying even then. Her breath came hot and quick like the swift rush of a hot ball that caves in the short-stop and speeds away to center-field.
My hen was dying even then. Her breath came fast and hot, like the quick rush of a hot ball that hits the shortstop and zips away to center field.
The next morning one hundred chickens of various sizes were motherless, and if anything had happened to me they would have been fatherless.
The next morning, one hundred chickens of different sizes were motherless, and if anything had happened to me, they would have been fatherless.
For many years I have made a close study of the setting hen, but I am still unsettled as to what is best to do with her. She is a freak of nature, a disagreeable anomaly, a fussy phenomenon. Logic, rhetoric and metaphor are all alike to the setting hen. You might as well go down into the bosom of Vesuvius and ask it to postpone the next eruption.
For many years, I've closely studied the sitting hen, but I’m still unsure what’s best to do with her. She’s a freak of nature, a difficult anomaly, a picky phenomenon. Logic, rhetoric, and metaphor mean nothing to the sitting hen. You might as well go straight into the heart of Vesuvius and ask it to delay the next eruption.
A Bright Future for Pugilism.
The recent prominence of Mr. John E. Dempsey, better known as Jack Dempsey, of New York, brings to mind a four days' trip taken in his company from Portland, Oregon, to St. Paul, over the Northern Pacific.
The recent rise of Mr. John E. Dempsey, also known as Jack Dempsey, from New York, reminds me of a four-day trip we took together from Portland, Oregon, to St. Paul, traveling on the Northern Pacific.
There were three pugilists in the party besides myself, viz. Dempsey, Dave Campbell and Tom Cleary. We made a grand, triumphant tour across the country together, and I may truthfully state that I never felt so free to say anything I wanted to—to other passengers—as I did at that time. I wish I could afford to take at least one pugilist with me all the time. In traveling about the country lecturing, a good pugilist would be of great assistance. I would like to set him on the man who always asks: “Where do you go to from here, Mr. Nye?” He does not ask because he wants to know, for the next moment he asks right over again. I do not know why he asks, but surely it is not for the purpose of finding out.
There were three boxers in the group besides me: Dempsey, Dave Campbell, and Tom Cleary. We took an amazing, victorious trip across the country together, and I can honestly say I never felt so free to say whatever I wanted to other passengers as I did then. I wish I could afford to have at least one boxer with me all the time. While traveling around the country giving lectures, having a good boxer would be really helpful. I would like to set him on the guy who always asks, “Where are you off to from here, Mr. Nye?” He doesn't ask because he wants to know; the next moment, he just repeats the question. I don’t know why he asks, but it’s definitely not to actually find out.
Well, throughout our long journey across the State of Oregon and the Territories of Idaho, Montana and Dakota, and the State of Minnesota, it was one continual ovation. Dempsey had a world-wide reputation, I found, co-extensive with the horizon, as I may say, and bounded only by the zodiac.
Well, throughout our long journey across the state of Oregon and the territories of Idaho, Montana, and Dakota, as well as the state of Minnesota, it was one continuous celebration. I discovered that Dempsey had a global reputation, extending as far as the eye could see, and limited only by the stars.
In my great forthcoming work, entitled “Half-Hours with Great Men, or Eminent People Which I Have Saw,” I shall give a fuller description of this journey. The book will be a great boon.
In my upcoming work, titled “Half-Hours with Great Men, or Notable People I've Met,” I will provide a more detailed account of this journey. The book will be a significant benefit.
Mr. Dempsey is not a man who would be picked out as a great man. You might pass by him two or three times without recognizing his eminence, and yet, at a scrapping matinee or swatting recital, he seems to hold his audiences at his own sweet will—also his antagonist.
Mr. Dempsey isn't someone you'd immediately recognize as a great man. You could walk past him a couple of times without noticing his significance, and yet, at a fight match or a performance, he appears to captivate his audience—and his opponent—completely at his leisure.
Mr. Dempsey does not crave notoriety. He seems rather to court seclusion. This is characteristic of the man. See how he walked around all over the State of New York last week—in the night, too—in order to evade the crowd.
Mr. Dempsey doesn't seek fame. In fact, he seems to prefer solitude. This is typical of him. Look at how he walked around all over New York State last week—even at night—to avoid the crowd.
His logic, however, is wonderful. Though quiet and unassuming in his manner, his arguments are powerful and generally make a large protuberance wherever they alight.
His reasoning, however, is impressive. Although he is calm and modest in how he carries himself, his points are strong and usually stand out wherever they land.
Nothing is more pleasing than the sight of a man who has risen by his own unaided effort, fought his way up, as it were, and yet who is not vain. Mr. Dempsey conversed with me frequently during our journey, and did not seem to feel above me.
Nothing is more satisfying than seeing a man who has worked his way up on his own, struggled through challenges, yet remains humble. Mr. Dempsey talked with me often during our trip and didn’t act like he was superior to me.
I opened the conversation by telling him that I had seen a number of his works. Nothing pleases a young author so much as a little friendly remark in relation to his work. I had seen a study of his one day in New York last spring. It was an italic nose with quotation marks on each side.
I started the conversation by mentioning that I had checked out some of his work. Nothing makes a young author happier than a little friendly feedback about their creations. I came across a study of his one day in New York last spring. It was an italicized nose with quotation marks on either side.
It was a very happy little bon mot on Mr. Dempsey's part, and attracted a good deal of notice at the time.
It was a really clever remark from Mr. Dempsey, and it got a lot of attention back then.
Mr. Dempsey is not a college graduate, as many suppose. He is a self-made man. This should be a great encouragement to our boys who are now unknown, and whose portraits have not as yet appeared in the sporting papers.
Mr. Dempsey isn’t a college graduate, as many people think. He is a self-made man. This should be a big inspiration to our boys who are still unknown and whose pictures haven’t appeared in the sports magazines yet.
But Mr. Dempsey's great force as a debater is less, perhaps, in the matter than in the manner. His delivery is good and his gestures cannot fail to convince the most skeptical. Striking in appearance, aggressive in his nature, and happy in his gestures, he is certain to attract the attention of the police, and he cannot fail to rivet the eye of his adversary. I saw one of his adversaries, not long ago, whose eye had been successfully riveted in that way.
But Mr. Dempsey's strength as a debater is probably less about what he says and more about how he says it. His delivery is strong, and his gestures are convincing, even to the most doubtful. With a striking appearance, an aggressive personality, and expressive gestures, he certainly grabs the attention of everyone around him and keeps his opponent focused on him. I recently saw one of his opponents who was totally captivated by that presence.
And yet, John E. Dempsey was once a poor boy. He had none of the advantages which wealth and position bring. But, confident of his latent ability as a middle-weight convincer, he toiled on, ever on, sitting up until long after other people had gone to bed, patiently knocking out those who might be brought to him for that purpose. He never hung back because the way looked long and lonely. And what is the result? To-day, in the full vigor of manhood, he is sought out and petted by everyone who takes an interest in the onward march of pugilism.
And yet, John E. Dempsey was once a poor kid. He didn’t have any of the advantages that come with wealth and status. But, confident in his hidden talent as a middle-weight fighter, he kept pushing forward, staying up late long after everyone else had gone to sleep, patiently taking out those who came his way for that purpose. He never held back just because the journey seemed long and lonely. And what’s the result? Today, in the prime of his manhood, he is sought after and admired by everyone who cares about the progress of boxing.
It is a wonderful record, though brief. It shows what patient industry will accomplish unaided. Had John E. Dempsey hesitated to enter the ring and said that he would rather go to school, where he would be safe, he might to-day be an educated man; but what does that amount to here in America, where everybody can have an education? He would have lost his talent as a slugger, and drifted steadily downward, perhaps, till he became a school-teacher or a narrow-chested editor, writing things day after day just to gratify the morbid curiosity of a sin-cursed world.
It’s a remarkable record, even though it's short. It shows what hard work can achieve on its own. If John E. Dempsey had hesitated to step into the ring and chosen to go to school instead, where he would have been safe, he might be an educated man today. But what does that really mean here in America, where anyone can get an education? He would have lost his talent as a fighter and probably drifted downwards until he ended up as a schoolteacher or a narrow-minded editor, writing every day just to satisfy the unhealthy curiosity of a troubled world.
In closing, I would like to say that I hope I have not expressed an opinion in the above that may hereafter be used against me. Do not understand me to be the foe of education. Education and refinement are good enough in their places, but how shall we attract attention by trying to become refined and educated in a land where, as I say, education and refinement seem almost to run rampant.
In conclusion, I want to say that I hope I haven't shared an opinion above that could be used against me later. Don't get me wrong; I'm not against education. Education and refinement are great in their own right, but how can we stand out by trying to be refined and educated in a place where, as I mentioned, education and refinement seem to be everywhere?
Heretofore, in America, pugilism has been made subservient to the common schools. Pugilism and polygamy have both been crowded to the wall. Now pugilism is about to assert itself. The tin ear and the gory nose will soon come to the front, and the day is not far distant when progressive pugilism and the prize-ring will take the place of the poorly ventilated common school and the enervating prayer meeting.
Until now, in America, boxing has been subordinated to public schools. Boxing and polygamy have both been pushed aside. Now, boxing is about to stand up for itself. The tin ear and the bloody nose will soon come into the spotlight, and the day is coming when modern boxing and the prize ring will replace the stuffy public school and the draining prayer meeting.
The Snake Indian.
There are about 5,000 Snake or Shoshone Indians now extant, the greater part being in Utah and Nevada, though there is a reservation in Idaho and another in Wyoming.
There are about 5,000 Snake or Shoshone Indians currently living, with most of them in Utah and Nevada, although there's a reservation in Idaho and another in Wyoming.
The Shoshone Indian is reluctant to accept of civilization on the European plan. He prefers the ruder customs which have been handed down from father to son along with other hairlooms. I use the word hairlooms in its broadest sense.
The Shoshone Indian is hesitant to embrace civilization as the Europeans have defined it. He prefers the simpler traditions that have been passed down from father to son along with other heirlooms. I use the word heirlooms in its broadest sense.
There are the Shoshones proper and the Utes or Utahs, to which have been added by some authorities the Comanches, and Moquis of New Mexico and Arizona, the Netelas and other tribes of California. The Shoshone, wherever found, is clothed in buckskin and blanket in winter, but dressed more lightly in summer, wearing nothing but an air of intense gloom in August. To this he adds on holidays a necklace made from the store teeth of the hardy pioneer.
There are the Shoshones and the Utes, also known as Utahs. Some experts also include the Comanches and Moquis from New Mexico and Arizona, as well as the Netelas and other tribes from California. The Shoshone, no matter where they are, typically wear buckskin and blankets in the winter but dress more lightly in the summer, often appearing quite somber in August. On special occasions, they add a necklace made from the worn teeth of tough pioneers.
{Illustration: HOLIDAY COSTUME.}
{Illustration: HOLIDAY OUTFIT.}
The Snake or Shoshone Indian is passionately fond of the game known as poker among us, and which, I learn, is played with cards. It is a game of chance, though skill and a thorough knowledge of firearms are of great use. The Indians enter into this game with great zeal, and lend to it the wonderful energy which they have preserved from year to year by abstaining from the debilitating effects of manual labor. All day long the red warrior sits in his skin boudoir, nursing the sickly and reluctant “flush,” patient, silent and hopeful. Through the cold of winter in the desolate mountains, he continues to
The Snake or Shoshone Indian loves the game we call poker, which is played with cards. It's a game of luck, but skill and a good knowledge of firearms really come in handy. The Indians throw themselves into this game with a lot of enthusiasm, bringing the incredible energy they've maintained over the years by avoiding the exhausting effects of hard work. All day long, the Native warrior sits in his cozy hideout, hoping for a good hand, being patient, silent, and optimistic. Throughout the cold winter in the barren mountains, he keeps playing.
“Hope on, hope ever,”
"Keep hoping, always hope,"
that he will “draw to fill.” Far away up the canyon he hears the sturdy blows of his wife's tomahawk as she slaughters the grease wood and the sage brush for the fire in his gilded hell where he sits and woos the lazy Goddess of Fortune.
that he will “draw to fill.” Far away up the canyon, he hears the solid strikes of his wife's tomahawk as she chops down the greasewood and the sagebrush for the fire in his gilded hell where he sits and courts the lazy Goddess of Fortune.
With the Shoshone, poker is not alone a relaxation, the game wherewith to wear out a long and listless evening, but it is a passion, a duty and a devotion. He has a face designed especially for poker. It never shows a sign of good or evil fortune. You might as well try to win a smile from a railroad right of way. The full hand, the fours, threes, pairs and bob-tail flushes are all the same to him, if you judge by his face.
With the Shoshone, poker isn't just a way to pass the time on a long, boring evening; it's a passion, a responsibility, and a commitment. He has a face that's perfect for poker. It never reveals whether he's having good or bad luck. You might as well try to get a smile from a train track. A full hand, four of a kind, three of a kind, pairs, and even a weak flush all look the same to him, judging by his expression.
When he gets hungry he cinches himself a little tighter and continues to “rastle” with fate. You look at his smoky, old copper cent of a face, and you see no change. You watch him as he coins the last buckshot of his tribe and later on when he goes forth a pauper, and the corners of his famine-breeding mouth have never moved, His little black, smoke-inflamed eyes have never lighted with triumph or joy. He is the great aboriginal stoic and sylvan dude. He does not smile. He does not weep. It certainly must be intensely pleasant to be a wild, free, lawless, irresponsible, natural born fool.
When he gets hungry, he tightens his belt a bit more and keeps battling with fate. You look at his smoky, old copper-colored face, and you see no change. You watch him as he spends the last bit of money from his tribe, and later when he steps out as a beggar, the corners of his emaciated mouth never shift. His small, dark, smoke-filled eyes have never sparked with triumph or joy. He is the ultimate primitive stoic and woodland guy. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t cry. It must be really nice to be a wild, free, lawless, careless, natural-born fool.
{Illustration: GOING AWAY BROKE.}
{Illustration: LEAVING EMPTY-HANDED.}
The Shoshones proper include the Bannocks, which are again subdivided into the Koolsitakara or Buffalo Eaters, on Wind River, the Tookarika or Mountain Sheep Eaters, on Salmon or Suabe Eivers, the Shoshocas or White Knives, sometimes called Diggers, of the Humbolt Eiver and the Great Salt Lake basin. Probably the Hokandikahs, Yahooskins and the Wahlpapes are subdivisions of the Digger tribe. I am 'not sure of this, but I shall not suspend my business till I can find out about it. If I cannot get at a great truth right off I wait patiently and go right on drawing my salary.
The proper Shoshones include the Bannocks, which are further divided into the Koolsitakara or Buffalo Eaters, located on Wind River, the Tookarika or Mountain Sheep Eaters, found on Salmon or Suabe Rivers, and the Shoshocas or White Knives, sometimes referred to as Diggers, from the Humboldt River and the Great Salt Lake basin. It's likely that the Hokandikahs, Yahooskins, and the Wahlpapes are subdivisions of the Digger tribe. I'm not certain about this, but I won't halt my work until I find out. If I can't uncover a big truth right away, I patiently wait and continue to collect my salary.
The Shoshones live on the government and other small game. They will eat anything when hungry, from a buffalo down to a woodtick. The Shoshone does not despise small things. He loves insects in any form. He loves to make pets of them and to study their habits in his home life.
The Shoshones rely on the government and hunt small game. They’ll eat anything when they're hungry, from a buffalo down to a woodtick. The Shoshone doesn’t look down on small things. He enjoys insects in any form. He likes to keep them as pets and study their habits in his daily life.
{Illustration: THE HOME CIRCLE.}
{Illustration: THE FAMILY CIRCLE.}
Formerly, when a great Shoshone warrior died, they killed his favorite wife over his grave, so that she could go to the happy hunting grounds with him, but it is not so customary now. I tried to impress on an old Shoshone brave once that they ought not to do that. I tried to show him that it would encourage celibacy and destroy domestic ties in his tribe. Since then there has been quite a stride toward reform among them. Instead of killing the widow on the death of the husband, the husband takes such good care of his health and avoids all kinds of intellectual strain or physical fatigue, that late years there are no widows, but widowers just seem to swarm in the Shoshone tribe. The woods are full of them.
In the past, when a great Shoshone warrior died, they would kill his favorite wife over his grave so she could join him in the happy hunting grounds, but that practice isn't common anymore. I once tried to convince an elderly Shoshone warrior that they shouldn’t do that. I attempted to show him that it would promote celibacy and weaken family bonds in his tribe. Since then, there has been significant progress toward reform among them. Instead of killing the widow when the husband dies, the husband now takes such good care of his health and avoids any kind of mental strain or physical exhaustion that, in recent years, there are no widows left; instead, it seems like there are just tons of widowers in the Shoshone tribe. The woods are full of them.
Now, if they would only kill the widower over the grave of the wife, the Indian's future would assume a more definite shape.
Now, if they would just eliminate the widower at the grave of his wife, the Indian's future would become clearer.
Roller Skating.
I have once more tried to ride a pair of roller skates. That is the reason I got down on the rink and down on roller skates. That is the reason several people got down on me. That is also the reason why I now state in a public manner, to a lost and undone race, that unless the roller-rink is at once abolished, the whole civilized race will at once be plunged into arnica.
I have once again tried to skate on a pair of roller skates. That’s why I got on the rink and put on roller skates. That’s also why several people ended up falling on me. That’s why I now publicly declare, to a confused and hopeless crowd, that unless the roller rink is immediately shut down, all of civilization will soon find itself in serious trouble.
I had tried it once before, but had not carried my experiments to a successful termination. I made a trip around the rink last August, but was ruled out by the judges for incompetency, and advised to skate among the people who were hostile to the government of the United States, while the proprietors repaired the rink.
I had tried it once before, but I hadn't successfully completed my experiments. I made a pass around the rink last August, but the judges disqualified me for being incompetent and suggested I skate among those who were against the United States government while the owners fixed the rink.
On the 9th of June I nestled in the bosom of a cyclone to excess, and it has required the bulk of the succeeding months for nature to glue the bone of my leg together in proper shape. That is the reason I have not given the attention to roller-skating that I should.
On June 9th, I found myself caught up in a cyclone, and it took most of the following months for my leg to heal properly. That's why I haven't focused on roller-skating as much as I should have.
A few weeks ago I read what Mr. Talmage said about the great national vice. It was his opinion that, if we skated in a proper spirit, we could leave the rink each evening with our immortal souls in good shape.
A few weeks ago I read what Mr. Talmage said about the major national issue. He believed that if we approached skating with the right attitude, we could leave the rink each night with our souls in good shape.
Somehow it got out that on Thursday evening I would undertake the feat of skating three rounds in three hours with no protection to my scruples, for one-half the gate money, Talmage rules. So there was quite a large audience present with opera glasses. Some had umbrellas, especially on the front rows. These were worn spread, in order to ward off fragments of the rink which might become disengaged and set in motion by atmospheric disturbances.
Somehow, word got out that on Thursday evening I would attempt to skate three laps in three hours without any protection for my conscience, for half the ticket sales, according to Talmage's rules. So, a pretty big crowd came with binoculars. Some had umbrellas, especially in the front rows. They held them open to block any pieces of the rink that might come loose and be set in motion by changes in the weather.
In obedience to a wild, Wagnerian snort from the orchestra, I came into the arena with my skates in hand. I feel perfectly at home before an audience when I have my skates in hand. It is a morbid desire to wear the skates on my feet that has always been my bete noire. Will the office boy please give me a brass check for that word so that I can get it when I go away?
In response to a dramatic, Wagnerian blast from the orchestra, I stepped into the arena with my skates in hand. I feel completely at home in front of an audience when I’m holding my skates. It's this unhealthy urge to actually wear the skates that has always been my bete noire. Can the office boy please give me a brass check for that word so I can collect it when I leave?
My first thought, after getting myself secured to the skates, was this: “Am I in the proper frame of mind? Am I doing this in the right spirit? Am I about to skate in such a way as to lift the fog of unbelief which now envelopes a sinful world, or shall I deepen the opaque night in which my race is wrapped?”
My first thought after getting my skates on was this: “Am I in the right mindset? Am I doing this for the right reasons? Am I about to skate in a way that will lift the fog of disbelief that surrounds a sinful world, or will I just make the darkness that my people are in even worse?”
Just then that end of the rink erupted in a manner so forthwith and so tout ensemble that I had to push it back in place with my person. I never saw anything done with less delay or less languor.
Just then, that end of the rink burst into action so quickly and so completely that I had to push it back into place with my body. I’ve never seen anything done with less hesitation or sluggishness.
The audience went wild with enthusiasm, and I responded to the encore by writing my name in the air with my skates.
The crowd went crazy with excitement, and I responded to the encore by writing my name in the air with my skates.
This closed the first seance, and my trainer took me in the dressing-room to attend a consultation of physicians. After the rink carpenter had jacked up the floor a little I went out again. I had no fears about my ability to perform the mechanical part assigned me, but I was still worried over the question of whether it would or would not be of lasting benefit to mankind.
This wrapped up the first session, and my coach took me into the dressing room to meet with a group of doctors. After the rink carpenter lifted the floor slightly, I went back out. I wasn't worried about my ability to handle the technical tasks assigned to me, but I was still concerned about whether it would really help people in the long run.
Those who have closely scrutinized my frame in repose have admitted that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Students of the human frame say that they never saw such a wealth of looseness and limberness lavished upon one person. They claim that nature bestowed upon me the hinges and joints intended for a whole family, and therefore when I skate the air seems to be perfectly lurid with limbs. I presume that this is true; though I have so little leisure while skating in which to observe the method itself, the plot or animus of the thing, as it were, that my opinion would be of little value to the scientist.
Those who have closely examined my body at rest have acknowledged that I am incredibly unique. Experts in human anatomy say they’ve never seen someone with such an abundance of flexibility and suppleness. They claim that nature has given me the joints and ligaments meant for an entire family, so when I skate, it looks like the air is filled with limbs. I guess that’s true; however, I have so little time to observe the technique while skating, to really focus on the essence of it, that my opinion wouldn’t be very useful to the scientists.
I am led to believe that the roller skate is certainly a great civilizer and a wonderful leveler of mankind. If we so skate that when the summons comes to seek our ward in the general hospital, where each shall heal his busted cuticle within the walls where rinkists squirm, we go not like the moral wreck, morally paralyzed, but like a hired man taking his medicine, and so forth—we may skate with perfect impunity, or anyone else to whom we may be properly introduced by our cook.
I believe that roller skating is definitely a great way to bring people together and level the playing field among us. If we skate in a way that when the call comes to visit our loved ones in the hospital, where everyone can heal their injuries amid the chaos of skaters, we do it not as a moral failure, but like someone who is facing their challenges head-on—then we can skate with total freedom, or with anyone else our cook introduces us to.
No More Frontier.
The system of building railroads into the wilderness, and then allowing the wilderness to develop afterward, has knocked the essential joy out of the life of the pioneer. At one time the hardy hewer of wood and drawer of water gave his lifetime willingly that his son might ride in the “varnished cars.” Now the Pullman palace car takes the New Yorker to the threshold of the sea, or to the boundary line between the United States and the British possessions.
The practice of constructing railroads into the wilderness and then letting the area develop afterward has robbed pioneers of the true joy of their experience. Once, the tough lumberjack and water carrier sacrificed everything so his son could travel in the “shiny trains.” Now, the luxury Pullman car takes New Yorkers right to the ocean's edge or to the border between the United States and Canada.
It has driven out the long handled frying pan and the flapjack of twenty years ago, and introduced the condensed milk and canned fruit of commerce. Along the highways, where once the hopeful hundreds marched with long handled shovel and pick and pan, cooking by the way thin salt pork and flapjacks and slumgullion, now the road is lined with empty beer bottles and peach cans that have outlived their usefulness. No landscape can be picturesque with an empty peach can in the foreground any more than a lion would look grand in a red monogram horse blanket and false teeth.
It has replaced the long-handled frying pan and flapjacks from twenty years ago, bringing in the era of condensed milk and canned fruit. Along the highways, where hopeful people once walked with their long-handled shovels, picks, and pans, cooking thin slices of salt pork, flapjacks, and stew, now the roadsides are cluttered with empty beer bottles and peach cans that have lost their purpose. No scenery can look beautiful with an empty peach can in the foreground, just like a lion wouldn’t look impressive in a red monogrammed horse blanket and fake teeth.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
The modern camp is not the camp of the wilderness. It wears the half-civilized and shabby genteel garments of a sawed-off town. You know that if you ride a day you will be where you can get the daily papers and read them under the electric light. That robs the old canyons of their solemn isolation and peoples each gulch with the odor of codfish balls and civilization. Civilization is not to blame for all this, and yet it seems sad.
The modern camp isn't like the wilderness camp. It sports the half-civilized and shabby-chic look of a small town. You know that if you travel for a day, you'll end up where you can grab the daily newspapers and read them under bright lights. That takes away the solemn isolation of the old canyons and fills every ravine with the smell of fried cod and modern life. Civilization isn't entirely at fault for this, but it still feels a bit sad.
Civilization could not have done all this alone. It had to call to its aid the infernal fruit can that now desolates the most obscure trail in the heart of the mountains. You walk over chaos where the “hydraulic” has plowed up the valley like a convulsion, or you tread the yielding path across the deserted dump, and on all sides the rusty, neglected and humiliated empty tin can stares at you with its monotonous, dude-like stare.
Civilization couldn’t have accomplished all this by itself. It had to rely on the destructive tin can that now ruins even the most hidden paths in the mountains. You walk over chaos where the “hydraulic” has torn up the valley like a disaster, or you tread the soft ground of the abandoned dump, and everywhere you look, the rusty, neglected, and humiliated empty tin can stares at you with its dull, indifferent gaze.
An old timer said to me once: “I've about decided, Bill, that the West is a matter of history. When we cooked our grub over a sage brush fire we could get fat and fight Indians, but now we fill our digesters with the cold pizen and pewter of the canned peach; we go to a big tavern and stick a towel under our chins and eat pie with a fork and heat up our carkisses with antichrist coal, and what do we amount to? Nuthin! I used to chase Injuns all day and eat raw salt pork at night, bekuz I dassent build a fire, and still I felt better than I do now with a wad of tin-can solder in my stummick and a homesick feeling in my weather-beaten breast.
An old-timer once told me, “I’ve about decided, Bill, that the West is just a thing of the past. Back when we cooked our food over a sagebrush fire, we could get fat and fight Indians, but now we fill our stomachs with the cold poison and metal of canned peaches; we go to a big tavern, tuck a napkin under our chins, eat pie with a fork, and heat ourselves with coal that feels like the devil. And what have we become? Nothing! I used to chase Indians all day and eat raw salt pork at night because I couldn’t build a fire, and still I felt better than I do now with a bunch of tin can solder in my stomach and a homesick feeling in my weathered heart.”
“No, we don't have the fun we used to. We have more swarrees and sciatica and one bloomin' thing and another of that kind, but we don't get one snort of pure air and appetite in a year. They're bringin' in their blamed telephones now and malaria and aigue and old sledge, and fun might as well skip out. There ain't no frontier any more. All we've got left is the old-fashioned trantler joos and rhumatiz of '49.”
“No, we don’t have the fun we used to. We have more parties and back pain and a bunch of other stuff like that, but we don’t get a single breath of fresh air or a good appetite in a year. They’re bringing in their stupid telephones now and diseases like malaria and the flu, and fun might as well just leave. There’s no frontier anymore. All we've got left is the old-fashioned pain and rheumatism from '49.”
Behind the red squaw's cayuse plug, The hand-car roars and raves, And pie-plant pies are now produced Above the Indian graves. I hear the oaths of pioneers, The caucus yet to be, The first low hum where soon will The fuzzy bumble bee.
Behind the red woman's horse, The handcar rumbles and yells, And rhubarb pies are now made Over the Indian graves. I hear the swearing of pioneers, The meeting yet to happen, The first soft buzz where soon will Be the fuzzy bumblebee.
A Letter of Regrets.
My dear Princess Beatrice—I received your kind invitation to come up to Whippingham on the 23d inst. and see you married, but I have not been able to get there. The weather has been so hot this month, that, to tell you the truth, Beatrice, I haven't been going anywhere to speak of. At first I thought I would go anyhow, and even went so far as to pick out a nice corner bracket to take along for a wedding present. Not so much for its intrinsic value, of course, but so you would have something with my name to it on a card that you could show to those English dudes, and let them know that you had influential friends, even in America. But when I thought what a long, hard trip it would be, and how I would probably mash that bracket on the cars before I got half way there, I gave it up.
My dear Princess Beatrice—I got your lovely invitation to come to Whippingham on the 23rd and see you get married, but I haven’t been able to make it. This month has been so hot that, to be honest, Beatrice, I haven't really been anywhere. At first, I thought I would go anyway and even picked out a nice corner bracket to bring as a wedding gift. Not so much because it has any real value, but so you’d have something with my name on a card to show those English guys and let them know you have influential friends, even in America. But then I realized what a long, tough trip it would be, and how I’d probably break that bracket on the way, so I decided against it.
I am not personally acquainted with your inamorato, if that's all right, never having met him in our set; but I understand you have done well, and that your husband is a rising young man of good family, and that he will never allow you to put your hands into dishwater. I hope this is true and that he does not drink. Rum has certainly paralyzed more dukes and such things than war has. I attribute this to the fact that princes and dukes are generally more reckless about exposing themselves to the demon rum than to the rude alarums and one thing another of war.
I'm not personally familiar with your partner, if that's okay, since I've never met him in our circle; but I've heard you’re doing well, and that your husband is a promising young man from a good family, and he won't let you lift a finger to do chores. I hope that's true and that he doesn't drink. Alcohol has definitely brought down more dukes and people like that than war has. I think this is because princes and dukes tend to take more risks with alcohol than they do with the harsh realities of war.
If you keep a girl I hope you will get a good one who knows her business. A green girl in the house of a newly-married princess is a great source of annoyance. A friend of mine who got married last winter got a girl whose mind had been eaten by cut-worms and she had not discovered it. All the faculty that had been spared her was that power of the mind which enabled her to charge $3 a week. She lubricated the buckwheat pancake griddle for a week with soap grease and a dash of castor oil, and when she was discharged she wept bitterly because capital with the iron heel ground the poor servant girl into the dust.
If you hire a girl, I hope she’s a good one who knows what she’s doing. A clueless girl in the house of a newly-married princess can be really frustrating. A friend of mine who got married last winter ended up with a girl who was completely out to lunch and didn’t even realize it. The only skill she had left was to charge $3 a week. For an entire week, she greased the buckwheat pancake griddle with soap grease and a little castor oil, and when she was let go, she cried hard because the harsh realities of life had crushed her.
Probably you will take a little tour after the wedding is over. They are doing that way a good deal in Boston this season. I thought you would like a pointer in the very lum-tumest thing to do, and so I write this. So long as you have the means to do this thing right, I think you ought to do so. You may never be married again, princess, and now is the time to paint the British Isles red.
You’ll probably want to take a little trip after the wedding is over. A lot of people are doing that in Boston this season. I figured you’d appreciate a suggestion for something really fun to do, so I’m writing this. As long as you can afford to do this right, I think you should go for it. You might not get married again, princess, so now is the time to enjoy the British Isles to the fullest.
You can also get more concessions from your husband now, while he is a little rattled, and temporarily knocked silly by the pomp and pageant of marrying into your family, and if you work it right you can maintain this supremacy for years. Treat him with a gentle firmness, and do not weep on his bosom if you detect the aroma of beer and bologna sausage on his young breath. Bologna and royalty do not seem to harmonize first-rate, but remember you can harass your husband if you choose, so that he will fall to even lower depths than bologna and Milwaukee beer. Do not aggravate him when he comes home tired, but help him do the chores and greet him with a smile.
You can also get more favors from your husband now, while he's a bit shaken up and overwhelmed by the big deal of marrying into your family. If you play your cards right, you can keep this advantage for years. Be gently firm with him, and don't cry on his shoulder if you catch a whiff of beer and bologna on his breath. Bologna and royalty don’t really mix well, but remember, you can tease your husband if you want, so he might end up feeling worse than just beer and bologna. Don't irritate him when he comes home tired; instead, help him with the chores and greet him with a smile.
I'd just as soon tell you, Beatrice, that this smile racket is not original with me. I read it in a paper. This paper went on to say that a young wife should always greet her husband with a smile on his return. I showed the article to my wife and suggested that it was a good scheme, and hoped she would try it on me sometime. She said if I would like to change off awhile, and take my smile when I got home instead of taking it down town, we would make the experiment. The trouble with the average woman of the age in which we live, Beatrice, is that she is above her business. She tries to be superior to her husband, and in many instances she succeeds. That is the bane of wedded life. Do not strive to be superior to your husband, Beatrice. If you do, it is good-bye, John.
I'd just as soon tell you, Beatrice, that this smile thing isn't my idea. I read it in an article. The article said that a young wife should always greet her husband with a smile when he comes home. I showed it to my wife and suggested it was a good idea, hoping she'd give it a shot with me sometime. She said if I wanted to switch things up a bit and save my smile for when I got home instead of taking it out with me, we could try it out. The problem with the average woman today, Beatrice, is that she thinks she's above her role. She tries to be better than her husband, and often she pulls it off. That’s the downfall of married life. Don’t try to be better than your husband, Beatrice. If you do, it'll be goodbye, John.
Treat him well at all times, whether he treats you well or not; then when your mother gets tired of reigning and wants to come down and spend the hot weather with you, she will be kindly greeted by her son-in-law.
Treat him well at all times, whether he treats you well or not; then when your mom gets tired of being in charge and wants to come down and spend the summer with you, she will be warmly welcomed by her son-in-law.
Do not allow the fact that you belong to the royal family to interfere with your fun, Beatrice. If you want to wear a Mother Hubbard dress on the throne during hot weather, or mash a mosquito with your mother's sceptre, do so. Conventionality is a humbug and a nuisance, and I'd just as soon tell you right here that if I could have gone to your wedding and worn a linen coat and a perspiration, I would have gone; but to stand around there all day in a tight black suit of clothes, in a mixed crowd of dukes, and counts, and princes of high degree, most of whom are total strangers to me, is more than I can stand.
Don't let being part of the royal family ruin your fun, Beatrice. If you want to wear a loose dress on the throne when it's hot or swat a mosquito with your mom's scepter, go for it. Following conventions is a joke and a hassle, and I’ll say right now that if I could have attended your wedding in a linen coat and shorts, I would have gone; but standing around all day in a tight black suit, surrounded by dukes, counts, and high-ranking princes, most of whom I don’t even know, is more than I can handle.
I wish you would give my love to your mother and tell her just how it was. Make it as smooth as you can and break it to her gently. Tell her that the royal family is spreading out so that I can't leave my work every time one of its members gets married. Remember me to the Waleses, the Darmstadts, Princess Irene and Victoria, Mr. and Mrs. Prince Alexander of Bulgaria, also Prince Francis of Battenberg and the Countess Erbach Schomberg. They will all be there probably, and so will Lord Latham and Lord Edgcumbe. I know just how Edgcumbe will snort around there when he finds that I can't be there. Give my kind regards to any other lords, dukes, duchesses, dowagers or marchionesses who may inquire for me, and tell them all that I will be in London next year if the Prince of Wales will drop me a line stating that the moral tone of the city is such that it would be safe for me to come.
I wish you would send my love to your mom and explain everything to her. Make it as gentle as possible and ease her into it. Let her know that the royal family is expanding, so I can't drop everything every time one of them gets married. Remember me to the Waleses, the Darmstadts, Princess Irene and Victoria, Mr. and Mrs. Prince Alexander of Bulgaria, as well as Prince Francis of Battenberg and the Countess Erbach Schomberg. They will probably all be there, along with Lord Latham and Lord Edgcumbe. I can just imagine how Edgcumbe will react when he finds out I can't make it. Please send my best wishes to any other lords, dukes, duchesses, dowagers, or marchionesses who might ask about me, and tell them all that I’ll be in London next year if the Prince of Wales could drop me a note saying that the city's moral climate is good enough for me to visit.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
Venice.
We arrived in Venice last evening, latitude 45 deg. 25 min, N., longitude 12 deg. 19 min. E.
We got to Venice last night, at latitude 45° 25' N, longitude 12° 19' E.
Venice is the home of the Venetian, and also where the gondola has its nest and rears its young. It is also the headquarters for the paint known as Venetian red. They use it in painting the town on festive occasions. This is the town where the Merchant of Venice used to do business, and the home of Shylock, a broker, who sheared the Venetian lamb at the corner of the Rialto and the Grand Canal. He is now no more. I couldn't even find an old neighbor near the Rialto who remembered Shylock. From what I can learn of him, however, I am led to believe that he was pretty close in his deals, and liked to catch a man in a tight place and then make him squirm. Shylock, during the great panic in Venice, many years ago, it is said, had a chattel mortgage on more lives than you could shake a stick at. He would loan a small amount to a merchant at three per cent, a month, and secure it on a pound of the merchant's liver, or by a cut-throat mortgage on his respiratory apparatus. Then, when the paper matured, he would go up to the house with a pair of scales and a pie knife and demand a foreclosure.
Venice is the home of the Venetian, and it's also where the gondola has its nest and raises its young. It's the headquarters for the paint known as Venetian red, which they use to decorate the town during festivals. This is the city where the Merchant of Venice used to operate, and where Shylock, a broker, would take advantage of Venetian merchants at the corner of the Rialto and the Grand Canal. He’s gone now, and I couldn't even find an old neighbor near the Rialto who remembered him. From what I can gather, though, it seems he was quite shrewd in his dealings and enjoyed putting people in tough situations to make them squirm. Shylock, during the major panic in Venice many years ago, reportedly held a chattel mortgage on more lives than you could imagine. He would lend a small amount to a merchant at three percent a month and secure it with a pound of the merchant's liver or by a ruthless mortgage on his ability to breathe. Then, when the loan came due, he would show up at their house with a pair of scales and a knife and demand payment.
Venice is one of the best watered towns in Europe. You can hardly walk a block without getting your feet wet, unless you ride in a gondola.
Venice is one of the best-watered cities in Europe. You can barely walk a block without getting your feet wet, unless you take a gondola.
The gondola is a long, slim hack without wheels and is worked around through the damp streets by a brunette man whose breath should be a sad framing to us all. He is called the gondolier. Sometimes he sings in a low tone of voice and in a foreign tongue. I do not know where I have met so many foreigners as I have here in Europe, unless it was in New York, at the polls. Wherever I go, I hear a foreign tongue. I do not know whether these people talk in the Italian language just to show off or not. Perhaps they prefer it. London is the only place I have visited where the Boston dialect is used. London was originally settled by adventurers from Boston. The blood of some of the royal families of Massachusetts may be found in the veins of London people.
The gondola is a long, narrow boat without wheels, maneuvered through the damp streets by a brunette man whose breath should be a sad reminder to us all. He's called the gondolier. Sometimes he sings softly in a foreign language. I can’t recall meeting so many foreigners as I have here in Europe, except maybe in New York, at the polls. Wherever I go, I hear a foreign language. I can’t tell if these people speak Italian just to show off or if they genuinely prefer it. London is the only place I’ve visited where the Boston accent is spoken. London was originally settled by adventurers from Boston. The blood of some royal families from Massachusetts may run in the veins of Londoners.
Wealthy young ladies in Venice do not run away with the coachman. There are no coaches, no coachmen and no horses in Venice. There are only four horses in Venice and they are made of copper and exhibited at St Mark's as curiosities.
Wealthy young women in Venice don't elope with the driver. There are no carriages, no drivers, and no horses in Venice. There are only four horses in Venice, and they are made of copper and displayed at St. Mark's as curiosities.
The Accademia delle Belle Arti of Venice is a large picture store where I went yesterday to buy a few pictures for Christmas presents. A painting by Titian, the Italian Prang, pleased me very much, but I couldn't beat down the price to where it would be any object for me to buy it. Besides, it would be a nuisance to carry such a picture around with me all over the Alps, up the Rhine and through St. Lawrence county. I finally decided to leave it and secure something less awkward to carry and pay for.
The Accademia delle Belle Arti in Venice is a huge art store where I went yesterday to pick up some paintings for Christmas gifts. I really liked a painting by Titian, the Italian master, but I couldn't get the price down to a point where it made sense for me to buy it. Plus, it would be a hassle to cart such a large painting around with me through the Alps, up the Rhine, and into St. Lawrence County. I ultimately decided to leave it and find something easier to carry and more affordable.
The Italians are quite proud of their smoky old paintings. I have often thought that if Venice would run less to art and more to soap, she would be more apt to win my respect. Art is all right to a certain extent, but it can be run in the ground. It breaks my heart to know how lavish nature has been with water here, and yet how the Venetians scorn to investigate its benefits. When a gondolier gets a drop of water on him, he swoons. Then he lies in a kind of coma till another gondolier comes along to breathe in his face and revive him.
The Italians take great pride in their faded old paintings. I've often thought that if Venice focused less on art and more on cleanliness, it would earn my respect more. Art is fine up to a point, but it can be overdone. It pains me to see how generous nature has been with water here, yet the Venetians refuse to explore its advantages. When a gondolier gets a splash of water on him, he faints. Then he stays in a kind of daze until another gondolier comes by to breathe on him and bring him back to consciousness.
She Kind of Coaxed Him.
I never practiced law very much, but during the brief period that my sheet-iron sign was kissed by the Washoe zephyr, I had several odd experiences. I'm sure that lawyers who practice for forty years, especially on the frontier or in a new country, could write a large book that would make mighty interesting reading.
I never really practiced law much, but during the short time my metal sign was touched by the Washoe breeze, I had a few interesting experiences. I’m sure that lawyers who practice for forty years, especially on the frontier or in a new area, could write a big book that would be really interesting to read.
One day I was figuring up how much a man could save in ten years, paying forty dollars a month rent, and taking in two dollars and fifty cents per month, when a large man with a sad eye and an early purple tumor on the side of his head, came in and asked me if my name was Nye. I told him it was and asked him to take a chair and spit on the stove a few times, and make himself entirely at home.
One day, I was calculating how much a guy could save in ten years, paying forty dollars a month in rent, and bringing in two dollars and fifty cents a month, when a big guy with a sad look in his eye and a purple growth on the side of his head walked in and asked if my name was Nye. I told him it was, and I invited him to take a seat, spit on the stove a few times, and make himself completely at home.
He did so.
He did that.
After answering in a loud, tremulous tone of voice that we were having rather a backward spring, he produced a red cotton handkerchief and took out of it a deed which he submitted to my ripe and logical legal mind.
After answering in a loud, shaky voice that we were having a rather late spring, he took out a red cotton handkerchief and pulled out a deed, which he presented to my experienced and rational legal mind.
I asked him if that was his name that appeared in the body of the deed as grantor. He said it was. I then asked him why his wife had not signed it, as it seemed to be the homestead, and her name appeared in the instrument with that of her husband, but her signature wasn't at the foot, though his name was duly signed, witnessed and acknowledged.
I asked him if that was his name listed as the grantor in the deed. He confirmed it was. I then asked him why his wife hadn't signed it since it seemed to be the homestead, and her name was included alongside her husband's in the document, but her signature wasn't at the bottom, even though his name was properly signed, witnessed, and acknowledged.
“Well,” said he, “there's where the gazelle comes in.” He then took a bite off the corner of a plug of tobacco about as big as a railroad land grant, and laid two twenty dollar gold pieces on the desk near my arm. I took them and tapped them together like the cashier of the Bank of England, and, disguising my annoyance over the little episode, told him to go on.
"Well," he said, "that's where the gazelle comes in." He then took a bite off the corner of a chunk of tobacco about the size of a railroad land grant, and placed two twenty-dollar gold coins on the desk next to my arm. I picked them up and tapped them together like the cashier of the Bank of England, and, hiding my irritation over the little incident, told him to continue.
“Well,” said the large man, fondling the wen which nestled lovingly in his faded Titian hair, “my wife has conscientious scruples against signing that deed. We have been married about a year now, but not actively for the past eleven months. I'm kind of ex-officio husband, as you might say. After we'd been married about a month a little incident occurred which made a riffle, as you might say, in our domestic tide. I was division master on the U.P., and one night I got an order to go down towards Sidney and look at a bridge. Of course I couldn't get back till the next evening. So I sighed and switched off to the superintendent's office, expecting to go over on No. 4 and look at the bridge. At the office they told me that I needn't go till Tuesday, so I strolled up town and got home about nine o'clock, went in with a latch key, just as a mutual friend went out through the bed-room window, taking a sash that I paid two dollars for. I didn't care for the sash, because he left a pair of pantaloons worth twelve dollars and some silver in the pockets, but I thought it was such odd taste for a man to wear a sash without his uniform.
“Well,” said the large man, stroking the growth on his skin that nestled in his faded reddish-brown hair, “my wife has strong feelings against signing that deed. We've been married for about a year now, but not really together for the past eleven months. I'm kind of an ex-officio husband, you could say. After we were married for about a month, something happened that caused a bit of a stir in our domestic life. I was the division master on the U.P., and one night I got an order to head down towards Sidney and check on a bridge. Naturally, I couldn't get back until the next evening. So I sighed and headed to the superintendent's office, expecting to take No. 4 and look at the bridge. When I got to the office, they told me I didn't need to go until Tuesday, so I walked downtown and returned home around nine o'clock. I used my latchkey just as a mutual friend was climbing out of the bedroom window, taking a sash that I had paid two dollars for. I didn't care about the sash since he left behind a pair of pants worth twelve dollars and some silver in the pockets, but I thought it was odd for a guy to wear a sash without his uniform.”
“Well, as I had documentary evidence against my wife, I told her she could take a vacation. She cried a good deal, but it didn't count I suffered a good deal, but tears did not avail. It takes a good deal of damp weather to float me out of my regular channel. She spent the night packing her trousseau, and in the morning she went away. Now, I could get a divorce and save all this trouble of getting her signature, but I'd rather not tell this whole business in court, for the little woman seems to be trying to do better, and if it wasn't for her blamed old hyena of a mother, would get along tip-top. She's living with her mother now and if a lawyer would go to the girl and tell her how it is, and that I want to sell the property and want her signature, in place of getting a divorce, I believe she'd sign. Would you mind trying it?”
“Well, since I had proof against my wife, I told her she could take a vacation. She cried a lot, but it didn't matter; I suffered a lot too, but tears didn't help. It takes a lot of bad weather to throw me off my usual path. She spent the night packing her things, and in the morning she left. Now, I could get a divorce and avoid the hassle of getting her signature, but I'd rather not have to explain everything in court. The little woman seems to be trying to improve, and if it weren't for her awful mother, she’d be doing great. She's staying with her mother now, and if a lawyer could talk to her and explain the situation, that I want to sell the property and need her signature instead of getting a divorce, I think she’d sign. Would you mind giving it a try?”
{Illustration: “COAXING."}
{Illustration: “PERSUADING."}
I said if I could get time I would go over and talk with her and see what she said. So I did. I got along pretty well, too. I found the young woman at home, and told her the legal aspects of the case. She wouldn't admit any of the charges, but after a long parley agreed to execute the deed and save trouble. She came to my office an hour later, and signed the instrument I got two witnesses to the signature and had just put the notarial seal on it when the girl's mother came in. She asked her daughter if she had signed the deed and was told that she had. She said nothing, but smiled in a way that made my blood run cold. If a woman were to smile on me that way every day, I should certainly commit some great crime.
I said that if I had some time, I would go over and talk to her and see what she had to say. So I did. I got along pretty well too. I found the young woman at home and explained the legal details of the case to her. She wouldn't admit to any of the charges, but after a long discussion, she agreed to sign the deed to avoid any trouble. She came to my office an hour later and signed the document. I got two witnesses to sign it, and just as I was putting the notary seal on it, the girl’s mother walked in. She asked her daughter if she had signed the deed, and was told that she had. She said nothing but smiled in a way that made my blood run cold. If a woman smiled at me like that every day, I would probably end up committing some major crime.
I was just congratulating myself on the success of the business, and was looking at the two $20 gold pieces and trying to get acquainted with them, as it were, after the two women had gone away; when they returned with the husband and son-in-law at the head of the procession. He looked pale and careworn to me. He asked me in a low voice if I had a deed there, executed by his wife. I said yes. He then asked me if I would kindly destroy it. I said I would. I would make deeds and tear them up all day at $40 apiece. I said I liked the conveyancing business very much, and if a client felt like having a grand, warranty deed debauch, I was there to furnish the raw material.
I was just patting myself on the back for the success of the business, looking at the two $20 gold coins and trying to get familiar with them, after the two women had left; when they came back with the husband and son-in-law leading the way. He looked pale and worn out to me. He asked me quietly if I had a deed there, signed by his wife. I said yes. Then he asked if I would please destroy it. I said I would. I could create deeds and tear them up all day for $40 each. I mentioned that I really liked the conveyancing business, and if a client wanted to have a big warranty deed celebration, I was ready to provide the necessary paperwork.
I then tore up the deed and the two women went quietly away. After they had gone, my client, in an absent-minded way, took out a large quid that had outlived its usefulness, laid it tenderly on the open page of Estey's Pleadings, and said:
I then ripped up the deed, and the two women quietly left. After they were gone, my client, lost in thought, took out a large wad of chewing tobacco that had seen better days, gently placed it on the open page of Estey's Pleadings, and said:
“You doubtless think I am a singular organization, and that my ways are past finding out. I wish to ask you if I did right a moment ago?” Here he took out another $20 and put it under the paper weight. “When I went down stairs I met my mother-in-law. She always looked to me like a firm woman, but I did not think she was so unswerving as she really was. She asked me in a low, musical voice to please destroy the deed, and then she took one of them Smith & Wesson automatic advance agents of death out from under her apron and kind of wheedled me into saying I would. Now, did I do right? I want a candid, legal opinion, and I'm ready to pay for it.”
“You probably think I’m a unique person, and that my ways are hard to figure out. I’d like to ask you if I did the right thing just now?” He pulled out another $20 bill and placed it under the paperweight. “When I went downstairs, I ran into my mother-in-law. She always seemed like a strong woman to me, but I didn’t realize just how determined she really was. She asked me softly, in a melodic voice, to please destroy the deed, and then she pulled out one of those Smith & Wesson automatic pistols from under her apron and sort of persuaded me to agree. So, did I do the right thing? I want an honest, legal opinion, and I’m willing to pay for it.”
I said he did perfectly right.
I said he was totally right.
Answering an Invitation.
Hudson, Wis., January 19, 1886.
Hudson, WI, January 19, 1886.
Dear friend.—I have just received your kind and cordial invitation to come to Washington and spend several weeks there among the eminent men of our proud land. I would be glad to go as you suggest, but I cannot do so at this time. I am passionately fond of mingling with the giddy whirl of good society. I hope you will not feel that my reason for declining your kind invitation is that I feel myself above good society. I assure you I do not.
Dear friend.—I just got your friendly invitation to come to Washington and spend a few weeks there with the amazing people of our great country. I would love to go as you suggested, but I can’t at this time. I really enjoy being part of the exciting atmosphere of good company. I hope you won’t think my reason for saying no is that I feel superior to good society. I promise you, I don’t.
Nothing pleases me better than to dress up and mingle among my fellow-men, with a sprinkling here and there of the other sex. It is true that the most profitable study for mankind is man, but we should not overlook woman. Woman is now seeking to be emancipated. Let us put our great, strong arms around her and emancipate her. Even if we cannot emancipate but one, we shall not have lived entirely for naught.
Nothing makes me happier than dressing up and socializing with my fellow humans, with a few women mixed in. It's true that the most valuable study for humanity is humanity itself, but we shouldn't ignore women. Women are now striving for freedom. Let's extend our strong arms around them and help them gain that freedom. Even if we can only help one person, we won't have lived completely in vain.
I am told by those upon whom I can rely that there are hundreds of attractive young women throughout our joyous land who have arrived at years of discretion and yet who have never been emancipated. I met a woman on the cars last week who is lecturing on this subject, and she told me all about it. Now, the question at once presents itself, how shall we emancipate woman unless we go where she is? We must go right into society and take her by the hand and never let go of her hand till she is properly emancipated. Not only must she be emancipated, but she must be emancipated from her present thralldom. Thralldom of this kind is liable to break out in any community, and those who are now in perfect health may pine away in a short time and flicker.
I've been told by people I trust that there are hundreds of attractive young women all across our wonderful country who have reached adulthood but still haven't been set free. Last week, I met a woman on the train who is giving lectures on this topic, and she shared a lot of information with me. Now, the question arises: how do we free women if we don't go to them? We need to engage with society directly and hold their hands, not letting go until they are truly free. Not only do they need to be freed, but they also need to be freed from their current constraints. This kind of oppression can emerge in any community, and those who seem perfectly healthy today can quickly start to wither away and fade.
My course, while mingling in society's mad whirl, is to first open the conversation with a young lady by leading her away to the conservatory, where I ask her if she has ever been the victim of thralldom and whether or not she has ever been ground under the heel of the tyrant man. I then time her pulse for thirty minutes, so as to strike a good average. The emancipation of woman is destined at some day to become one of our leading industries.
My role, while navigating the chaotic social scene, is to start a conversation with a young woman by taking her to the greenhouse, where I ask her if she has ever felt trapped and if she has ever been oppressed by men. I then check her pulse for thirty minutes to get a solid average. The liberation of women is set to become one of our major focuses in the future.
You also ask me to kindly lead the German while there. I would cheerfully do so, but owing to the wobbly eccentricity of my cyclone leg, it would be sort of a broken German. But I could sit near by and watch the game with a furtive glance, and fan the young ladies between the acts, and converse with them in low, earnest, passionate tones. I like to converse with people in whom I take an interest. I was conversing with a young lady one evening at a recherche ball in my far away home in the free and unfettered West, a very brilliant affair, I remember, under the auspices of Hose Company No. 2, I was talking in a loud and earnest way to this liquid-eyed creature, a little louder than usual, because the music was rather forte just then, and the base viol virtuoso was bearing on rather hard at that moment. The music ceased with a sudden snort. And so did my wife, who was just waltzing past us. If I had ceased to converse at the same time that the music shut off, all might have been well, but I did not.
You also asked me to kindly lead the German while I’m there. I’d happily do that, but because of the unpredictable quirks of my cyclone leg, it would probably be a bit of a clumsy German. However, I could sit nearby and watch the game with a discreet glance, fan the young ladies between acts, and chat with them in soft, earnest, passionate tones. I enjoy talking to people I’m interested in. One evening, I was chatting with a young lady at a fancy ball back home in the free and wild West, a pretty dazzling event, I remember, hosted by Hose Company No. 2. I was speaking loudly and earnestly to this captivating girl, a bit louder than usual since the music was pretty loud at that moment, and the bass violinist was really laying it on thick. Suddenly, the music stopped with a loud snort. So did my wife, who was waltzing past us. If I had stopped talking at the same time the music cut off, everything might have been fine, but I didn’t.
Your remark that the president and cabinet would be glad to see me this winter is ill-timed.
Your comment that the president and cabinet would be happy to see me this winter is poorly timed.
There have been times when it would have given me much pleasure to visit Washington, but I did not vote for Mr. Cleveland, to tell the truth, and I know that if I were to go to the White House and visit even for a few days, he would reproach me and throw it up to me. It is true I did not pledge myself to vote for him, but still I would hate to go to a man's house and eat his popcorn and use his smoking tobacco after I had voted against him and talked about him as I have about Cleveland.
There have been times when I would have really liked to visit Washington, but honestly, I didn't vote for Mr. Cleveland. I know that if I went to the White House, even just for a few days, he would remind me of that and hold it against me. It's true I never promised to vote for him, but still, it feels wrong to go to someone's house, eat their popcorn, and use their tobacco after voting against them and saying what I have about Cleveland.
No, I can't be a hypocrite. I am right out, open and above board. If I talk about a man behind his back, I won't go and gorge myself with his victuals. I was assured by parties in whom I felt perfect confidence that Mr. Cleveland was a “moral leper,” and relying on such assurances from men in whom I felt that I could trust, and not being at that time where I could ask Mr. Cleveland in person whether he was or was not a moral leper as aforesaid, I assisted in spreading the report that he had been exposed to moral leprosy, and as near as I could learn, he was liable to come down with it at any time.
No, I can't be a hypocrite. I'm straightforward and honest. If I talk about someone behind their back, I won't go and enjoy their food. I was told by people I trusted completely that Mr. Cleveland was a “moral leper,” and based on that information from those I believed in, and not being in a position to ask Mr. Cleveland directly whether he was or wasn't a moral leper, I helped spread the rumor that he had been exposed to moral leprosy, and as far as I could find out, he could get it at any moment.
So that even if I go to Washington I shall put up at a hotel and pay my bills just as any other American citizen would. I know how it is with Mr. Cleveland at this time. When the legislature is in session there, people come in from around Buffalo with their butter and eggs to sell, and stay overnight with the president. But they should not ride a free horse to death. I may not be well educated, but I am high strung till you can't rest Groceries are just as high in Washington as they are in Philadelphia.
So even if I go to Washington, I'll stay at a hotel and pay my bills just like any other American citizen. I understand what Mr. Cleveland is going through right now. When the legislature is in session, people come in from around Buffalo to sell their butter and eggs and end up staying overnight with the president. But they shouldn't take advantage of a free ride. I might not be very well-educated, but I'm really high-strung. Groceries are just as expensive in Washington as they are in Philadelphia.
I hope that you will not glean from the foregoing that I have lost my interest in national affairs. God forbid. Though not in the political arena myself, my sympathies are with those who are. I am willing to assist the families of those who are in the political arena trying to obtain a precarious livelihood thereby. I was once an official under the Federal government myself, as the curious student of national affairs may learn if he will go to the Treasury Department at Washington, D.C., and ask to see my voucher for $9.85, covering salary as United States commissioner for the Second Judicial District of Wyoming for the year 1882. It was at that time that a vile contemporary characterized me as “a corrupt and venal Federal official who had fattened upon the hard-wrung taxes of my fellow citizens and gorged myself for years at the public crib.” This was unjust I was not corrupt I was not venal. I was only hungry!
I hope you don’t get the impression from what I just said that I’ve lost interest in national affairs. Absolutely not. Even though I’m not involved in politics myself, I support those who are. I’m willing to help the families of people in politics who are trying to make a tough living. I was once a federal official myself, as anyone curious about national affairs can find out if they go to the Treasury Department in Washington, D.C., and ask to see my voucher for $9.85, which covered my salary as the United States commissioner for the Second Judicial District of Wyoming in 1882. At that time, a certain contemporary described me as “a corrupt and greedy Federal official who had profited from the hard-earned taxes of my fellow citizens and had gorged myself at the public expense for years.” This was unfair—I wasn’t corrupt, and I wasn’t greedy. I was just hungry!
Street Cars and Curiosities.
There is an institution in Boston which the Pilgrim Fathers did not originate. That is the street car. There is a street car parade all day on Washington street, and a red-light procession most of the night.
There is an institution in Boston that the Pilgrim Fathers did not create. That is the streetcar. There’s a streetcar parade all day on Washington Street and a red-light parade most of the night.
People told me that I could get into a car and go anywhere I wanted to. I tried it. There was a point in Boston, I learned, where there were some more relics that I hadn't seen. Parties told me where I could find some more fragments of the Mayflower, and an old chair in which Josiah Quincy had sat down to think. There were also a few more low price flint-lock guns and tomahawks that no man who visited Boston could afford to miss. Besides, there was said to be the lock that used to be on the door of a room in which General Washington had a good notion to write his farewell address. All these things were in the collection which I started out to find, and there were others, also.
People told me that I could get in a car and go anywhere I wanted. I gave it a try. I found out that there was a place in Boston where there were more historic artifacts that I hadn’t seen. People pointed me to some additional pieces of the Mayflower, and an old chair that Josiah Quincy used to sit in and think. There were also a few more affordable flintlock guns and tomahawks that no visitor to Boston could overlook. Additionally, it was said there was the lock that used to be on the door of a room where General Washington almost wrote his farewell address. All these items were part of the collection I set out to find, along with others.
For instance, there was a specimen of the lightning that Franklin caught in his demijohn out of the sky, and still in a good state of preservation; also some more clothes in which he was baptized, more swords of Bunker Hill, and a little shirt which John Hancock put on as soon as he was born. Hancock was a perfect gentleman from his birth, and it is said that the first thing he did was to excuse himself for a moment and then put on this shirt. His manners were certainly very agreeable, and he was very much polished.
For example, there was a piece of the lightning that Franklin captured in his glass bottle from the sky, and it's still well-preserved; also some more clothes he wore during his baptism, more swords from Bunker Hill, and a little shirt that John Hancock wore right after he was born. Hancock was a true gentleman from the moment he was born, and it's said that the first thing he did was to apologize for a moment and then put on this shirt. His manners were definitely charming, and he was quite refined.
I heard, too, that there was an acorn from the tree in which Benedict Arnold had his nest while he was hatching treason. I did not believe it, but I had an idea I could readily discover the fraud if I could only see the acorn, for I am a great historian and researcher from away back. I was told that in this collection there was a suspender button shed by Patrick Henry during his memorable speech in which he raised up to his full height on his hind feet and permitted the war to come in italics, also in SMALL CAPS and in LARGE CAPS!!! with three astonishers on the end.
I also heard that there was an acorn from the tree where Benedict Arnold had his nest while he was plotting treason. I didn’t believe it, but I thought I could easily uncover the trick if I could just see the acorn, because I’ve been a dedicated historian and researcher for a long time. I was told that in this collection, there was a suspender button dropped by Patrick Henry during his famous speech when he stood up tall on his hind feet and let the war come in italics, also in SMALL CAPS and in LARGE CAPS!!! with three exclamation marks at the end.
So I wanted to find this place, and as I had plenty of means I decided to ride in a street car. Therefore, I aimed my panic price cane at the driver of a cream-colored car with a blue stomach, and remarked, “Hi, there!” Before I go any further, and in order to avoid ambiguity, let me say that it was the car that had the blue stomach. He (the driver) twisted the brake and I went inside, clear to the further end, and sat down by the side of a young woman who filled the whole car with sunshine. I was so happy that I gave the conductor half a dollar and told him to keep the change. If by chance she sees this, I hope she still remembers me. Pretty soon a very fat woman came into the car and aimed for our quarter. She evidently intended to squat between this fair girl and myself. But ah, thought I to myself in a low tone of voice, I will fool thee. So I shoved my person along in the seat toward the sweet girl of the Bay State. The corpulent party, whose name I did not learn, had in the meantime backed up to where she had detected a slight vacancy, and where I had seen fit to place myself. At that moment she heaved a sigh of relief, and, assisted by the motion of the car, which just then turned a corner, she sat down in my lap and nestled in my bosom like a tired baby elephant.
So I wanted to find this place, and since I had plenty of money, I decided to take a streetcar. I pointed my fancy cane at the driver of a cream-colored car with a blue belly and said, “Hi there!” Just to be clear, it was the car that had the blue belly. He hit the brakes, and I got on, all the way to the back, where I sat down next to a young woman who lit up the whole car with her smile. I was so happy that I gave the conductor fifty cents and told him to keep the change. If she happens to see this, I hope she still remembers me. Before long, a very large woman got on the car and made a beeline for our spot. She clearly intended to sit between the lovely girl and me. But I thought to myself, I’ll outsmart her. So I scooted over in the seat toward the sweet girl from Massachusetts. The plus-sized woman, whose name I never learned, had meanwhile backed up to where she noticed a small gap, the spot I had just vacated. Just then, she let out a sigh of relief, and with the help of the car turning a corner, she plopped down in my lap and curled up against me like a tired baby elephant.
{Illustration: PATRICK HENRY.}
{Illustration: PATRICK HENRY.}
Dear reader, if I were to tell you that the crystal of my watch was picked out from under my shoulder blades the next day, you would not believe it, would you? I will not strain your faith in me by making the statement, but that was the heaviest woman I ever held.
Dear reader, if I told you that the crystal from my watch was taken from under my shoulder blades the next day, you wouldn’t believe me, would you? I won’t push you to doubt me by making that claim, but she was the heaviest woman I ever held.
While all this was going on I lost track of my location. The car began to squirm around all over Boston, and finally the conductor came back and wanted more money. I said no, I would get off and try a dark red car with a green stomach for a while. So I did I rode on that till I had seen a great deal of new scenery, and then I asked the conductor if he passed Number Clankety Clank, Blank street. He said he did not, but if I would go down two blocks further and take a maroon car with a plaid stomach it would take me to the corner of “What-do-you-call-it and What's-his-name streets,” where, if I took a seal brown car with squshed huckleberry trimmings it would take me to where I wanted to go. So I tried it. I do not know just where I missed my train, but when I found the seal brown car with scrunched huckleberry trimmings it was going the other way, and as it was late I went into a cafe and refreshed myself. When I came out I discovered that it was too late to see the collection, even if I could find it, for at 6 o'clock they take the relics in and put them into a refrigerator till morning.
While all this was happening, I lost track of where I was. The car started zigzagging all over Boston, and eventually, the conductor came back and asked for more money. I said no, and decided to get off and try a dark red car with a green underside for a bit. So I did. I rode on that until I had seen a lot of new sights, and then I asked the conductor if he passed Number Clankety Clank on Blank Street. He said he didn’t, but if I went down two blocks further and took a maroon car with a plaid underside, it would take me to the corner of “What-do-you-call-it” and “What’s-his-name” streets. From there, if I caught a seal brown car with squished huckleberry decorations, it would lead me where I wanted to go. So I gave it a try. I’m not sure exactly where I missed my train, but when I finally found the seal brown car with the scrunched huckleberry decorations, it was going the other way. Since it was getting late, I decided to stop by a café and grab a snack. When I left, I realized it was too late to see the collection even if I could find it, because at 6 o'clock they put the relics away in a refrigerator until morning.
{Illustration: TAKING A PRIZE.}
{Illustration: WINNING A PRIZE.}
I was now weary and somewhat disappointed, so I desired to get back to my headquarters, wherein I could rest and where I could lock myself up in my room, so no prize fat woman could enter. I hailed one of those sawed-off landaus, consisting of two wheels, one door behind, and a bill for two bits. I told the college graduate on the box where I wanted to go, gave him a quarter and got in. I sat down and heaved a chaste sigh. The sigh was only half hove when the herdic backed up to my destination, which was about 300 feet from where I got in, as the crow flies.
I was feeling tired and a bit let down, so I wanted to return to my place, where I could relax and lock myself in my room, keeping out any hefty women. I waved down one of those small carriages with two wheels, one door in the back, and a fare of 25 cents. I told the driver where I wanted to go, handed him a quarter, and climbed in. I sat down and let out a deep sigh. I had barely finished my sigh when the carriage pulled up to my destination, which was only about 300 feet away as the crow flies.
When I go to Boston again, I am going in charge of the police.
When I go to Boston again, I'm in charge of the police.
The street railway system of Boston is remarkably perfect. Fifty cars pass a given point on Washington street in an hour, and yet there are no blockades. You can take one of those cars, if you are a stranger, and you can get so mixed up that you will never get back, and all for five cents. I felt a good deal like the man who was full and who stepped on a man who was not full. The sober man was mad, and yelled out: “See here; condemn it, can't you look where you're walking?” “Betcher life,” says the inebriate, “but trouble is to walk where I'm lookin'.”
The streetcar system in Boston is incredibly efficient. Fifty cars pass a certain spot on Washington Street every hour, and there are no blockages. If you’re a newcomer, you can ride one of those cars and easily get so confused that you might never find your way back, all for just five cents. I felt a lot like the guy who was drunk and accidentally stepped on someone who wasn't. The sober guy got upset and shouted, “Hey, can’t you watch where you’re going?” The drunk responded, “I bet you’re right, but the problem is I can’t walk where I’m looking.”
The Poor Blind Pig.
I have just been over to the Falls of Minnehaha. In fact I have been quite a tourist and summer resorter this season, having saturated my system with nineteen different styles of mineral water in Wisconsin alone, and tried to win the attention of nineteen different styles of head waiters at these summer hotels. I may add in passing that the summer hotels of Wisconsin and Minnesota have been crowded full the past season and more room will have to be added before another season comes around.
I just visited the Falls of Minnehaha. Honestly, I've been quite a tourist and summer vacationer this season, trying out nineteen different types of mineral water in Wisconsin alone, and attempting to get noticed by nineteen different kinds of head waiters at these summer hotels. By the way, the summer hotels in Wisconsin and Minnesota have been packed this past season, and they’ll need to add more rooms before next season rolls around.
The motto of the summer hotel seems to be, “Unless ye shall have feed the waiter, behold ye shall in no wise be fed.” Many waiters at these places, by a judicious system of blackmail and starvation, have reduced the guest to a sad state.
The motto of the summer hotel seems to be, “Unless you feed the waiter, you definitely won’t be fed.” Many waiters at these places, through a clever system of extortion and deprivation, have put the guests in a pretty miserable situation.
{Illustration: THE MAN WHO FEES THE WAITER.}
{Illustration: THE GUY WHO TIPS THE WAITER.}
The mineral water of Wisconsin ranks high as a beverage. Many persons are using it during the entire summer in place of rum.
The mineral water from Wisconsin is a top choice for drinks. Many people are using it all summer instead of rum.
The water of Waukesha does not appear to taste of any mineral, although an analysis shows the presence of several kinds of groceries in solution. The water at Palmyra Springs also tastes like any other pure water, but at Kankanna, on the Fox River, they have a style of mineral water which is different. Almost as soon as you taste it you discover that it is extremely different. Colonel Watrous, of the Milwaukee Sunday Telegraph, took some of it. I saw him afterward. He looked depressed, and told me that he had been deceived. Several Kankanna people had told him that this was living water, He had discovered otherwise. He hated to place his confidence in people and then find it misplaced.
The water from Waukesha doesn’t seem to have a mineral taste, although tests show it contains various substances dissolved in it. The water from Palmyra Springs also tastes like any other clean water, but at Kankanna, along the Fox River, they have a type of mineral water that’s quite different. As soon as you taste it, you realize it’s really not the same. Colonel Watrous, from the Milwaukee Sunday Telegraph, tried some of it. I saw him later. He looked down and told me he felt tricked. A few people from Kankanna had told him it was living water, but he found out that wasn’t true. He disliked putting his trust in people only to find out it was misplaced.
A favorite style of Kankanna revenge is to drink a quart of this water, and then, on meeting an enemy, to breathe on him and wither him. One breath produces syncope and blind staggers. Two breaths induce coma and metallic casket for one.
A popular way Kankanna gets revenge is by drinking a quart of this water and then, when encountering an enemy, breathing on them to cause their downfall. One breath knocks them out and leaves them disoriented. Two breaths put them into a coma and send them to an early grave.
Minnehaha is not mineral water. It is just plain water, giving itself away day after day like a fresh young man in society. If you want pure water you get it at the spring near the foot of the fall, and if you want it flavored, with something that will leave a blazed road the whole length of your alimentary canal, you go to the “blind pig,” a few rods away from the falls.
Minnehaha isn't mineral water. It's just regular water, revealing itself day after day like a young man in social settings. If you want pure water, you get it at the spring near the bottom of the falls, and if you want it with a kick, something that will leave an intense sensation throughout your digestive system, you head to the “blind pig,” just a short distance from the falls.
The blind pig draws many people toward the falls through sympathy. To be blind must indeed be a sad plight. Let us pause and reflect on this proposition.
The blind pig attracts a lot of people to the falls because of compassion. Being blind must truly be a tough situation. Let's take a moment to think about this idea.
By good fortune I have had a chance to watch the rum problem in all its phases this summer. Beginning in Maine, where the most ingenious methods of whipping the devil around the stump are adopted, then going through northern Iowa and tasting her exhilarating pop, and at last paying ten cents to see the blind pig at Minnehaha, I feel like one who has wrestled with the temperance problem in a practical way, and I have about decided that a high license is about the only way to make the sale of whisky odious. Prohibition is too abrupt in its methods, and one generation can hardly wipe out the appetite for liquor that has been planted and fostered by fifty preceding generations.
By chance, I've had the opportunity to observe the rum issue in all its aspects this summer. Starting in Maine, where the cleverest ways of dealing with the problem are used, then moving through northern Iowa and sampling its refreshing drinks, and finally paying ten cents to see the speakeasy at Minnehaha, I feel like someone who has tackled the alcohol issue in a real way. I've pretty much concluded that a high license is probably the only effective way to make the sale of whiskey unacceptable. Prohibition is too extreme in its approach, and one generation can't simply erase the desire for alcohol that has been cultivated and nurtured by fifty prior generations.
For fear that a few of my lady readers do not know what the Minnehaha blind pig looks like, and that they may be curious about it, I will just say that it is a method of evading the law, and consists of a dumb waiter, wherein, if you pay ten cents, you get a glass of stimulants without the annoyance of conversation. Many ladies who visit the falls, and who have heard incidentally about the blind pig, express a desire to see the poor little thing, but their husbands generally persuade them to refrain.
For the sake of a few of my lady readers who might not know what the Minnehaha blind pig is and may be curious about it, I’ll simply say it’s a way to get around the law. It involves a dumbwaiter where, if you pay ten cents, you can get a drink without the hassle of having a conversation. Many women who visit the falls and have heard about the blind pig express a wish to see it, but their husbands usually convince them to hold back.
Minnehaha is a beautiful waterfall. It is not so frightfully large and grand as Niagara, but it is very fine, and if the State of Minnesota would catch the man who nails his signs on the trees around there, and choke him to death near the falls on a pleasant day, a large audience wold attend with much pleasure, I believe that the fence-board advertiser is not only, as a rule, wicked, but he also lacks common sense. Who ever bought a liver pad or a corset because he read about it on a high board fence? No one. Who ever purchased a certain kind of pill or poultice because the name of that pill or poultice was nailed on a tree to disfigure a beautiful landscape? I do not believe that any sane human being ever did so. If everyone feels as I do about it, people would rather starve to death for pills and freeze to death in a perfect wilderness of liver pads than buy of the man who daubs the fair face of nature with names of his alleged goods.
Minnehaha is a beautiful waterfall. It’s not as huge and spectacular as Niagara, but it's really nice. If the state of Minnesota could catch the guy who nails his signs to the trees around there and take care of him near the falls on a nice day, I think a lot of people would gladly show up. I believe the sign guy is not only generally annoying, but he also lacks common sense. Who actually buys a liver pad or a corset just because they saw it advertised on a tall fence? No one. Who ever bought a specific pill or poultice because the name was nailed to a tree ruining a beautiful view? I don’t believe any sane person ever did that. If everyone feels like I do, they’d rather go without pills and freeze to death in an empty wilderness of liver pads than buy from the person who ruins nature’s beauty with ads for his so-called products.
I saw a squaw who seemed to belong in the picture of the poetic little waterfall. I did not learn her name. It was one of these long, corduroy Sioux names, that hang together with hyphens like a lot of sausage. The salaried humorist of the party said he never sausage a name before.
I saw a Native woman who looked like she belonged in the scene of the picturesque little waterfall. I didn’t catch her name. It was one of those long, corduroy Sioux names that are strung together with hyphens like a bunch of sausages. The party's paid comedian said he had never seen a name like that before.
Translated into our tongue it meant The-swift-daughter-of-the-prairie-blizzard-that-gathers-the-huckleberry-on -the-run-and-don't-you-forget-it.
Translated into our language it meant The-fast-daughter-of-the-prairie-blizzard-who-gathers-the-huckleberry-on -the-move-and-don't-you-forget-it.
Daniel Webster.
I presume that Daniel Webster was as good an off-hand speaker as this country has ever produced. Massachusetts has been well represented in Congress since that time, but she has had few who could successfully compete with D. Webster, Esq., attorney and counsellor-at-law, Boston, Mass.
I guess that Daniel Webster was one of the best impromptu speakers this country has ever seen. Massachusetts has had strong representation in Congress since then, but few have been able to match D. Webster, Esq., attorney and counselor-at-law, Boston, Mass.
I have never met Mr. Webster, but I have seen a cane that he used to wear, and since that time I have felt a great interest in him. It was a heavy winter cane, and was presented to him as a token of respect.
I’ve never met Mr. Webster, but I’ve seen a cane he used to carry, and since then, I’ve felt a strong interest in him. It was a sturdy winter cane, given to him as a sign of respect.
This reminds me of the inscription on a grave stone in the 280-year-old churchyard at LaPointe, on Lake Superior, where I was last week. It shows what punctuation has done for a lost and undone race. I copy the inscription exactly as it appears:
This reminds me of the inscription on a gravestone in the 280-year-old churchyard at LaPointe, on Lake Superior, where I was last week. It shows what punctuation has done for a lost and undone race. I copy the inscription exactly as it appears:
{Illustration:
LOUIS ROC DE DEAU
SHOT
——AS A MARK OF
ESTEEM BY HIS
BROTHER}
{Illustration:
LOUIS ROC DE DEAU
SHOT
——AS A SIGN OF
RESPECT FROM HIS
BROTHER}
Daniel Webster had one of the largest and most robust brains that ever flourished in our fair land. It was what we frequently call a teeming brain, one of those four-horse teeming brains, as it were. Mr. Webster wore the largest hat of any man then in Congress, and other senators and representatives used to frequently borrow it to wear on the 2nd of January, the 5th of July, and after other special occasions, when they had been in executive session most all night and endured great mental strain. This hat matter reminds me of an incident in the life of Benjamin F. Butler, a man well known in Massachusetts even at the present time.
Daniel Webster had one of the biggest and most powerful brains that ever existed in our great country. It was what we often call a bursting brain, one of those four-horse powering brains, if you will. Mr. Webster wore the largest hat of any man in Congress, and other senators and representatives often borrowed it to wear on January 2nd, July 5th, and after other special occasions when they had been in executive session all night and experienced a lot of mental strain. This hat situation reminds me of an incident in the life of Benjamin F. Butler, a man still well-known in Massachusetts today.
One evening, at a kind of reception or some such dissipation as that, while Jim Nye was in the Senate, the latter left his silk hat on the lounge with the opening turned up, and while he was talking with someone else, Mr. Butler sat down in the hat with so much expression that it was a wreck. Everyone expected to see James W. Nye walk up and smite Benjamin F. Butler, but he did not do so. He looked at the chaotic hat for a minute, more in sorrow than in anger, and then he said:
One evening, at a sort of reception or something like that, while Jim Nye was in the Senate, he left his silk hat on the couch with the opening facing up. As he was chatting with someone else, Mr. Butler sat down in the hat with such enthusiasm that it was completely ruined. Everyone thought James W. Nye would walk over and confront Benjamin F. Butler, but he didn't. He stared at the messed-up hat for a minute, more disappointed than angry, and then he said:
“Benjamin, I could have told you that hat wouldn't fit you before you tried it on.”
“Benjamin, I could have told you that hat wouldn’t fit you before you tried it on.”
Daniel Webster's brain was not only very large, but it was in good order all the time. Sometimes Nature bestows large brains on men who do not rise to great prominence. Large brains do not always indicate great intellectual power. These brains are large but of an inferior quality. A schoolmate of mine used to wear a hat that I could put my head and both feet into with perfect ease. I remember that he tied my shirt one day while I was laying my well-rounded limbs in the mill pond near my childhood's home.
Daniel Webster had a really big brain, and it was always functioning well. Sometimes, nature gives big brains to people who don’t achieve much recognition. A large brain doesn’t always mean someone has a lot of intellectual ability. Some of those big brains are just not that great. A classmate of mine used to wear a hat that I could easily fit my head and both feet into. I remember that he tied my shirt one day while I was lounging in the mill pond near my childhood home.
I was mad at the time, but I could not lick him, for he was too large. All I could do was to patiently untie my shirt while my teeth chattered, then fling a large, three-cornered taunt in his teeth and run. He kept on poking fun at me, I remember, till I got dressed, and alluded incidentally, to my small brain and abnormal feet. This stung my sensitive nature, and I told him that if I had such a wealth of brain as he had, and it was of no use to think with, I would take it to a restaurant and have it breaded. Then I went away.
I was really angry at the time, but I couldn't take him on because he was too big. All I could do was patiently untie my shirt while my teeth chattered, then throw a big, three-cornered insult at him and run off. I remember he kept making fun of me until I got dressed, casually mentioning my small brain and weird feet. This hurt my feelings, so I told him that if I had as much brain as he did and it was useless for thinking, I’d take it to a restaurant and have it breaded. Then I walked away.
But we were speaking of Webster. Many lawyers of our day would do well to read and study the illustrious example of Daniel Webster. He did not sit in court all day with his feet on the table and howl, “We object,” and then down his client for $50, just because he had made a noise. I employed a lawyer once to bring suit for me to recover quite a sum of money due me. After years of assessments and toilsome litigation, we got a judgment. He said to me that he was anxious to succeed with the case mainly because he knew I Wanted to vindicate myself. I said yes, that was the idea exactly. I wanted to be vindicated.
But we were talking about Webster. Many lawyers today could benefit from reading and studying the remarkable example of Daniel Webster. He didn’t just sit in court all day with his feet on the table and shout, “We object,” then charge his client $50 just for making some noise. I once hired a lawyer to file a lawsuit for me to recover a significant amount of money that was owed to me. After years of evaluations and exhausting litigation, we finally got a judgment. He told me he was eager to win the case mainly because he knew I wanted to clear my name. I agreed; that was exactly the point. I wanted to be vindicated.
So he gave me the vindication and took the judgment as a slight testimonial of his own sterling worth. When I want to be vindicated again I will do it with one of those self-cocking vindicators that you can carry in a pocket.
So he cleared my name and took the judgment as a small sign of his own worth. When I need to clear my name again, I’ll do it with one of those pocket-sized self-cocking vindicators.
Looking over this letter, I am amazed to see the amount of valuable information relative to the life of Mr. Webster that I have succeeded in using. There are, of course, some minor details of Mr. Webster's life which I have omitted, but nothing of real importance. The true history of Mr. Webster is epitomized here, and told in a pleasing and graceful manner, a style that is at once accurate and just and still elegant, chaste and thoroughly refined, while at the same time there are little gobs of sly humor in it that are real cute.
Looking over this letter, I'm amazed by how much valuable information I've managed to include about Mr. Webster's life. Of course, I've left out some minor details, but nothing really significant. The true story of Mr. Webster is summarized here and presented in a pleasing and graceful way, with a style that is both accurate and fair, yet still elegant, clean, and well-crafted, while also sprinkled with little bits of sly humor that are really charming.
{Illustration}
{Illustration}
Two Ways of Telling It.
I remember one sunny day in summer, we were sitting in the Boomerang office, I and the city editor, and he was speaking enviously of my salary of $150 per month as compared with his of $80, and I had just given him the venerable minstrel witticism that of course my salary was much larger than his, but he ought not to forget that he got his.
I remember a sunny summer day when the city editor and I were sitting in the Boomerang office. He was enviously talking about my salary of $150 a month compared to his $80. I had just shared the classic joke about how my salary was indeed higher, but he shouldn't forget that he actually received his.
Just then there was a revolver shot at the foot of our stairs, and then another. The printers rushed into the stairway from the composing room, and to save time I ran out on the balcony that hung over the sidewalk and which gave me a bird's-eye view of the murder. The next issue of the paper contained an account about like this:
Just then, there was a gunshot at the bottom of our stairs, and then another. The printers rushed into the stairway from the composing room, and to save time, I ran out onto the balcony that hung over the sidewalk, giving me a bird's-eye view of the murder. The next issue of the paper had a story that went something like this:
Cold-Blooded Murder.—Yesterday, between 12 and 1 o'clock, in front of this office on Second street, James McKeon, in a manner almost wholly unprovoked, shot James Smith, commonly known as Windy Smith. Smith died at 2 o'clock this morning of his wounds. Windy Smith was not a bad man, but, as his nickname would imply, he was a kind of noisy, harmless fellow, and McKeon, who is a gambler and professional bad man, can give no good reason for the killing. There is a determined effort on foot to lynch the murderer.
Cold-Blooded Murder.—Yesterday, between 12 and 1 PM, right in front of this office on Second Street, James McKeon, without much provocation, shot James Smith, known as Windy Smith. Smith died at 2 AM this morning from his injuries. Windy Smith wasn't a bad guy, but, as his nickname suggests, he was a loud, harmless person, and McKeon, who is a gambler and a notorious criminal, can't provide any good reason for the killing. There’s a strong push to lynch the murderer.
This account was brief, but it seemed to set forth the facts pretty clearly, I thought, and I felt considerably chagrined when I saw an account of the matter latter on, as written up by the prosecuting attorney. I may be inaccurate as to dates and some other points of detail, but, as nearly as I can remember, his version of the matter was like this:
This account was short, but it seemed to lay out the facts pretty clearly, I thought, and I felt quite embarrassed when I later saw the attorney's version of the situation. I might be off on dates and some other details, but as best as I can recall, his version of the matter was like this:
THE TERRITORY OF WYOMING, } COUNTY OF ALBANY. } ss.
THE TERRITORY OF WYOMING, } COUNTY OF ALBANY. } ss.
In Justice's Court, before E.W. Nye, Esq., Justice of the Peace.
In Justice's Court, before E.W. Nye, Esq., Justice of the Peace.
The Territory of Wyoming, plt'ff.}
vs. } Complaint.
James McKeon, def't. }
The Territory of Wyoming, Plaintiff
vs. } Complaint.
James McKeon, Defendant } The above named defendant, James McKeon, is accused of the crime of murder, for that he, the said defendant, James McKeon, at the town of Laramie City, in the County of Albany and Territory of Wyoming, and on the 13th day of July, Anno Domini 1880, then and there being, he, the said defendant, James McKeon, did wilfully, maliciously, feloniously, wickedly, unlawfully, criminally, illegally, unjustly, premeditatedly, coolly and murderously, by means of a certain deadly weapon commonly called a Smith & Wesson revolver, or revolving pistol, so constructed as to revolve upon itself and to be discharged by means of a spring and hammer, and with six chambers thereto, and known commonly as a self-cocker, the same loaded with gun-powder and leaden bullets, and in the hands of him, the said defendant, James McKeon, level at, to, upon, by, contiguous to and against the body of one James Smith, commonly called Windy Smith, in the peace of the commonwealth then and there being, and that by means of said deadly weapon commonly called a Smith & Wesson revolver, or revolving pistol, so constructed as to revolve upon itself and to be discharged by means of a spring or hammer, and with six chambers thereto and known commonly as a self-cocker, the same loaded with gunpowder and leaden bullets and in the hands of him the said defendant, James McKeon, held at, to, upon, by, contiguous to and against the body of him, the said James Smith, commonly called Windy Smith, he, the said James McKeon, did wilfully, maliciously, feloniously, wickedly, fraudulently, virulently, unlawfully, criminally, illegally, brutally, unjustly, premeditatedly, coolly and murderously, of his malice aforethought with the deadly weapon aforesaid held in the right hand of him, the said defendant, James McKeon, to, at, against, etc., the body of him, the said James Smith, commonly called Windy Smith, he, the said defendant, James McKeon, at the said town of Laramie City, in the said County of Albany, and in the heretofore enumerated Territory of Wyoming, and on the hereinbefore mentioned 13th day of July, Anno Domini 1880, did inflict to, at, upon, by, contiguous to, adjacent to, adjoining, over and against the body of him, the said James Smith, commonly called Windy Smith, one certain deadly, mortal, dangerous and painful wound, to-wit: Over, against, to, at, by, upon, contiguous to, near, adjacent to and bisecting the intestines of him, the said James Smith, commonly called Windy Smith, by reason of which he, the said James Smith, commonly called Windy Smith, did in great agony linger, and lingering did die, on the 14th day of July, Anno Domini 1880, at 2 o'clock in the forenoon of said day, contrary to the statutes in such case made and provided, and against the peace and dignity of the Territory of Wyoming.
The defendant, James McKeon, is charged with murder. On July 13, 1880, in Laramie City, Albany County, Wyoming Territory, James McKeon intentionally and unlawfully used a Smith & Wesson revolver—a type of pistol that has a rotating chamber and is fired using a spring and hammer—loaded with gunpowder and lead bullets, to shoot James Smith, also known as Windy Smith. This act was committed while James McKeon was in peaceful surroundings. He aimed the loaded revolver at Windy Smith and, with malice and premeditation, shot him, resulting in a serious and fatal wound that penetrated his intestines. Windy Smith suffered greatly and died on July 14, 1880, at 2 a.m., which violated the laws set out for such cases and was against the peace and dignity of Wyoming Territory.
I am now convinced that although the published account was correct, it was not as full as it might have been. Perhaps the tendency of modern journalism is to epitomize too much. In the hurry of daily newspaper work and the press of matter upon our pages, very likely we are fatally brief, and sacrifice rhetorical beauty to naked and goose-pimply facts.
I’m now convinced that while the published report was accurate, it wasn’t as comprehensive as it could have been. Maybe modern journalism tends to summarize too much. In the rush of daily news and the pressure to fill our pages, we probably end up being too brief and sacrifice any eloquence for bare, chilling facts.
All About Menials.
The subject of meals, lunch-counters, dining-cars and buffet-cars came up the other day, incidentally. I had ordered a little breakfast in the buffet-car, not so much because I expected to get anything, but because I liked to eat in a car and have all the other passengers glaring at me. I do not know which affords me the most pleasure—to sit for a photograph and be stabbed in the cerebellum with a cast-iron prong, to be fed in the presence of a mixed company of strangers, or to be called on without any preparation to make a farewell speech on the gallows.
The topic of meals, lunch counters, dining cars, and buffet cars came up recently, just casually. I had ordered a small breakfast in the buffet car, not really because I thought it would be good, but because I enjoyed eating in a car while all the other passengers stared at me. I can't decide which gives me the most pleasure—sitting for a photo while being poked in the back of the head with a metal fork, eating in front of a group of strangers, or being unexpectedly asked to give a farewell speech on the gallows.
However, I got my breakfast after awhile. The waiter was certainly the most worthless, trifling, half-asleep combination of Senegambian stupidity and poor white trash indolence and awkwardness that I ever saw. He brought in everything except what I wanted, and then wound up by upsetting the little cream pitcher in my lap. He did not charge for the cream. He threw that in.
However, I eventually got my breakfast. The waiter was definitely the most useless, careless, half-asleep mix of Senegalese confusion and lazy white trash clumsiness that I had ever seen. He brought everything except what I actually ordered, and then ended up spilling the little cream pitcher in my lap. He didn’t charge for the cream. That was just thrown in.
So all the rest of the journey I was trying to eradicate a cream dado from my pantaloons. It made me mad, because those pantaloons were made for me by request Besides, I haven't got pantaloons to squander in that way. To some a pair of pantaloons, more or less, is nothing, but it is much to me.
So for the rest of the journey, I was trying to get a cream stain out of my pants. It drove me crazy because those pants were custom-made for me. Besides, I can’t just throw away pants like that. For some people, a pair of pants might not mean much, but it means a lot to me.
{Illustration: SHOWING HIS INMOST THOUGHT.}
{Illustration: REVEALING HIS DEEPEST THOUGHTS.}
There was a porter on the same train who was much the same kind of furniture as the waiter. He slept days and made up berths all night. Truly, he began making up berths at Jersey City, and when he got through, about daylight, it was time to begin to unmake them again. All night long I could hear him opening and shutting the berths like a concertina. He sang softly to himself all night long:
There was a porter on the same train who was just like the waiter. He slept during the day and set up the sleeping berths all night. In fact, he started making up the berths in Jersey City, and by the time he finished around dawn, it was time to start taking them apart again. All night long, I could hear him opening and closing the berths like a concertina. He softly sang to himself all night:
“You must camp a little in the wilderness And then we'll all go home.”
“You need to spend a bit of time in the wild And then we can all head home.”
He played his own accompaniment on the berths.
He played his own background music on the bunks.
When in repose he was generally asleep with a whisk broom in one hand and the other hand extended with the palm up, waiting for a dividend to be declared.
When he was resting, he usually dozed off with a whisk broom in one hand and the other hand stretched out with the palm up, waiting for a dividend to be announced.
He generally slept with his mouth open, so that you could read his inmost thoughts, and when I complained to him about the way my bunk felt, he said he was sorry, and wanted to know which cell I was in.
He usually slept with his mouth open, so you could read his deepest thoughts, and when I complained to him about how my bunk felt, he said he was sorry and asked me which cell I was in.
I rode, years ago, over a new stage line for several days. It was through an almost trackless wilderness, and the service hadn't been “expedited” then. It was not a star route, anyhow. The government seemed to think that the man who managed the thing ought not to expect help so long as he had been such a fool asterisk it.
I rode, years ago, on a new stage line for several days. It went through an almost trackless wilderness, and the service hadn’t been “expedited” back then. It definitely wasn’t a star route. The government seemed to believe that the guy in charge shouldn’t expect any help since he had been such a fool to manage it.
(Five minutes intermission for those who wish to be chloroformed.)
(Five-minute break for anyone who wants to be chloroformed.)
The stage consisted of a buckboard. It was one of the first buckboards ever made, and the horse was among the first turned out, also. The driver and myself were the passengers.
The stage was a buckboard. It was one of the first buckboards ever made, and the horse was also one of the first to be used. The driver and I were the passengers.
When it got to be about dinner time, I asked him if we were not pretty near the dinner station. He grunted. He hadn't said a word since we started. He was a surly, morose and taciturn man. I was told that he had been disappointed in love. A half-breed woman named No-Wayno had led him to believe that she loved him, and that if it had not been for her husband she would gladly have been the driver's bride. So the driver assassinated the disagreeable husband of No-Wayno. Then he went to the ranch to claim his bride, but she was not there. She had changed her mind, and married a cattle man, who had just moved on to the range with a government mule and a branding iron, intending to slowly work himself into the stock business.
When it got to be around dinner time, I asked him if we were getting close to the dinner station. He just grunted. He hadn't said a word since we started. He was a grumpy, gloomy, and quiet man. I heard he had been let down in love. A half-breed woman named No-Wayno had made him think she loved him, and that if it weren’t for her husband, she would happily have been the driver's wife. So, the driver killed No-Wayno's unpleasant husband. Then he went to the ranch to claim his bride, but she wasn't there. She had changed her mind and married a cattleman who had just moved to the area with a government mule and a branding iron, planning to gradually get into the stock business.
So this driver was a melancholy man. He only made one remark to me during that long forty-mile drive through the wilderness. About dinner time he drove the horse under a quaking asp tree, tied a nose bag of oats over its head and took a wad of bread and bacon from his greasy pocket. The bacon and bread had little flakes of smoking tobacco all over it, because he carried his grub and tobacco in the same pocket. For a moment he introduced one corner of the bacon and bread in among his whiskers. Then he made the only remark that he uttered while we were together. He said:
So this driver was a gloomy guy. He only said one thing to me during that long forty-mile drive through the wilderness. Around dinner time, he pulled the horse under a quaking aspen tree, tied a nose bag of oats over its head, and took a hunk of bread and bacon out of his greasy pocket. The bacon and bread had little bits of smoking tobacco all over them because he kept his food and tobacco in the same pocket. For a moment, he pushed one corner of the bacon and bread into his whiskers. Then he made the only comment he had while we were together. He said:
“Pardner, dinner is now ready in the dining-car.”
“Partner, dinner is ready in the dining car now.”
A Powerful Speech.
I once knew a man who was nominated by his fellow citizens for a certain office and finally elected without having expended a cent for that purpose. He was very eccentric, but he made a good officer. When he heard that he was nominated, he went up, as he said, into the mountains to do some assessment work on a couple of claims. He got lost and didn't get his bearings until a day or two after election. Then he came into town hungry, greasy and ragged, but unpledged.
I once knew a man who was nominated by his fellow citizens for a certain office and was eventually elected without spending a penny on it. He was quite eccentric, but he turned out to be a good official. When he found out he was nominated, he said he went up into the mountains to work on a couple of claims. He got lost and didn’t find his way back until a day or two after the election. Then he came into town hungry, dirty, and scruffy, but free from any commitments.
He found that he was elected, and in answer to a telegram started off for 'Frisco to see a dying relative. He did not get back till the first of January. Then he filed his bond and sailed into the office. He fired several sedentary deputies who had been in the place twenty years just because they were good “workers.” That is, they were good workers at the polls. They saved all their energies for the campaign, and so they only had vitality enough left to draw their salaries during the balance of the two years.
He discovered that he had been elected, and in response to a telegram, he headed off to San Francisco to see a dying relative. He didn’t return until January 1st. After that, he filed his bond and took charge of the office. He let go of several long-time deputies who had been there for twenty years simply because they were considered good "workers." That is, they were good workers at the polls. They conserved all their energy for the campaign, leaving them with just enough to collect their salaries for the rest of the two years.
This man raised the county scrip from sixty to ninety-five in less than two years, and still they busted him in the next convention. He was too eccentric. One delegate asked what in Sam Hill would become of the country if every candidate should skin out during the campaign and rusticate in the mountains while the battle was being fought.
This guy raised the county's scrip from sixty to ninety-five in under two years, and still, they kicked him out in the next convention. He was too quirky. One delegate asked what on earth would happen to the country if every candidate just bailed during the campaign and took off to the mountains while the battle was going on.
Says he, “I am a delegate from the precinct of Rawhide Buttes, and I calklate I know what I am talkin' about. Gentlemen of the convention, just suppose that everybody, from the President of the United States down, was to git the nomination and then light out like a house afire and never come back till it was time to file his bond; what's going to become of us common drunkards to whom election is a noasis in the bad lands, an orange grove in the alkali flats?
He says, “I’m a representative from the Rawhide Buttes area, and I believe I know what I’m talking about. Gentlemen of the convention, just think about it: if everyone, from the President of the United States on down, were to get the nomination and then disappear like a shot, not returning until it was time to file their bond, what would happen to us ordinary drinkers for whom an election is an oasis in the badlands, an orange grove in the alkali flats?"
“Mr. Chairman, there's millions of dollars in this broad land waiting for the high tide of election day to come and float 'em down to where you and I, Mr. Chairman, as well as other parched and patriotic inebriates, can git a hold of 'em.
“Mr. Chairman, there are millions of dollars in this vast country waiting for election day to arrive so we can access them, allowing you and me, Mr. Chairman, along with other eager and patriotic drinkers, to get our hands on them.”
“Gentlemen, we talk about stringency and shrinkage of values, and all such funny business as that; but that's something I don't know a blamed thing about. What I can grapple with is this: If our county offices are worth $30,000, and there are other little after-claps and soft snaps, and walk-overs, worth, say $10,000, and the boys, say, are willing to do the fair thing, say, blow in fifteen per cent, to the central committee, and what they feel like on the outside, then politics, instead of a burden and a reproach, becomes a pleasing duty, a joyous occasion and a picnic to those whose lives might otherwise be a dreary monotone.
“Gentlemen, we talk about strictness and diminishing values, and all that strange stuff; but I honestly don’t know anything about that. What I can understand is this: If our county offices are worth $30,000, and there are some other little extras and bonuses worth around $10,000, and the guys are willing to do the right thing and contribute fifteen percent to the central committee, then politics, instead of being a burden and a shame, becomes an enjoyable responsibility, a happy event, and a fun outing for those whose lives might otherwise be a dull routine.”
“Mr. Chairman, the past two years has wrecked four campaign saloons, and a tinner who socked his wife's fortune into campaign torches is now in a land where torchlights is no good. Overcome by a dull market, a financial depression and a reserved central committee, he ate a package of Rough on Rats, and passed up the flume. He is now at rest over yonder.
“Mr. Chairman, the last two years have destroyed four campaign venues, and a tinsmith who invested his wife's fortune into campaign lights is now in a place where lanterns won't help him. Overwhelmed by a bad market, a financial downturn, and a hesitant central committee, he took a package of Rough on Rats and passed away. He is now at rest over there."
“Such instances would be common if we encouraged the eccentric economy of official cranks. It is an evil that is gnawing at the vitals of the republic. We must squench it or get left. There are millions of dollars in this country, Mr. Chairman, that, if we keep it out of the campaign, will get into the hands of the working classes, and then you and I, Mr. Chairman, and gentlemen of the convention, can starve to death. Keep the campaign money away from the soulless hired man, gentlemen, or good-bye John.
“Such situations would be common if we supported the quirky economy of official oddballs. It’s a problem that’s eating away at the core of our nation. We have to squash it or get left behind. There are millions of dollars in this country, Mr. Chairman, that, if we keep it out of the campaign, will end up in the hands of the working class, and then you and I, Mr. Chairman, and the gentlemen of the convention, could end up starving. Keep the campaign money away from the heartless hired hands, gentlemen, or goodbye John.”
“Mr. Chairman, excuse my emotion! It is almighty seldom that I make a speech, but when I do, I strive to get there with both feet. We must either work the campaign funds into their legitimate channels, or every blamed patriot within the sound of my voice will have to fasten on a tin bill and rustle for angle-worms amongst the hens. You hear me?”
“Mr. Chairman, please forgive my emotions! I rarely give a speech, but when I do, I make sure to dive in completely. We need to either direct the campaign funds properly, or every single patriot listening to me will have to put on a tin can and scramble for worms among the chickens. Do you hear me?”
{Terrific applause, during which the delicate odor of enthusiasm was noticed on the breath of the entire delegation.}
{Terrific applause, during which the distinct smell of excitement was noticed on the breath of the entire delegation.}
A Goat in a Frame.
Laramie has a seal brown goat, with iron gray chin whiskers and a breath like new mown hay.
Laramie has a seal brown goat, with iron gray chin whiskers and a breath that smells like freshly cut hay.
He has not had as hard a winter as the majority of stock on the Rocky mountains, because he is of a domestic turn of mind and tries to make man his friend. Though social in his nature, he never intrudes himself on people after they have intimated with a shotgun that they are weary of him.
He hasn't had as tough a winter as most of the livestock in the Rocky Mountains because he's more of a homebody and tries to befriend people. Even though he's social by nature, he never forces himself on anyone once they've made it clear with a shotgun that they want him gone.
When the world seems cold and dark to him, and everybody turns coldly away from him, he does not steal away by himself and die of corroding grief; he just lies down on the sidewalk in the sun and fills the air with the seductive fragrance of which he is the sole proprietor.
When the world feels cold and dark to him, and everyone turns their back on him, he doesn’t isolate himself and succumb to deep sadness; he simply lies down on the sidewalk in the sun and fills the air with the captivating scent that only he possesses.
One day, just as he had eaten his midday meal of boot heels and cold sliced atmosphere and kerosene barrel staves, he saw a man going along the street with a large looking glass under his arm.
One day, right after he had his lunch of boot heels and cold sliced atmosphere and kerosene barrel staves, he saw a man walking down the street with a big mirror under his arm.
The goat watched the man, and saw him set the mirror down by a gate and go inside the house after some more things that he was moving. Then the goat stammered with his tail a few times and went up to see if he could eat the mirror.
The goat watched the man and saw him place the mirror by a gate before heading into the house to grab a few more things he was moving. Then the goat flicked his tail a few times and approached to see if he could eat the mirror.
When he got pretty close to it, he saw a hungry-looking goat apparently coming toward him, so he backed off a few yards and went for him. There was a loud crash, and when the man came out he saw a full length portrait of a goat with a heavy, black walnut frame around it, going down the street with a great deal of apparent relish.
When he got close to it, he saw a hungry-looking goat seemingly approaching him, so he stepped back a few yards and went after it. There was a loud crash, and when the man came out, he saw a full-length portrait of a goat in a heavy black walnut frame, making its way down the street with noticeable enjoyment.
Then the man said something derogatory about the goat, and seemed offended about something.
Then the man said something insulting about the goat and seemed upset about something.
Goats are not timid in their nature and are easily domesticated.
Goats aren't shy by nature and can be easily tamed.
There are two kinds of goat—the cashmere goat and the plain goat. The former is worked up into cashmere shawls and cashmere bouquet. The latter is not.
There are two types of goats—the cashmere goat and the ordinary goat. The former is used to make cashmere shawls and cashmere fabric. The latter is not.
The cashmere bouquet of commerce is not made of the common goat. It is a good thing that it is not.
The cashmere bouquet of commerce doesn’t come from an ordinary goat. It’s a good thing it doesn’t.
A goat that has always been treated with uniform kindness and never betrayed, may be taught to eat out of the hand. Also out of the flour barrel or the ice-cream freezer.
A goat that has always been treated with consistent kindness and never let down can be trained to eat from the hand. It can also eat from the flour barrel or the ice cream freezer.
To a Married Man.
Adelbert G. Grimes writes as follows: “I am a young man not yet twenty-two years of age. I am said to be rather attractive in appearance and a fluent conversationalist. Three years ago I very foolishly married and settled on a tree claim in Dakota, where we have three children, consisting of one pair of twins and an ordinary child, born by itself. We are a considerable distance from town, and to remain at home during the winter with no company besides my wife and children is very irksome, especially as my wife has never had the advantages that I have in the way of society. Her conversational powers are very inferior, and I cannot bear to remain at home very much. So I go to town, where I can meet my equals and enjoy myself.
Adelbert G. Grimes writes as follows: “I’m a young man under twenty-two. People say I’m pretty good-looking and a smooth talker. Three years ago, I made a foolish decision to get married and settled on a tree claim in Dakota, where we have three kids—one set of twins and one singleton. We're quite far from town, and spending the winter at home with just my wife and kids drives me crazy, especially since my wife hasn’t had the social opportunities I have. Her conversation skills are pretty limited, and I just can’t stand being home too much. So, I head to town, where I can meet my peers and have a good time."
“I fear that this will lead to an estrangement, for, when I return at night, my wife's nose is so red from sniveling all day that I can hardly bear to look at her. If there is anything in this world that I hate, it is a red-eyed, red-nosed woman who sheds tears on all occasions.
“I worry this will create distance between us, because when I come home at night, my wife’s nose is so red from crying all day that I can barely stand to look at her. If there's one thing I can't stand in this world, it's a woman with red eyes and a red nose who cries at every little thing.”
“Of course all this makes me irritable, and I say sharp things to her, as I have a wonderful command of language at such times. She surely cannot expect a young man twenty-two years old to stay at home day after day and listen to squalling children, when he is still in the heyday of life with joy beaming in his eye.
“Of course all this makes me irritable, and I say harsh things to her, as I have a great way with words during those times. She can’t honestly expect a twenty-two-year-old guy to just stay home day after day and listen to screaming kids when he’s still in the prime of life with joy shining in his eyes.”
“Of course I do say things to my wife that I am afterward sorry for, but I made a great mistake in marrying the woman I did, and although some of my lady friends told me so at the time, I did not then believe it. Do you think I ought to bury myself on a tree claim with a woman far my inferior, while I have talents that would shine in the best of society? I am greatly distressed, and would willingly seek a legal separation if I knew how to go about it. Will you kindly advise me? What do you think of my penmanship?”
“Of course, I say things to my wife that I regret later, but I made a huge mistake marrying her. Even though some of my female friends warned me about it at the time, I didn't believe them. Do you think I should settle down on a piece of land with a woman who is way below my level, when I have talents that would thrive in the best circles? I'm really upset and would gladly look for a legal separation if I knew how to do it. Could you please give me some advice? What do you think of my handwriting?”
I hardly know how to advise you, Adelbert. You have got yourself into a place where you cannot do much but remain and take your medicine. Unfortunately, there are too many such young men as you are, Adelbert. You are young, and handsome, and smart. You casually admit this in your letter, I see. You have a social nature, and would shine in society. You also reluctantly confess this. That does not help you in my estimation, Adelbert. If you are a bright and shining light in society, you are probably a brunette fizzle as a husband. When you resolved to take a tree claim and make a home in Dakota, why didn't you put your swallow-tail coat under the bed and retire from the giddy whirl and mad rush of society, the way your wife had to?
I hardly know how to advise you, Adelbert. You've gotten yourself into a situation where you can do little but stick it out and face the consequences. Unfortunately, there are too many young men like you, Adelbert. You're young, attractive, and smart. You acknowledge this casually in your letter, I see. You have a social nature and would shine in social settings, which you admit reluctantly. That doesn't do you any favors in my eyes, Adelbert. If you’re a bright and shining star in social life, you might end up being a dull disappointment as a husband. When you decided to claim land and settle down in Dakota, why didn't you toss your fancy coat aside and step back from the dizzying chaos of society, just like your wife had to?
I dislike very much to speak to you in a plain, blunt way, Adelbert, being a total stranger to you, but when you convey the idea in your letter that you have made a great mistake in marrying at the age of nineteen, and marrying far beneath yourself, I am forced to agree with you. If, instead of marrying a young girl who didn't know any better than to believe that you were a man, instead of a fractional one, you had come to me, and borrowed my revolver and blown out the fungus growth which you refer to as your brains, you would have bit it. Even now it is not too late. You can still come to me, and I will oblige you. You cannot do your wife a greater favor at this time than to leave her a widow, and the sooner you do so the less orphans there will be.
I really don’t like speaking to you so directly, Adelbert, since we’re total strangers, but when you suggest in your letter that you’ve made a huge mistake marrying at nineteen and marrying someone beneath your level, I have to agree. If you had come to me instead of marrying a young girl who didn’t know any better than to think you were a real man and not just a shell of one, and if you had borrowed my revolver to take care of the mess you call your brains, it would have been better for you. It’s still not too late. You can come to me, and I’ll help you. You can't do your wife a bigger favor right now than to leave her a widow, and the sooner you do it, the fewer orphans there will be.
{Illustration: “I HAVE A WONDERFUL COMMAND OF LANGUAGE."}
{Illustration: “I HAVE A WONDERFUL COMMAND OF LANGUAGE."}
Did it ever occur to you, Adelbert, that your wife made a mistake also? Did it ever bore itself through your adamantine skull that it is not an unbroken round of gayety for a young girl to shut herself up in a lonesome house for three years, gradually acquiring children, and meantime being “sassed” by her husband because she is not a fluent conversationalist?
Did it ever cross your mind, Adelbert, that your wife made a mistake too? Did it ever penetrate your thick skull that it’s not all fun and games for a young woman to lock herself away in a lonely house for three years, gradually having kids, while being teased by her husband for not being a great talker?
Wherein you offend me, Adelbert, is that you persist in breathing the air which human beings and other domestic animals more worthy than yourself are entitled to. There are too many such imitation men at large. There should be a law that would prohibit your getting up and walking on your hind legs and thus imposing on other mammals. If I could run the government for a few weeks, Adelbert, I would compel your style of zoological wonder to climb a tree and stay there.
Where you annoy me, Adelbert, is that you continue to take up space that humans and other more deserving animals should be using. There are too many fake people around. There should be a rule that stops you from getting up and walking on two legs and fooling other mammals. If I could run the government for just a few weeks, Adelbert, I would force your kind of bizarre creature to climb a tree and stay there.
So you married a woman who was far your inferior, did you? How did you do it? Where did you go to find a woman who could be your inferior and still keep out of the menagerie? Adelbert, I fear you do your wife a great injustice. With just barely enough vitality to hand your name down to posterity and blast the fair future of Dakota by leaving your trade-mark on future generations, you snivel and whine over your blasted life! If your life had been blasted a little harder twenty years ago, the life of your miserable little wife would have been less blasted.
So you married a woman who was way below you, huh? How did you manage that? Where did you find a woman who could be beneath you and still stay out of the circus? Adelbert, I worry that you’re being really unfair to your wife. With just enough energy to pass your name down to future generations and ruin the bright future of Dakota by leaving your mark, you complain and moan about your messed-up life! If your life had been a bit more messed up twenty years ago, your poor little wife’s life would have been a lot less miserable.
If you had acquired a little more croup twenty years ago, Dakota would have been ahead. Why did you go on year after year, permitting people to believe you were a man, when you could have undeceived them in two minutes by crawling into a hollow log and remaining there?
If you had picked up a bit more courage twenty years ago, Dakota would have been in a better position. Why did you keep letting people think you were a man year after year when you could have set them straight in just two minutes by crawling into a hollow log and staying there?
Your penmanship is very good. It is better than your chances for a bright immortality beyond the grave. Write to me again whenever you feel lonesome or want advice. I was a young married man myself once, and I know what they have to endure. Up to the time of my marriage, I had never known a harsher tone than a flute note; my early life ran quiet as the clear brook by which I sported, and so on. I was a great belle in society, also. I attended all the swell balls and parties in our county for years. Wherever you found fair women and brave men tripping the light bombastic toe, you would also find me. “Sometimes I played second violin, and sometimes I called off.”
Your handwriting is really good. It's better than your chances for a bright afterlife. Write to me again whenever you’re feeling lonely or need some advice. I was a young married man myself once, and I know what they go through. Until I got married, I had never experienced a harsher sound than a flute note; my early life was as calm as the clear stream where I used to play. I was also quite popular in society. I went to all the fancy balls and parties in our county for years. Wherever you found beautiful women and brave men dancing, you would also find me. “Sometimes I played second violin, and sometimes I led the dances.”
To an Embryo Poet.
The following correspondence is now given to the press for the first time, with the consent of the parties:
The following correspondence is now being released to the press for the first time, with the agreement of the parties:
Wm. Nye, Esq.—Dear Sir-I am a young man, 20 years of age, with fair education and a strong desire to succeed. I have done some writing for the press, having written up a very nice article on progressive euchre, which was a great success and published in our home paper, But it was not copied so much in other papers as I would like to have saw it, and I take my pen in hand at this time to write and ask you what there is in the article enclosed that prevents its being copied abroad all over our broad land. I write just as I hope you would feel perfectly free to write me at any time. I think that writers ought to aid each other. Yours with kind regards,
Wm. Nye, Esq.—Dear Sir—I'm a 20-year-old man with a decent education and a strong desire to succeed. I've done some writing for the press, including a really well-received article on progressive euchre that got published in our local newspaper. However, it wasn't picked up by as many other papers as I had hoped. I'm writing now to ask you what you think might be holding it back from being shared widely across the country. I want to be open with you, just like I hope you would feel comfortable reaching out to me anytime. I believe writers should support each other. Yours sincerely,
Algernon L. Tewey.
Algernon L. Tewey.
P.O. Box 202.
P.O. Box 202.
I have carefully read and pondered over the dissertation on progressive euchre which you send me, Algernon, and I cannot see why it should not be ravenously seized and copied by the press of the broad, wide land referred to in your letters. If you have time, perhaps it would be well enough to go to the leading journalists of our country and ask them what they mean by it. You might write till your vertebrae fell out of your clothes on the floor, and it would not do half so much good as a personal conference with the editors of America. First prepare your article, then go personally to the editors of the country and call them one by one out into the hall, in a current of cold air, and explain the article to them. In that way you will form pleasant acquaintances and get solid with our leading journalists. You have no idea, Algernon, how lonely and desolate the life of a practical journalist is. Your fresh young face and your fresh young ways, and your charming grammatical improvisations, would delight an editor who has nothing to do from year to year but attend to his business.
I have carefully read and thought about the dissertation on progressive euchre that you sent me, Algernon, and I can’t understand why the press across this vast land you mention in your letters hasn’t eagerly picked it up and shared it. If you have the time, it might be a good idea to approach some of the top journalists in our country and ask them what they really think about it. You could write until you’re exhausted, but it wouldn't have nearly the same impact as a personal conversation with the editors. First, draft your article, then meet with the editors in person and pull them aside into a hallway, where you can explain your article to them in a refreshing breeze. That way, you’ll make good connections and solidify your relationships with our leading journalists. You have no idea, Algernon, how lonely and isolating the life of a working journalist can be. Your youthful energy, fresh perspectives, and charming grammatical improvisations would really delight an editor who spends their days just trying to keep up with their work.
Do not try to win the editors of America by writing poems beginning:
Do not try to win over the editors of America by starting your poems with:
Now the merry goatlet jumps,
And the trifling yaller dog,
With the tin can madly humps
Like an acrobatic frog.
Now the cheerful little goat jumps,
And the silly yellow dog,
With the tin can wildly hops
Like an acrobatic frog.At times you will be tempted to write such stuff as this, and mark it with a large blue pencil and send it to the papers of the country, but that is not a good way to do.
At times, you might feel like writing things like this, marking it with a big blue pencil, and sending it to newspapers across the country, but that's not the right approach.
Seriously, Algernon, I would suggest that you make a bold dash for success by writing things that other people are not writing, thinking things that other people are not thinking, and saying things that other people are not saying. You will say that this advice is easier to give than to take, and I agree with you. But the tendency of the age is to wear the same style of collar and coat and hat that every other man wears, and to talk and write like other men; and to be frank with you, Algernon, I think it is an infernal shame. If you will look carefully about you, you will see that the preacher, who is talking mostly to dusty pew cushions, is also the preacher who is thinking the thoughts of other men. He is “up-ending” his barrel of sermons annually, and they were made in the first place from the sermons of a man who also “up-ended” his barrel annually. Go where the preacher is talking to full houses, and you will discover that his sermons are full of humanity and originality. They are not written in a library by a man with interchangeable ideas, an automatic cog-wheel thinker, but they are prepared by a man who earnestly and honestly studies the great, aching heart of humanity, and full of sincerity, originality and old-fashioned Christianity, appeals to your better impulses.
Seriously, Algernon, I suggest you take a bold leap toward success by creating things that others aren't creating, thinking thoughts that others aren't thinking, and saying things that others aren't saying. You might say that this advice is easier said than done, and I agree with you. But the trend today is to wear the same type of collar, coat, and hat that everyone else is wearing, and to talk and write like everyone else does; and to be honest with you, Algernon, I think it's a real shame. If you look around you, you'll see that the preacher, who mostly talks to empty pews, is also the one thinking the same thoughts as everyone else. He’s just recycling his sermons every year, which were originally based on the sermons of someone else who did the same thing. Go where the preacher is speaking to packed houses, and you'll find that his sermons are filled with genuine humanity and originality. They aren’t written in a library by someone with generic ideas, someone who thinks like a machine, but are crafted by someone who sincerely studies the deep, aching heart of humanity and, with honesty, originality, and traditional Christianity, reaches out to your better instincts.
How is it with our poetry? As a fellow-traveler and sea-sick tourist across life's tempestuous tide, I ask you, Algernon, who is writing the poetry that will live? Is it the man who is sawing out and sandpapering stanzas of the same general dimensions as some other poet, in which he bewails the fact that he loved a tall, well-behaved, accomplished girl, sixteen hands high, who did not require his love?
How are we doing with our poetry? As a fellow traveler and seasick tourist navigating life's rough waters, I ask you, Algernon, who is writing the poetry that will endure? Is it the person crafting and refining stanzas similar in size to those of other poets, lamenting that he loved a tall, well-mannered, talented girl, sixteen hands high, who didn’t return his affection?
Ah, no! He is not the poet whose terra cotta statue will stand in the cemetery, wearing a laurel wreath and a lumpy brow. Show me the poet who is intimate with nature and who studies the little joys and sorrows of the poor; who smells the clover and writes about live, healthy people with ideas and appetites. He is my poet.
Ah, no! He isn't the poet whose clay statue will sit in the cemetery, wearing a laurel wreath and a lumpy brow. Show me the poet who connects with nature and pays attention to the small joys and sorrows of the poor; who smells the clover and writes about vibrant, healthy people with ideas and desires. He is my poet.
I apologize for speaking so earnestly, Algernon, but I saw by your letter that you felt kindly toward me, and rather invited an expression of opinion on my part. So I have written more freely, perhaps, than I otherwise would. We are both writers. Measurably so, at least. You write on progressive euchre, and I write on anything that I can get hold of. So let us agree here and promise each other that, whatever we do, we will not think through the thinker of another man.
I’m sorry for being so serious, Algernon, but I noticed from your letter that you had a good opinion of me and seemed to welcome my thoughts. So I’ve written more openly, maybe, than I normally would. We both write, to some extent. You focus on progressive euchre, and I write about whatever I can find. So let’s agree and promise each other that, no matter what we do, we won’t just echo someone else’s thoughts.
The Great Ruler of the universe has made and placed upon the earth a good many millions of men, but He never made any two of them exactly alike. We may differ from every one of the countless millions who have preceded us, and still be safe. Even you and I, Algernon, may agree in many matters, and yet be very dissimilar. At least I hope so, and I presume you do also.
The Great Ruler of the universe has created and set on earth a good many millions of people, but He never made any two of them exactly alike. We can differ from all the countless millions who came before us and still be fine. Even you and I, Algernon, can agree on many things and still be quite different. At least I hope so, and I assume you do too.
Eccentricities of Genius.
Alfonso Quanturnernit Dowdell, Frumenti, Ohio, writes to know something of the effects of alcohol on the brain of an adult, being evidently apprehensive that some day he may become an adult himself He says:
Alfonso Quanturnernit Dowdell, Frumenti, Ohio, writes to learn about the effects of alcohol on an adult's brain, clearly concerned that he might become an adult himself one day. He says:
“I would be glad to know whether or not you think that liquor stimulates the brain to do better literary work. I have been studying the personal history of Edgar A. Poe, and learned through that medium that he was in the habit of drinking a good deal of liquor at times. I also read that George D. Prentice, who wrote 'The Closing Year,' and other nice poems, was a hearty drinker. Will you tell me whether this is all true or not, and also what the effect of alcohol is on the brain of an adult?”
“I’d like to know if you think that alcohol helps improve literary work. I’ve been studying the life of Edgar A. Poe and found out that he often drank quite a bit. I also read that George D. Prentice, who wrote 'The Closing Year' and other beautiful poems, was also a heavy drinker. Can you let me know if this is true and what the effects of alcohol are on an adult's brain?”
It is said on good authority that Edgar A. Poe ever and anon imbibed the popular beverages of his day and age, some of which contained alcohol. We are led to believe these statements because they remain as yet undenied. But Poe did a great deal of good in that way, for he set an example that has been followed ever since, more or less, by quite a number of poets' apprentices who emulated Poe's great gift as a drinker. These men, thinking that poesy and delirium tremens went hand in hand, became fluent drunkards early in their career, so that finally, instead of issuing a small blue volume of poems they punctuated a drunkard's grave.
It is said by reliable sources that Edgar A. Poe occasionally enjoyed the popular drinks of his time, some of which had alcohol in them. We tend to believe these claims because they have never been denied. However, Poe actually did a lot of good in this regard, as he set an example that many poets' apprentices have followed to varying degrees since then, aspiring to Poe's remarkable talent for drinking. These individuals, believing that poetry and drunkenness were closely linked, became heavy drinkers early in their careers, so that ultimately, instead of publishing a small collection of poems, they ended up marking a drunkard's grave.
So we see that Poe did a great work aside from what he wrote. He opened up a way for these men which eradicated them, and made life more desirable for those who remained. He made it easy for those who thought genius and inebriation were synonymous terms to get to the hospital early in the day, while the overworked waste-basket might secure a few hours of much needed rest.
So we can see that Poe did significant work beyond his writing. He paved the way for these men, which caused their downfall, and made life better for those who stayed. He made it easier for those who believed that genius and being drunk were the same thing to get to the hospital early, while the overworked trash can could finally get a few hours of much-needed rest.
George D. Prentice has also done much toward weeding out a class of people who otherwise might have become disagreeable. It is better that these men who write under the influence of rum should fall into the hands of the police as early as possible. The police can handle them better than the editor can.
George D. Prentice has also done a lot to filter out a group of people who might have turned out to be unpleasant. It’s better for these men, who write under the influence of alcohol, to be caught by the police as soon as possible. The police can manage them better than the editor can.
Do not try, Alfonso, to experiment in this way. Because Mr. Poe and Mr. Prentice could write beautiful and witty things between drinks, do not, oh do not imagine that you can begin that way and succeed at last.
Do not try this way, Alfonso. Just because Mr. Poe and Mr. Prentice could write beautiful and clever things while drinking, do not, oh do not think that you can start that way and eventually succeed.
The effect of alcohol on the brain of an adult is to congest it finally. Alcohol will sometimes congest the brain of an adult under the most trying and discouraging circumstances. I have frequently known it to scorch out and paralyze the brain in cases where other experiments had not been successful in showing the presence of a brain at all.
The impact of alcohol on an adult's brain ultimately leads to congestion. Alcohol can occasionally congest an adult's brain during extremely challenging and discouraging situations. I've often seen it burn out and paralyze the brain in instances where other tests had failed to demonstrate any brain activity at all.
{Illustration: THINKING ABOUT THE POEM.}
{Illustration: CONTEMPLATING THE POEM.}
That is the reason why some people love to fool with this great chemical. It revives their suspicions regarding the presence of a brain.
That’s why some people like to mess around with this amazing chemical. It sparks their doubts about whether there's actually a brain present.
The habits of literary men vary a good deal, for no two of them seem to care to adopt the same plan.
The habits of writers can be quite different, as no two of them seem to want to follow the same approach.
I have taken the liberty of showing here my own laboratory and methods of thought. This is from a drawing made by myself, and represents the writer in his study and in the act of thinking about a poem.
I took the freedom to present my own workspace and thinking process. This is a drawing I made, showing me in my study, deep in thought about a poem.
Last summer I wrote a large poem entitled, “Moanings of the Moist, Malarious Sea.” I have it still. The back of it has a memoranda on it in blue pencil from the leading editors of our broad land, but otherwise it is just as I wrote it.
Last summer, I wrote a long poem called “Moanings of the Moist, Malarious Sea.” I still have it. The back has notes in blue pencil from the top editors across the country, but apart from that, it's exactly as I wrote it.
The engraving represents me in the act of thinking about the poem, and what I will do with the money when I get it.
The engraving depicts me contemplating the poem and what I'll do with the money once I receive it.
I am now preparing a poem entitled, “The Umbrella.” It is a dainty little bit of verse, and my hired man thinks it is a gem. I called it “The Umbrella” so that it would not be returned.
I’m currently working on a poem called “The Umbrella.” It’s a charming little piece, and my worker believes it’s a gem. I named it “The Umbrella” to avoid it being sent back.
By looking at the drawing you will see the rapid change of expression on the face as the work goes on.
By looking at the drawing, you’ll notice the quick change in expression on the face as the work progresses.
I give the drawing in order also, to show the rich furniture of the room. All poets do not revel in such gaudy trappings as I do, but I cannot write well in a bare and ill-furnished room. In these apartments there is also a window which does not show in the engraving. I have tried over and over again to write a poem in a room that had no window in it, but I cannot say that I ever wrote one under such circumstances that I thought would live.
I’m sharing the drawing in order to show the room's rich furnishings. Not all poets enjoy such extravagant decor as I do, but I can’t write well in a bare, poorly furnished room. These rooms also have a window that isn’t shown in the engraving. I’ve tried repeatedly to write a poem in a room without a window, but I can’t say I’ve ever written anything under those conditions that I believed would endure.
You can do as you think best about furnishing your room as I have mine. You might, of course, succeed as well by writing in a plainer apartment, but I could not. All my poetical work that was done in the cramped and plainly furnished room that I formerly occupied over Knadler's livery stable, was ephemeral.
You can decorate your room however you feel is best, just like I did mine. Sure, you might do just as well writing in a simpler space, but I couldn't. All the poetry I wrote in that small, basic room I used to have above Knadler's livery stable didn't last.
It got into a few of the leading autograph albums of the country, but it never got into the papers.
It made it into a few of the top autograph albums in the country, but it never appeared in the newspapers.
I would not use alcohol, however. Poe and Prentice could use it, but I never could. After a long debauch, I could always work well enough on the street but I could not do literary work.
I wouldn't use alcohol, though. Poe and Prentice could handle it, but I never could. After a long binge, I could always manage well enough on the street, but I couldn't do any writing.
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