“If a breach of trust is committed, you know that the defaulter was the last man of whom such an act would be suspected, and, except in the one detail of its location and sect, that he was prominent in some church. You can calculate to a cent how much has been stolen by a glance at the amount of space devoted to the account of the crime. Loaf of bread, two lines. Thousand dollars, ten lines. Hundred thousand dollars, half-column. Million dollars, a full column. Five million dollars, half the front page, wood-cut of the embezzler, and two editorials, one leader and one paragraph.
“And so with everything. We are creatures of habit. The expected always happens, and newspapers are dull because the events they chronicle are dull.”
“Granting the truth of this,” put in the School-Master, “what do you propose to do?”
“Get up a newspaper that will devote its space to telling what hasn’t happened.”
“That’s been done,” said the Bibliomaniac.
“To a much more limited extent than we think,” returned the Idiot. “It has never been done consistently and truthfully.”
“I fail to see how a newspaper can be made to prevaricate truthfully,” asserted Mr. Whitechoker. To tell the truth, he was greatly disappointed with the idea, because he could not in the nature of things become one of its beneficiaries.
“I haven’t suggested prevarication,” said the Idiot. “Put on your front page, for instance, an item like this: ‘George Bronson, colored, aged twenty-nine, a resident of Thompson Street, was caught cheating at poker last night. He was not murdered.’ There you tell what has not happened. There is a variety about it. It has the charm of the unexpected. Then you might say: ‘Curious incident on Wall Street yesterday. So-and-so, who was caught on the bear side of the market with 10,000 shares of J. B. & S. K. W., paid off all his obligations in full, and retired from business with 11,000,000 clear.’ Or we might say, ‘Superintendent Smithers, of the St. Goliath’s Sunday-school, who is also cashier in the Forty-eighth National Bank, has not absconded with $4,000,000.’ ”
“Oh, that’s a rich idea,” put in the SchoolMaster. “You’d earn $1,000,000 in libel suits the first year.”
“No, you wouldn’t, either,” said the Idiot. “You don’t libel a man when you say he hasn’t murdered anybody. Quite the contrary, you call attention to his conspicuous virtue. You are in reality commending those who refrain from criminal practice, instead of delighting those who are fond of departing from the paths of Christianity by giving them notoriety.”
“But I fail to see in what respect Mr. Pedagog and I are essential to your scheme,” said the Bibliomaniac.
“I must confess to some curiosity on my own part on that point,” added the SchoolMaster.
“Why, it’s perfectly clear,” returned the Idiot, with a conciliating smile as he prepared to depart. “You both know so much that isn’t so, that I rather rely on you to fill up.”
SOURCE: John Kendrick Bangs. The Idiot. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1895.
ROLLO LEARNING TO READ (1897)
Robert J. Burdette
Hailing from Pennsylvania, Burdette (1844–1914) fought for the Union in the Civil War. He was an editor and popular writer of humor pieces in Iowa before becoming a pastor in Pasadena.
WHEN ROLLO WAS five years young, his father said to him one evening: “Rollo, put away your roller skates and bicycle, carry that rowing machine out into the hall, and come to me. It is time for you to learn to read.”
Then Rollo’s father opened the book which he had sent home on a truck and talked to the little boy about it. It was Bancroft’s History of the United States, half complete in twenty-three volumes. Rollo’s father explained to Rollo and Mary his system of education, with special reference to Rollo’s learning to read. His plan was that Mary should teach Rollo fifteen hours a day for ten years, and by that time Rollo would be half through the beginning of the first volume, and would like it very much indeed.
Rollo was delighted at the prospect. He cried aloud: “Oh, papa! thank you very much. When I read this book clear through, all the way to the end of the last volume, may I have another little book to read?”
“No,” replied his father, “that may not be; because you will never get to the last volume of this one. For as fast as you read one volume, the author of this history, or his heirs, executors, administrators, or assigns, will write another as an appendix. So even though you should live to be a very old man, like the boy preacher, this history will always be twenty-three volumes ahead of you. Now, Mary and Rollo, this will be a hard task (pronounced tawsk) for both of you, and Mary must remember that Rollo is a very little boy, and must be very patient and gentle.”
The next morning after the one preceding it, Mary began the first lesson. In the beginning she was so gentle and patient that her mother went away and cried, because she feared her dear little daughter was becoming too good for this sinful world, and might soon spread her wings and fly away and be an angel.
But in the space of a short time, the novelty of the expedition wore off, and Mary resumed running her temper—which was of the old-fashioned, low-pressure kind, just forward of the firebox—on its old schedule. When she pointed to “A” for the seventh time, and Rollo said “W,” she tore the page out by the roots, hit her little brother such a whack over the head with the big book that it set his birthday back six weeks, slapped him twice, and was just going to bite him, when her mother came in. Mary told her that Rollo had fallen down stairs and torn his book and raised that dreadful lump on his head. This time Mary’s mother restrained her emotion, and Mary cried. But it was not because she feared her mother was pining away. Oh, no; it was her mother’s rugged health and virile strength that grieved Mary, as long as the seance lasted, which was during the entire performance.
That evening Rollo’s father taught Rollo his lesson and made Mary sit by and observe his methods, because, he said, that would be normal instruction for her. He said: “Mary, you must learn to control your temper and curb your impatience if you want to wear low-neck dresses, and teach school. You must be sweet and patient, or you will never succeed as a teacher. Now, Rollo, what is this letter?”
“I dunno,” said Rollo, resolutely.
“That is A,” said his father, sweetly.
“Huh,” replied Rollo, “I knowed that.”
“Then why did you not say so?” replied his father, so sweetly that Jonas, the hired boy, sitting in the corner, licked his chops.
Rollo’s father went on with the lesson: “What is this, Rollo?”
“I dunno,” said Rollo, hesitatingly.
“Sure?” asked his father. “You do not know what it is?”
“Nuck,” said Rollo.
“It is A,” said his father.
“A what?” asked Rollo.
“A nothing,” replied his father, “it is just A. Now, what is it?”
“Just A,” said Rollo.
“Do not be flip, my son,” said Mr. Holliday, “but attend to your lesson. What letter is this?”
“I dunno,” said Rollo.
“Don’t fib to me,” said his father, gently, “you said a minute ago that you knew. That is N.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Rollo, meekly. Rollo, although he was a little boy, was no slouch, if he did wear bibs; he knew where he lived without looking at the door-plate. When it came time to be meek, there was no boy this side of the planet Mars who could be meeker, on shorter notice. So he said, “Yes, sir,” with that subdued and well pleased alacrity of a boy who has just been asked to guess the answer to the conundrum, “Will you have another piece of pie?”
“Well,” said his father, rather suddenly, “what is it?”
“M,” said Rollo, confidently.
“N!” yelled his father, in three-line Gothic.
“N,” echoed Rollo, in lower case nonpareil.
“B-a-n,” said his father, “what does that spell?”
“Cat?” suggested Rollo, a trifle uncertainly.
“
Cat?” snapped his father, with a sarcastic inflection, “b-a-n, cat! Where were you raised? Ban! B-a-n—Ban! Say it! Say it, or I’ll get at you with a skate-strap!”
“B-a-m, ban’d,” said Rollo, who was beginning to wish that he had a rain-check and could come back and see the remaining innings some other day.
“Ba-a-a-an!” shouted his father, “B-a-n, Ban, Ban, Ban! Now say Ban!”
“Ban,” said Rollo, with a little gasp.
“That’s right,” his father said, in an encouraging tone; “you will learn to read one of these years if you give your mind to it. All he needs, you see, Mary, is a teacher who doesn’t lose patience with him the first time he makes a mistake. Now, Rollo, how do you spell, B-a-n—Ban?”
Rollo started out timidly on c-a—then changed to d-o—and finally compromised on h-e-n.
Mr. Holiday made a pass at him with Volume I, but Rollo saw it coming and got out of the way.
“B-a-n!” his father shouted, “B-a-n, Ban! Ban! Ban! Ban! Ban! Now go on, if you think you know how to spell that! What comes next? Oh, you’re enough to tire the patience of Job! I’ve a good mind to make you learn by the Pollard system, and begin where you leave off! Go ahead, why don’t you? Whatta you waiting for? Read on! What comes next? Why, croft, of course; anybody ought to know that—c-r-o-f-t, croft, Bancroft! What does that apostrophe mean? I mean, what does that punctuation mark between t and s stand for? You don’t know? Take that, then! (whack). What comes after Bancroft? Spell it! Spell it, I tell you, and don’t be all night about it! Can’t, eh? Well, read it then; if you can’t spell it, read it. H-i-s-t-o-r-y-ry, history; Bancroft’s History of the United States! Now what does that spell? I mean, spell that! Spell it! Oh, go away! Go to bed! Stupid, stupid child,” he added as the little boy went weeping out of the room, “he’ll never learn anything so long as he lives. I declare he has tired me all out, and I used to teach school in Trivoli township, too. Taught one whole winter in district number three when Nick Worthington was county superintendent, and had my salary—. . . Look here, Mary, what do you find in that English grammar to giggle about? You go to bed, too, and listen to me—if Rollo can’t read that whole book clear through without making a mistake tomorrow night, you’ll wish you had been born without a back, that’s all.”
The following morning, when Rollo’s father drove away to business, he paused a moment as Rollo stood at the gate for a final goodbye kiss—for Rollo’s daily goodbyes began at the door and lasted as long as his father was in sight—Mr. Holliday said: “Some day, Rollo, you will thank me for teaching you to read.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Rollo, respectfully, and then added, “but not this day.”
Rollo’s head, though it had here and there transient bumps consequent upon football practice, was not naturally or permanently hilly. On the contrary, it was quite level.
SOURCE: Robert J. Burdette. Chimes from a Jester’s Bells: Stories and Sketches. Indianapolis: Bowen-Merrill Company, 1897.
THE WISH AND THE DEED (1903)
Max Adeler (Charles Heber Clark)
Born in Maryland, Clark (1841–1915), fought for the Union in the Civil War. He wrote and published several humorous books in the 1870s and 1880s. Clark took his pen-name from a character in a book he had loved as a boy. This story was later retitled as “The Millionaires.”
IT HAD ALWAYS been one of the luxuries of the Grimeses to consider what they would do if they were rich. Many a time George and his wife, sitting together of a summer evening upon the porch of their own pretty house in Susanville, had looked at the long unoccupied country-seat of General Jenkins, just across the way, and wished they had money enough to buy the place and give it to the village for a park.
Mrs. Grimes often said that if she had a million dollars, the very first thing she would do would be to purchase the Jenkins place. George’s idea was to tear down the fences, throwing everything open, and to dedicate the grounds to the public. Mrs. Grimes wanted to put a great free library in the house and to have a club for poor workingwomen in the second-floor rooms. George estimated that one hundred thousand dollars would be enough to carry out their plans. Say fifty thousand dollars for purchase money, and then fifty more invested at six percent, to maintain the place.
“But if we had a million,” said George, “I think I should give one hundred and fifty thousand to the enterprise and do the thing right. There would always be repairs and new books to buy and matters of that kind.”
But this was not the only benevolent dream of these kindhearted people. They liked to think of the joy that would fill the heart of that poor struggling pastor, Mr. Borrow, if they could tell him that they would pay the whole debt of the Presbyterian Church, six thousand dollars.
“And I would have his salary increased, George,” said Mrs. Grimes. “It is shameful to compel that poor man to live on a thousand dollars.”
“Outrageous,” said George. “I would guarantee him another thousand, and maybe more; but we should have to do it quietly, for fear of wounding him.”
“That mortgage on the Methodist Church,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Imagine the happiness of those poor people in having it lifted! And so easy to do, too, if we had a million dollars.”
“Certainly, and I would give the Baptists a handsome pipe-organ instead of that wheezing melodeon. Dreadful, isn’t it?”
“You can get a fine organ for $2,000,” said Mrs. Grimes.
“Yes, of course, but I wouldn’t be mean about it; not mean on a million dollars. Let them have a really good organ, say for $3,000 or $3,500; and then build them a parsonage, too.”
“The fact is,” said Mrs. Grimes, “that people like us really ought to have large wealth, for we know how to use it rightly.”
“I often think of that,” answered George. “If I know my own soul I long to do good. It makes my heart bleed to see the misery about us, misery I am absolutely unable to relieve. I am sure that if I really had a million dollars I should not want to squander it on mere selfish pleasure, nor would you. The greatest happiness any one can have is in making others happy; and it is a wonder to me that our rich people don’t see this. Think of old General Jenkins and his twenty million dollars, and what we would do for our neighbors with a mere fraction of that!”
“For we really want nothing much for ourselves,” said Mrs. Grimes. “We are entirely satisfied with what we have in this lovely little home and with your $2,000 salary from the bank.”
“Almost entirely,” said George. “There are some few little things we might add in—just a few; but with a million we could easily get them and more and have such enormous amounts of money left.”
“Almost the first thing I would do,” said Mrs. Grimes, “would be to settle a comfortable living for life on poor Isaac Wickersham. That man, George, crippled as he is, lives on next to nothing. I don’t believe he has two hundred dollars a year.”
“Well, we could give him twelve hundred and not miss it and then give the same sum to Widow Clausen. She can barely keep alive.”
“And there’s another thing I’d do,” said Mrs. Grimes. “If we kept a carriage I would never ride up alone from the station or for pleasure. I would always find some poor or infirm person to go with me. How people can be so mean about their horses and carriages as some rich people are is beyond my comprehension.”
It is delightful pastime, expending in imagination large sums of money that you haven’t got. You need not regard considerations of prudence. You can give free rein to your feelings and bestow your bounty with reckless profusion. You obtain almost all the pleasure of large giving without any cost. You feel nearly as happy as if you were actually doing the good deeds which are the children of your fancy.
George Grimes and his wife had considered so often the benevolences they would like to undertake if they had a million dollars that they could have named them all at a moment’s notice without referring to a memorandum. Nearly everybody has engaged in this pastime, but the Grimeses were to have the singular exper
ience of the power to make their dream a reality placed in their hands.
For one day George came flying home from the bank with a letter from the executors of General Jenkins (who died suddenly in Mexico a week or two before) announcing that the General had left a million dollars and the country-seat in Susanville to George Grimes.
“And to think, Mary Jane,” said George when the first delirium of their joy had passed, “the dear old man was kind enough to say—here, let me read it to you again from the quotation from the will in the letter: I make this bequest because, from repeated conversations with the said George Grimes, I know that he will use it aright.’ So you see, dear, it was worth while, wasn’t it, to express our benevolent wishes sometimes when we spoke of the needs of those who are around us?”
“Yes, and the General’s kind remark makes this a sacred trust, which we are to administer for him.”
“We are only his stewards.”
“Stewards for his bounty.”
Humorous American Short Stories Page 12
