The Wit and Humor of America, Volume II. (of X.)

by Ambrose Bierce

  THE STRIKE AT HINMAN'S

  BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

  Away back in the fifties, "Hinman's" was not only the best school inPeoria, but it was the greatest school in the world. I sincerely thoughtso then, and as I was a very lively part of it, I should know. Mr.Hinman was the Faculty, and he was sufficiently numerous to demonstratecube root with one hand and maintain discipline with the other. Dear oldman; boys and girls with grandchildren love him to-day, and think of himamong their blessings. He was superintendent of public instruction,board of education, school trustee, county superintendent, principal ofthe high school and janitor. He had a pleasant smile, a genius formathematics, and a West Point idea of obedience and discipline. Hecarried upon his person a grip that would make the imported malady whichmocks that name in these degenerate days, call itself Slack, in veryterror at having assumed the wrong title.

  We used to have "General Exercises" on Friday afternoon. The mostexciting feature of this weekly frivolity consisted of a free-for-allexercise in mental arithmetic. Mr. Hinman gave out lists of numbers,beginning with easy ones and speaking slowly; each succeeding list hedictated more rapidly and with ever-increasing complications ofaddition, subtraction, multiplication and division, until at last he wasgiving them out faster than he could talk. One by one the pupils droppedout of the race with despairing faces, but always at the closingperemptory:

  "Answer?"

  At least a dozen hands shot into the air and as many voices shouted thecorrect result. We didn't have many books, and the curriculum of anIllinois school in those days was not academic; but two things thechildren could do, they could spell as well as the dictionary and theycould handle figures. Some of the fellows fairly wallowed in them. Ididn't. I simply drowned in the shallowest pond of numbers that everspread itself on the page. As even unto this day I do the same.

  Well, one year the Teacher introduced an innovation; "compositions" bythe girls and "speakin' pieces" by the boys. It was easy enough for thegirls, who had only to read the beautiful thought that "spring is thepleasantest season of the year." Now and then a new girl, from the east,awfully precise, would begin her essay--"spring is the most pleasantseason of the year," and her would we call down with derisive laughter,whereat she walked to her seat, very stiffly, with a proud dry-eyed lookin her face, only to lay her head upon her desk when she reached it, andweep silently until school closed. But "speakin' pieces" did not meetwith favor from the boys, save one or two good boys who were in trainingby their parents for congressmen or presidents.

  The rest of us, who were just boys, with no desire ever to be anythingelse, endured the tyranny of compulsory oratory about a month, and thenresolved to abolish the whole business by a general revolt. Big andlittle, we agreed to stand by each other, break up the new exercise, andget back to the old order of things--the hurdle races in mentalarithmetic and the geographical chants which we could run and intonetogether.

  Was I a mutineer? Well, say, son, your Pa was a constituent conspirator.He was in the color guard. You see, the first boy called on for adeclamation was to announce the strike, and as my name stood veryhigh--in the alphabetical roll of pupils--I had an excellent chance ofleading the assaulting column, a distinction for which I was not at allambitious, being a stripling of tender years, ruddy countenance, andsensitive feelings. However, I stiffened the sinews of my soul, girdedon my armor by slipping an atlas back under my jacket and was ready forthe fray, feeling a little terrified shiver of delight as I thought thatthe first lick Mr. Hinman gave me would make him think he had broken myback.

  The hour for "speakin' pieces," an hour big with fate, arrived on time.A boy named Aby Abbott was called up ahead of me, but he happened to beone of the presidential aspirants (he was mate on an Illinois riversteamboat, stern-wheeler at that, the last I knew of him), and of coursehe flunked and "said" his piece--a sadly prophetic selection--"Mr.President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope."We made such suggestive and threatening gestures at him, however, whenMr. Hinman wasn't looking, that he forgot half his "piece," broke downand cried. He also cried after school, a little more bitterly, and withfar better reason.

  Then, after an awful pause, in which the conspirators could hear thebeating of each other's hearts, my name was called.

  I sat still at my desk and said:

  "I ain't goin' to speak no piece."

  Mr. Hinman looked gently surprised and asked:

  "Why not, Robert?"

  I replied:

  "Because there ain't goin' to be any more speakin' pieces."

  The teacher's eyes grew round and big as he inquired:

  "Who says there will not?"

  I said, in slightly firmer tones, as I realized that the moment had comefor dragging the rest of the rebels into court:

  "All of us boys!"

  But Mr. Hinman smiled, and said quietly that he guessed there would be"a little more speaking before the close of the session." Then layinghis hand on my shoulder, with most punctilious but chilling courtesy, heinvited me to the rostrum. The "rostrum" was twenty-five feet distant,but I arrived there on schedule time and only touched my feet to thefloor twice on my way.

  And then and there, under Mr. Hinman's judicious coaching, before theassembled school, with feelings, nay, emotions which I now shudder torecall, I did my first "song and dance." Many times before had I steppedoff a solo-cachuca to the staccato pleasing of a fragment of slateframe, upon which my tutor was a gifted performer, but never until thatday did I accompany myself with words. Boy like, I had chosen for my"piece" a poem sweetly expressive of those peaceful virtues which I mostheartily despised. So that my performance, at the inauguration of thestrike, as Mr. Hinman conducted the overture, ran something like this--

  "Oh, not for me (whack) is the rolling (whack) drum, Or the (whack, whack) trumpet's wild (whack) appeal! (Boo-hoo!) Or the cry (swish--whack) of (boo-hoo-hoo!) war when the (whack) foe is come (ouch!) Or the (ow--wow!) brightly (whack) flashing (whack-whack) steel! (wah-hoo, wah-hoo!)"

  Words and symbols can not convey to the most gifted imagination thegestures with which I illustrated the seven stanzas of this beautifulpoem. I had really selected it to please my mother, whom I had invitedto be present, when I supposed I would deliver it. But the fact that sheattended a missionary meeting in the Baptist church that afternoon mademe a friend of missions forever. Suffice it to say, then, that mypantomime kept pace and time with Mr. Hinman's system of punctuationuntil the last line was sobbed and whacked out. I groped my bewilderedway to my seat through a mist of tears and sat down gingerly andsideways, inly wondering why an inscrutable providence had given to therugged rhinoceros the hide which the eternal fitness of things hadplainly prepared for the school-boy.

  But I quickly forgot my own sorrow and dried my tears with laughter inthe enjoyment of the subsequent acts of the opera, as the chorusdeveloped the plot and action. Mr. Hinman, who had been somewhat gentlewith me, dealt firmly with the larger boy who followed, and there was ascene of revelry for the next twenty minutes. The old man shook BillMorrison until his teeth rattled so you couldn't hear him cry. He hitMickey McCann, the tough boy from, the Lower Prairie, and Mickey ran outand lay down in the snow to cool off. He hit Jake Bailey across the legswith a slate frame, and it hurt so that Jake couldn't howl--he justopened his mouth wide, held up his hands, gasped, and forgot his ownname. He pushed Bill Haskell into a seat and the bench broke.

  He ran across the room and reached out for Lem Harkins, and Lem had afit before the old man touched him. He shook Dan Stevenson for twominutes, and when he let him go, Dan walked around his own desk fivetimes before he could find it, and then he couldn't sit down withoutholding on. He whipped the two Knowltons with a skate-strap in each handat the same time; the Greenwood family, five boys and a big girl, hewhipped all at once with a girl's skipping rope, and they raised such aunited wail that the clock stopped.

  He took a twist in Bill Rodecker's front hair, and Bill slept with h
iseyes open for a week. He kept the atmosphere of that school-room full ofdust, and splinters, and lint, weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth,until he reached the end of the alphabet and all hearts ached andwearied of the inhuman strife and wicked contention. Then he stood upbefore us, a sickening tangle of slate frame, strap, ebony ferule andskipping rope, a smile on his kind old face, and asked, in clear,triumphant tones:

  "WHO says there isn't going to be any more speaking pieces?"

  And every last boy in that school sprang to his feet; standing there asone human being with one great mouth, we shrieked in concerted anguish:

  "NOBODY DON'T!"

  And your Pa, my son, who led that strike, has been "speakin' pieces"ever since.

  A NAUTICAL BALLAD

  BY CHARLES E. CARRYL

  A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the "Walloping Window-blind"; No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain's mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he'd been in his bunk below.

  "The boatswain's mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain's boots, In the teeth of the booming gale.

  "The captain sat in a commodore's hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such; For the diet he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Prepared with sugar and glue.

  "All nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Rumbletumbunders roar. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the cinnamon-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea.

  "On rubgub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubgub tree."

  NATURAL PERVERSITIES

  BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

  I am not prone to moralize In scientific doubt On certain facts that Nature tries To puzzle us about,-- For I am no philosopher Of wise elucidation, But speak of things as they occur, From simple observation.

  I notice _little_ things--to wit:-- I never missed a train Because I didn't _run_ for it; I never knew it rain That my umbrella wasn't lent,-- Or, when in my possession, The sun but wore, to all intent, A jocular expression.

  I never knew a creditor To dun me for a debt But I was "cramped" or "busted"; or I never knew one yet, When I had plenty in my purse, To make the least invasion,-- As I, accordingly perverse, Have courted no occasion.

  Nor do I claim to comprehend What Nature has in view In giving us the very friend To trust we oughtn't to.-- But so it is: The trusty gun Disastrously exploded Is always sure to be the one We didn't think was loaded.

  Our moaning is another's mirth,-- And what is worse by half, We say the funniest thing on earth And never raise a laugh: Mid friends that love us overwell, And sparkling jests and liquor, Our hearts somehow are liable To melt in tears the quicker.

  We reach the wrong when most we seek The right; in like effect, We stay the strong and not the weak-- Do most when we neglect.-- Neglected genius--truth be said-- As wild and quick as tinder, The more you seek to help ahead The more you seem to hinder.

  I've known the least the greatest, too-- And, on the selfsame plan, The biggest fool I ever knew Was quite a little man: We find we ought, and then we won't-- We prove a thing, then doubt it,-- Know _everything_ but when we don't Know _anything_ about it.

  BUDD WILKINS AT THE SHOW

  BY S.E. KISER

  Since I've got used to city ways and don't scare at the cars, It makes me smile to set and think of years ago.--My stars! How green I was, and how green all them country people be-- Sometimes it seems almost as if this hardly could be me.

  Well, I was goin' to tell you 'bout Budd Wilkins: I declare He was the durndest, greenest chap that ever breathed the air-- The biggest town on earth, he thought, was our old county seat, With its one two-story brick hotel and dusty bizness street.

  We'd fairs in fall and now and then a dance or huskin' bee, Which was the most excitin' things Budd Wilkins ever see, Until, one winter, Skigginsville was all turned upside down By a troupe of real play actors a-comin' into town.

  The court-house it was turned into a theater, that night, And I don't s'pose I'll live to see another sich a sight: I guess that every person who was able fer to go Jest natchelly cut loose fer oncet, and went to see the show.

  Me and Budd we stood around there all day in the snow, But gosh! it paid us, fer we got seats right in the second row! Well, the brass band played a tune or two, and then the play begun, And 'twa'n't long 'fore the villain had the hero on the run.

  Say, talk about your purty girls with sweet, confidin' ways-- I never see the equal yit, in all o' my born days. Of that there brave young heroine, so clingin' and so mild, And jest as innocent as if she'd been a little child.

  I most forgot to say that Budd stood six feet in his socks, As brave as any lion, too, and stronger than an ox! But there never was a man, I'll bet, that had a softer heart, And he was always sure to take the weaker person's part.

  Budd, he fell dead in love right off with that there purty girl, And I suppose the feller's brain was in a fearful whirl, Fer there he set and gazed at her, and when she sighed he sighed, And when she hid her face and sobbed, he actually cried.

  He clinched his fists and ground his teeth when the villain laid his plot And said out loud he'd like to kill the rogue right on the spot, And when the hero helped the girl, Budd up and yelled "Hooray!" He'd clean fergot the whole blame thing was nothing but a play.

  At last the villain trapped the girl, that sweet confidin' child, And when she cried for help, why I'll admit that I was riled; The hero couldn't do a thing, but roll and writhe around And tug and groan because they'd got the poor chap gagged and bound.

  The maiden cried: "Unhand me now, or, weak girl that I am--" And then Budd Wilkins he jumped up and give his hat a slam, And, quicker'n I can tell it he was up there raisin' Ned, A-rescuin' the maiden and a-punchin' the rogue's head.

  I can't, somehow, perticklerize concernin' that there row: The whole thing seems a sort of blur as I recall it now-- But I can still remember that there was a fearful thud, With the air chock full of arms and legs and the villain under Budd.

  I never see a chap so bruised and battered up before As that there villain was when he was picked up from the floor!-- The show? Oh, it was busted, and they put poor Budd in jail, And kept him there all night, because I couldn't go his bail.

  Next mornin' what d' you think we heard? Most s'prised in all my life! That sweet, confidin' maiden was the cruel villain's wife! Budd wilted when he heard it, and he groaned, and then, says he: "Well, I'll be dummed! Bill, that's the last play actin' show fer me!"

  BALLAD

  BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

  Der noble Ritter Hugo Von Schwillensaufenstein, Rode out mit shpeer and helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

  Und oop dere rose a meer maid, Vot hadn't got nodings on, Und she say, "Oh, Ritter Hugo, Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?"

&n
bsp; And he says, "I rides in de creenwood Mit helmet und mit shpeer, Till I cooms into em Gasthaus, Und dere I trinks some beer."