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

by Rick Raphael

  "'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad.'

  "'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says, 'I'll ask de cook.'

  "Next minute I yerd old marsa a-hollerin':

  "'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?'

  "'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tukdat goose out yit?'

  "'Is we got a goose?' said I.

  "'_Is we got a goose?_ Didn't you help pick it?'

  "I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from dehearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in jes as he was, an' layhim down befo' Marsa John.

  "'Now see what de ladies'll have for dinner,' says old marsa, pickin' uphis caarvin' knife.

  "'What'll you take for dinner, miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?'

  "'No,' she says, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat; 'I think I'll take aleg ob dat goose'--jes so.

  "Well, marsa, cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wida spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman'll have.'

  "'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, orslice o' ham?'

  "'No; I think I'll take a leg of dat goose,' he says.

  "I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to gitit.

  "But, Major, you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for der udder leg ob datgoose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way an' dat way, an' den hejabbed dat ole bone-handled caarvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober dedish an' looked under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder sadlike:

  "'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?'

  "'It didn't hab none,' says I.

  "'You mean ter say, Chad, dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got oneleg?'

  "'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, we got twokinds in de pond, an' we was a little boddered to-day, so Mammy Janecooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.'

  "'Well,' said he, lookin' like he look when he send for you in de littleroom, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.'

  "Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravyan' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat shuck up; an' when dedinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now comedown to de duck pond. I'm gwineter show dis nigger dat all de gooses onmy plantation got mo' den one leg.'

  "I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when wegot to de pond"--here Chad nearly went into a convulsion withsuppressed laughter--"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle ofdat ole green goose-pond wid one leg stuck down so, an' de udder tuckedunder de wing."

  Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tearsrunning down his cheek.

  "'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat'sde berry match ob de one we had to-day.'

  "Den de ladies all hollered, an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey yerd 'emat de big house.

  "'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' whitean' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!'

  "Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper ifebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg!

  "'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'llshow you'--

  "'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''t ain't fair, 't ain't fair.'

  "'Why ain't it fair?' says he.

  "''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on detable'."

  Chad laughed until he choked.

  "And did he thrash you?"

  "Marsa John? No, sah. He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night hesays to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire:

  "'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all aboutHenny, an' how I was lyin' 'case I was 'feared de gal would git hurt,an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it was my goose; an' den de olemarsa look in de fire for a long time, an' den he says:

  "'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?'

  "'Yes, marsa,' says I.

  "Well, de next mawnin' he had his black horse saddled, an' I held thestirrup for him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation,an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held delantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mine all day.But it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's.

  "'Chad,' he says, handin' me de reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis arternoonfrom Colonel Barbour, an' she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can bofegit married next Sunday.'"

  UNCONSCIOUS HUMOR

  BY J.K. WETHERILL

  Perhaps unconscious humor does not appeal to the more amiable side ofour sense of mirth, for it excites in us a conceited feeling ofsuperiority over those who are making us laugh,--but its unexpectednessand infinite variety render it irresistible to a certain class of minds.The duly labeled "joke" follows a certain law and rule; whereas nojester could invent the _grotesqueries_ of the unconscious humorist.

  As a humble gleaner after the editorial scythe,--or, to be truly modern,I should say mowing-machine,--I have gathered some strange sheaves ofthis sort of humor. Like many provincial newspapers, that to which I amattached makes a feature of printing the social happenings in villagesof the surrounding country, and these out-of-town correspondents "don'tdo a thing to" the English language. One of them invariably refers tothe social lights of his vicinity as "our prominent socialists," anddescribes some individual as "happening to an accident." To another,every festal occasion is "a bower of beauty and a scene of fairyland."Blue-penciling they resent, and one of them wrote to complain that adescriptive effort of his had been "much altered and deranged." Thepaper also publishes portraits of children and young women, and it is inthe descriptions accompanying these pictures that the ruralcorrespondent excels himself. One wound up his eulogy in an apparentlyirrepressible burst of enthusiasm: "She is indeed a _tout ensemble_." Achild of six months was described as "studious"; and anothercorrespondent went into details thus: "Little Willie has only one largeblue eye, the other having been punched out by his brother with a stick,by accident." A small child was accredited with "a pleasing dispositionand a keen juvenile conception."

  The following are some of the descriptive phrases applied to villagebelles: "She is perfectly at home on the piano, where her executionshave attained international celebrity." ... "She possesses a mine ofrepartee and the qualities which have long rendered illustive her noblefamily." ... "Her carriage and disposition are swan-like." ... "Her eyescan express pathetic pathos, but flash forth fiery independence when hercountry's name is traduced." ... "She has a molded arm, and herJuno-like form glides with a rhythmic move in the soft swell of aStrauss." ... "Her chestnut hair gives a rich recess to her lovely,fawnlike eyes, which shine like a star set in the crown of an angel."... One writer becomes absolutely incoherent in his admiration, andlavishes a mixture of metaphors upon his subject: "She portrays apicture worthy of a Raphael. She dances like the fairies before theheavenly spirits. She looks like a celestial goddess from an outburst ofmorning-glories; her lovely form would assume a phantomlike flash as sheglides the floor, as though she were a mystic dream."

  Scarcely less rich in unconscious humor are some of the effusions ofthose who have literary aspirations. A descriptive article contains areference to "a lonely house that stood in silent mutiny." "Indians whoborder on civilization, an interesting people in their superstitiousway," infested the vicinity, and one of the points of interest was theWild Man's Leap, "so called from an Indian who is said to have leapedacross to get away from some men who were trying to expatriate him." Anaspirant made this generous offer: "I will write you an article everyweek if you so wish it, as I have nothing to do after supper." Modestwas the request of another, concerning remuneration: "I do not ask formoney, but would like you to send me a small monkey. I already have aparrot."

  But no finer specimen of unconscious humor has ever fallen under thesub-editorial eye than "The Beautiful Circus Girl." In theseenterprising days rising young authors sometimes boast in print of
theirignorance of grammar and spelling, but the author of the aforementionedbit of fiction surpasses them all in that respect. It seems only justthat such a unique gem should be rescued from the dull obscurity of thewaste-basket.

  THE BEAUTIFUL CIRCUS GIRL

  Some years ago the quaint but slow little village of Mariana was all onthe qui-of-eve with excitement. Pasted on every tree and sign wasannouncements of Hall's circus, and the aperence of pretty Rose Floid inthe pearless feets of tight-rope dancing, and Seignor Paul Paulo as herattendent. All the vilage was agog, for in their midst had old Hall andhis Wife whome he always (spoke of as the Misus) taken a small butquaint cotage, so as to make quiet and please Rose whose guardien hewas.

  In the distanse was seen an advancing teem, and mounted on its boxdriving was W. Alexander, distinguished as to aperence, tallent, andthat charm, _money_. He was of the most patricien aristocrats of theplace. Placed on the summit of one of those hils that spring up in themost unexpected ways and degrees was the quaint old Tudor mansion of theAlexanders called Waterloo, in rememberence of the home of his ancestorswhich now rests on the banks of the Potomack; a legend as to war andromance. Though bearing with him all the honners that Cambridg couldconfere, W. Alexander was a faverite in the vilage, being ever readywith a kind enquiry as to Parent, or peny for marbles, not forgettinghis boyhoods days. Though the beau par excelant of the vilage, andposessing vast landed estate and a kind retinu, he was not haughty.

  Every one was eger to see Rose perform. She in her pasage too and frowhad won by her sweet manners (many likings) ere she exhibited her skill.

  The eventful hour of promis came and what a crowd was there. Rose camefourth, asisted by Paul Paulo. His form was molded even as an Apolo, andhis eger eye was fixed on the bony girl. She ballanced her pole, saughther equiliberum, and every heart was at her desposal, not accepting W.Alexander. Seeing this, the dark pashonate eye of the Italian scowled.

  So droped the curtain of the first performance. And W. Alexander stroledon towards his home, heart and head full of the beautiful circus girl,thoughts were very conflicting, love at first sight.

  (We will skip, for want of space, the exquisite passages descriptive ofthe mutual love of Rose and W. Alexander, and pass on to the finale.)

  There was a paus, a sencation, and Rose came fourth to meander inmid-air. Admeration was at its hight, as she swayed too and frow as itwere a winged egle from some etherial climb.

  Low! a paus--the rope snaps--and Rose falls to erth a helpless mass ofyouth and beauty. The venerable man of medicin closed her star-lit eyesnow forever dimed to this world. And all knew she had walked the lastrope that bound her to this erth.

  What, who, was her murderer?

  The rope seemed to be cut with some jaged instrument so that when hertiny feat pressed its coils it became her destroyer.

  Suspician pointed at the Italian.

  W. Alexander's old Father of sympathy now the strongest, entreted ourHero to sale for distent shores, there asisted by that balm time andchange, there assuage his grefe.

  Well, came the last evening, and with the sadest of hearts and a bunchof sweet violets W. Alexander went to bid a long fare well.

  But as he neared the sacred spot his heart seemed deadened. Prone on hergrave changing the snowy whiteness of the flowers with its crimson diewas the body of Paul Paulo. Who by his own hand caused his life blood tofloe as an attonement.

  UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

  BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

  Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone-- With a dad-burn hook-and-line And a saplin'-pole--i swawn! I've had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever _any_where! Heaven to come can't discount mine Up and down old Brandywine!

  Haint no sense in _wishin'_--yit Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes "Gee" the blame world round and git Back to that old happiness!-- Kindo' drive back in the shade "The old Covered Bridge" there laid Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak My soul over, hub and spoke!

  Honest, now!--it haint no _dream_ 'At I'm wantin',--but _the fac's_ As they wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!-- Gim me back my bare feet--and Stonebruise too!--And scratched and tanned! And let hottest dog-days shine Up and down old Brandywine!

  In and on betwixt the trees 'Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kindo' curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer's tune; And the smokin', chokin' dust O' the turnpike at its wusst-- _Saturd'ys_, say, when it seems Road's jes jammed with country teams!--

  Whilse the old town, fur away 'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand. Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor O' the old bridge!--grind and roar With yer blame percession-line-- Up and down old Brandywine!

  Souse me and my new straw-hat Off the foot-log!--what _I_ care?-- Fist shoved in the crown o' that-- Like the old Clown ust to wear. Wouldn't swop it fer a' old Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!-- Keep yer _King_ ef you'll gim me Jes the boy I ust to be!

  Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal My best "goggle-eye!"--but you Can't lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin' like they ust to do! So, in memory, to-day Same old ripple lips away At my cork and saggin' line, Up and down old Brandywine!

  There the logs is, round the hill, Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift Out sunfish from daylight till Dew-fall--'fore he'd leave "The Drift" And give _us_ a chance--and then Kindo' fish back home again, Ketchin' 'em jes left and right Where _we_ hadn't got "a bite!"

  Er, 'way windin' out and in,-- Old path th'ough the iurnweeds And dog-fennel to yer chin-- Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds And cat-tails, smack into where Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare Us clean 'crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandywine!

  But the dim roar o' the dam It 'ud coax us furder still Tords the old race, slow and ca'm, Slidin' on to Huston's mill-- Where, I 'spect, "The Freeport crowd" Never _warmed_ to us er 'lowed We wuz quite so overly Welcome as we aimed to be.

  Still it peared-like ever'thing-- Fur away from home as _there_-- Had more _relish_-like, i jing!-- Fish in stream, er bird in air! O them rich old bottom-lands, Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands! Wortermelons--_master-mine!_ Up and down old Brandywine!

  And sich pop-paws!--Lumps o' raw Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough With ripe yaller--like you've saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes _gorges_ o' wild plums, Till a feller'd suck his thumbs Clean up to his elbows! _My!_-- _Me some more er lem me die!_

  Up and down old Brandywine!... Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!-- Flick me with a pizenvine And yell "_Yip!_" and lem me loose! --Old now as I then wuz young, 'F I could sing as I _have_ sung, Song 'ud surely ring _dee-vine_ Up and down old Brandywine!

  JONES

  BY LLOYD OSBOURNE

  I

  I could have taken "No" like a man, and would have gone away decentlyand never bothered her again. I told her so straight out in the firstangry flush of my rejection--but this string business, with everythingleft hanging in the air, so to speak, made a fellow feel like thirtycents.

  "It simply means that I'm engaged and you are not," I said.

  "It's nothing of the kind," she returned tearfully. "You're as free asfree, Ezra. You can go away this moment, and never write or anything!"

  Her lips trembled as she said this, and I confess it gave me a kind ofsavage pleasure to feel that it was still in my power to hurt her.

  It may sound unkind, but still you must admit that the whole situationwas exasperating. Here was five-foot-five of exquisite, blooming,twenty-year-old American
girlhood sending away the man she confessed tocare for, because, forsooth, she would not marry before her eldersister! I always thought it was beautiful of Freddy (she was namedFrederica, you know) to be always so sweet and tender and grateful aboutEleanor; but sometimes gratitude can be carried altogether too far, evenif you _are_ an orphan, and _were_ brought up by hand. Eleanor wasthirty-four if a day--a nice enough woman, of course, and college bred,and cultivated, and clever--but her long suit wasn't good looks. She wastall and bony; worshipped genius and all that; and played the violin.

  "No," repeated Freddy, "I shall never, never marry before Eleanor. Itwould mortify her--I know it would--and make her feel that she herselfhad failed. She's awfully frank about those things, Ezra--surprisinglyfrank. I don't see why being an old maid is always supposed to be sofunny, do you? It's touching and tragic in a woman who'd like to marryand who isn't asked!"

  "But Eleanor must have had heaps of offers," I said, "surely--"

  "Just one."

  "Well, one's something," I remarked cheerfully. "Why didn't she take himthen?"

  "She told me only last night that she was sorry she hadn't!"

  Here, at any rate, was something to chew on. I saw a gleam of hope. Whyshouldn't Eleanor marry the only one--and make us all happy!

  "That was three years ago," said Freddy.

  "I have loved you for four," I retorted. I was cross withdisappointment. To be dashed to the ground, you know, just as I wasbeginning--"Tell me some more about him," I went on. I'm a plainbusiness man and hang on to an idea like a bulldog; once I get my teethin they stay in, for all you may drag at me and wallop me with anumbrella--metaphorically speaking, of course.