by W. W. Jacobs
BRET HARTE
THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.
Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.
Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones an animal that was extremely rare, And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.
Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault; It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault: He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.
Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.
Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order--when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.
For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.
And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
* * * * *
A beginner in newspaper work in a Southern town, who occasionallysent "stuff" to one of the New York dailies, picked up last summerwhat seemed to him a "big story." Hurrying to the telegraph office he"queried" the telegraph editor: "Column story on so and so. Shall Isend it?"
The reply was brief and prompt, but, to the enthusiast, unsatisfactory."Send six hundred words," was all it said.
"Can't be told in less than twelve hundred," he wired back.
Before long the reply came: "Story of creation of world told in sixhundred. Try it."