Humorous American Short Stories

by Bob Blaisdell

  Eh bien! this Smiley nourished some terriers a rats, and some cocks of combat, and some cats, and all sorts of things; and with his rage of betting one no had more of repose. He trapped one day a frog and him imported with him (et l’emporta chez lui) saying that he pretended to make his education. You me believe if you will, but during three months he not has nothing done but to him apprehend to jump (apprendre a sauter) in a court retired of her mansion (de sa maison). And I you respond that he have succeeded. He him gives a small blow by behind, and the instant after you shall see the frog turn in the air like a grease-biscuit, make one summersault, sometimes two, when she was well started, and re-fall upon his feet like a cat. He him had accomplished in the art of to gobble the flies (gober des mouches), and him there exercised continually—so well that a fly at the most far that she appeared was a fly lost. Smiley had custom to say that all which lacked to a frog it was the education, but with the education she could do nearly all—and I him believe. Tenez, I him have seen pose Daniel Webster there upon this plank—Daniel Webster was the name of the frog—and to him sing, “Some flies, Daniel, some flies!”—in the flash of the eye Daniel had bounded and seized a fly here upon the counter, then jumped anew at the earth, where he rested truly to himself scratch the head with his behind-foot, as if he no had not the least idea of his superiority. Never you not have seen frog as modest, as natural, sweet as she was. And when he himself agitated to jump purely and simply upon plain earth, she does more ground in one jump than any beast of his species than you can know. To jump plain—this was his strong. When he himself agitated for that, Smiley multiplied the bets upon her as long as there to him remained a red. It must to know, Smiley was monstrously proud of his frog, and he of it was right, for so me men who were traveled, who had all seen, said that they to him would be injurious to him compare to another frog. Smiley guarded Daniel in a little box latticed which he carried by times to the village for some bet.

  One day an individual stranger at the camp him arrested with his box and him said:

  “What is this that you have then shut up there within?”

  Smiley said, with an air indifferent:

  “That could be a paroquet, or a syringe (ou un serin), but this no is nothing of such, it not is but a frog.”

  The individual it took, it regarded with care, it turned from one side and from the other, then he said:

  “Tiens! in effect!—At what is she good?”

  “My God!” respond Smiley, always with an air disengaged, “she is good for one thing, to my notice, (a mon avis), she can batter in jumping (elle peut batter en sautant) all frogs of the county of Calaveras.”

  The individual re-took the box, it examined of new longly, and it rendered to Smiley in saying with an air deliberate:

  “Eh bien! I no saw not that that frog had nothing of better than each frog.” (Je ne vois pas que cette grenouille ait rien de mieux qu’aucune grenouille). [If that isn’t grammar gone-to-seed, then I count myself no judge.—M. T.]

  “Possible that you not it saw not,” said Smiley, “possible that you—you comprehend frogs; possible that you not you there comprehend nothing; possible that you had of the experience, and possible that you not be but an amateur. Of all manner (De toute maniere), I better forty dollars that she batter in jumping no matter which frog of the county of Calaveras.”

  The individual reflected a second, and said like sad:

  “I not am but a stranger here, I no have not a frog; but if I of it had one, I would embrace the bet.”

  “Strong well!” respond Smiley; “nothing of more facility. If you will hold my box a minute, I go you to search a frog (j’irai vous chercher).”

  Behold, then, the individual, who guards the box, who puts his forty dollars upon those of Smiley, and who attends (et qui attend). He attended enough longtimes, reflecting all solely. And figure you that he takes Daniel, him opens the mouth by force and with a teaspoon him fills with shot of the hunt, even him fills just to the chin, then he him puts by the earth. Smiley during these times was at slopping in a swamp. Finally he trapped (attrape) a frog, him carried to that individual, and said:

  “Now if you be ready, put him all against Daniel, with their before-feet upon the same line, and I give the signal”—then he added: “One, two, three,—advance!”

  Him and the individual touched their frogs by behind, and the frog new put to jump smartly, but Daniel himself lifted ponderously, exalted the shoulders thus, like a Frenchman—to what good? he not could budge, he is planted solid like a church, he not advance no more than if one he in had put at the anchor.

  Smiley was surprised and disgusted, but he not himself doubted not of the turn being intended (mais il ne se doutait pas du tour, bien entendu). The individual empocketed the silver, himself with it went, and of it himself in going is it that he no gives not a jerk of thumb over the shoulder—like that—at the poor Daniel, in saying with his air deliberate—(L’individu empoche l’argent, s’en va et en s’en allaut est ce qu’il ne donne pas un coup de pouce pardessus l’epaule, comme ca, au pauvre Daniel, endisant de son air delibere):

  “Eh bien I! no see not that that frog has nothing of better than another.”

  Smiley himself scratched long times the head, the eyes fixed upon Daniel, until that which at last he said:

  “I me demand how the devil it makes itself that this beast has refused. Is it that she had something? One would believe that she is stuffed.”

  He grasped Daniel by the skin of the neck, him lifted and said: “The wolf me bite if he no weigh not five pounds.” He him reversed and the unhappy belched two handfuls of shot (et le malhereus, etc.).—When Smiley recognized how it was, he was like mad. He deposited his frog by the earth and ran after that individual, but he not him caught never.

  Such is the Jumping Frog, to the distorted French eye. I claim that I never put together such an odious mixture of bad grammar and delirium tremens in my life. And what has a poor foreigner like me done, to be abused and misrepresented like this? When I say, “Well, I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog,” is it kind, is it just, for this Frenchman to try to make it appear that I said: “Eh bien! I no saw that that frog had nothing of better than each frog?” I have no heart to write more. I never felt so about anything before.

  SOURCES: Mark Twain. Sketches. Toronto: Belfords, Clarke and Company, 1879.

  Mark Twain. Sketches New and Old. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1917.

  BILL NATIONS (1873)

  Bill Arp (Charles Henry Smith)

  From the beginning of the Civil War in 1861, Smith (1826–1903) wrote a column for the Atlanta Constitution in the voice of his invented character Bill Arp.

  YOU NEVER KNOWD Bill, I rekun. Hes gone to Arkensaw, and I don’t know whether hes ded or alive. He was a good feller, Bill was, as most all whisky drinkers are. Me and him both used to love it powerful—especially Bill. We soaked it when we could git it, and when we coudent we hankered after it amazingly. I must tell you a little antidote on Bill, tho I dident start to tell you about that.

  We started on a little jurney one day in June, and took along a bottle of “old rye,” and there was so many springs and wells on the road that it was mighty nigh gone before dinner. We took our snack, and Bill drained the last drop, for he said we would soon git to Joe Paxton’s, and that Joe always kept some.

  Shore enuff Joe dident have a drop, and we concluded, as we was mighty dry, to go on to Jim Alford’s, and stay all night. We knew that Jim had it, for he always had it. So we whipped up, and the old Bay had to travel, for I tell you when a man wants whiskey everything has to bend to the gittin’ of it. Shore enuff Jim had some. He was mity glad to see us, and he knowd what we wanted, for he knowd how it was hisself. So he brought out an old-fashend glass decanter, and a shugar bowl, and a tumbler, and a spoon, and says he, “Now, boys, jest wait a minit till you git rested sorter, for it ain’t good to take whiskey on a hot stomack. I’ve jest been read
in’ a piece in Grady’s newspaper about a frog—the darndest frog that perhaps ever come from a tadpole. It was found up in Kanetucky, and is as big as a peck measure. Bill, do you take this paper and read it aloud to us. I’m a poor hand to read, and I want to hear it. I’ll be hanged if it ain’t the darndest frog I ever hearn of.”

  He laid the paper on my knees, and I begun to read, thinkin’ it was a little short anticdote, but as I turned the paper over I found it was mighty nigh a column. I took a side glance at Bill, and I saw the little dry twitches a jumpin’ about on his countenance. He was mighty nigh dead for a drink. I warent so bad off myself, and I was about half mad with him for drainin’ the bottle before dinner; so I just read along slow, and stopped two or three times to clear my throat just to consume time. Pretty soon Bill got up and commenced walkin’ about, and he would look at the dekanter like he would give his daylights to choke the corn juice out of it. I read along slowly. Old Alford was a listnin’ and chawin’ his tobakker and spittin’ out of the door. Bill come up to me, his face red and twitchin’, and leanin’ over my shoulder he seed the length of the story, and I will never forgit his pitiful tone as he whispered, “Skip some, Bill, for heaven’s sake skip some.”

  My heart relented, and I did skip some, and hurried through, and we all jined in a drink; but I’ll never forgit how Bill looked when he whispered to me to “skip some, Bill, skip some.” I’ve got over the like of that, boys, and I hope Bill has, too, but I don’t know. I wish in my soul that everybody had quit it, for you may talk about slavery, and penitentiary, and chain-gangs, and the Yankees, and General Grant, and a devil of a wife, but whiskey is the worst master that ever a man had over him. I know how it is myself.

  But there is one good thing about drinkin’. I almost wish every man was a reformed drunkard. No man who hasn’t drank liker knows what a luxury cold water is. I have got up in the night in cold wether after I had been spreein’ around, and gone to the well burnin’ up with thirst, feeling like the gallows, and the grave, and the infernal regions was too good for me, and when I took up the bucket in my hands, and with my elbows a tremblin’ like I had the shakin’ ager, put the water to my lips; it was the most delicious, satisfying luxurius draft that ever went down my throat. I have stood there and drank and drank until I could drink no more, and gone back to bed thankin’ God for the pure, innocent, and coolin’ beverig, and cursin’ myself from my inmost soul for ever touchin’ the accursed whisky. In my torture of mind and body I have made vows and promises, and broken ’em within a day. But if you want to know the luxury of cold water, get drunk, and keep at it until you get on fire, and then try a bucket full with your shirt on at the well in the middle of the night. You won’t want a gourd full—you’ll feel like the bucket ain’t big enuf, and when you begin to drink an earthquake couldn’t stop you. My fathers, how good it was! I know a hundred men who will swear to the truth of what I say: but you see it’s a thing they don’t like to talk about. It’s too humiliatin’.

  But I dident start to talk about drinkin’. In fact, I’ve forgot what I did start to tell you. My mind is sorter addled now a days, anyhow, and I hav to jes let my tawkin’ tumble out permiskuous. I’ll take another whet at it afore long, and fill up the gaps.

  Yours trooly,

  Bill Arp.

  SOURCE: Bill Arp (Charles Henry Smith). Bill Arp’s Peace Papers. New York: G. W. Carleton and Company, 1873.

  A JERSEY CENTENARIAN (1875)

  Bret Harte

  For a time, Harte (1836–1902) was almost as popular a writer as Mark Twain. Born and raised in New York State, he gained his literary reputation in California, where he wrote “Western” poetry and fiction and many comic stories, before returning to the East Coast and then moving to Europe.

  I HAVE SEEN her at last. She is a hundred and seven years old, and remembers George Washington quite distinctly. It is somewhat confusing, however, that she also remembers a contemporaneous Josiah W. Perkins, of Basking Ridge, N. J., and, I think, has the impression that Perkins, was the better man. Perkins, at the close of the last century, paid her some little attention. There are a few things that a really noble woman of a hundred and seven never forgets.

  It was Perkins, who said to her in 1795, in the streets of Philadelphia, “Shall I show thee General Washington?” Then she said, carelesslike (for you know, child, at that time it wasn’t what it is now to see General Washington)—she said, “So do, Josiah, so do!” Then he pointed to a tall man who got out of a carriage, and went into a large house. He was larger than you be. He wore his own hair — not powdered; had a flowered chintz vest, with yellow breeches and blue stockings, and a broad-brimmed hat. In summer he wore a white straw hat, and at his farm at Basking Ridge he always wore it. At this point, it became too evident that she was describing the clothes of the all-fascinating Perkins: so I gently but firmly led her back to Washington.

  Then it appeared that she did not remember exactly what he wore. To assist her, I sketched the general historic dress of that period. She said she thought he was dressed like that. Emboldened by my success, I added a hat of Charles II, and pointed shoes of the eleventh century. She endorsed these with such cheerful alacrity that I dropped the subject.

  The house upon which I had stumbled, or, rather, to which my horse—a Jersey hack, accustomed to historic research—had brought me, was low and quaint. Like most old houses, it had the appearance of being encroached upon by the surrounding glebe, as if it were already half in the grave, with a sod or two, in the shape of moss, thrown on it, like ashes on ashes, and dust on dust. A wooden house, instead of acquiring dignity with age, is apt to lose its youth and respectability together. A porch, with scant, sloping seats, from which even the winter’s snow must have slid uncomfortably, projected from a doorway that opened most unjustifiably into a small sitting-room. There was no vestibule, or locus poenitentiae, for the embarrassed or bashful visitor: he passed at once from the security of the public road into shameful privacy. And here, in the mellow autumnal sunlight, that, streaming through the maples and sumach on the opposite bank, flickered and danced upon the floor, she sat and discoursed of George Washington, and thought of Perkins. She was quite in keeping with the house and the season, albeit a little in advance of both; her skin being of a faded russet, and her hands so like dead November leaves, that I fancied they even rustled when she moved them.

  For all that, she was quite bright and cheery; her faculties still quite vigorous, although performing irregularly and spasmodically. It was somewhat discomposing, I confess, to observe that at times her lower jaw would drop, leaving her speechless, until one of the family would notice it, and raise it smartly into place with a slight snap—an operation always performed in such an habitual, perfunctory manner, generally in passing to and fro in their household duties, that it was very trying to the spectator. It was still more embarrassing to observe that the dear old lady had evidently no knowledge of this, but believed she was still talking, and that, on resuming her actual vocal utterance, she was often abrupt and incoherent, beginning always in the middle of a sentence, and often in the middle of a word.

  “Sometimes,” said her daughter, a giddy, thoughtless young thing of eighty-five—“sometimes just moving her head sort of unhitches her jaw; and, if we don’t happen to see it, she’ll go on talking for hours without ever making a sound.”

  Although I was convinced, after this, that during my interview I had lost several important revelations regarding George Washington through these peculiar lapses, I could not help reflecting how beneficent were these provisions of the Creator—how, if properly studied and applied, they might be fraught with happiness to mankind—how a slight jostle or jar at a dinner-party might make the post-prandial eloquence of garrulous senility satisfactory to itself, yet harmless to others—how a more intimate knowledge of anatomy, introduced into the domestic circle, might make a home tolerable at least, if not happy—how a long-suffering husband, under the pretense of a conjugal caress, might so unho
ok his wife’s condyloid process as to allow the flow of expostulation, criticism or denunciation to go on with gratification to her, and perfect immunity to himself.

  But this was not getting back to George Washington and the early struggles of the Republic. So I returned to the commander-in-chief, but found, after one or two leading questions, that she was rather inclined to resent his re-appearance on the stage. Her reminiscences here were chiefly social and local, and more or less flavored with Perkins. We got back as far as the Revolutionary epoch, or, rather, her impressions of that epoch, when it was still fresh in the public mind. And here I came upon an incident, purely personal and local, but, withal, so novel, weird and uncanny, that for a while I fear it quite displaced George Washington in my mind, and tinged the autumnal fields beyond with a red that was not of the sumach. I do not remember to have read of it in the books. I do not know that it is entirely authentic. It was attested to me by mother and daughter, as an uncontradicted tradition.

  In the little field beyond, where the plough still turns up musket-balls and cartridge-boxes, took place one of those irregular skirmishes between the militiamen and Knyphausen’s stragglers, that made the retreat historical. A Hessian soldier, wounded in both legs and utterly helpless, dragged himself to the cover of a hazel-copse, and lay there hidden for two days. On the third day, maddened by thirst, he managed to creep to the rail-fence of an adjoining farmhouse, but found himself unable to mount it or pass through. There was no one in the house but a little girl of six or seven years. He called to her, and in a faint voice asked for water. She returned to the house, as if to comply with his request, but, mounting a chair, took from the chimney a heavily loaded Queen Anne musket, and, going to the door, took deliberate aim at the helpless intruder, and fired. The man fell back dead, without a groan. She replaced the musket, and, returning to the fence, covered the body with boughs and leaves, until it was hidden. Two or three days after, she related the occurrence in a careless, casual way, and leading the way to the fence, with a piece of bread and butter in her guileless little fingers, pointed out the result of her simple, unsophisticated effort. The Hessian was decently buried, but I could not find out what became of the little girl. Nobody seemed to remember. I trust that, in after years, she was happily married; that no Jersey Lovelace attempted to trifle with a heart whose impulses were so prompt, and whose purposes were so sincere. They did not seem to know if she had married or not. Yet it does not seem probable that such simplicity of conception, frankness of expression, and deftness of execution, were lost to posterity, or that they failed, in their time and season, to give flavor to the domestic felicity of the period. Beyond this, the story perhaps has little value, except as an offset to the usual anecdotes of Hessian atrocity.