Humorous American Short Stories

by Bob Blaisdell

  “But others said it was Cuff that had got Tam into bad ways; and they do say that Cuff had to catch it pretty lively when the doctor come to settle with him. Cuff thought his time had come, sure enough, and was so scairt that he turned blacker’n ever: he got enough to cure him o’ hoss-racin’ for one while. But Cuff got over it arter a while, and so did the doctor. Lordy massy! there ain’t nothin’ lasts forever! Wait long enough, and ’most every thing blows over. So it turned out about the doctor. There was a rumpus and a fuss, and folks talked and talked, and advised; everybody had their say: but the doctor kep’ right straight on, and kep’ his hoss all the same.

  “The ministers, they took it up in the ’sociation; but, come to tell the story, it sot ’em all a-laughin’, so they couldn’t be very hard on the doctor.

  “The doctor felt sort o’ streaked at fust when they told the story on him; he didn’t jest like it: but he got used to it, and finally, when he was twitted on’t, he’d sort o’ smile, and say, ‘Anyway, Tam beat ’em: that’s one comfort.’ ”

  SOURCE: The Atlantic Monthly. Volume 42. October 1878.

  THE PETERKINS DECIDE TO LEARN THE LANGUAGES (1878)

  Lucretia Peabody Hale

  Born in Boston, Hale (1820–1900) was the daughter of the nephew of the American patriot Nathan Hale. The Peterkins were her situation-comedy heroes and starred in many stories and two collections.

  CERTAINLY NOW WAS the time to study the languages. The Peterkins had moved into a new house, far more convenient than their old one, where they would have a place for everything, and everything in its place. Of course they would then have more time.

  Elizabeth Eliza recalled the troubles of the old house; how for a long time she was obliged to sit outside of the window upon the piazza, when she wanted to play on her piano.

  Mrs. Peterkin reminded them of the difficulty about the tablecloths. The upper table-cloth was kept in a trunk that had to stand in front of the door to the closet under the stairs. But the under tablecloth was kept in a drawer in the closet. So, whenever the cloths were changed, the trunk had to be pushed away under some projecting shelves to make room for opening the closet door (as the under tablecloth must be taken out first), then the trunk was pushed back to make room for it to be opened for the upper table-cloth, and, after all, it was necessary to push the trunk away again to open the closet-door for the knife-tray. This always consumed a great deal of time.

  Now that the china-closet was large enough, everything could find a place in it.

  Agamemnon especially enjoyed the new library. In the old house there was no separate room for books. The dictionaries were kept upstairs, which was very inconvenient, and the volumes of the Encyclopaedia could not be together. There was not room for all in one place. So from A to P were to be found downstairs, and from Q to Z were scattered in different rooms upstairs. And the worst of it was, you could never remember whether from A to P included P. “I always went upstairs after P,” said Agamemnon, “and then always found it downstairs, or else it was the other way.”

  Of course, now there were more conveniences for study. With the books all in one room there would be no time wasted in looking for them.

  Mr. Peterkin suggested they should each take a separate language. If they went abroad, this would prove a great convenience. Elizabeth Eliza could talk French with the Parisians; Agamemnon, German with the Germans; Solomon John, Italian with the Italians; Mrs. Peterkin, Spanish in Spain; and perhaps he could himself master all the Eastern languages and Russian.

  Mrs. Peterkin was uncertain about undertaking the Spanish; but all the family felt very sure they should not go to Spain (as Elizabeth Eliza dreaded the Inquisition), and Mrs. Peterkin felt more willing.

  Still she had quite an objection to going abroad. She had always said she would not go till a bridge was made across the Atlantic, and she was sure it did not look like it now.

  Agamemnon said there was no knowing. There was something new every day, and a bridge was surely not harder to invent than a telephone, for they had bridges in the very earliest days.

  Then came up the question of the teachers. Probably these could be found in Boston. If they could all come the same day, three could be brought out in the carry-all. Agamemnon could go in for them, and could learn a little on the way out and in.

  Mr. Peterkin made some inquiries about the Oriental languages. He was told that Sanskrit was at the root of all. So he proposed they should all begin with Sanskrit. They would thus require but one teacher, and could branch out into the other languages afterward.

  But the family preferred learning the separate languages. Elizabeth Eliza already knew something of the French. She had tried to talk it, without much success, at the Centennial Exhibition, at one of the side stands. But she found she had been talking with a Moorish gentleman who did not understand French. Mr. Peterkin feared they might need more libraries if all the teachers came at the same hour; but Agamemnon reminded him that they would be using different dictionaries. And Mr. Peterkin thought something might be learned by having them all at once. Each one might pick up something besides the language he was studying, and it was a great thing to learn to talk a foreign language while others were talking about you. Mrs. Peterkin was afraid it would be like the Tower of Babel, and hoped it was all right.

  Agamemnon brought forward another difficulty. Of course, they ought to have foreign teachers who spoke only their native languages. But, in this case, how could they engage them to come, or explain to them about the carry-all, or arrange the proposed hours? He did not understand how anybody ever began with a foreigner, because he could not even tell him what he wanted.

  Elizabeth Eliza thought a great deal might be done by signs and pantomime. Solomon John and the little boys began to show how it might be done. Elizabeth Eliza explained how “langues” meant both “languages” and “tongues,” and they could point to their tongues. For practice, the little boys represented the foreign teachers talking in their different languages, and Agamemnon and Solomon John went to invite them to come out and teach the family by a series of signs.

  Mr. Peterkin thought their success was admirable, and that they might almost go abroad without any study of the languages, and trust to explaining themselves by signs. Still, as the bridge was not yet made, it might be as well to wait and cultivate the languages.

  Mrs. Peterkin was afraid the foreign teachers might imagine they were invited out to lunch. Solomon John had constantly pointed to his mouth as he opened it and shut it, putting out his tongue, and it looked a great deal more as if he were inviting them to eat than asking them to teach. Agamemnon suggested that they might carry the separate dictionaries when they went to see the teachers, and that would show that they meant lessons, and not lunch.

  Mrs. Peterkin was not sure but she ought to prepare a lunch for them, if they had come all that way; but she certainly did not know what they were accustomed to eat.

  Mr. Peterkin thought this would be a good thing to learn of the foreigners. It would be a good preparation for going abroad, and they might get used to the dishes before starting. The little boys were delighted at the idea of having new things cooked. Agamemnon had heard that beer-soup was a favorite dish with the Germans, and he would inquire how it was made in the first lesson. Solomon John had heard they were all very fond of garlic, and thought it would be a pretty attention to have some in the house the first day, that they might be cheered by the odor.

  Elizabeth Eliza wanted to surprise the lady from Philadelphia by her knowledge of French, and hoped to begin on her lessons before the Philadelphia family arrived for their annual visit.

  There were still some delays. Mr. Peterkin was very anxious to obtain teachers who had been but a short time in this country. He did not want to be tempted to talk any English with them. He wanted the latest and freshest languages, and at last came home one day with a list of “brand-new foreigners.”

  They decided to borrow the Bromwicks’ carry-all to use, besides t
heir own, for the first day, and Mr. Peterkin and Agamemnon drove into town to bring all the teachers out. One was a Russian gentleman, traveling, who came with no idea of giving lessons, but perhaps would consent to do so. He could not yet speak English. Mr. Peterkin had his card-case and the cards of the several gentlemen who had recommended the different teachers, and he went with Agamemnon from hotel to hotel collecting them. He found them all very polite and ready to come, after the explanation by signs agreed upon. The dictionaries had been forgotten, but Agamemnon had a directory, which looked the same and seemed to satisfy the foreigners.

  Mr. Peterkin was obliged to content himself with the Russian instead of one who could teach Sanskrit, as there was no new teacher of that language lately arrived.

  But there was an unexpected difficulty in getting the Russian gentleman into the same carriage with the teacher of Arabic, for he was a Turk, sitting with a fez on his head, on the back seat! They glared at each other, and began to assail each other in every language they knew, none of which Mr. Peterkin could understand. It might be Russian; it might have been Arabic. It was easy to understand that they would never consent to sit in the same carriage. Mr. Peterkin was in despair; he had forgotten about the Russian war! What a mistake to have invited the Turk!

  Quite a crowd collected on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. But the French gentleman politely, but stiffly, invited the Russian to go with him in the first carry-all. Here was another difficulty. For the German professor was quietly ensconced on the back seat! As soon as the French gentleman put his foot on the step and saw him, he addressed him in such forcible language that the German professor got out of the door the other side, and came round on the sidewalk and took him by the collar. Certainly the German and French gentlemen could not be put together, and more crowd collected!

  Agamemnon, however, had happily studied up the German word “Herr,” and he applied it to the German, inviting him by signs to take a seat in the other carry-all. The German consented to sit by the Turk, as they neither of them could understand the other; and at last they started, Mr. Peterkin with the Italian by his side, and the French and Russian teachers behind, vociferating to each other in languages unknown to Mr. Peterkin, while he feared they were not perfectly in harmony; so he drove home as fast as possible. Agamemnon had a silent party. The Spaniard at his side was a little moody, while the Turk and the German behind did not utter a word.

  At last they reached the house, and were greeted by Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza, Mrs. Peterkin with her llama lace shawl over her shoulders, as a tribute to the Spanish teacher. Mr. Peterkin was careful to take his party in first, and deposit them in a distant part of the library, far from the Turk or the German, even putting the Frenchman and Russian apart.

  Solomon John found the Italian dictionary, and seated himself by his Italian; Agamemnon, with the German dictionary, by the German. The little boys took their copy of the Arabian Nights to the Turk. Mr. Peterkin attempted to explain to the Russian that he had no Russian dictionary, as he had hoped to learn Sanskrit of him, while Mrs. Peterkin was trying to inform her teacher that she had no books in Spanish. She got over all fears of the Inquisition, he looked so sad, and she tried to talk a little, using English words, but very slowly, and altering the accent as far as she knew how. The Spaniard bowed, looked gravely interested, and was very polite.

  Elizabeth Eliza, meanwhile, was trying her grammar phrases with the Parisian. She found it easier to talk French than to understand him. But he understood perfectly her sentences. She repeated one of her vocabularies, and went on with, “J’ai le livre.” “As-tu le pain?” “L’enfant a une poire.” He listened with great attention, and replied slowly. Suddenly she started, after making out one of his sentences, and went to her mother to whisper, “They have made the mistake you feared. They think they are invited to lunch! He has just been thanking me for our politeness in inviting them to dejeuner,—that means breakfast!”

  “They have not had their breakfast!” exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, looking at her Spaniard; “he does look hungry! What shall we do?”

  Elizabeth Eliza was consulting her father. What should they do? How should they make them understand that they invited them to teach, not lunch. Elizabeth Eliza begged Agamemnon to look out “apprendre” in the dictionary. It must mean to teach. Alas, they found it means both to teach and to learn! What should they do? The foreigners were now sitting silent in their different corners. The Spaniard grew more and more sallow. What if he should faint? The Frenchman was rolling up each of his mustaches to a point as he gazed at the German. What if the Russian should fight the Turk? What if the German should be exasperated by the airs of the Parisian?

  “We must give them something to eat,” said Mr. Peterkin, in a low tone. “It would calm them.”

  “If I only knew what they were used to eating!” said Mrs. Peterkin.

  Solomon John suggested that none of them knew what the others were used to eating, and they might bring in anything.

  Mrs. Peterkin hastened out with hospitable intents. Amanda could make good coffee. Mr. Peterkin had suggested some American dish. Solomon John sent a little boy for some olives.

  It was not long before the coffee came in, and a dish of baked beans. Next, some olives and a loaf of bread, and some boiled eggs, and some bottles of beer. The effect was astonishing. Every man spoke his own tongue, and fluently. Mrs. Peterkin poured out coffee for the Spaniard, while he bowed to her. They all liked beer; they all liked olives. The Frenchman was fluent about “les moeurs Americaines.” Elizabeth Eliza supposed he alluded to their not having set any table. The Turk smiled; the Russian was voluble. In the midst of the clang of the different languages, just as Mr. Peterkin was again repeating, under cover of the noise of many tongues, “How shall we make them understand that we want them to teach?”—at this moment the door was flung open, and there came in the lady from Philadelphia, that day arrived, her first call of the season.

  She started back in terror at the tumult of so many different languages. The family, with joy, rushed to meet her. All together they called upon her to explain for them. Could she help them? Could she tell the foreigners that they wanted to take lessons? Lessons? They had no sooner uttered the word than their guests all started up with faces beaming with joy. It was the one English word they all knew! They had come to Boston to give lessons! The Russian traveler had hoped to learn English in this way. The thought pleased them more than the dejeuner. Yes, gladly would they give lessons. The Turk smiled at the idea. The first step was taken. The teachers knew they were expected to teach.

  SOURCE: St. Nicholas: Scribner’s Illustrated Magazine. New York: Scribner and Company, December 1878.

  UNCLE REMUS AND THE WONDERFUL TAR-BABY STORY (1881)

  Joel Chandler Harris

  Harris (1848–1908) was a white man born in Georgia who made his name while a copy editor at Atlanta Constitution as the creator of “Uncle Remus.” Uncle Remus was a black man born into slavery, whose tales of clever animals amused the grandson of the plantation owner who used to own him. Harris began writing these stories in 1879, and they became immensely popular, being reprinted in other newspapers and then collected in books. There’s no avoiding the squirming these black-face stories cause in their original and Disneyfied versions, but the originals have the advantage of being more complicated and less reducible to stereotypes; for example, Uncle Remus continuously conveys his idiosyncratic personality and distinctiveness in spite of the patronizing point of view of the narrator. Below are presented three short tales; I have altered the original title of the first selection, “Uncle Remus Initiates the Little Boy,” to avoid even further nervousness on the part of twenty-first-century readers. If not historically interesting, which they certainly are, they’re actually funny. I present three episodes, the second of which provides the overall title (the third is “How Mr. Rabbit Was Too Sharp for Mr. Fox”).

  ONE EVENING RECENTLY, the lady whom Uncle Remus calls “Miss Sally”
missed her little seven-year-old. Making search for him through the house and through the yard, she heard the sound of voices in the old man’s cabin, and, looking through the window, saw the child sitting by Uncle Remus. His head rested against the old man’s arm, and he was gazing with an expression of the most intense interest into the rough, weather-beaten face that beamed so kindly upon him. This is what “Miss Sally” heard:

  “Bimeby, one day, arter Brer Fox bin doin’ all dat he could fer ter ketch Brer Rabbit, en Brer Rabbit bin doin’ all he could fer ter

  keep ’im fum it, Brer Fox say to hisse’f dat Uncle Remus, he’d put up a game on Brer Rabbit, en he ain’t mo’n got de wuds out’n his mout twel Brer Rabbit come a lopin’ up de big road, lookin’ des ez plump en ez fat en ez sassy ez a Moggin hoss in a barley-patch.

  “ ‘Hol’ on, dar, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

  “ ‘I ain’t got time, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, sorter mendin’ his licks.

  “ ‘I wanter have some confab wid you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

  “ ‘All right, Brer Fox; but you better holler fum whar you stan’. I’m monstus full er fleas dis mawnin’,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

  “ ‘I seed Brer B’ar yistiddy,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, “en he sorter rake me over de coals kaze you en me ain’t make frens en live naberly; en I tole ’im dat I’d see you.’

  “Den Brer Rabbit scratch one year wid his off hine-foot sorter jub’usly, en den he ups en sez, sezee:

  “ ‘All a settin’, Brer Fox. Spose’n you drap roun’ ter-morrer en take dinner wid me. We ain’t got no great doin’s at our house, but I speck de ole ’oman en de chilluns kin sorter scramble roun’ en git up somp’n fer ter stay yo’ stummuck.’