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

by Rick Raphael

  "And the Drug Stores will be driven out of business, I presume," saidthe Doctor.

  "No," said the Idiot. "They will substitute music for drugs, that isall. Every man who can afford it will have his own medical phonograph ormusic-box, and the drug stores will sell cylinders and records for theminstead of quinine, carbonate of soda, squills, paregoric and othernasty tasting things they have now. This alone will serve to popularizesickness and instead of being driven out of business their trade willpick up."

  "And the Doctor? And the Doctor's gig and all the appurtenances of hisprofession--what becomes of them?" demanded the Doctor.

  "We'll have to have the Doctor just the same to prescribe for us, onlyhe will have to be a musician, but the gig--I'm afraid that will have togo," said the Idiot.

  "And why, pray?" asked the Doctor. "Because there are no more drugs mustthe physician walk?"

  "Not at all," said the Idiot. "But he'd be better equipped if he droveabout in a piano-organ, or if he preferred an auto on a steamcalliope."

  THE OCTOPUSSYCAT[4]

  BY KENYON COX

  I love Octopussy, his arms are so long; There's nothing in nature so sweet as his song. 'Tis true I'd not touch him--no, not for a farm! If I keep at a distance he'll do me no harm.

  [Footnote 4: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright 1904, by Fox,Duffield & Co.]

  THE BOOK-CANVASSER

  ANONYMOUS

  He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it uponthe table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a raggedhandkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it waspositively gloomy, he said,--

  "Mr. ----, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; veryvaluable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains picturesof all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to thepresent day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can'ttake your name.

  "Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book andpointing to an engraving. "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus.Perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling meto-day before I started out that he discovered--no; was it Columbus thatdis--oh, yes, Columbus he discovered America,--was the first man here.He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and hestayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, andwhen the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture,ain't it? Taken from a photograph; all of 'em are; done especially forthis work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that's the way theydressed in them days.

  "Look at this one. Now, isn't that splendid? That's William Penn, one ofthe early settlers. I was reading t'other day about him. When he firstarrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook someapples down he set one on top of his son's head and shot an arrow plumpthrough it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold, hewas such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? face shavedclean; he didn't wear a moustache, I believe, but he seems to have lethimself out on hair. Now, my view is that every man ought to have apicture of that patriarch, so's to see how the fust settlers looked andwhat kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs, too! Trousers alittle short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's allthere. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, Ireckon. Now, how does that strike you?

  "There's something nice. That, I think is--is--that--a--a--yes, to besure, Washington; you recollect him, of course? Some people call himFather of his Country. George--Washington. Had no middle name, Ibelieve. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. Iheard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware Riverup yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've readabout it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and heused to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. Thegirl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to dothat, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over ona bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are soreckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get thepublisher to write out some more stories, and bring 'em round to you,so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things,but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.

  "Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He wasone of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what heis celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a--oh, yes, flying akite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying akite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering upin the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a treeand hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction ofgravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd'a' ben hit, it'd just made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin'.But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See whata double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee wouldhave been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword, and Ireckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went outwith the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one myself, andI think all the better of him for it.

  "Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn'tthat gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her handswhile he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a club tries tohammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, Ibelieve; anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and thepublisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is,there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, andthis here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose,and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, 'Why don't you letJohn alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'llnever speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so theman he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and weremarried and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? Agood wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a littlecopper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? ButSmith appears kinder sick; evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and Idon't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such adiscouraging club.

  "And now we come to--to--ah--to--Putnam,--General Putnam: he fought inthe war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off hisguard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked thehorse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but gopitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, withGeneral Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways, thepublisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But hecame out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thingof it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck; but maybe it was amule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some ofthese men have gone through, ain't it?

  "Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shookhands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in NewOrleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then when the Ku-Kluxes gotafter him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em tillthey couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,--hitstraight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew hisfust name was; and look how his hair stands up.

  "And then here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates,and a whole lot more pictures; so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme haveyour name, won't you?"

  HER VALENTINE

  BY RICHARD HOVEY

  What, send her a valentine? Never! I see you don't know who "she" is. I should ruin my chances forever; My hopes would collapse with a fizz.

  I can't see why she scents such disaster When I take heart to venture a word; I've no dream of becoming her master, I've no notion of being her lord.

  All I want is to just be her lover! She's the most up-to-date
of her sex, And there's such a multitude of her, No wonder they call her complex.

  She's a bachelor, even when married, She's a vagabond, even when housed; And if ever her citadel's carried Her suspicions must not be aroused.

  She's erratic, impulsive and human, And she blunders,--as goddesses can; But if _she's_ what they call the New Woman, Then _I'd_ like to be the New Man.

  I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures, And typewrites and hoes her own row, And it's quite beyond reach of conjectures How much further she's going to go.

  When she scorns, in the L-road, my proffer Of a seat and hangs on to a strap; I admire her so much, I could offer To let her ride up on my lap.

  Let her undo the stays of the ages, That have cramped and confined her so long! Let her burst through the frail candy cages That fooled her to think they were strong!

  She may enter life's wide vagabondage, She may do without flutter or frill, She may take off the chains of her bondage,-- And anything else that she will.

  She may take _me_ off, for example, And she probably does when I'm gone. I'm aware the occasion is ample; That's why I so often take on.

  I'm so glad she can win her own dollars And know all the freedom it brings. I love her in shirt-waists and collars, I love her in dress-reform things.

  I love her in bicycle skirtlings-- Especially when there's a breeze-- I love her in crinklings and quirklings And anything else that you please.

  I dote on her even in bloomers-- If Parisian enough in their style-- In fact, she may choose her costumers, Wherever her fancy beguile.

  She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle, She may argue, hold office or vote, She may engineer turret or trestle, And build a few ships that will float.

  She may lecture (all lectures but curtain) Make money, and naturally spend, If I let her have _her_ way, I'm certain She'll let me have _mine_ in the end!

  THE WELSH RABBITTERN[5]

  BY KENYON COX

  This is a very fearsome bird Who sits upon men's chests at night. With horrid stare his eyeballs glare: He flies away at morning's light.

  [Footnote 5: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright, 1904, byFox, Duffield & Co.]

  COMIC MISERIES

  BY JOHN G. SAXE

  I

  My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room ablaze, Don't think yourself "a happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!

  II

  You're at an evening party, with A group of pleasant folks,-- You venture quietly to crack The least of little jokes: A lady doesn't catch the point, And begs you to explain,-- Alas for one who drops a jest And takes it up again!

  III

  You're taking deep philosophy With very special force, To edify a clergyman With suitable discourse: You think you've got him,--when he calls A friend across the way, And begs you'll say that funny thing You said the other day!

  IV

  You drop a pretty _jeu-de-mot_ Into a neighbor's ears, Who likes to give you credit for The clever thing he hears, And so he hawks your jest about, The old, authentic one, Just breaking off the point of it, And leaving out the pun!

  V

  By sudden change in politics, Or sadder change in Polly, You lose your love, or loaves, and fall A prey to melancholy, While everybody marvels why Your mirth is under ban, They think your very grief "a joke," You're such a funny man!

  VI

  You follow up a stylish card That bids you come and dine, And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine); You're looking very dismal, when My lady bounces in, And wonders what you're thinking of, And why you don't begin!

  VII

  You're telling to a knot of friends A fancy-tale of woes That cloud your matrimonial sky, And banish all repose,-- A solemn lady overhears The story of your strife, And tells the town the pleasant news:-- You quarrel with your wife!

  VIII

  My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room ablaze, Don't think yourself "a happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!

  THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK-AGENT

  ANONYMOUS

  A book-agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few milesout of the city, until he bought a book,--the "Early Christian Martyrs."Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of theagent; then, taking it under his arm, he started for the train whichtakes him to his office in the city.

  Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from aneighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wifeto buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husbandhad bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back inthe evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said, "Well, mydear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope?"

  "Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."

  "Ah, and who was she?"

  "It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman,--a book-agent."

  "A what?"

  "A book-agent; and to get rid of his importuning I bought his book,--the'Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is," she exclaimed, advancingtoward her husband.

  "I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly.

  "Why, husband?" asked his wife.

  "Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning.Now we've got two copies of the same book,--two copies of the 'EarlyChristian Martyrs,' and--"

  "But, husband, we can--"

  "No, we can't, either!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "The man is off on thetrain before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I--"

  "Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out ofthe window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for thetrain.

  "But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off myboots, and--"

  Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr.Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almostfrightening the horse.

  "Here, Stevens!" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run yourhorse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch'im now!"

  "All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing downthe road.

  Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted, "Allaboard!"

  "Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train."Book-agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."

  "Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzledbook-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books;but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."

  "If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. Howmuch is it?"

  "Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent,as he reached for the money and passed the book out of the car-window.

  Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in hisshirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full forutterance.

  "Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,--"just got it, and that's all."

  "Got what?" yelled Watson.

  "Why, I got the book,--'Early Christian Martyrs,'--and paid--"

  "By--the--great--guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hands to hisbrow and swooned right in the middle of the street.

  THE COQUETTE

  _A Portrait_

  BY JOHN G. SAXE

  "You're clever at drawing, I own," Said my beautiful cousin Lisette, As
we sat by the window alone, "But say, can you paint a Coquette?"

  "She's painted already," quoth I; "Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette, "Now none of your joking,--but try And paint me a thorough Coquette."

  "Well, cousin," at once I began In the ear of the eager Lisette, "I'll paint you as well as I can That wonderful thing, a Coquette.

  "She wears a most beautiful face," ("Of course!" said the pretty Lisette), "And isn't deficient in grace, Or else she were not a Coquette.