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

by Rick Raphael

  Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

  At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway,-- Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

  Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite! What! do I hear thy slender voice complain? Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light, As if it brought the memory of pain. Thou art a wayward being--well, come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.

  What say'st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick? And China Bloom at best is sorry food? And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime; But shun the sacrilege another time.

  That bloom was made to look at,--not to touch; To worship, not approach, that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou shouldst have gazed at distance, and admired,-- Murmured thy admiration and retired.

  Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. Look round: the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

  Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enriched by generous wine and costly meat; On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet. Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.

  There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows, To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

  "TIDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-BUM! BUM!"

  BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

  When our town band gets on the square On concert night you'll find me there. I'm right beside Elijah Plumb, Who plays th' cymbals an' bass drum; An' next to him is Henry Dunn, Who taps the little tenor one. I like to hear our town band play, But, best it does, I want to say, Is when they tell a tune's to come With "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- Bum-Bum!"

  O' course, there's some that likes the tunes Like _Lily Dale_ an' _Ragtime Coons_; Some likes a solo or duet By Charley Green--B-flat cornet-- An' Ernest Brown--th' trombone man. (An' they can play, er no one can); But it's the best when Henry Dunn Lets them there sticks just cut an' run, An' 'Lijah says to let her hum With "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- Bum-Bum!"

  I don't know why, ner what's the use O' havin' that to interduce A tune--but I know, as fer me I'd ten times over ruther see Elijah Plumb chaw with his chin, A-gettin' ready to begin, While Henry plays that roll o' his An' makes them drumsticks fairly sizz, Announcin' music, on th' drum, With "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- Bum-Bum!"

  MY FIRST CIGAR

  BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

  'Twas just behind the woodshed, One glorious summer day, Far o'er the hills the sinking sun Pursued his westward way; And in my safe seclusion Removed from all the jar And din of earth's confusion I smoked my first cigar.

  It was my first cigar! It was the worst cigar! Raw, green and dank, hide-bound and rank It was my first cigar!

  Ah, bright the boyish fancies Wrapped in the smoke-wreaths blue; My eyes grew dim, my head was light, The woodshed round me flew! Dark night closed in around me-- Black night, without a star-- Grim death methought had found me And spoiled my first cigar.

  It was my first cigar! A six-for-five cigar! No viler torch the air could scorch-- It was my first cigar!

  All pallid was my beaded brow, The reeling night was late, My startled mother cried in fear, "My child, what have you ate?" I heard my father's smothered laugh, It seemed so strange and far, I knew he knew I knew he knew I'd smoked my first cigar!

  It was my first cigar! A give-away cigar! I could not die--I knew not why-- It was my first cigar!

  Since then I've stood in reckless ways, I've dared what men can dare, I've mocked at danger, walked with death, I've laughed at pain and care. I do not dread what may befall 'Neath my malignant star, No frowning fate again can make Me smoke my first cigar.

  I've smoked my first cigar! My first and worst cigar! Fate has no terrors for the man Who's smoked his first cigar!

  SHONNY SCHWARTZ

  BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS

  Haf you seen mine leedle Shonny,-- Shonny Schwartz,-- Mit his hair so soft und yellow, Und his face so blump und mellow; Sooch a funny leedle fellow,-- Shonny Schwartz?

  Efry mornings dot young Shonny-- Shonny Schwartz-- Rises mit der preak off day, Und does his chores oup righdt avay; For he gan vork so vell as blay,-- Shonny Schwartz.

  Mine Katrina says to Shonny, "Shonny Schwartz, Helb your barents all you gan, For dis life vas bud a shban: Py und py you'll been a man, Shonny Schwartz."

  How I lofes to see dot Shonny-- Shonny Schwartz-- Vhen he schgampers off to schgool, Vhere he alvays minds der rule! For he vas nopody's fool,-- Shonny Schwartz.

  How I vish dot leedle Shonny-- Shonny Schwartz-- Could remain von leedle poy, Alvays full off life und shoy, Und dot Time vould not annoy Shonny Schwartz!

  Nefer mindt, mine leedle Shonny,-- Shonny Schwartz; Efry day prings someding new: Alvays keep der righdt in view, Und baddle, den, your own canoe, Shonny Schwartz.

  Keep her in der channel, Shonny,-- Shonny Schwartz: Life's voyich vill pe quickly o'er; Und den ubon dot bedder shore Ve'll meet again, to bart no more, Shonny Schwartz.

  A BULLY BOAT AND A BRAG CAPTAIN

  _A Story of Steamboat Life on the Mississippi_

  BY SOL SMITH

  Does any one remember the _Caravan_? She was what would now beconsidered a slow boat--_then_ (1827) she was regularly advertised asthe "fast running," etc. Her regular trips from New Orleans to Natchezwere usually made in from six to eight days; a trip made by her in fivedays was considered remarkable. A voyage from New Orleans to Vicksburgand back, including stoppages, generally entitled the officers and crewto a month's wages. Whether the _Caravan_ ever achieved the feat of avoyage to the Falls (Louisville) I have never learned; if she did, shemust have "had a _time_ of it!"

  It was my fate to take passage in this boat. The Captain was agood-natured, easy-going man, careful of the comfort of his passengers,and exceedingly fond of the _game of brag_. We had been out a littlemore than five days, and we were in hopes of seeing the bluffs ofNatchez on the next day. Our wood was getting low, and night coming on.The pilot on duty _above_ (the other pilot held three aces at the time,and was just calling out the Captain, who "went it strong" on threekings) sent down word that the mate had reported the stock of woodreduced to half a cord. The worthy Captain excused him
self to the pilotwhose watch was _below_ and the two passengers who made up the party,and hurried to the deck, where he soon discovered by the landmarks thatwe were about half a mile from a woodyard, which he said was situated"right round yonder point." "But," muttered the Captain, "I don't muchlike to take wood of the yellow-faced old scoundrel who owns it--healways charges a quarter of a dollar more than any one else; however,there's no other chance." The boat was pushed to her utmost, and in alittle less than an hour, when our fuel was about giving out, we madethe point, and our cables were out and fastened to trees alongside of agood-sized wood pile.

  "Hallo, Colonel! How d'ye sell your wood _this_ time?"

  A yellow-faced old gentleman, with a two weeks' beard, strings over hisshoulders holding up to his armpits a pair of copperas-coloredlinsey-woolsey pants, the legs of which reached a very little below theknee; shoes without stockings; a faded, broad-brimmed hat, which hadonce been black, and a pipe in his mouth--casting a glance at the emptyguards of our boat and uttering a grunt as he rose from fastening our"spring line," answered:

  "Why, Capting, we must charge you _three and a quarter_ THIS _time_."

  "The d--l!" replied the Captain--(captains did swear a little in thosedays); "what's the odd _quarter_ for, I should like to know? You onlycharged me _three_ as I went down."

  "Why, Capting," drawled out the wood merchant, with a sort of leer onhis yellow countenance, which clearly indicated that his wood was asgood as sold, "wood's riz since you went down two weeks ago; besides,you are awar that you very seldom stop going _down_--when you're going_up_ you're sometimes obleeged to give me a call, becaze the current'saginst you, and there's no other woodyard for nine miles ahead; and ifyou happen to be nearly out of fooel, why--"

  "Well, well," interrupted the Captain, "we'll take a few cords, underthe circumstances," and he returned to his game of brag.

  In about half an hour we felt the _Caravan_ commence paddling again.Supper was over, and I retired to my upper berth, situated alongside andoverlooking the brag-table, where the Captain was deeply engaged, havingnow the _other_ pilot as his principal opponent. We jogged onquietly--and seemed to be going at a good rate.

  "How does that wood burn?" inquired the Captain of the mate, who waslooking on at the game.

  "'Tisn't of much account, I reckon," answered the mate; "it'scottonwood, and most of it green at that."

  "Well, Thompson--(Three aces again, stranger--I'll take that X and thesmall change, if you please. It's your deal)--Thompson, I say, we'dbetter take three or four cords at the next woodyard--it can't be morethan six miles from here--(Two aces and a bragger, with the age! Handover those V's.)."

  The game went on, and the paddles kept moving. At eleven o'clock it wasreported to the Captain that we were nearing the woodyard, the lightbeing distinctly seen by the pilot on duty.

  "Head her in shore, then, and take in six cords if it's good--see to it,Thompson; I can't very well leave the game now--it's getting right warm!This pilot's beating us all to smash."

  The wooding completed, we paddled on again. The Captain seemed somewhatvexed when the mate informed him that the price was the same as at thelast woodyard--_three and a quarter_; but soon again became interestedin the game.

  From my upper berth (there were no staterooms _then_) I could observethe movements of the players. All the contention appeared to be betweenthe Captain and the pilots (the latter personages took it turn and turnabout, steering and playing brag), _one_ of them almost invariablywinning, while the two passengers merely went through the ceremony ofdealing, cutting, and paying up their "anties." They were anxious to_learn the game_--and they _did_ learn it! Once in a while, indeed,seeing they had two aces and a bragger, they would venture a bet of fiveor ten dollars, but they were always compelled to back out before thetremendous bragging of the Captain or pilot--or if they did venture to"call out" on "two bullits and a bragger," they had the mortification tofind one of the officers had the same kind of a hand, and were _morevenerable_! Still, with all these disadvantages, they continuedplaying--they wanted to learn the game.

  At two o'clock the Captain asked the mate how we were getting on.

  "Oh, pretty glibly, sir," replied the mate; "we can scarcely tell whatheadway we _are_ making, for we are obliged to keep the middle of theriver, and there is the shadow of a fog rising. This wood seems ratherbetter than that we took in at Yellow-Face's, but we're nearly outagain, and must be looking out for more. I saw a light just ahead on theright--shall we hail?"

  "Yes, yes," replied the Captain; "ring the bell and ask 'em what's theprice of wood up here. (I've got you again; here's double kings.)"

  I heard the bell and the pilot's hail, "What's _your_ price for wood?"

  A youthful voice on the shore answered, "Three _and_ a quarter!"

  "D--net!" ejaculated the Captain, who had just lost the price of twocords to the pilot--the strangers suffering _some_ at the sametime--"three and a quarter again! Are we _never_ to get to a cheapercountry? (Deal, sir, if you please; better luck next time.)"

  The other pilot's voice was again heard on deck:

  "How much _have_ you?"

  "Only about ten cords, sir," was the reply of the youthful salesman.

  The Captain here told Thompson to take six cords, which would last tilldaylight--and again turned his attention to the game.

  The pilots here changed places. _When did they sleep?_

  Wood taken in, the _Caravan_ again took her place in the middle of thestream, paddling on as usual.

  Day at length dawned. The brag-party broke up and settlements were beingmade, during which operation the Captain's bragging propensities wereexercised in cracking up the speed of his boat, which, by his reckoning,must have made at least sixty miles, and _would_ have made many more ifhe could have procured good wood. It appears the two passengers, intheir first lesson, had incidentally lost one hundred and twentydollars. The Captain, as he rose to see about taking in some _good_wood, which he felt sure of obtaining now that he had got above thelevel country, winked at his opponent, the pilot, with whom he had beenon very bad terms during the progress of the game, and said, in anundertone, "Forty apiece for you and I and James (the other pilot) isnot bad for one night."

  I had risen and went out with the Captain, to enjoy a view of thebluffs. There was just fog enough to prevent the vision taking in morethan sixty yards--so I was disappointed in _my_ expectation. We werenearing the shore, for the purpose of looking for wood, the banks beinginvisible from the middle of the river.

  "There it is!" exclaimed the Captain; "stop her!" Ding--ding--ding! wentthe big bell, and the Captain hailed:

  "Hallo! the woodyard!"

  "Hallo yourself!" answered a squeaking female voice, which came from awoman with a petticoat over her shoulders in place of a shawl.

  "What's the price of wood?"

  "I think you ought to know the price by this time," answered the oldlady in the petticoat; "it's three and a qua-a-rter! and now you knowit."

  "Three and the d--l!" broke in the Captain. "What, have you raised on_your_ wood, too? I'll give you _three_, and not a cent more."

  "Well," replied the petticoat, "here comes the old man--_he'll_ talk toyou."

  And, sure enough, out crept from the cottage the veritable faded hat,copperas-colored pants, yellow countenance and two weeks' beard we hadseen the night before, and the same voice we had heard regulating theprice of cottonwood squeaked out the following sentence, accompanied bythe same leer of the same yellow countenance:

  "Why, darn it all, Capting, there is but three or four cords left, and_since it's you_, I don't care if I _do_ let you have it for_three_--_as you're a good customer_!"

  After a quick glance at the landmarks around, the Captain bolted, andturned in to take some rest.

  The fact became apparent--the reader will probably have discovered itsome time since--that _we had been wooding all night at the samewoodyard_!

  WHEN THE ALLEGASH DRIVE GOES THROUGH

&nbs
p; BY HOLMAN F. DAY

  We're spurred with the spikes in our soles; There is water a-swash in our boots; Our hands are hard-calloused by peavies and poles, And we're drenched with the spume of the chutes; We gather our herds at the head, Where the axes have toppled them loose, And down from the hills where the rivers are fed We harry the hemlock and spruce.

  We hurroop them with the peavies from their sullen beds of snow; With the pickpole for a goadstick, down the brimming streams we go; They are hitching, they are halting, and they lurk and hide and dodge, They sneak for skulking-eddies, they bunt the bank and lodge; And we almost can imagine that they hear the yell of saws And the grunting of the grinders of the paper-mills, because They loiter in the shallows and they cob-pile at the falls, And they buck like ugly cattle where the broad dead-water crawls; But we wallow in and welt 'em, with the water to our waist, For the driving pitch is dropping and the drouth is gasping "Haste"! Here a dam and there a jam, that is grabbed by grinning rocks, Gnawed by the teeth of the ravening ledge that slavers at our flocks; Twenty a month for daring Death--for fighting from dawn to dark-- Twenty and grub and a place to sleep in God's great public park; We roofless go, with the cook's bateau to follow our hungry crew-- A billion of spruce and hell turned loose when the Allegash drive goes through.

  My lad with the spurs at his heel Has a cattle-ranch bronco to bust; A thousand of Texans to wheedle and wheel To market through smother and dust; But I with the peavy and pole Am driving the herds of the pine, Grant to my brother what suits his soul, But no bellowing brutes in mine.