Delphi complete works of.., p.631
Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 631
“It ain’t that I’m afraid iv not doin th’ r-right thing in th’ end, Hinnissy. Some mornin’ I’ll wake up an’ know jus’ what to do, an’ that I’ll do. But ’tis th’ annoyance in th’ mane time. I’ve been r-readin’ about th’ counthry. ’Tis over beyant ye’er left shoulder whin ye’re facin’ east. Jus’ throw ye’er thumb back, an’ ye have it as ac’rate as anny man in town. ’Tis farther thin Booklgahrya an’ not so far as Blewchoochoo. It’s near Chiny, an’ it’s not so near; an’, if a man was to bore a well through fr’m Goshen, Indianny, he might sthrike it, an’ thin again he might not. It’s a poverty-sthricken counthry, full iv goold an’ precious stones, where th’ people can pick dinner off th’ threes an’ ar-re starvin’ because they have no step-ladders. Th’ inhabitants is mostly naygurs an Chinnymen, peaceful, industhrus, an’ law-abidin’, but savage an’ bloodthirsty in their methods. They wear no clothes except what they have on, an’ each woman has five husbands an’ each man has five wives. Th’ r-rest goes into th’ discard, th’ same as here. Th’ islands has been ownded be Spain since befure th’ fire; an’ she’s threated thim so well they’re now up in ar-rms again her, except a majority iv thim which is thurly loyal. Th’ natives seldom fight, but whin they get mad at wan another they r-run-a-muck. Whin a man r-runs-a-muck, sometimes they hang him an’ sometimes they discharge him an’ hire a new motorman. Th’ women ar-re beautiful, with Ianguishin’ black eyes, an’ they smoke see-gars, but ar-re hurried an’ incomplete in their dress. I see a pitcher iv wan th’other day with nawthin’ on her but a basket of cocoanuts an’ a hoopskirt. They’re no prudes. We import juke, hemp, cigar wrappers, sugar, an fairy tales fr’m th’ Ph’lippeens, an’ export six-inch shells an’ th’ like. Iv late th’ Ph’lippeens has awaked to th’ fact that they’re behind th’ times, an’ has received much American amminition in their midst. They say th’ Spanyards is all tore up about it.
“I larned all this fr’m th’ papers, an’ I know ’tis sthraight. An’ yet, Hinnissy, I dinnaw what to do about th’ Ph’lippeens. An’ I’m all alone in th’ wurruld. Ivrybody else has made up his mind. Ye ask anny con-ducthor on Ar-rchey R-road, an’ he’ll tell ye. Ye can find out fr’m the papers; an’, if ye really want to know, all ye have to do is to ask a prominent citizen who can mow all th’ lawn he owns with a safety razor. But I don’t know.”
“Hang on to thim,” said Mr. Hennessy stoutly. “What we’ve got we must hold.”
“Well,” said Mr. Dooley, “if I was Mack, I’d lave it to George. I’d say: ‘George,’ I’d say, ‘if ye’re f’r hangin’ on, hang on it is. If ye say, lave go, I dhrop thim.’’Twas George won thim with th’ shells, an’ th’ question’s up to him.”
JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
John Kendrick Bangs (1862-1922) first became known as opening and shutting the Editor s Drawer of Harpers Monthly, then as editor of Puck (iQofi). Later he was widely known as a lecturer. He was especially happy in his titles and literary conceits — Half-Hours with the Idiot, A Houseboat on the Styx, etc.
FROM A HOUSEBOAT ON THE STYX
CHARON, the Ferryman of renown, was cruising slowly along the Styx one pleasant Friday morning not long ago, and as he paddled idly on he chuckled mildly to himself as he thought of the monopoly in ferriage which in the course of years he had managed to build up.
“It’s a great thing,” he said, with a smirk of satisfaction— “it’s a great thing to be the go-between between two states of being; to have the exclusive franchise to export and import shades from one state to the other, and withal to have had as clean a record as mine has been. Valuable as is my franchise, I never corrupted a public official in my life, and—”
Here Charon stopped his soliloquy and his boat simultaneously. As he rounded one of the many turns in the river a singular object met his gaze, and one, too, that filled him with misgiving. It was another craft, and that was a thing not to be tolerated. Had he, Charon, owned the exclusive right of way on the Styx all these years to have it disputed here in the closing decade of the Nineteenth Century? Had not he dealt satisfactorily with all, whether it was in the line of ferriage or in the providing of boats for pleasure-trips up the river? Had he not received expressions of satisfaction, indeed, from the most exclusive families of Hades with the very select series of picnics he had given at Charon’s Glen Island? No wonder, then that the queer-looking boat that met his gaze, moored in a shady nook on the dark side of the river, filled him with dismay....
.. Some hours later, returning with a large company of new arrivals, while counting up the profits of the day Charon again caught sight of the new craft, and saw that it was brilliantly lighted and thronged with the most famous citizens of the Erebean country. Up in the bow was a spirit band discoursing music of the sweetest sort. Merry peals of laughter rang out over the dark waters of the Styx. The clink of glasses and the popping of corks punctuated the music with a frequency which would have delighted the soul of the most ardent lover of commas, all of which so overpowered the grand master boatman of the Stygian Ferry Company that he dropped three oboli and an American dime, which he carried as a pocket-piece, overboard....
.. At eight the brilliant company was arranged comfortably about the board. An orchestra of five, under the leadership of Mozart, discoursed sweet music behind a screen, and the feast of reason and flow of soul began.
“This is a great day,” said Doctor Johnson, assisting himself copiously to the olives.
“Yes,” said Columbus, who was also a guest— “yes, it is a great day, but it isn’t a marker to a little day in October I wot of.”
“Still sore on that point?” queried Confucius, trying the edge of his knife on the shade of a salted almond.
“Oh no,” said Columbus, calmly, “I don’t feel jealous of Washington. He is the Father of his Country and I am not. I only discovered the orphan. I knew the country before it had a father or a mother. There wasn’t anybody who was willing to be even a sister to it when I knew it But G. W. here took it in hand, groomed it down, spanked it when it needed it, and started it off on the career which has made it worth while for me to let my name be known in connection with it. Why should I be jealous of him?”
“I am sure I don’t know why anybody anywhere should be jealous of anybody else anyhow,” said Diogenes. “I never was and I never expect to be. Jealousy is a quality that is utterly foreign to the nature of an honest man. Take my own case, for instance. When I was what they call alive, how did I live?”
“I don’t know,” said Dr. Johnson, turning his head as he spoke so that Boswell could not fail to hear. “I wasn’t there.”
Boswell nodded approvingly, chuckled slightly, and put the Doctor’s remark down for publication in The Gossip.
“You’re doubtless right, there,” retorted Diogenes. “What you don’t know would fill a circulating library. Well — I lived in a tub. Now, if I believed in envy, I suppose you think I’d be envious of people who live in brown-stone fronts, with back yards and mortgages, eh?”
“I’d rather live under a mortgage than in a tub,” said Bonaparte, contemptuously.
“I know you would,” said Diogenes. “Mortgages never bothered you — but I wouldn’t. In the first place, my tub was warm. I never saw a house with a brownstone front that was, except in summer, and then the owner cursed it because it was so. My tub had no plumbing in it to get out of order. It hadn’t any flights of stairs in it that had to be climbed after dinner, or late at night when I came home from the club. It had no front door with a wandering key-hole calculated to elude the key ninety-nine times out of every hundred efforts to bring the two together and reconcile their differences, in order that their owner may get into his own house late at night. It wasn’t chained down to any particular neighbourhood, as are most brown-stone fronts. If the neighbourhood ran down, I could move my tub off into a better neighborhood, and it never lost value through the deterioration of its location. I never had to pay taxes on it, and no burglar was ever so hard up that he thought of breaking into my habitation to rob me. So why should I be jealous of the brownstone-house dwellers? I am a philosopher, gentlemen. I tell you, philosophy is the thief of jealousy, and I had the good luck to find it out early in life.”
“There is much in what you say,” said Confucius. “But there’s another side to the matter. If a man is an aristocrat by nature, as I was, his neighborhood never could run down. Wherever he lived would be the swell section, so that really your last argument isn’t worth a stewed icicle.”
“Stewed icicles are pretty good, though,” said Baron Munchausen, with an ecstatic smack of his lips. “I’ve eaten them many a time in the polar regions.”
“I have no doubt of it,” put in Doctor Johnson. “You’ve eaten fried pyramids in Africa, too, haven’t you?”
“Only once,” said the Baron, calmly. “And I can’t say I enjoyed them. They are rather heavy for the digestion.”
“That’s so,” said Ptolemy. “I’ve had experience with pyramids myself.”
“You never ate one, did you, Ptolemy?” queried Bonaparte.
“Not raw,” said Ptolemy, with a chuckle. “Though I’ve been tempted many a time to call for a second joint of the Sphinx.”
WALLACE IRWIN
Wallace Irwin (1876 — ) who shares the celebrity of his name with his brother Will, is a Californian, with the stamp of culture set on him by Stanford University. His career as a journalist begun in 1900 led to the production of his famous Letters of a Japanese Schoolboy and the delightful sketches and books which have followed it. In the extract below Hashi-mura Togo “takes in” a ball game and gives forth Wisdom.
FROM LETTERS OF A JAPANESE SCHOOLBOY
IN SPRING young American mind naturally turn to sport of baseballing. Japanese Boy have found out how-do to get there to place where them National Sport is done. Walk some distance to suburbs of trolley when, all of a suddenly, you will notice a sound. It is a very congregational lynch-law sound of numberous voices doing it all at once. Silence punctuates this. Then more of.
“Why all this yall about, unless of mania?” I require to know from Hon. Police.
“San Francisco is in it and Oakland is outside of it,” say Hon. Police with moustache. “San Francisco have made bat-hit and three gentlemans have arrived home.”
“So happy to welcome travellers!” I decry. “Have them gentlemans been long absent for such publick banzai?”
“All over bean-farm,” say Hon. Police. “They was all on bags,” he say, “and two mans had died on first basso—”
“I shall enjoy mourning for them heroes,” I retort.
“ — then Hon. Murphy acquire one base by high finance.”
“How-so he possess this base?” is next question for me.
“He steal it,” say Hon. Police with cigar.
I admire talents of that Hon. Murphy who can steal things while all publick make shout of applaud. With practice he would become very delicious Senator.
More loud yall of shouts is heard. I am an enthusiasm. What fierce harakiri of patriotism was going on to make them Americans so loud? Such sound of hates! Port Arthur was took with less noise than that. Therefore I must see about it.
I go to fence where ticket-hole demand 50c of price to see it.
“Why must Japanese Boy pay such price?” I renig.
“Because-so,” say Ticketer, “Baseballing is National Sport. Therefore each patriot must pay them 50c for Campaign Fund to Horn Cortelyou.”
I admit myself to gate.
In seats around gallery all-American persons is settled in state of very hoarse condition. Downstairs on ground is to XI Baseballers engaged in doing so. I am scientifick about this Game which is finished by following rules:
One strong-arm gentleman called a Pitch is hired to throw. Another gentleman called a Stop is responsible for whatever that Hon. Pitch throw to him, so he protect himself from wounding by sofa-pillows which he wear on hands. Another gentleman called a Striker stand in front to that Stop and hold up club to fright off that Hon. Pitch from angry rage of throwing things. But it is useless. Hon. Pitch in hand hold one baseball of an unripe condition of hardness. He raise that arm lofty — then twist — O sudden! He shoot them bullet-ball straight to breast of Hon. Stop. Hon. Striker swing club for vain effort. It is a miss & them deathly ball shoot Hon. Stop in gloves. “Struck once!” decry Hon. Umperor, a person which is there to gossip about it in loud voice.
“Why do Hon. Umperor demand Hon. Striker to struck when he have already did so?” I demand to know from one large German intelligence what set next by me.
“He is fanning himself outside,” make that courteous foreigner for reply, so I prefer to understand.
One more-time that Hon. Pitch prepare to enjoy some deathly agony. He hold that ball outside of twisted forearm, turn J beside himself, throw elbows away, give whirling salute of head, caress ankle with calf of leg, then up-air — quickly shoot! Ball journey to Hon. Stop with whizz, but before arriving there Hon. Striker see it with club. There is considerable knock-sound as club collide to ball which stops continuing in that direction and bounds uply to air. Great excitement for all America! All spectacles in grandstand decry, “O make sliding, Hon. Sir!” and many voices is seriously spoiled as Hon. Striker run with rapid heels from each base to next & all other Baseballers present endeavor to pull down that ball which is still in very high sky. But soonly that ball return down and is bounded into hands of second basso sportsman who shoot it to Hon. Stop just as Hon. Striker is sliding to fourth base by the seat of his stummick.
“Out!” decry Hon. Umperor, so Hon. Striker go set himself on back bench, which is deserving place for all heroes.
So many Strikers is brought up to do them clubbing acts during game that it become a monotony to Japanese Boy in a very soon time. But not-so it was to Americans who was fuller of Indiana yalls. Occasionally that large German intelligence what set next to me would say with voice, “Kill that Umperor!”
“Why should Hon. Umperor be executed?” I require for answer.
“I am not sure why-is,” extort that German. “But it is courteous to demand his death occasionally.”
“Is this Umperor such a sinful citizen?” I make note; but that Hon. German did not response because he was drownding his voice from one bottle of pop-soda for value of 5c.
I wait for very large hour to see death of this Hon. Umperor, but it did not occur as I seen. Too bad! I had very good seat to see from.
Baseballing is healthy game for Americans. It permits them to enjoy sunstroke in middle of patriotick sounds, it teach them a entirely courageous vocabulary and put 10,000,000,000,000 peanuts in circulation by each annual year. Japan must learn to do it. If all Japanese wishing to become heroes should go set in bleachers each afternoontime it might change them from Yellow Peril to yelling section in short generation.
But warfare is a more agreeable way.
GEORGE ADE
George A de (1866 — ) first caught the attention of the news paper public nearly half a century ago with the quaint conceit of his Fables. Since then his Fables in Slang, Modern Fables, etc have quite literally gone round the world. Here follows: “The Fable of Springfield’s Fairest Flower and Lonesome Agnes Who Was Crafty.”
SPRINGFIELD had a Girl who was being Courted by a Syndicate. She was the Girl who took First Prize at the Business Men’s Carnival. When the Sunday Paper ran a whole Page of Typical Belles she had the Place of Honor.
If a Stranger from some larger Town was there on a Visit and it became necessary to Knock his Eye out and prove to him that Springfield was strickly In It, they took him up to call on Mazie. Mazie never failed to Bowl him over, for she was a Dream of Loveliness when she got into her Glad Raiment. Mazie had large mesmeric Eyes and a Complexion that was like Chaste Marble kissed by the Rosy Flush of Dawn. She carried plenty of Brown Hair that she Built Up by putting Rats under it. When she sat very straight on the edge of the Chair, with the queenly Tilt of the Chin and the Shoulders set back Proudly and the Skirt sort of Whipped Under so as to help the General Outline, she was certainly a Pleasing Object to size up. She did not Fall Down at any Point.
Mazie had such a Rush of Men Callers that the S.R.O. Sign was out almost every Night, and when the Weather permitted she had Overflow Meetings on the Veranda.
Right across the Street from Beautiful Mazie there lived a Girl named Agnes, who was Fair to Middling, although she could not Step it Off within twenty Seconds of Mazie’s regular Gait. Sometimes when she happened to get the right Combination of Colors and wore a Veil and you did not get too Close, she was not Half Bad, but as soon as she got into the same Picture with Mazie, the Man Charmer, she was faded to a Gray Bleach.
All the plain, everyday XX Springfield Girls, designed for Family Use and not for Exhibition Purposes, used to wish that Mazie would go away somewhere and forget to come back.
The Other Girls had to Admit that Mazie was a good deal of a Tangerine, but they did not Enthuse the same as their Brothers did. You cannot expect a lot of Spirited Girls to strike a Chord in G and sing any Anthem of Praise to a Friend who is trying to make Wall Flowers of them. When some Poor Man who Was off his Dip on Matchless Mazie, the Sprite of Springfield, would start a Rhapsody to some other Girl, the Other Girl would say Yes that Mazie was a Sweet and Lovely Girl, but when she said it she would look as if she had tasted a Lemon.
But Agnes, who lived across the Street from the Pearl of Springfield, tried to be Cheerful and Keep her Hammer hidden, although goodness knows she had Reason to feel Put Out. It is Hard Lines for a Sociable Girl to sit around the House and practise Finger movements on the Piano and see everything Lighted Up across the Street.
Agnes felt sometimes as if she would just have to Up and Tell the Boys what a deceitful, two-faced old Thing this Mazie really was. But she knew better than to do it, for Mazie had all of them Zizzy and they would have said that Agnes was Miffed because of Mazie’s Popularity.
