Part 13

"And, _now_," says Wes, all quiet-like, a-squarin' the board fer another'n,--"we're kindo' gittin' at things _right_. Move." And away went that little unconcerned whistle o' his ag'in, and _Mr. Cityman_ jest gittin' white and sweaty too--he wuz so nervous. Ner he didn't 'pear to find much to laugh at in the _next_ game--ner the next _two_ games nuther! Things wuz a-gettin' mighty inte_rest_in' 'bout them times, and I guess the feller wuz ser'ous-like a-wakin' up to the solem' fact 'at it tuk 'bout all _his_ spare time to keep up his end o' the row, and even that state o' pore satisfaction wuz a-creepin' furder and furder away from him ever' new turn he undertook. Whilse _Wes_ jest peared to git more deliber't' and certain ever' game; and that unendin' se'f-satisfied and comfortin' little whistle o' his never drapped a stitch, but toed out ever' game alike,--to'rds the _last_, and, fer the _most_ part, disasterss to the feller 'at had started in with sich confi_dence_ and actchul promise, don't you know.

Well-sir, the feller stuck the whole _forenoon_ out, and then the _afternoon_; and then knuckled down to it 'way into the night--yes, and plum _midnight_!--And he buckled into the thing bright and airly _next morning_! And-sir, fer _two long days_ and nights, a-hardly a-stoppin' long enough to _eat_, the feller stuck it out,--and Wes a-jest a-warpin' it to him hand-over-fist, and leavin' him furder behind, ever' game!--till finally, to'rds the last, the feller got so blamedon worked up and excited-like, he jes' 'peared actchully purt' nigh plum crazy and histurical as a woman!

It was a-gittin' late into the shank of the second day, and the boys hed jest lit a candle fer 'em to finish out one of the clost'est games the feller'd played Wes fer some time. But Wes wuz jest as cool and ca'm as ever, and still a-whistlin' consolin' to hisse'f-like, whilse the feller jest 'peared wore out and ready to drap right in his tracks any minute.

"_Durn you!_" he snarled out at Wes, "hain't you never goern to move?" And there set Wes, a-balancin' a checker-man above the board, a-studyin' whur to set it, and a-fillin' in the time with that-air whistle.

"_Flames and flashes!_" says the feller ag'in, "will you _ever_ stop that death-seducin' tune o' your'n long enough to move?"--And as Wes deliber't'ly set his man down whur the feller see he'd haf to jump it and lose two men and a king, Wes wuz a-singin', low and sad-like, as ef all to hisse'f:

"O we'll move that man, and leave him there.-- Fer the love of B-a-r-b--bry Al-len!"

Well-sir! the feller jest jumped to his feet, upset the board, and tore out o' the shop stark-starin' crazy--blame ef he wuzn't!--'cause some of us putt out after him and overtook him 'way beyent the 'pike-bridge, and hollered to him;--and he shuk his fist at us and hollered back and says, says he: "Ef you fellers over here," says he, "'ll agree to _muzzle_ that durn checker-player o' your'n, I'll bet fifteen hunderd dollars to fifteen cents 'at I kin beat him 'leven games out of ever' dozent!--But there're _no money_," he says, "'at kin hire me to play him ag'in, on this aboundin' airth, on'y on them conditions--'cause that durn, eternal, infernal, dad-blasted whistle o' his 'ud beat the oldest man in Ameriky!"

DARBY AND JOAN

BY ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD

I

When Darby saw the setting sun, He swung his scythe, and home he run, Sat down, drank off his quart, and said, "My work is done, I'll go to bed." "My work is done!" retorted Joan, "My work is done! your constant tone; But hapless woman ne'er can say, 'My work is done,' till judgment day. You men can sleep all night, but we Must toil."--"Whose fault is that?" quoth he. "I know your meaning," Joan replied, "But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied; I will go on, and let you know What work poor women have to do: First, in the morning, though we feel As sick as drunkards when they reel; Yes, feel such pains in back and head As would confine you men to bed, We ply the brush, we wield the broom, We air the beds, and right the room; The cows must next be milked--and then We get the breakfast for the men. Ere this is done, with whimpering cries, And bristly hair, the children rise; These must be dressed, and dosed with rue, And fed--and all because of you: We next"--Here Darby scratched his head, And stole off grumbling to his bed; And only said, as on she run, "Zounds! woman's clack is never done."

II

At early dawn, ere Phoebus rose, Old Joan resumed her tale of woes; When Darby thus--"I'll end the strife, Be you the man and I the wife: Take you the scythe and mow, while I Will all your boasted cares supply." "Content," quoth Joan, "give me my stint." This Darby did, and out she went. Old Darby rose and seized the broom, And whirled the dirt about the room: Which having done, he scarce knew how, He hied to milk the brindled cow. The brindled cow whisked round her tail In Darby's eyes, and kicked the pail. The clown, perplexed with grief and pain, Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again: When turning round, in sad amaze, He saw his cottage in a blaze: For as he chanced to brush the room, In careless haste, he fired the broom. The fire at last subdued, he swore The broom and he would meet no more. Pressed by misfortune, and perplexed, Darby prepared for breakfast next; But what to get he scarcely knew-- The bread was spent, the butter too. His hands bedaubed with paste and flour, Old Darby labored full an hour: But, luckless wight! thou couldst not make The bread take form of loaf or cake. As every door wide open stood, In pushed the sow in quest of food; And, stumbling onward, with her snout O'erset the churn--the cream ran out. As Darby turned, the sow to beat, The slippery cream betrayed his feet; He caught the bread trough in his fall, And down came Darby, trough, and all. The children, wakened by the clatter, Start up, and cry, "Oh! what's the matter?" Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed, And hapless Darby bawled aloud, "Return, my Joan, as heretofore, I'll play the housewife's part no more: Since now, by sad experience taught, Compared to thine my work is naught; Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take, Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake, And never more transgress the line Our fates have marked, while thou art mine. Then, Joan, return, as heretofore, I'll vex thy honest soul no more; Let's each our proper task attend-- Forgive the past, and strive to mend."

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallelooyer as he tiptoes on the fence, Oh, it's then's the time a feller is a feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of gracious rest, As he leaves the house bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

There's sompin kind o' hearty-like about the atmosphere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here. Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and the buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin', and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the early autumn days Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty rustle of the tassels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kind o' lonesome like, but still A preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The straw-stack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed, The hosses in their stalls below, the clover overhead,-- Oh, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

LAFFING

BY JOSH BILLINGS

Anatomikally konsidered, laffing iz the sensation ov pheeling good all over, and showing it principally in one spot.

Morally konsidered, it iz the next best thing tew the 10 commandments....

Theoretikally konsidered, it kan out-argy all the logik in existence....

Pyroteknikally konsidered, it is the fire-works of the soul....

But i don't intend this essa for laffing in the lump, but for laffing on the half-shell.

Laffing iz just az natral tew cum tew the surface az a rat iz tew cum out ov hiz hole when he wants tew.

Yu kant keep it back by swallowing enny more than yu kan the heekups.

If a man _kan't_ laff there iz sum mistake made in putting him together, and if he _won't_ laff he wants az mutch keeping away from az a bear-trap when it iz sot.

I have seen people who laffed altogether too mutch for their own good or for ennyboddy else's; they laft like a barrell ov nu sider with the tap pulled out, a perfekt stream.

This is a grate waste ov natral juice.

I have seen other people who didn't laff enuff tew giv themselfs vent; they waz like a barrell ov nu sider too, that waz bunged up tite, apt tew start a hoop and leak all away on the sly.

Thare ain't neither ov theze 2 ways right, and they never ought tew be pattented....

Genuine laffing iz the vent ov the soul, the nostrils of the heart, and iz just az necessary for health and happiness az spring water iz for a trout.

Thare iz one kind ov a laff that i always did rekommend; it looks out ov the eye fust with a merry twinkle, then it kreeps down on its hands and kneze and plays around the mouth like a pretty moth around the blaze ov a kandle, then it steals over into the dimples ov the cheeks and rides around into thoze little whirlpools for a while, then it lites up the whole face like the mello bloom on a damask roze, then it swims oph on the air with a peal az klear and az happy az a dinner-bell, then it goes bak agin on golden tiptoze like an angel out for an airing, and laze down on its little bed ov violets in the heart where it cum from.

Thare iz another laff that nobody kan withstand; it iz just az honest and noisy az a distrikt skool let out tew play, it shakes a man up from hiz toze tew hiz temples, it dubbles and twists him like a whiskee phit, it lifts him oph from his cheer, like feathers, and lets him bak agin like melted led, it goes all thru him like a pikpocket, and finally leaves him az weak and az krazy az tho he had bin soaking all day in a Rushing bath and forgot to be took out.

This kind ov a laff belongs tew jolly good phellows who are az healthy az quakers, and who are az eazy tew pleaze az a gall who iz going tew be married to-morrow.

In konclushion i say laff every good chance yu kan git, but don't laff unless yu feal like it, for there ain't nothing in this world more harty than a good honest laff, nor nothing more hollow than a hartless one.

When yu do laff open yure mouth wide enuff for the noize tew git out without squealing, thro yure hed bak az tho yu waz going tew be shaved, hold on tew yure false hair with both hands and then laff till yure soul gets thoroly rested.

But i shall tell yu more about theze things at sum fewter time.

GRIZZLY-GRU

BY IRONQUILL

O Thoughts of the past and present, O whither, and whence, and where, Demanded my soul, as I scaled the height Of the pine-clad peak in the somber night, In the terebinthine air.

While pondering on the frailty Of happiness, hope, and mirth, The ascending sun with derisive scoff Hurled its golden lances and smote me off From the bulge of the restless earth.

Through the yellowish dawn of velvet Where stars were so thickly strewn. That quietly chuckled as I passed through, I fell in the gardens of Grizzly-Gru, On the mad, mysterious moon.

I fell on the turquoise ether, Low down in the wondrous west, And thence to the moon in whose yielding blue Were hidden the gardens of Grizzly-Gru, In the Monarchy of Unrest.

And there were the fairy gardens, Where beautiful cherubs grew In daintiest way and on separate stalks, In the listed rows by the jasper walks, Near the palace of Grizzly-Gru.

While strolling around the garden I noticed the rows were full Of every conceivable size and type-- Some that were buds, and some nearly ripe, And some that were ready to pull.

In gauzy and white corolla, Was one who had eyes of blue, A little excuse of a baby nose, Little pink ears, and ten little toes, And a mouth that kept saying ah-goo.

Ah-gooing as I came near her, She raised up her arms in glee-- Her little fat arms--and she seemed to say, "I'm ready to go with you right away; Don't hunt any more--take me."

I picked her off quick and kissed her, And, hugging her to my breast, I heard a loud yelling that pierced me through, 'Twas His Terrible Eminence, Grizzly-Gru, Of the Monarchy of Unrest.

He had on a blood-red turban, A picturesque lot of clothes, With big moustaches both fierce and black, And a ghastly saber to cut and hack, And shoes that turned up at the toes.

Out of the gate of the garden The cherub and I took flight, And closely behind us the saber flew, And back of the saber came Grizzly-Gru, And he chased us all day till night.

I ran down the lunar crescent, 'And out on the silver horn; I kissed the baby and held her tight, And jumped down into the starry night, And--I lit on the earth at morn.

He fitfully threw his saber, It missed and went round the sun; He followed no further, he was not rash, But the baby held on to my coarse moustache, And seemed to enjoy the fun.

In saving that blue-eyed baby From the gardens of Grizzly-Gru, I suffered a terrible shock and fright; But the doctor believes it will be all right, And he thinks he can pull me through.

JOHN HENRY IN A STREET CAR

BY HUGH McHUGH

Throw me in the cellar and batten down the hatches.

I'm a wreck in the key of G flat.

I side-stepped in among a bunch of language-heavers yesterday and ever since I've been sitting on the ragged edge with my feet hanging over.

I was on my way down to Wall Street to help J. Pierpont Morgan buy a couple of railroads and all the world seemed as blithe and gay as a love clinch from Laura Jean Libbey's latest.

When I climbed into the cable-car I felt like a man who had mailed money to himself the night before.

I was aces.

And then somebody blew out my gas.

At the next corner two society flash-lights flopped in and sat next to me.

They had a lot of words they wanted to use and they started in.

The car stopped and two more of the 400's leading ladies jumped the hurdles and came down the aisle.

They sat on the other side of me.

In a minute they began to bite the dictionary.

Their efforts aroused the energies of three women who sat opposite me, and _they_ proceeded to beat the English language black and blue.

In a minute the air was so full of talk that the grip germs had to pull out on the platform and chew the conductor.

The next one to me on my left started in:

"Oh, yes; we discharged our cook day before yesterday, but there's another coming this evening, and so--"

Her friend broke away and was up and back to the center with this:

"I was coming down Broadway this morning and I saw Julia Marlowe's leading man. I'm sure it was him, because I saw the show once in Chicago and he has the loveliest eyes I ever looked at!"

I knew that that was my cue to walk out, kick the motorman in the knuckles, upset the car and send in a fire call, but I passed it up.

I just sat there and bit my nails like the heavy villain in one of Corse Payton's ten, twen, thir dramas.

That "loveliest eyes" speech had me groggy.

Whenever I hear a woman turn on that "loveliest eyes" gag about an actor I always feel that a swift slap from a wet dish-rag would look well on her back hair.

Then the bunch across the aisle got the flag.

"Well, you know," says the broad lady who paid for one seat and was compelled by Nature to use three, "you know there's only five in our family, and so I take just five slices of stale bread and have a bowl of water ready in which I've dropped a pinch of salt. Then I take a piece of butter about the size of a walnut, and thoroughly grease the bottom of a frying-pan; then beat five eggs to a froth, and--"

I'm hoping the conductor will come in and give us all a tip to take to the timber because the cops are going to pinch the room, but there's nothing doing.

One of the dames on my right finds her voice and passes it around:--

"Oh, I think it's a perfect fright! I always did detest electric blue, anyway. It is so unbecoming, and then--"

I've just decided that this lady ought to make up as a Swede servant girl and play the part, when her friend hooks in:

"Oh, yes; I think it will look perfectly sweet! It is a foulard in one of those new heliotrope tints, made with a crêpe de chine chemisette, with a second vest peeping out on either side of the front over an embroidered satin vest and cut in scallops on the edge, finished with a full ruche of white chiffon, and the sleeves are just too tight for any use, and the skirt is too long for any good, and I declare the lining is too sweet! and I just hate to wear it out on the street and get it soiled, and I was going to have it made with a tunic, and Mrs. Wigwag--that's my brother-in-law's first cousin--she had her's made to wear with guimpes--and they are so economical! and--"

Think of a guy having to ride four miles and get his forehead fanned all the while with talk about foulard and crêpe de chine and guimpes!

Wouldn't it lead you to a padded cell?

Say! I was down and out--no kidding!

I wanted to get up and fight the door-tender, but I couldn't.

One of the conversationalists was sitting on my overcoat.

I felt that if I got up and called my coat back to Papa she might lose the thread of her story, and the jar would be something frightful.

So I sat still and saved her life.

The one on my right must have been the Lady President of The Hammer Club.

She was talking about some other girl and she didn't do a thing to the absent one.

She said she was svelte.

I suppose that's Dago for a shine.

That's the way with some women. They can't come right out and call another woman a polish. They have to beat around the bush and chase their friends to the swamps by throwing things like "svelte" at them. Tush!

I tried to duck the foreign tattle on my right and by so doing I'm next to this on my left:

"Oh, yes; I think politics is just too lovely! I don't know whether I'd rather be a Democrat or a Republican, but I think--oh! just look at the hat that woman has on! Isn't that a fright? Wonder if she trimmed it herself. Of course she did; you can tell by--"

I'm gasping for breath when the broad lady across the aisle gets the floor:

"No, indeed! I didn't have Eliza vaccinated. Why, she's too small yet, and don't you know my sister's husband's brother's child was vaccinated, and she is younger than our Eliza, but I don't just care, I don't want--"

Then the sweet girlish thing on my left gave me the corkscrew jab.

It was the finish:

"Isn't that lovely? Well, as I was telling you, Charlie came last night and brought Mr. Storeclose with him. Mr. Storeclose is awfully nice. He plays the mandolin just too sweet for anything, and--"

Me!--to the oyster beds! No male impersonators garroting a mandolin--not any in mine!

When I want to take a course in music I'll climb into a public library and read how Baldy Sloane wrote the Tiger Lily with one hand tied behind him and his feet on the piano.

So I fell off the car and crawled home to mother.

THE MUSKEETER

BY JOSH BILLINGS

Muskeeters are a game bug, but they won't bite at a hook. Thare iz millyuns ov them kaught every year, but not with a hook, this makes the market for them unstiddy, the supply allways exceeding the demand. The muskeeto iz born on the sly, and cums to maturity quicker than enny other ov the domestik animiles. A muskeeter at 3 hours old iz just az reddy and anxious to go into bizzness for himself, az ever he iz, and bites the fust time az sharp, and natral, as red pepper duz. The muskeeter haz a good ear for musik, and sings without notes. The song ov the muskeeto iz monotonous to sum folks, but in me it stirs up the memorys ov other days. I hav lade awake, all nite long, menny a time and listened to the sweet anthems ov the muskeeter. I am satisfied that thare want nothing made in vain, but i kant help thinking how mighty kluss the musketoze kum to it. The muskeeter haz inhabited this world since its kreashun, and will probably hang around here until bizzness closes. Whare the muskeeter goes to in the winter iz a standing konumdrum, which all the naturalists hav giv up, but we kno he dont go far, for he iz on hand early each year with hiz probe fresh ground, and polished. Muskeeters must be one ov the luxurys ov life, they certainly aint one ov the necessarys, not if we kno ourselfs.

THE TURNINGS OF A BOOKWORM

BY CAROLYN WELLS