Part 6

“Yiss, ’tis me,” sez Silver Tongue, a smoile breakin’ over his gran’ ould face.

“Tell me, phat will we be afther doin’ wid thim Suff-Rage-Etts whin they brake out here?” asks he.

“Oi know phat we won’t do,” sez oi.

“Phat’s that?” sez the preemeer. Oi niver call him “Sir”; ’tis a disfigurement entoirely.

“Phat’s that,” sez he agin, “that we won’t do?” sez he.

“We won’t do phat we shud do,” sez oi. “Punish thim,” sez oi.

“Whoy man, punishin’ thim is no use at all, at all. They loike it. Shure didn’t they punish thim in London?”

“They did not,” sez oi.

“Man, man,” sez he; “ye anney me. Didn’t they put thim in jail?”

“They did,” sez oi; “but that’s no punishment.”

“Well, phat do ye call punishment?” sez the ould King, wid an expectant grin.

“Infantile methods,” sez oi. “Phat they do to bad childer.”

“An’ plaze ye, phat’s that?” sez he.

“Spank thim,” sez oi; “savin’ yer prisince. Wan spank fer the furst offinse; foive fer the sicond, an’ twinty-foive fer the third.”

Well, begorrah, ye shud hev seen the ould lad laff. He thrun up his hans an’ his oyes to hiven, an’ laffed till he was weepin’.

“Glory be,” sez he; “but ye are a joker. Bad scran to ye, if we perpetrated such an’ outrage the whole wirld wud laff at us.”

“Not a whit,” sez oi. “The wirld wud laff, true fer ye, but not at ye; at the Suff-Rage-Etts; an’ they niver cud stan’ bein’ laffed at.”

“Suppose now,” sez oi; “yer departmint of the interior afther makin’ a bit av a rumble, as it do sometimes, shud desoid that the noise it med waz just as nice a noise as phat ye made wid yer vocal chords; an’ accordin’ it wint on stroike an’ rayfused to do its offis, declarin’ it waz a musical box--what wud become av ye whin ye culdent hear yerself spake fer yer loud internal rumblin’, an’ no digistin’ goin’ on the whoile? Shure ye’d be dead in a week, an’ ye’d take strong medicine to korrec yer rumblin’ and prideful innards.”

“Well, ’tis spankin’ is the medicin I perscroibe fer the disease of the Suff-Rage-Ett; an’ they must git it befure they get healthy agin. Oi moind me frind Casey, who wint wan toime to a Dochther about his woife, who cut up the very Divil wid phat she called High Stroikes. Wan Sundah she clawed the shirt buzzum roight off him, so he culdent go to mass. Well, oim tellin’ ye wan day Casey consults a dochther. The dochther was a woize guy. He looked Lizzie over. That waz her name, an’ she waz a great, good looker, an’ only about twinty years ould. An’ he sez to Casey, sez he, whin he got him alone:

“Ile give ye a perscripthion fer her,” sez he.

“Yiss,” sez Casey.

“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “’tis very simple.”

“Yiss,” sez Casey; all attention.

“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “give her a wet towel,” sez he.

“How’s that?” sez Casey. “A wet towel?”

“Yes; bate her wid it till she’s a noice pink,” sez he.

“Howley murdher,” sez Casey, “yer laffin’ at me.”

“Oi am not,” sez the dochther. “Troy it,” sez he.

“Well, how much is that?” sez Casey.

“Foive dallars,” sez the dochther.

Casey jumped a yard.

“Now, look here,” sez he; “a joke’s a joke; but a wet towel perscription fer that money is no joke. Tell ye phat oi’ll do wid ye. Ile troy it, an’ if it does the thrick an’ cures her, ile come an’ pay ye, an’ Lizzie will do yer laundry fer a month to boot,” sez oi.

“Done,” sez the dochther.

That dochther got paid.

“An’ that’s phat oi think av thim Suff-Rage-Etts,” sez oi, turnin’ to enjoy the ould lad’s smoile. As oi looked, he faded away into the atmosphere, an oi knew another plisant drame waz over.

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It may be that thou hast few moves to make and it may happen that thou hast many, whether few or many let thy moves be made with due deliberation and after careful consideration of the rules of Duty and Honor.

LE TRAVEAU PUBLIQUES

I’m work on de Traveau Publique, I mek tirty dollar a weeque; Dat’s much better salaire, I can get anywhere, Altho’ I’m good man wid de pique.

My name’s Athanase Brouillette, I’m in de Blue Book, you bet; Where I’m call Architec Dat’s good name, I expec, Altho’ I doant built something yet.

When I came on Ottawa, I’m de most poor you never saw; Now I live like de best, Look pretty good when I’m drest, And pass on Sparks street wid eclat.

It is to laugh to know de way I get my job an’ ver nice pay, I tell you de facs, An’ behine my backs Don’t go an’ give it away.

Laflamme’s have ma job before me, But he’s go on de very much spree; When she’s drink herself dead, I arrive in he’s stead, In de maniere which you shall see--

Mrs. Laflamme doan’t like any To be veuve widout one red penny, So she make bargain wid me Dat I make marry wid she, An’ get de job of Laflamme, you comprenez?

I like dis bargain very well, But when I go myself for sell I doant make foolishness, Just for politesse, So I say, “Wait a minute, ma belle;

De ver first ting you mus’ do, Before we make marry we two, Work de pull, put me in An’ I swear by Gin Flinn, Madam Brouillette, I make you.”

So now I am very tack-tick, I work on de Traveau Publique; An’ feue Madam Laflamme, She makes de grande damme, On de tirty dollar a weeque.

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CIVILIZATION

There was a certain Heathen who knew not how benighted he was.

He knew naught of Honesty, of Virtue, of Charity, nor knew he of Modern Civilization and the benefits thereof.

And the Heathen was contented in his ignorance. He was satisfied with Enough and of the Standard Oil Company and its methods he wot not--at least, if he wotted, it is not so reported of him.

Now unto this Heathen came a Modern Missionary, girt with Sword, with Commercialism and Militarism in his coat pockets, with a Colt’s revolver on his hip, and a bottle of Champagny Water in his grip, and he lifted up his voice and spake unto the Heathen, saying:

“Harken, Behold, likewise lo, poor benighted Heathen. You are a Good Thing, and you know it not; but I even I, the forerunner and jumper of Peace and Goodwill, know it. I come to do you good. You need a whole lot of saving and as the Prophet of Civilization, I come to do the job. I bring you Peace, Virtue, and Honesty, and a lot of other things that are handy to have in the house. Your Gods I will take away from you. They will make nice bric-a-brac.” And immediately, that is to say, as soon as the Heathen wasn’t looking, he smote him a great smote with the sword, so that he died at Peace, took his wife to do chores about the house and annexed his property.

Blessed are the meek.

I PLAY THE GAME

I’m playing a game I never can win, That I surely must lose in the end; And yet, it’s so mysterious and queer, That I’m glad my strength to expend In struggle, and strife, and scheme, To move me and mine in the game; Knowing well that with moves good or bad The end will be always the same. I know I must lose; but I play Just the same as tho’ I might win, And laugh, and make merry over good plays, And over the bad ones I grin. My opponent surrounds me about, A dumb and inscrutable IT; Without joy or pain at my losses or gain, Making exact counter moves that all fit. Without a mistake or a doubt Are all the replies to my play; Mine enemy can’t win or lose; But in the end I must pay. The best I can get in the end Is that friends, if they mention my name, Will say: “Although he cashed in, He made a good try at the Game.” And so I play the game of Life According to my power and light, And when old Nature calls the game I shall at least have made a fight.

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And if one shall smite thee on one cheek, consider him well, and if he be not too husky, smite him with a great swat, lest he go after thy other cheek also. And if one shall take thy cloak watch well thy vest and pants, lest thou be stripped naked and be arrested for indecent behaviour.

CULTURE AND “ETIKET”

Wan thing oim after noticin’ lately is a great tindency on the part of some folks who pertend to what they call culchure, to throw into their conversation the worrd “gotten”--an ungainly worrd that has been out of date since the time when yer grandfather swore “odsbodkins” an’ the like, until some fad hunter dug it up. Oi mind a friend of mine sint a note to his wife sayin’ “I have gotten tickets fer Melba to-night.” He wasn’t a very good writer, an’ his wife thought he meant he had got _ten_ tickets, and begob she invited the whole neighborhood and it nearly broke him makin’ good.

Now culchure is a quare thing; an uncommon thing; a thing that’s hard to define and harder to get. ’Tis not in usin’ this worrd “gotten” or any other perticular worrd; ’tis not in usin’ the long “a” in “bath” or pronouncin’ “calf” as if it was “koff”; nor is it in callin’ a counter jumper or a lad in the Civil Service a “clark” instid of a “clerk.” Not a whit. All these things may be signs of culchure, an’ they may not--mostly not. They are a lot of people who niver had nawthin’ but a rude eddication, (that’s whoy it’s called a “rudimentary eddication”), an’ never larned anything since they wint to school; but who, be hook or be crook, (mostly crook), an’ a few dollars, or inflooence, or by marryin’ into dollars and inflooence, have gotten onto the skirts of what they call sassiety; an’ begob these people I’m tellin’ ye about they think that culchure is in the usin’ of perticular worrds or in perticular pernounce-i-ation. It niver enters their nuts that culchure is shown by the thots ye express an’ the depth of knowledge ye show of men an’ things, an’ not by little peculiarities of pro-nounce-i-ation which a man may inherit from his grandfather, or have caughten from a locality in his youth--de ye follow me?

Now “etiket” is the usages of culchured sassiety, an’ it’s fer that same etiket that I’ve been stearin’ all the while. Etiket an’ culchure is not the same thing among different people. ’Tis wan thing in wan place, an’ another in another place. Fer example, a gintleman in the Figi Islands wud think it no disgrace to ate his grandmother. ’Tis looked at different here, altho’ ye can skin yer brother-in-law, or never return borried money to yer father-in-law.

Now, I gev ye all this harrd earned wisdom that I cud worrk down to me frind Dundonald an’ his riferince to “Etiket.”--De ye ketch me pint? Me Earl lad is no judge of Etiket in Canada; he’s only a soldier anny way, an’ a soldier is no more a judge of etiket than a butcher is of plumbin’, or an Englishman is of a Canadian. Etiket, is it? Why, begob, I cud intrajuice the Dundonald into sassiety in Ottawa where he wud fall seven times over etiket before he opened his mouth wanst.

Etiket changes wid locality, as I told ye. The Earl only knowin’ wan kind, put his fut in it an’ showed his ignorance. Sure the most of us is por, wan-sided creatures. We look a fact in the face, an’ think we know all about it, never dreamin’ that it shud be turned over an’ examined on the back of it, not to mintchin’ the several sides of it.

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LES GRANULES LEMOINE

Josephine Laframbois--dat’s fren of ma wife, She’s come very near fer lose its life; She have what you call sick on de peritoine, But she cure itself up wid Granule Lemoine.

Dat’s very strange ting dat de doctor feller, When she’s see Josephine, he cannot for tell her What he have on herself, but mabbe I tink, Dese doctor feller don’t know everyting.

Josephine’s very sick--tink she’s goin’ fer die, When she read on de paper someting what catch his eye, Of de Granule Lemoine, de great temoinage, Of de woman what’s cure call Marie Angel Lesage.

Ole Mrs. Lesage, she have pains on its chest, She can walk any upstairs if she try its best; But, after she’s tooken Granules Lemoine in some boxes, It makes him new woman, strong like some oxes.

So, my frens, if you have someting wrong On de inside yourself, don’t wait long-- Take little cars go chez Mr. Giroux, Get de Granule Lemoine, an’ I bet dey fix you.

BUSYBODIES

Busybodies are mostly of the female persuasion, wid an’ occasional parson of the milk and water type thrown in. They’re to be found ivery place, except at home mindin’ their own business. They’re always doin’ something that don’t need to be done, an’ lavin’ alone their own affairs, which generally need attendin’ to. They’re the folks referred to in the prayer book as “poor miserable sinners.” They’re always goin’ off half-cocked about somethin’ they don’t know anything about. I’ll warrant ye there’s not wan of them who are tryin’ to pass the law to electrocute ye if ye smoke cigarettes what ever had a whiff of a cigarette. Poor blind creatures; they can’t see. I don’t use cigareets meself as a steady diet, but I’ll wager there’s them that takes as much pleasure out of a cigareet as Oi do frum me pipe, widout a divil a bit more harum.

The cigareet gets credit fur doin’ harum it never done at all, at all. Fer example, some good old busybody has a son that she’s kept tied to her apron strings till he’s nearly a man. She sinds him to college. There the lad, who is not bad, but only a fool, cuts loose entirely, hits it up iviry night, drowns thots of his unhappy home in booze, gets to know all the giddy girls in town, is up all night playin’ tin cent limit, thinkin’ he’s a real spoort. An’ along wid these things he smokes cigareets. When he comes home they have to call in the doctor, an’ the old busybody tells the doctor that the lad is killin’ himself wid cigareets. Nivir a word about the booze, an’ the wimin, an’ the late hours; oh, no. She knows nuthin’ of all this. Then she puts on her bonnet an’ goes to see all her cronies, an’ a bunch of thim comes along to Ottawa to legislate agin the cigareet.

I tell ye legislation kin niver protect the fool from his foolishness. If ye are a fool, begob, ye must suffer fer it.

I saw two good fer nuthin’ Italians on the street to-day makin’ a livin’ out of peradin’ about a couple of mangy bears, beatin’ the poor dumb creatures wid a pole to make thim turn summersalts agin all nature. There’s somethin’ fer the busybodies to think on fer a while. Make a law kapin’ out from this country all such varmints that’s good fer nuthin’ to no wan. Am Oi right, Oi’m askin’ ye?

If ye left the busybodies alone, begorrah, we’d have niver a drink, niver a smoke, nor niver a dance wid the gurls. ’Tis horrible to contemplate. They’d pass a law agin’ everything. Sure, if they can pass this law agin the cigareet they’ll fally it up wid a law measurin’ yer food to prevint ye atin’ too much, a law to boost ye out of bed in time fer church, a law to prevint yer wife frum lacin’ too tight; an’ I can tell ye if they do this last, all me pull goes to get me the job of “Inspector of the Tension of Corsets.”

Give the meddlers half a chantz an’ be hivins the government will have to hire half of us to inspect the other half. ’Twill be like this:--Wan of the kids will wake up in the middle of yer beauty sleep yellin’, “Hurry up pa, and get up; there’s foive inspectors in the kitchen waitin’ fer ye to sign their papers. One’s vaccinatin’ the cook, one’s examinin’ brother Moike on the Shorter Catechism, one’s fumigatin’ the cat, an’ the other two is waitin’ to search the house fer cigareet papers.”

A law is a funny thing. It is not only in the way it is expected to act; but also in the ways that no wan cud foresee.

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THE RAGGED EDGE

A man there was who had a scheme, a scheme unique and bold; He never paid old debts, and new ones he let get old, But this yarn is of ancient date, such scheme would fail to-day; Direct or indirectly, we all have got to PAY.

Wanting things for one’s comfort that are above one’s means, Although it is not poverty, like poverty it seems; And it isn’t really what you need that pinches like the devil, But what folks think you ought to have to keep up to their level.

To live upon the ragged edge is not a pleasant fate, You surely lose your balance one day soon or late; On the ragged edge you suffer one way or another, And you have the pleasant choice if it be this way or the other.

Live within your means, without such things as make Your little world worth while to you, and gratification take In the idea that you’re straight, and owe no man a debt; That when your little check comes in can’t easily be met.

Or, on the other hand, get all you think you need, And owe therefor with lordly grace, and to appearances take heed. Discount the future thus; but then beware the dun, Who tirelessly doth follow him who into debt doth run.

THE FOOL MARKET

The supply still keeps up with the enormous and ever increasing demand for Fools, which is fortunate for the capitalist, the plutocrat, the politician, and the church who are the largest consumers in this line. The common article in the raw and entirely unsophisticated is not so largely in demand as formerly; but is still used in some localities more or less. An ever increasing demand exists for the gilded article, and competition for choice specimens in this line is always keen. A large assorted lot is maintained for special purposes in Ottawa, and, while not available on the open fool market, is held by a syndicate of politicians to be used when exigent. Accordingly this large lot is sometimes high priced, and sometimes away down below the market. Lately, owing to local conditions, market values have been much depressed. One of the strong ones of the syndicate has been heard to define them as a “bad lot.” If by one means or another control could be obtained of this large assorted Ottawa lot it could be made very hot in the immediate vicinity; but such a happening is very unlikely, as the syndicate at present in possession is very strong and has lately taken measures to make such a scheme nearly hopeless. If this motley lot should suddenly be stampeded, open their eyes, become sophisticated and come to appreciate the fact that they are alive, there would be a panic and fortunes would be lost and won. There is a nervous and skittish feeling among them at this time; so a stampede is not altogether an unlikely event. Strong syndicates sometimes overshoot the mark. We would therefore advise fool-holders to skin the eye and, as some one has said, “Look out for the locomotive when the bell rings.” Really no one knows what fools will do.

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It’s a poor man who cannot offer you an opinion and a wise man accepts few.

* * * * *

Many are obscure and happy; a few are in the glare of publicity and suffer much therefor.

* * * * *

My son, Life is a game the rules of which are much complicated and difficult of apprehension.

LE VICOMTE DE ROUE D’ENGRENAGE

De ver’ first ting I do for mek my introduce Is giv’ my nam’, which just the sam’ I tink is good excuse, Fer tell to you an’ efery wan in my ver’ bess maniere, So well’s I can, vat kine of man is de bess one I don’t care.

Some fellers ver’ satisfy for mek’ de small depense, Don’t spend a cent everywhere she’s went. I’m not dat kine of gens. De more ma debts get bigger, de more I dude’er get, Fer stay on top you must not stop for trow on style, you bet.

I’m work on the G. T. P., an’ know my own bizness, I’m strong lak a beef wid efery chief an’ can mak’ the grand finesse. I have some debts so high my neck, but dat’s give me no excite; Firs’ chance I get I pay my debt, an’ den I be all right.

Fer sure I’m very dis-custard of de Ottawa ver’ firs’ class, Who hold the nose an’ donat let de clothes touch me wen dey pass. But wait a minit, Mr. Snobbs, I’m not finish for you, I’ll give you surprise and mek’ you cognize le Vicomte de la Roue.

Suppose I want someting, I get it, you bet my life, Anyone come for spoil my game for sure he’s get de knife. I tell you wan ting ver’ sure, if you want for success Go for it rough, and mek’ big bluff, an’ you get it, I guess!!

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The gentle art of saying nothing is about to become a lost art.

* * * * *

The higher up you get the harder to keep your equilibrium and the bigger the bump when you come down.

* * * * *

Some men generally tell the truth, some often tell it, many seldom tell it, some have to have it dragged from them, and to a large number it is an unknown quantity.

THE STORY OF A FULL GROWN MAN

A full grown man once had a position in the Civil Service. He did the work of an average office boy in the business world, but drew the salary of a man. The full grown man was not ashamed of this. In fact, on the Q.T. he was of the opinion that he was a very clever fellow, and that the work he did was very important. The full grown man’s wife was a very different kind of person. She was of the opinion that hubby was a pure mutton, and that he was lucky to be in the Service; but she kept her opinion dark, and among her friends, whom she referred to as “Society,” she groaned over the fact that hubby was “so unlucky”; that it was a shame the way he was paid; that he was so clever, don’t you know,--and other things, which she thought people believed.