The Wit and Humor of America, Volume V
Well, Christopher Columbus would have been just as much astonished at a revelation of the steamboat and the locomotive engine as we should be to witness the above performance, which our intelligent posterity during the ensuing year A.D. 2000 will possibly look upon as a very ordinary and common-place affair.
Only three days ago we asked a medium where Sir John Franklin was at that time; to which he replied, he was cruising about (officers and crew all well) on the interior of the Earth, to which he had obtained entrance through Symmes Hole!
With a few remarks upon the Earth's Satellite, we conclude the first Lecture on Astronomy; the remainder of the course being contained in a second Lecture, treating of the planets, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune, the Asteroids, and the fixed stars, which last, being "fixings," are, according to Mr. Charles Dickens, American property.
THE MOONThis resplendent luminary, like a youth on the Fourth of July, has its first quarter; like a ruined spendthrift its last quarter, and like an omnibus, is occasionally full and new. The evenings on which it appears between these last stages are beautifully illumined by its clear, mellow light.
The Moon revolves in an elliptical orbit about the Earth in twenty-nine days twelve hours forty-four minutes and three seconds, the time which elapses between one new Moon and another. It was supposed by the ancient philosophers that the Moon was made of green cheese, an opinion still entertained by the credulous and ignorant. Kepler and Tyco Brahe, however, held to the opinion that it was composed of Charlotte Russe, the dark portions of its surface being sponge cake, the light blanc mange. Modern advances in science and the use of Lord Rosse's famous telescope have demonstrated the absurdity of all these speculations by proving conclusively that the Moon is mainly composed of the Ferro—sesqui—cyanuret, of the cyanide of potassium! Up to the latest dates from the Atlantic States, no one has succeeded in reaching the Moon. Should anyone do so hereafter, it will probably be a woman, as the sex will never cease making an exertion for that purpose as long as there is a man in it.
Upon the whole, we may consider the Moon an excellent institution, among the many we enjoy under a free, republican form of government, and it is a blessed thing to reflect that the President of the United States can not veto it, no matter how strong an inclination he may feel, from principle or habit, to do so.
It has been ascertained beyond a doubt that the Moon has no air. Consequently, the common expressions, "the Moon was gazing down with an air of benevolence," or with "an air of complacency," or with "an air of calm superiority," are incorrect and objectionable, the fact being that the Moon has no air at all.
The existence of the celebrated "Man in the Moon" has been frequently questioned by modern philosophers. The whole subject is involved in doubt and obscurity. The only authority we have for believing that such an individual exists, and has been seen and spoken with, is a fragment of an old poem composed by an ancient Astronomer of the name of Goose, which has been handed down to us as follows:
"The man in the Moon came down too soon To inquire the way to Norwich;The man in the South, he burned his mouth, Eating cold, hot porridge."The evidence conveyed in this distich is, however, rejected by the skeptical, among modern Astronomers, who consider the passage an allegory. "The man in the South," being supposed typical of the late John C. Calhoun, and the "cold, hot porridge," alluded to the project of nullification.
END OF LECTURE FIRST
Note by the Author—Itinerant Lecturers are cautioned against making use of the above production, without obtaining the necessary authority from the proprietors of the Pioneer Magazine. To those who may obtain such authority, it may be well to state that at the close of the Lecture it was the intention of the author to exhibit and explain to the audience an orrery, accompanying and interspersing his remarks by a choice selection of popular airs on the hand-organ.
An economical orrery may be constructed by attaching eighteen wires of graduated lengths to the shaft of a candlestick, apples of different sizes being placed at their extremities to represent the Planets, and a central orange resting on the candlestick, representing the Sun.
An orrery of this description is, however, liable to the objection that if handed around among the audience for examination, it is seldom returned uninjured. The author has known an instance in which a child four years of age, on an occasion of this kind, devoured in succession the planets Jupiter and Herschel, and bit a large spot out of the Sun before he could be arrested.
J.P.AT AUNTY'S HOUSE
By James Whitcomb RileyOne time, when we'z at Aunty's house— 'Way in the country!—whereThey's ist but woods—an' pigs, an' cows— An' all's out-doors an' air!—An' orchurd-swing; an' churry-trees—An' churries in 'em!—Yes, an' these-Here red-head birds steals all they please, An' tetch 'em ef you dare!—W'y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there, We et out on the porch!Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut The table wuz; an' ILet Aunty set by me an' cut My vittuls up—an' pie.'Tuz awful funny!—I could seeThe red-heads in the churry-tree;An' bee-hives, where you got to be So keerful, goin' by;—An' "Comp'ny" there an' all!—an' we— We et out on the porch!An' I ist et p'surves an' things 'At Ma don't 'low me to—An' chickun-gizzurds—(don't like wings Like Parunts does! do you?)An' all the time, the wind blowed there,An' I could feel it in my hair,An' ist smell clover ever'where!— An' a' old red-head flewPurt' nigh wite over my high-chair, When we et on the porch!WILLY AND THE LADY
By Gelett BurgessLeave the lady, Willy, let the racket rip,She is going to fool you, you have lost your grip,Your brain is in a muddle and your heart is in a whirl,Come along with me, Willy, never mind the girl! Come and have a man-talk; Come with those who can talk;Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through; Love is only chatter, Friends are all that matter;Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!Leave the lady, Willy, let her letter wait,You'll forget your troubles when you get it straight,The world is full of women, and the women full of wile;Come along with me, Willy, we can make you smile! Come and have a man-talk, A rousing black-and-tan talk,There are plenty there to teach you; there's a lot for you to do; Your head must stop its whirling Before you go a-girling;Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!Leave the lady, Willy, the night is good and long,Time for beer and 'baccy, time to have a song;Where the smoke is swirling, sorrow if you can—Come along with me, Willy, come and be a man! Come and have a man-talk, Come with those who can talk,Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through; Love is only chatter, Friends are all that matter;Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!Leave the lady, Willy, you are rather young;When the tales are over, when the songs are sung,When the men have made you, try the girl again;Come along with me, Willy, you'll be better then! Come and have a man-talk, Forget your girl-divan talk;You've got to get acquainted with another point of view! Girls will only fool you; We're the ones to school you;Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!THE ITINERANT TINKER
Away off in front, and coming toward them along the same path, appeared a singularly misshapen figure. As they came nearer, Dickey saw that it was an old man carrying on his back, at each side and in front of him, some part or piece of almost every imaginable thing. Umbrellas, chair bottoms, panes of glass, knives, forks, pans, dusters, tubs, spoons and stove-lids, graters and grind-stones, saws and samovars,—"Almost everything one could possibly think of," said Dickey to himself.
The moment that the Fantasm caught sight of the strange figure he stopped, and Dickey noticed that his face, which was tucked securely under his left arm, turned quite pale.
"Gracious me!" he exclaimed in a thoroughly frightened way. "There's the Itinerant Tinker again! Now," he added hastily and dolefully, "I shall have to leave you and run for it."
"Why, you're surely not afraid of him!" Dickey exclaimed incredulously. Dickey was really surprised, for the old man, so far as he could judge from that distance, wore an extremely mild and kindly look. "Why do you have to run?" he asked.
"Why? Why?" the Fantasm fairly shouted. "I told you a moment ago that he was the Itinerant Tinker! He tries to mend every broken and unbroken thing in Fantasma Land! Every time he catches me," went on the Fantasm, as he edged cautiously away, "he tries to glue on my head. It's very annoying—and, besides, it hurts! Good-by, Dickey!" he called, and disappeared forthwith into the bushes.
"Isn't he a droll person?" thought Dickey. "He never stops with me more than ten minutes at a time but what he either loses his head or runs away."
By that time the Itinerant Tinker had come up to where Dickey stood. He sat wearily down on a boulder by the wayside, removed some of the heavier merchandise from off his back, and proceeded to mop his face vigorously with a great red handkerchief. Dickey waited several minutes for the old man to speak; but the Itinerant Tinker only regarded him solemnly. He did not even smile.
"It's very warm work, sir," ventured Dickey, at last, "carrying all that stuff—isn't it?"
"Stuff?" returned the Itinerant Tinker, in a very mild, but unmistakably hurt tone of voice.
"Well—" Dickey hesitated timidly.
"Don't call them stuff, please," sighed the Itinerant Tinker; "call them necessary commodities."
"But whatever one does call them," Dickey persisted, "they still make you warm to carry them all about, don't they?"
The Itinerant Tinker nodded his head and sighed again.
Again Dickey waited for a considerable space of time. But the old man would have been perfectly content to sit there for ever, Dickey thought, without speaking. "I do wish he would talk," said he to himself. "It's awfully annoying to have him sit there and look at one without saying a word."
"What do you mend, sir?" Dickey inquired at last.
"I tried once," sighed the Itinerant Tinker, sadly, "to mend the break of day. It took me twenty-seven hours and eleven minutes to fix it, and it broke every twenty-four. At that rate how long would it take to patch them all together?"
Another distressing silence.
"Have you figured that out?" whispered the Itinerant Tinker at length.
"I haven't tried," Dickey admitted.
"I tried once," the Itinerant Tinker said, "but I ran out of paper and gave it up. Then, when the night fell," he resumed dolefully, after another long interval of silence, "I tried to prop it up. But I met with the same difficulty that confronted me in patching up the day, and was forced to abandon that too."
"In which direction were you going when I met you?" Dickey asked.
The Itinerant Tinker pointed ahead of him along the path and mopped his bald head.
"But where?" insisted Dickey.
"To the Crypt. I was going to the Crypt," murmured the Itinerant Tinker, "to see whether I couldn't get some umbrellas to mend."
"But they don't need umbrellas in the Crypt, do they?" Dickey asked, surprised.
"No, they don't," sighed the Itinerant Tinker; "and that's the reason I'm going there."
"If you don't mind," said Dickey, "I should like to go with you."
Without a word of reply the Itinerant Tinker rose slowly and painfully to his feet, rearranged on his back the merchandise he had laid aside, and started off up the hill, with Dickey following closely at his heels.
"I tried to mend the Great Dipper once," resumed the Itinerant Tinker, at length. "I only succeeded, however, in crooking the handle; but it looks better that way, I think."
"How did you manage to reach it?" asked Dickey, a little doubtfully.
"I climbed up the Milky Way," replied the Itinerant Tinker, sadly. "In order to reach it after I got there, I was obliged to stand on the horn of the moon. It was a very perilous undertaking."
Dickey couldn't believe quite all that the Itinerant Tinker was telling him. But his mild and gentle eyes wore such a serious expression that he very much disliked to doubt the old man's word.
"Speaking of the moon," went on the Itinerant Tinker after a while, "I tried once to make her stand up—after she had set, you know. It proved a thankless task. She treated me very rudely, indeed. By the by, have you seen the Flighty-wight?"
"No, sir; I have not," replied Dickey.
"He's always jumping at conclusions, you know. I jumped at a conclusion once, fell into disgrace, and was very much cut up over it. I tried to patch him up and he called me an old meddler! You haven't heard of such ingratitude before, I fancy?"
"It was very mean of him, I think," said Dickey, sympathetically.
"Oh, that's nothing," pursued the Itinerant Tinker, in a melancholy tone. "That's nothing! I once attempted to solder a new tip on the Wizard's wand. He turned me into a rabbit, he did."
"Whatever did you do then?" asked Dickey.
"I protested, of course. He merely said that he was only making game of me. But if there's any one thing that I can do better than another," went on the Itinerant Tinker, after another embarrassing pause, "it's piecing together a split infinitive. Would you like me to show you how it's done?"
"Indeed, I should," Dickey eagerly answered; "very much, indeed."
"Very well, then. Just give me time to set down these necessary commodities, and I'll show you exactly the manner in which it's done and undone."
After he had rid himself of his awkward burden, the Itinerant Tinker carefully selected a saw from his kit of tools.
"Is that a log over there?" he asked, pointing toward a mound of earth. "I'm a trifle nearsighted, you know."
"No," Dickey replied. "But there's one off there, just to the other side. A big one, too."
"The identical thing," said the Itinerant Tinker. Whereupon he walked over to it and immediately began sawing a thin slab from off its smooth end.
"Now," said he, after he had finished the rather difficult task, oiled his saw and returned it to his kit, "I proceed to write the word love in the infinitive mood."
"Is that a sad mood?" asked Dickey. "It sounds very much like it, I think."
Without heeding the question in the least the Itinerant Tinker turned the slab for Dickey's inspection, and he read on it the two words, to love. Taking up a wedge the Itinerant Tinker printed the word dearly on the flat side of it, and then skilfully drove it between the words to and love. When he again held it up for Dickey to see, it read: to dearly love.
"There!" exclaimed the Itinerant Tinker, holding the slab proudly at arm's length and turning his head slowly from side to side, "that's what I call a fine bit of ingenuity!"
"So that's a split infinitive, is it?" Dickey asked.
"Why, you stupid boy!" the Itinerant Tinker exclaimed; "didn't you just this minute see me split it?"
"Yes, sir; I did," Dickey murmured rather shamefacedly.
"Then, if I split it, what else could it be but a split infinitive, I'd like to know?"
"Well," said Dickey, a bit timidly, "I never heard a block of wood called an infinitive before."
"Oh, my!" sighed the Itinerant Tinker, as he sank down on his pile of merchandise. "How you do weary me!"
He sat looking at the slab of wood for such a long time, turning it admiringly now that way, now this, that poor Dickey began to grow quite nervous.
"Please," he ventured at last, "won't you show me now how you mend it?" Dickey didn't care in the least to see it done, but he imagined that by asking the question he would regain the good will of the old man.
"There you go again! There you go!" exclaimed the Itinerant Tinker. He actually shed a tear. "I knew you'd do it—I knew it!"
"Now what have I done?" asked Dickey, innocently.
"You've broken the silence," said the Itinerant Tinker, sadly. "It'll take me hours and hours to glue that together. But first," he went on, after another long pause, "I'll show you how neatly this split infinitive can be mended."
Thereupon he withdrew the wedge, dipped a brush into a pot of glue, and, after distributing the sticky fluid over the split sides, brought them carefully and neatly together.
"There!" he exclaimed, triumphantly, "that's the proper way to bring together a split infinitive. Beware, my boy, of splitting your infinitives; but if you do, call on the Itinerant Tinker and he'll straighten 'em out for you."
"Before we move along," he resumed, after he had loaded himself with his merchandise, "perhaps you'd like to listen to a story?"
"I should, if it wasn't about split infinitives," replied Dickey, doubtfully. "They really make me quite dizzy."
"Well, it's not," said the Itinerant Tinker, smiling vaguely. "It's the story of the
PEDANTIC PEDAGOGUE
"I saw him sitting—sitting there, Outside the school-house door,It was a dismal afternoon; The hour was half-past four."I asked him, 'Sir, what is your name?' His voice came through the fog:'I have forgotten it, kind sir, But I'm a Pedagogue."'And I'm so absent-minded, sir, I put my clothes to bedAnd hang myself upon a chair; Is not that odd?' he said."'And every morning of my life I climb into my tub;Then wonder why I'm sitting there. Ah, me, man! that's the rub!'"He wiped his spectacles and said: 'Kind sir, observe this frog.I took him in this net, when he Was but a pollywog."'Now it's my wish, good sir, to seek The seismocosmic state;And why this strange amphibian Should slowly gravitate"'From a mere firmisternial thing To—' 'Say!' I cried, 'please wait!I can not understand a word Of that which you relate.'"'Now, please tell me,' he said again, 'The sum of the equationBetween the harp and hippogriff; Define their true relation.'"'I can not answer you,' I said, 'Because I'm but a tinker.But I can mend your old umbrel'; 'Twill be a dime, I think, sir.'"Just then the frog dived off his hand And swam out to the fence,Which was an easy thing to do— The vapor was so dense."And there he perched upon a post; It was a sight to seeThe way he made grimaces at The Pedagogue and me."It vexed us very much to see A frog so impoliteI flung a gnarly stick at him— Flung it with all my might."It floated softly on the fog. As softly as a feather;The frog jumped on and sailed away, Leaving us there together"A-shaking both our fists at him Till they were sore and numb.The bull-frog merely blinked at us, And sang: 'You'll drown! Bottle-o'-Rum!'"With that I left the Pedagogue A-sitting in the wet.He was so absent-minded, I Dare say he's sitting yet—"Upon the little school-house steps, Revolving in his mindThe definite relation 'twixt The cosmos and mankind."When the Itinerant Tinker had finished his story he rose wearily to his feet.
"If we don't hurry along," he said, "I doubt whether we shall reach the Crypt in time to take our tea. I never—"
He was interrupted at this point by a shrill voice, coming, it seemed, from the direction of the forest.
"Jingle-junk! jingle-junk! jingle-junk!" shouted the penetrating voice.
The Itinerant Tinker stopped instantly. An angry frown gathered on his brow.
"I know who that is," he muttered. "It's Wamba, son of Witless, the Jester of Ivanhoe. I've been trying to catch him for seventy-two years, and if I do, I'll—"
Dickey never heard the end of the sentence for the Itinerant Tinker made for the wood at a surprisingly swift gait. The incident had its really amusing side, too; for he left behind him a trail of pots, pans, boilers, stove-lids, potato-mashers—in fact, Dickey thought, he must have dropped almost all of his "necessary commodities" by the time he had vanished into the wood.
THE STRIKE OF ONE
By Elliott FlowerDanny Burke was discharged.
A certain distinguished ex-President of the United States probably would have said that he was discharged for "pernicious activity"; but the head of the branch messenger-office merely said that he was "an infernal nuisance."
Danny was a good union man. As a matter of fact, he was a boy, and a small boy at that; but he would have scorned any description that did not put him down as "a good union man." Danny's environment had been one of uncompromising unionism, and that was what ailed him. He wanted to advance the union idea. To this end, he undertook to organize the other messengers in the branch office, advancing all the arguments that he had heard his mother and his father use in their discussions. The boys thought favorably of the scheme, but most of them were inclined to let some one else do the experimenting. It might result disastrously. Just to encourage them, Danny became insolent, as he had already become inattentive; he told the manager what he would do and what he would not do, and positively declined to deliver a message that would carry his work a few minutes beyond quitting-time.
Then Danny was discharged—and he laughed. Discharge him! Well, he'd show them a thing or two.
"We'll arbitrate," he announced.
"Get out!" ordered the manager.
"You got to arbitrate," insisted Danny. "You got to confer with your men or you're goin' to have a strike!" Danny had heard so much about conferences that he felt he was on safe ground now. "We can't stand fer no autycrats!" he added. "You got to meet your men fair an' talk it over. A committee—"
"Get out!" repeated the manager, rising from his desk, near which the waiting boys were seated.
"Men," yelled Danny, "I calls a strike an' a boycott!"
Two of the boys rose as if to follow him, but the manager was too quick. He had Danny by the collar before Danny knew what had happened, and the struggling boy was marched to the door and pushed out. The boys who had risen promptly subsided.
Danny was too astonished for words. In all his extended hearsay knowledge of strikes he never had heard of anything like this. There was nothing heroic in it at all. He had expected a conference, and, instead, he was ignominiously handled and thrust into the street.
Danny sat down on a pile of paving-stones to think it over. Without reasoning the matter out, he now regarded himself as a union. The other members had deserted him, but he was on a strike; and somehow he had absorbed the idea that the men who were striking were always the union men. So, this being a strike of one, he was an entire union. It did not take him long to decide that the first thing to do was to "picket the plant." That was a familiar phrase, and he knew the meaning of it. Everything was nicely arranged for him, too. The street was being paved, and he was sitting on some paving-stones, with a pile of gravel beside him. He selected fifteen or twenty of the largest stones from the gravel-pile.
A woman was the first victim. As she was about to enter the messenger-office she was startled by a yell of warning from Danny.
