There's one bright Irishman that I'm greatly interested in. Terence Sullivan came over here with the idea that he could pick up money in the streets; and sure enough the first day he landed he found a nice new ten-dollar bill on one of the seats in Battery Park. Since then he's gone on doing well.
Sullivan was never much of a reader, and I had often wondered at this until on a certain occasion he gave his prejudice an airing.
"And faith," said he, "Oi don't see the since in noospapers. They kin only print what's already happened."
As affairs prospered with the honest fellow, like all true-hearted Irishmen, he must needs send for the mother, and install her in a comfortable home.
I remember meeting the old lady once, and under conditions that often make me smile.
I had a friend, a lawyer, who had an office away up in one of the skyscrapers downtown, and hereMrs. Sullivan, after much persuasion, had been induced to come and pay her rent.
The lawyer's office was on one of the upper floors of a large office building.
After the rent had been paid and the receipt given, the old woman was shown out into the hallway by the office boy.
I found her in the hallway a few minutes later, when I chanced along. She was wandering about opening doors and otherwise acting in a strange manner.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
"Shure," she said, in her simplicity, "I'm lookin' for the little closet I came up in."
I suppose you will believe me when I tell you that my theatrical ventures have frequently brought me in contact with ripe episodes that impressed themselves strongly upon my memory.
Sometimes they were too ripe, and gave occasion for much toil ere they could be wholly eradicated from my unfortunate coat.
I long ago lost my taste for eggs in any shape.
On a barn-storming crusade with a small show, I remember, at an afternoon rehearsal, the flute player in the orchestra made me nervous by playing off key. After vainly endeavoring to correct the man, I lost my temper and exclaimed:
"Cut out the flute for goodness' sake!"
Thereupon the musician arose with fire in his eye.
"Oh! you want to get rid of the flute, do you?" he asked.
"Yes," I drawled carelessly, "I guess we'll get along all right without your assistance."
"Oh! you will, will you! Well, see here, young fellow, if I don't play the flute, you don't sing that song—and there'll be no show to-night. You understand?"
"Who'll prevent?" I demanded.
"Only the flute," was the answer. "I'm the mayor of this place, I am, and I issue the permits. See?"
And I saw.
On my last whirl around the circuit I went by way of the New York Central.
There was a newly-married couple in our car, and of course lots of us were more or less interested in their carrying-on.
Morris-sinia!
Once the train plunged through a tunnel, and I suppose the newly-made Benedict took advantage of the golden opportunity to kiss his spouse.
"Morris-sinia!" yelled the brakeman as we came to daylight again.
"I don't care if he did," snapped the woman, "we're married."
At our first stop in a bustling town up in York State I was in the box office, when I was addressed by a young man who in hollow tones declared he had heard that to see so great an actor as myself was good for any form of ailment.
"You might help me," the young man declared with labored breathing; "anyway, I'd like to enjoy myself once more before I die. I have consumption,you know. Could you let me have a pass?"
I couldn't help but feel sorry for such a woebegone-looking, hard-luck chap, so I at once wrote him out a pass.
The man took the card, looked at it, coughed even more distressfully than before, and asked:
"Couldn't you make it two? I would like to take a friend."
"Has your friend consumption, too?" I asked, solicitously.
"N—no—not yet," faltered the man.
"Ah! then, I'm afraid I can't accommodate your friend. You see, I never give passes except to persons with the consumption."
Some people think there is little in a name, but I'm a great believer in an attractive title. I could mention scores of reasons for thinking as I do, and you can better believe I'm not alone in this thing.
Passing the Academy of Music a short time ago,one matinee day, I met my friend Shackleford coming out, and the play only half over.
"What is the matter?" I asked; "play bad?"
"No," he replied, "but it is too hot in there; the house is literally packed with women. You see it's the name—'Ninety and Nine'—that catches them. Why, it's better than an actual horse-race or a locomotive, to draw. They fancy that the admission has been marked down from a dollar and can't resist the bargain."
Whenever I meet Chauncey Billings on Broadway the sparks are sure to fly in the fireworks display of dry wit that passes between us, just as though you struck flint and steel smartly.
The other day he approached, looking very happy, as though anticipating overwhelming me, so being forwarned I prepared to resist boarders.
Pool 2-1/2 cents a cue
"My dear Niblo," said he, "you will be surprised to learn I've taken up a new business."
"Indeed, What are you now?" I asked.
"I'm a detective in a pool room."
"What do you do?"
"Oh, I spot balls."
"That's nothing," I remarked, casually, "I used to work in a cheese factory."
"And what did you do?"
"Oh, play baseball."
"What, baseball in a cheese factory, Mr. Niblo!"
"Sure, I used to chase flies. That got tiresome and I went to work in a barber shop."
"What were your duties there?"
"I used to mix lather."
"And what did you mix lather for?"
"Oh, to lather Irishmen and Dutchmen, etc."
"I have a brother who works in an eye hospital," said Chauncey, soberly.
"What does he do?"
"Oh, he makes goo-goo eyes."
"That's nothing, I have a sister who works in a watch factory making faces."
And so we pass the retort discourteous, and exchange pleasantries as only old friends may.
In the Catskill village, where we delight to spend a portion of the heated term and all our hard-earned capital, there is a boarding-house run by an eccentric genius, who knows how to set a good table and never has an empty room through the season, thoughover the gate leading up to his hotel he has painted a sign that might well cause consternation in the breast of many a would-be sojourner, for it reads:
"Boarders taken by the day, week or month. Those who do not pay promptly will be taken by the neck."
Boarders taken by the day, week or month. Those who do not pay promptly will be taken by the neck.
There were some rumors floating around that this remarkable Boniface, as a Christian Science advocate, had been benefited to an astonishing extent in the recovery of his health.
Being of an investigating turn of mind, and anxious to learn all that was possible concerning the latest fad, I cornered old Bijinks out near the hog-pen and engaged him in conversation, during which he made a positive assertion that rather staggered me.
"Do you mean to tell me that you actually believe Christian Science cured you?" I demanded, eagerly.
"Sure," he said, nodding.
"Of appendicitis?"
"B'gosh, no—of Christian Science."
There was a crusty old bachelor at the house whogot disgusted with the spoony couples and came up to my room to talk it over with me.
"What is love, anyway?" he demanded.
"Intoxication," I answered, unguardedly.
"Right," he quickly said, "then possibly marriage must be delirium tremens."
Before I could recover my breath he fired another hot shot at me.
"There's three things I never could stand if I ever married."
"And what are they?" I asked.
"Triplets."
I tried to give him the old gag about a woman's heart being a gold mine.
"That's right," he said; "you've got to prospect it before you find out what it's worth; and I know a whole lot of fellows who've gone broke prospecting."
That landlord of ours up in the glorious Catskills was a hard subject to catch napping, and many a time I've watched him crawl out of a hole with hardly an effort.
Probably it requires considerable nerve to run a summer resort hotel, and meet all the requirements which the traveling public seem to expect.
On one occasion I heard a tourist who had just arrived ask him the old chestnut:
"Is this a good place, landlord, do you think, for a person affected with a weak chest?"
"None better, sir, none better."
"I've been recommended, you know, by the doctor, to spend the summer in some mountain region where the south wind blows. Does it blow much here?"
"Why sure, it's always the south wind that blows here," replied the landlord, stoutly.
"Ah, indeed, then how do you account for it blowing from the north just now?"
"That's easy enough, sir—you see it's the same old south wind on its road back again."
That landlord was a jewel, and afforded me considerable entertainment during my sojourn; but he had a neighbor, a stout German farmer, who took the cake when it came to doing business.
Le'me tell you about his experience with the insurance agent, for it was certainly laughable, though old Platzenburger didn't see it that way.
It seems that the house of the farmer, insured for a thousand dollars, had burned down. The privilege of replacing a burned house is reserved by insurancecompanies and the agent, having this in mind, said to the farmer:
"We'll put you up a better house than the one you had for six hundred dollars."
"Nein!" said Platzenburger, emphatically. "I vill have my one tousand dollar or notings! Dot house could not be built again for even a tousand."
"Oh, yes, it could," said the insurance man. "It was an old house. It doesn't cost so much to build houses nowadays. A six-hundred-dollar new house would be a lot bigger and better than the old one."
Some months later, when the insurance man was out for a day's shooting, he rode up again to the farmer's place.
"Just thought I'd stop while I was up here," he said, "to see if you wanted to take out a little insurance."
"I got notings to insure," said Platz, "notings but my vife."
"Well, then," said the insurance man cheerfully, "insure her."
"Nein!" said the farmer, with determination. "If shedie, you come out here and say, 'I not give you one tousand dollar. I get you a bigger und a better vife for six hunded.' No, sir, I dakes no more insurance oud!"
You must excuse me if I have to call a temporary halt upon these proceedings and indulge in a little vociferous sneeze, for a cold in the head is no respecter of persons. This is the sneeze, sung in a sad, sobbing minor:
I've got a cold with snuffles in;What kind of a cold have you?I've got the kind that makes me sinBy craving fizzes made of ginAnd other stuff with bad booze in—What kind of a cold have you?I've got the kind that makes one hoarse;What kind of a cold have you?To speak requires my utmost force;My voice is rough, and harsh, and coarse,And strains its laryngital source—What kind of a cold have you?I've got a cold that makes me mad—What kind of a cold have you?That makes me reticent and sad,That puts me plainly to the bad,The worstest cold I ever had—What kind of a cold have you?
I've got a cold with snuffles in;What kind of a cold have you?I've got the kind that makes me sinBy craving fizzes made of ginAnd other stuff with bad booze in—What kind of a cold have you?
I've got the kind that makes one hoarse;What kind of a cold have you?To speak requires my utmost force;My voice is rough, and harsh, and coarse,And strains its laryngital source—What kind of a cold have you?
I've got a cold that makes me mad—What kind of a cold have you?That makes me reticent and sad,That puts me plainly to the bad,The worstest cold I ever had—What kind of a cold have you?
I suppose you know I was on a tour in Florida and other parts of the Sunny South last winter?
There is a tradition down there that if a mule kicks a darky on the head the wretched mule is sure to go lame.
When I was down there I happened to notice a little colored girl limping along the street, her feet done up in immense bandages of sacking.
"What's the matter with your feet?" was my natural inquiry.
"My fadder done hit me on de haid while I was standin' on an iron cellar door," was the response.
When I got to Charleston there was a circus in town, and after doing my matinee stunt at the local theatre, I got around to the circus.
There was a pretty fair menagerie along with the show, and it was a treat to me to stand around andhear the original and quaint remarks of the negroes, many of whom had never before in their lives seen lions and elephants.
One big ugly gorilla seemed to attract them above all other living curiosities, and he was a fierce sight, I assure you.
I saw an old wizened-up aunty stand in front of his cage a long time, speechless with awe, and finally heard her vent her feelings in the words:
"Foah massa sakes alibe, if he ain't jest like de ole-time culled folks."
Another queer old chap tried to make the acquaintance of the uncouth and hairy monster.
"How is you?" said the old black man, bowing before the monstrous ape.
No answer.
"How is you?" Eph repeated, with another profound bow, and still no answer. Then, after a long pause, Eph exclaimed:
"You's right, ole man; keep yo' mouf shet or dey'll put a hoe in yo' hand and make yo' raise cotton."
The menagerie always fascinates me. Why, I'm just like a boy again when I get among the animals, and catch that well-remembered odor always connected with a show.
I've even dreamed about 'em, and strange as it may appear, they always seem to be passing before me in a great hurry, just as though on a wager.
As I say, I was kind of fascinated and thinking of boyhood's days and all that sort of thing, you know, when some one spotted me.
"By de great horn spoon, if dar ain't George Niblo!"
I tried to look shy and turned on my best blush.
Then the manager turned to me politely, gave me the glad hand and asked if I wouldn't sing a little song.
I said "sure"; and I did. Here's the song I sung:
The animals thought they would have a race;The Monkey was referee;The Bull was stakeholder, for, as he said,It was his nature to be.The Camel got a hump on himself;The Lion ran with might and mane;The Tiger stood off, for a beast of his stripeWas not let to enter again.The Elephant took his trunk along,In case he won the prize;The Peacock was starter, and missed no one,For, you see, he was all eyes.Some spotted the Leopard for winner sure;The old ones chose the Gnu;While those who leap to conclusions quickBet on the Kangaroo.The Ostrich plumed himself on his speed;All tried the record to wreck;The Hippopotamus blew his own horn,But the Giraffe, he won by a neck.
The animals thought they would have a race;The Monkey was referee;The Bull was stakeholder, for, as he said,It was his nature to be.The Camel got a hump on himself;The Lion ran with might and mane;The Tiger stood off, for a beast of his stripeWas not let to enter again.The Elephant took his trunk along,In case he won the prize;The Peacock was starter, and missed no one,For, you see, he was all eyes.Some spotted the Leopard for winner sure;The old ones chose the Gnu;While those who leap to conclusions quickBet on the Kangaroo.The Ostrich plumed himself on his speed;All tried the record to wreck;The Hippopotamus blew his own horn,But the Giraffe, he won by a neck.
I was in court the other day.
There is no use of any vulgar curiosity concerning the reason of my being present; but I will say right here that I won my case, and when a fellow does that he's all right. Yes, sir; I had the dough with me.
While I was waiting my turn a disreputable-looking chap was brought before the judge, I believe charged with vagrancy or something of the sort.
"What is your name?" inquired the justice.
"Pete Smith," responded the vagrant.
"What occupation?" continued the court.
"Oh, nothing much at present; just circulatin' round."
"Retired from circulation for thirty days," pronounced the court, dryly.
In another case where one of the witnesses had been severely baited by a counsel, the question arose as to the authenticity of a letter of which the witness was reputed to be the author.
"Sir," said the lawyer, fiercely, "do you, on your oath, swear that this is not your handwriting?"
"I think not," was the reply.
"Does it resemble your handwriting?"
"I can't say it does."
"Will you swear that it does not resemble your handwriting?"
"I will."
"You will positively take your oath that this writing does not resemble yours?" persisted the lawyer, working himself into a state bordering on frenzy.
"Ye-s-s, sir."
"You seem less positive," remarked his interrogator; "perhaps we had better have a specimen of your handwriting for purposes of comparison."
The witness caused it to be understood that this was impossible, whereupon the lawyer, scentinghis approaching triumph, smiled serenely at the court.
"Oh, sir, it is impossible, is it? And may I ask why?"
"'Cause I can't write," returned the man.
"Step down; I'm done with you," said the smart lawyer.
Which reminds me of an occasion when an Irish judge was on the bench, and took occasion, in my hearing, to address the jury.
"Gentlemen," he said, seriously, "you have heard the evidence. The indictment says the prisoner was arrested for stealing a pig.
"The offense seems to be becoming a common one. The time has come when it must be put a stop to; otherwise, gentlemen, none of you will be safe."
As I came out of court that day it was only natural that I should run across an old friend, Dr. Case, and hear of more courting. Ah, I thought you'd see it!
"Great news about McGregor—he's to be married again."
I expressed my surprise, for let me tell you I had already enjoyed the pleasure of an acquaintance with three wives of this same gentleman.
"Fourth time—that's going it pretty steep, doctor," I remarked.
"It would appear so. Beats all how the rage for collecting will take hold of a man. Sometimes it's old books or playbills, and sometimes it's postage stamps. In McGregor's case it appears to be wives."
When I looked in on Bob Lightwate the other day, at his office, expecting him to accompany me to the hospital, where a mutual friend had been taken, I found him clipping an item from a newspaper, which he was very careful to place in his note book.
"It tells how a house was robbed, and I want to show it to my wife," he explained.
"What good will that do?" I inquired.
"A whole lot," was the reply. "You see, this house was robbed while a man was at church with his wife."
"B'Gosh!" I exclaimed, excitedly, "you haven't got a duplicate copy of that paper, have you?"
Before we could get away Bob had a caller.
You see he owns a lot of real estate in the suburbs and his tenants pester the life half out of him on account of trivial troubles.
This party was plainly embarrassed, for he kept twirling his hat in his hands.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Sorter?" asked Bob.
"I came to tell you, sir, that our cellar—"
"Well, what about the cellar?"
"It's full of water, sir."
"Is that all? Humph, I don't see that you've any kick coming, Mr. Sorter. You surely didn't expect a cellar full of champagne for ten dollars a month."
The matter was of course satisfactorily adjusted, after Bob had enjoyed his little joke, and we went on our way to the hospital.
Now, a hospital isn't the most cheerful place in the world, and yet now and then there is some gleam of humor breaks out there.
Appendices removed suddenly while you wait
Human nature is a queer combination, and I've known men who would joke even under the surgeon's knife.
When we entered the room where poor Huggins lay, we found that two physicians were beside his cot holding a consultation over him, and that it was suspected he had a severe case of appendicitis concealed about his person.
"I believe," said one of the surgeons, "that we should wait and let him get stronger before cutting into him."
Before the other prospective operator could reply the patient turned his head, and remarked feebly:
"What do you take me for—a cheese?"
I rejoice to tell you that this hero survived the operation, and is about again.
Lightwate has always been a great lover of the weed, and it is a rare thing to find him without a cigar or a pipe in his mouth.
When taken to task he never fails to joke about the matter, and turn the tables on a fellow.
I remember of asking him plainly once why he smoked so much, and he immediately replied:
"I suppose because I'm too green to burn."
While Bob and myself were on the way back to his office we saw a commotion ahead, and pretty soon a wild-looking citizen rushed up to a policeman who stood on the curb, and shouted:
"Officer, officer, I've been robbed, and yonder goes the wretch who snatched my watch!"
The vigilant guardian of the peace waved him majestically aside, as he answered:
"Don't bother me with such very trifling affairs when I'm timing an automobile."
Bob said things had come to a pretty pass when a man's time-piece might be stolen with impunity because of the necessity for securing the time-pace of a machine.
Our walk took us along the Bowery, and as I was passing, a man seemed to be busily engaged in shoving some bank-bills, together with a straw-colored ticket into his pocket. I was surprised to hear him give way to sentiment and exclaim:
Alone at last!
"Alone at last!"
Just then Bob, with a grin, called my attention to the three golden balls over the door of the shop from which he had evidently just emerged, and I tumbled to the game.
On the corner of Grand Street I was halted for a minute by an Irishman whom I knew as a steady fellow, a machinist by trade, and with a buxom better-half who ruled his home like a queen.
"Sure it's a bit av advice I'd be after beggin' sorr. I'm puzzled to know phwat to do wid a case loike that," he said, mysteriously.
"Tell me the circumstances, Mike."
"Will, it's jist this way, yer honor, the walkin' diligate has ordhered me to sthroike, and me ould woman tills me to ka-ape on wur-rkin', an' for me loife I don't know phwat to do."
It was a hard case, and I felt sorry for Mike, but under the circumstances any advice I might give would have been wasted, for to tell you the truth, knowing Mrs. Casey as I did, I realized that he was between the devil and the deep sea.
I've often wondered how he made out.
My having been a theatrical man off and on for years, it is nothing out of the way for me to spend some of my spare time lounging about agencies where they give out the prizes.
There is one such on Broadway, and it chanced that in taking up quarters near the Criterion they were given the telephone number of a fish market that had moved away.
This little but significant fact gives rise to occasional mistakes on the part of housewives who have been in the habit of ordering their sea-food by wire.
For instance, when I was in there the other day the bell rang violently, and a message, loud enough to be heard all over the office, and in a decidedly feminine voice, came over the wire.
"Send up two quarts of oysters at once."
"Sorry to say we haven't any just now," said the polite gentleman in the theatrical office; "but if they would do as well, we have a few fine lobsters we could let you have, madam."
Another order came for "crawfish" which were especially desired for dinner.
"Sorry," called the agent, "impossible to supply you with crawfish, but we can send you up a fine lot of assorted coryphees."
"Coryphees," said a dazed feminine voice, "I don't know what they are—I said crawfish."
"Sorry, but crawfish are no good in our business;but we can send up nice selected coryphees, all dressed—make any dinner go off well."
"You must be a fool," we heard over the wire, and no doubt the receiver was slammed into the holder while the lady hurried to get a dictionary to discover what manner of sea-food coryphees might be.
Perhaps she found that they might be called nymphs.
Speaking of nymphs, reminds me of my next-door neighbor, Miss Snappe, whose tongue is surcharged with cayenne pepper when she is ruffled.
I remember she once had a squabble with another neighbor, Miss Antique, and as they had once been good friends, my wife, in her warm-hearted way, tried to soothe the ruffled plumage of Miss Snappe, and pour oil on troubled waters.
"Come now," said the dear little peacemaker, "why don't you and Miss Antique become friends again?"
"Oh, I don't see the sense of going to all that trouble for her!"
"But it isn't any more trouble for you to make up, than it is for her."
"Don't you believe it. She's used to making up, for she's been doing it for years."
Nevertheless I've found that same Miss Antique something worth cultivating, for she possesses more genuine wit than any other woman of my acquaintance.
It was only recently the doctor said to her:
"My dear Miss Antique, you must really take exercise for your health."
"All right, doctor," she replied, "I will certainly jump at the first offer."
To win the matrimonial race—Oh, all ye maids who try—You're lucky if you get a placeResulting in a tie.
To win the matrimonial race—Oh, all ye maids who try—You're lucky if you get a placeResulting in a tie.
I remember asking this frisky old maid whether, in her opinion, women were really as brave as men.
She gave me a look of scorn.
"Far braver, sir; if you notice carefully all accounts upon the subject, you will learn that the scientists who keep on talking with alarm and even terror concerningthe dreadful bacilli in a kiss, are every one of them males."
She has also very decided views as to the future of this glorious country, and while we were discussing the chances of America ever being dominated by a combined Europe, she said, emphatically:
"That will never happen, sir, so long as eminent Europeans continue to marry American girls."
I agreed with her, knowing from experience what an influence in the household the average American wife must ever be.
Rev. Splicem Daly The Torpedo-Boat Minister! Record—30 Knots an Hour
Speaking of marrying brings to my mind a very eccentric old minister out in Oklahoma at the time the boom was in full progress.
He was the only parson for miles around, and it kept him busy splicing couples, for a regular fever seemed to have broken out, and everybody thought of taking a mate.
I asked a resident if the stories I had heard about the domine were true, and that in his wholesale business he had actually married thirtycouples within an hour, that being high-water mark.
"Yes, stranger," responded the boomer, "and we call him the 'torpedo-boat minister.'"
"Why so?"
"Because he made thirty knots an hour."
By the way, I forgot to tell you several amusing things that happened while I was down in Dixie.
When in Alabama, I spent some time with an old friend who owned a big plantation.
Among his negro hands was his coachman, who up to that time had invariably persisted in getting in his vote, despite the plain hints of the white election officers that he would do better to stay at home. On that particular Election Day he returned home in the afternoon with a countenance that looked like it had been taking some familiarities with a buzz saw.
"What's the matter, Zack?" I asked, with some solicitude.
"It's this way, boss; I went up dar to the votin' place, and there wuz the county undertakah, sah, a-sittin' with a big book open 'foah him, and he sez to me right sharp like:
"'What's your name?'
"'Zack Taylor', I sez, humble.
"'Let's see?' says the undertakah, and he turned over the leaves of the book. All of a sudden he stopped turnin' and begin to run his fingers down the page, mutterin' to himself.
"'Taylor, Taylor, Taylor, Taylor—Zack.' And pretty soon he hollered out:
ELECTION BOOTH VOTE HERE
"'Heah it iz. You black scoundrel. I dun buried you ten year ago. What you mean by tryin' to vote?'
"Just then a passel of white men tuk and threw me out, and den I dun come home 'fore they could bury me again."
They were having a genuine old-time revival in the darky church near by, and of course I went to see the enthusiasm.
You remember it was at such a place a devout and practical old mammy was heard to shout:
"Good Lawd, come down fru de roof, an' I'll pay for de shingles."
I wanted to see if the affair was all it had been cracked up to be.
It happened that in order that the revival spirit should be quickened, it was arranged that the preacher should give a signal when he thought the excitement was highest, and from the attic through a hole cut in the ceiling directly over the pulpit, the sexton was to shove a pure white dove, whose flight around the church and over the heads of the audience was expected to have an inspiring effect, and, as far as emotional excitement was concerned, to cap the climax.
All went well at the start; the church was packed; the preacher's text was, "In the form of a dove," and as he piled up his eloquent periods the excitement was strong.
Then the opportune moment arrived—the signal was given—and the packed audience was scared out of its wits on looking up to the ceiling and beholding a cat, with a clothesline around its middle, yowling and spitting, being lowered over the preacher's head.
The preacher called to the sexton in the attic:
"Whar's de dove?"
And the sexton's voice came down through the opening so you could hear it a block:
"Inside de cat!"
But, say, I want to tell you about a genuine farmer that I struck down South.
He lived from hand to mouth, was about as ugly a specimen as the sun ever shone upon, and yet would you believe it this fellow actually thought himself to be the Robby Burns of Alabama?
One of his shadow hogs chanced to be wandering on the railway, and, as sometimes happens, was transformed into bacon ready for the pan.
Naturally he started to collect damages, even while he smoked the remains, and here is the result:
"My razorback strolled down your trackA week ago to-day;Your 29 came down the lineAnd snuffed his light away."You can't blame me—the hog, you see,Slipped through a cattle gate;So kindly pen a check for ten,The debt to liquidate."
"My razorback strolled down your trackA week ago to-day;Your 29 came down the lineAnd snuffed his light away.
"You can't blame me—the hog, you see,Slipped through a cattle gate;So kindly pen a check for ten,The debt to liquidate."
However, the game didn't pan out as he expected, for there chanced to be a match for his genius in the office of the railroad, and shortly after Skeezer received the following poetic reply:
"Here lies a foolish swine"
"Old 29 came down the lineAnd killed your hog, we know;But razorbacks on railroad tracksQuite often meet with woe."Therefore, my friend, we cannot sendThe check for which you pine,Just plant the dead; place o'er his head:'Here lies a foolish swine.'"
"Old 29 came down the lineAnd killed your hog, we know;But razorbacks on railroad tracksQuite often meet with woe.
"Therefore, my friend, we cannot sendThe check for which you pine,Just plant the dead; place o'er his head:'Here lies a foolish swine.'"
As I have said, old Skeezer was always so dilapidated, and his person so soiled, that he had become a by-word of reproach in the neighborhood.
Even respectable darkies scorned to be seen in his society, and he found his only solace among his swine.
Why, his boy, just turned six, barelegged and far from clean himself, had some knowledge of his pa's shortcomings.