SAY! it’s a limit, the way a guy has got to get through this life;He gets in a scrape if he’s single, and it’s hell to get on with a wife.I’m just like one of a thousand that are into a tangle now,I’d like to get out of it, Gawd knows, yes, but really I don’t know how.In two little rooms on Fourteenth street, things are away askew,Two little brown kiddies their daddy meet, an’ a brown girl white clear through,Wait at the door and wonder why I ain’t like I used to be,While on my heart there’s an awful load, that I try not to let her see.The Colonel says that we guys must go; we ain’t needed here no more;Dredges now are doin’ the work that the shovels done before.An’ I ain’t got a cent of the money saved; I sent it all to the wife,Who went out West with a guy she loved; ’twas that one blighted my life.Five years ago I landed here; I was broke an’ feelin’ sick,An’ the brown girl took an’ loved me up, an’ stuck to me like a brick;An’ now I find it an effort to stick to her likewise;Say! any kind of a female is better than us male guys.Say, lady! don’t you remember them words that Shakespeare saidAbout a feller’s sex settin’ boldly on his head?Why didn’t Gawd make us different when He put us here below;Why did He give me a conscience? That’s what I’d like to know.There’s Loring, an’ Ives an’ Phelan, in the same sort of mess as me;Loring is handsome an’ bad clear through, an’ he laughs an’ says it’s a spree.He laughed last night when he came to the park, an’ sat with me on a bench,An’ he said: “Cut out that mopin’, kid; she’s only a nigger wench.”“But what about them kids?” says I, “ain’t they part of my flesh and blood?”“It’s been that way with us guys,” says he, “since the time of the ark an’ flood.If you take the bunch to New Orleans, you’ll all get landed in gaolFor a crime that ain’t no crime at all, an’ ye can’t get out on bail.Leave her on Fourteenth street,” says he, with a laugh that was loud an’ rude,“An’ some old Dutch guy will blow in some day an’ will take care of the whole darn brood.”But I know that she’ll curse me if I go, an’ I know that them curses fall;God knows in my life there’s enough of woe; an’ she’s human, after all.
SAY! it’s a limit, the way a guy has got to get through this life;He gets in a scrape if he’s single, and it’s hell to get on with a wife.I’m just like one of a thousand that are into a tangle now,I’d like to get out of it, Gawd knows, yes, but really I don’t know how.In two little rooms on Fourteenth street, things are away askew,Two little brown kiddies their daddy meet, an’ a brown girl white clear through,Wait at the door and wonder why I ain’t like I used to be,While on my heart there’s an awful load, that I try not to let her see.The Colonel says that we guys must go; we ain’t needed here no more;Dredges now are doin’ the work that the shovels done before.An’ I ain’t got a cent of the money saved; I sent it all to the wife,Who went out West with a guy she loved; ’twas that one blighted my life.Five years ago I landed here; I was broke an’ feelin’ sick,An’ the brown girl took an’ loved me up, an’ stuck to me like a brick;An’ now I find it an effort to stick to her likewise;Say! any kind of a female is better than us male guys.Say, lady! don’t you remember them words that Shakespeare saidAbout a feller’s sex settin’ boldly on his head?Why didn’t Gawd make us different when He put us here below;Why did He give me a conscience? That’s what I’d like to know.There’s Loring, an’ Ives an’ Phelan, in the same sort of mess as me;Loring is handsome an’ bad clear through, an’ he laughs an’ says it’s a spree.He laughed last night when he came to the park, an’ sat with me on a bench,An’ he said: “Cut out that mopin’, kid; she’s only a nigger wench.”“But what about them kids?” says I, “ain’t they part of my flesh and blood?”“It’s been that way with us guys,” says he, “since the time of the ark an’ flood.If you take the bunch to New Orleans, you’ll all get landed in gaolFor a crime that ain’t no crime at all, an’ ye can’t get out on bail.Leave her on Fourteenth street,” says he, with a laugh that was loud an’ rude,“An’ some old Dutch guy will blow in some day an’ will take care of the whole darn brood.”But I know that she’ll curse me if I go, an’ I know that them curses fall;God knows in my life there’s enough of woe; an’ she’s human, after all.
SAY! it’s a limit, the way a guy has got to get through this life;He gets in a scrape if he’s single, and it’s hell to get on with a wife.I’m just like one of a thousand that are into a tangle now,I’d like to get out of it, Gawd knows, yes, but really I don’t know how.In two little rooms on Fourteenth street, things are away askew,Two little brown kiddies their daddy meet, an’ a brown girl white clear through,Wait at the door and wonder why I ain’t like I used to be,While on my heart there’s an awful load, that I try not to let her see.The Colonel says that we guys must go; we ain’t needed here no more;Dredges now are doin’ the work that the shovels done before.An’ I ain’t got a cent of the money saved; I sent it all to the wife,Who went out West with a guy she loved; ’twas that one blighted my life.Five years ago I landed here; I was broke an’ feelin’ sick,An’ the brown girl took an’ loved me up, an’ stuck to me like a brick;An’ now I find it an effort to stick to her likewise;Say! any kind of a female is better than us male guys.Say, lady! don’t you remember them words that Shakespeare saidAbout a feller’s sex settin’ boldly on his head?Why didn’t Gawd make us different when He put us here below;Why did He give me a conscience? That’s what I’d like to know.There’s Loring, an’ Ives an’ Phelan, in the same sort of mess as me;Loring is handsome an’ bad clear through, an’ he laughs an’ says it’s a spree.He laughed last night when he came to the park, an’ sat with me on a bench,An’ he said: “Cut out that mopin’, kid; she’s only a nigger wench.”“But what about them kids?” says I, “ain’t they part of my flesh and blood?”“It’s been that way with us guys,” says he, “since the time of the ark an’ flood.If you take the bunch to New Orleans, you’ll all get landed in gaolFor a crime that ain’t no crime at all, an’ ye can’t get out on bail.Leave her on Fourteenth street,” says he, with a laugh that was loud an’ rude,“An’ some old Dutch guy will blow in some day an’ will take care of the whole darn brood.”But I know that she’ll curse me if I go, an’ I know that them curses fall;God knows in my life there’s enough of woe; an’ she’s human, after all.
LORING and Ives and Phelan went off to Colon last night,And the women on Fourteenth street are sad, and the kids are filled with fright!At eight last evening Loring came to bid his child “good-bye”;He picked her up and he kissed her, and you ought to hear him sigh.“Gee! you’re a pretty kid,” says he, in a tone of voice that was sad;“Your lips and your skin are mighty good; it’s a pity your hair is bad.”Then he looked in the baby’s eyes a while, and he says in a voice of despair:“I hate to leave this poor little child; there’s my mother’s image there!”The brown one was crying to beat the band,And Loring, he looked wild,And says he to her, a kind of off-hand,“Woman! look after your child!This is no time for sentiment; bring the money you’ve kept for me;And God help you if you have it spent,” says he, as he winked at me.He counted the money out to her—five hundred and forty-five,And says he, “If you divvy this up with a guy I’ll come and skin you alive.Take the kid from this place of stench, for I’m coming back some day—Not to see you, you doggone wench—to take my child away.”Two Voodoos were sitting and looking on; they intended to give him some dopeThat would make him sleep till the train had gone, After that there’d be little hopeThat he’d ever wake to things again—that are wholesome and clean and good.He’d thirst for low life without twinge of pain, if the Voodoos got dope to his blood.Well, then we went out to Corozal, where the others were taking the train,And a white girl waited for Loring there, and her tears fell down like rain.He didn’t seem to mind it at all; in fact, he looked rather proud,When a married woman ran up to him and kissed him before the crowd.Then Phelan and Ives, in an awful fright, got into the train mighty quick,For their women from Fourteenth street were there, and each had a gun and a brick.Gee! it’s the limit, the way we guys will tamper with women’s lives,When we have nothing in mind but to leave them behind, like Loring and Phelan and Ives.
LORING and Ives and Phelan went off to Colon last night,And the women on Fourteenth street are sad, and the kids are filled with fright!At eight last evening Loring came to bid his child “good-bye”;He picked her up and he kissed her, and you ought to hear him sigh.“Gee! you’re a pretty kid,” says he, in a tone of voice that was sad;“Your lips and your skin are mighty good; it’s a pity your hair is bad.”Then he looked in the baby’s eyes a while, and he says in a voice of despair:“I hate to leave this poor little child; there’s my mother’s image there!”The brown one was crying to beat the band,And Loring, he looked wild,And says he to her, a kind of off-hand,“Woman! look after your child!This is no time for sentiment; bring the money you’ve kept for me;And God help you if you have it spent,” says he, as he winked at me.He counted the money out to her—five hundred and forty-five,And says he, “If you divvy this up with a guy I’ll come and skin you alive.Take the kid from this place of stench, for I’m coming back some day—Not to see you, you doggone wench—to take my child away.”Two Voodoos were sitting and looking on; they intended to give him some dopeThat would make him sleep till the train had gone, After that there’d be little hopeThat he’d ever wake to things again—that are wholesome and clean and good.He’d thirst for low life without twinge of pain, if the Voodoos got dope to his blood.Well, then we went out to Corozal, where the others were taking the train,And a white girl waited for Loring there, and her tears fell down like rain.He didn’t seem to mind it at all; in fact, he looked rather proud,When a married woman ran up to him and kissed him before the crowd.Then Phelan and Ives, in an awful fright, got into the train mighty quick,For their women from Fourteenth street were there, and each had a gun and a brick.Gee! it’s the limit, the way we guys will tamper with women’s lives,When we have nothing in mind but to leave them behind, like Loring and Phelan and Ives.
LORING and Ives and Phelan went off to Colon last night,And the women on Fourteenth street are sad, and the kids are filled with fright!At eight last evening Loring came to bid his child “good-bye”;He picked her up and he kissed her, and you ought to hear him sigh.“Gee! you’re a pretty kid,” says he, in a tone of voice that was sad;“Your lips and your skin are mighty good; it’s a pity your hair is bad.”Then he looked in the baby’s eyes a while, and he says in a voice of despair:“I hate to leave this poor little child; there’s my mother’s image there!”
The brown one was crying to beat the band,And Loring, he looked wild,And says he to her, a kind of off-hand,“Woman! look after your child!This is no time for sentiment; bring the money you’ve kept for me;And God help you if you have it spent,” says he, as he winked at me.
He counted the money out to her—five hundred and forty-five,And says he, “If you divvy this up with a guy I’ll come and skin you alive.Take the kid from this place of stench, for I’m coming back some day—Not to see you, you doggone wench—to take my child away.”
Two Voodoos were sitting and looking on; they intended to give him some dopeThat would make him sleep till the train had gone, After that there’d be little hopeThat he’d ever wake to things again—that are wholesome and clean and good.He’d thirst for low life without twinge of pain, if the Voodoos got dope to his blood.
Well, then we went out to Corozal, where the others were taking the train,And a white girl waited for Loring there, and her tears fell down like rain.He didn’t seem to mind it at all; in fact, he looked rather proud,When a married woman ran up to him and kissed him before the crowd.Then Phelan and Ives, in an awful fright, got into the train mighty quick,For their women from Fourteenth street were there, and each had a gun and a brick.Gee! it’s the limit, the way we guys will tamper with women’s lives,When we have nothing in mind but to leave them behind, like Loring and Phelan and Ives.
GEE! girl, you’re looking sad, but it’s hardly worth your while;You’ve heard the slander; it’s mighty bad, but hold up your head and smile.Keep cool, lest your hair turns grey; no matter how keen your sorrow,The man who slandered you so to-day will slander some other to-morrow.He is only a tiny atom of dirt, like the rest of his kind of earth;His slanderous words may rankle and hurt, but ’twas envy that gave them birth.If you have no brother or kindred man, why expect to see fun?Seek your retreat where no vultures meet, and lead your life like a nun.You’re only a sex, and your presence vex the things that as man you know;You’ve lost your good name, though you’re not to blame—a vulture would have it so.More than two thousand miles away is the class into which you were born;The class where a man is a man each day, and your kind is not subject of scorn.The things called men, who bandied your name over their glasses of booze,Who made you the butt of their poker game, have nothing themselves to lose.They of female kind, whom they happen to meet, do not belong to your sphere;And most of the guys that you see on the street are subject to fits that are queer.
GEE! girl, you’re looking sad, but it’s hardly worth your while;You’ve heard the slander; it’s mighty bad, but hold up your head and smile.Keep cool, lest your hair turns grey; no matter how keen your sorrow,The man who slandered you so to-day will slander some other to-morrow.He is only a tiny atom of dirt, like the rest of his kind of earth;His slanderous words may rankle and hurt, but ’twas envy that gave them birth.If you have no brother or kindred man, why expect to see fun?Seek your retreat where no vultures meet, and lead your life like a nun.You’re only a sex, and your presence vex the things that as man you know;You’ve lost your good name, though you’re not to blame—a vulture would have it so.More than two thousand miles away is the class into which you were born;The class where a man is a man each day, and your kind is not subject of scorn.The things called men, who bandied your name over their glasses of booze,Who made you the butt of their poker game, have nothing themselves to lose.They of female kind, whom they happen to meet, do not belong to your sphere;And most of the guys that you see on the street are subject to fits that are queer.
GEE! girl, you’re looking sad, but it’s hardly worth your while;You’ve heard the slander; it’s mighty bad, but hold up your head and smile.Keep cool, lest your hair turns grey; no matter how keen your sorrow,The man who slandered you so to-day will slander some other to-morrow.He is only a tiny atom of dirt, like the rest of his kind of earth;His slanderous words may rankle and hurt, but ’twas envy that gave them birth.If you have no brother or kindred man, why expect to see fun?Seek your retreat where no vultures meet, and lead your life like a nun.You’re only a sex, and your presence vex the things that as man you know;You’ve lost your good name, though you’re not to blame—a vulture would have it so.More than two thousand miles away is the class into which you were born;The class where a man is a man each day, and your kind is not subject of scorn.The things called men, who bandied your name over their glasses of booze,Who made you the butt of their poker game, have nothing themselves to lose.They of female kind, whom they happen to meet, do not belong to your sphere;And most of the guys that you see on the street are subject to fits that are queer.
AMan named Mike MaginityWas Mrs. With’s affinity,And Mrs. Brown moved out of town,Away from that vicinity.Then a mut named Jim O’Flarity,In a burst of fool garality,Told Mr. With there was no mithIn Mrs. With’s hilarity.Mr. With was watchful then;He polished up his gun, and whenThe soul mate came he fired to maim,Like many other foolish men.With is in the penitentiary,Without the least retrenchery,And calm and still, on Monkey Hill,Poor Mike will spend the century.Mrs. With, in fetch array,And many kinds of wretchery,Was sent away one summer day—Deported home through treachery.
AMan named Mike MaginityWas Mrs. With’s affinity,And Mrs. Brown moved out of town,Away from that vicinity.Then a mut named Jim O’Flarity,In a burst of fool garality,Told Mr. With there was no mithIn Mrs. With’s hilarity.Mr. With was watchful then;He polished up his gun, and whenThe soul mate came he fired to maim,Like many other foolish men.With is in the penitentiary,Without the least retrenchery,And calm and still, on Monkey Hill,Poor Mike will spend the century.Mrs. With, in fetch array,And many kinds of wretchery,Was sent away one summer day—Deported home through treachery.
AMan named Mike MaginityWas Mrs. With’s affinity,And Mrs. Brown moved out of town,Away from that vicinity.
Then a mut named Jim O’Flarity,In a burst of fool garality,Told Mr. With there was no mithIn Mrs. With’s hilarity.
Mr. With was watchful then;He polished up his gun, and whenThe soul mate came he fired to maim,Like many other foolish men.
With is in the penitentiary,Without the least retrenchery,And calm and still, on Monkey Hill,Poor Mike will spend the century.
Mrs. With, in fetch array,And many kinds of wretchery,Was sent away one summer day—Deported home through treachery.
WE had a jolly holdup in the Central house last night, and the way that Tango skirt was hung put the women in a fright. A preacher took a snapshot of that violent expose, and sent it off to Comstock, to New York, U. S. A. ’Twas fun to see the women steer their husbands out the door, and Murtha said, “We’ll be doggoned if we’ll dance here any more.” ---- bowed his head and blushed, and wore a look of shame, and the management felt awful, and said we’re not to blame. The captains and lieutenants said that Tango was a sin, while the roughnecks and the vultures sat’round and wore a grin. The learned judges from the Zone to the balconies went to look, and the only baldhead not around was that of Colonel Took. Poor Deeps and Jimmy Terry came in to take a squint; the dancers acted merry, but finally took a hint that their dancing was unseeming, as the females all were hurt, and Deeps put on his glasses to diagnose that skirt. He said ’twas sixteen inches wide, and just above the knee there’s nothing but horizon, as every one can see; there’s not a bit of cotton cloth, nor a tiny bit of lace—nothing but the electric light a-shining through the space. Then he turned to order drinks up, for the waiter came to him, and Terry he got busy and diagnosed a limb. There were shouts and shrieks of feeling and echoes of applause; men were drunk and reeling, went forth with loud haw-haws. The persons we call human, when all is said and done, at the antics of a woman looked on and called it fun.
PERCY BECKLE went out walking in the silent hours of night; the neighbors all were talking, and his wife was filled with fright. She would sit beside the window, her lone watch to keep, and would tell her friends and children he was walking in his sleep. She married himin Pottsville, for better or for worse; he was a hard-shell Baptist, and didn’t smoke or curse; but he entered in the service of the U. S. Government, passed examination and to Panama was sent.
When the doctors looked him over it was found he had no brain, so they put him as a gumshoe on an early morning train, and there he met a charmer whose skin was very brown; for a year she took his coin away, and then she turned him down.
He then became a Redman, a thing he shouldn’t do, and later thought it better to become a Kangaroo. He started chasing petticoats wherever one he saw, and the Kangaroos got after him; ’twas so against their law(?). Meantime his wife was hungry and his babies had no shoes; the Redmen took and threw him out, he didn’t pay his dues; his poor wife took to drinking, to while the time away, and Mrs. C. L. E. sent her to Brooklyn, U. S. A.
Now, Percy kept the chase up for nigh another year; his business was to ascertain if females acted queer. The women feared to speak or look, they hated him so much, but Percy knew them like a book, being Pennsylvania Dutch.
He would go to Sam’s on Sundays, and to the Central, too, and would sit and tell the vultures of the many things he knew. If he saw a female passing he would bow and scrape and smile, and if sheturned her nose up he would criticize her style. (The brute!)
At last he went and sickened, he was feeling very sad; the plots he made had thickened, and the women all were mad. Decks said he had nephritis. They all pronounced him ill. But he died of feminitis, and he lies on Money Hill.
TO all the jolly roughnecks and pushers of the pen, a short and pungent lecture I will give. Just take this bit of doggerel, and read it if you’re men, and use it as a lesson while you live. If you go to Sam’s on Sunday, and you meet a smirking guy with commissary silk hose on his feet, if he smiles from ear to ear, make up your mind to hear a story that is anything but sweet. He will say I met last night Bill Smith’s wife, that’s right, an’, say, that woman, she just follers me around, while poor Bill is all alone, for she never is at home, and any guy can get her if he’s sound. If your blood is red, my son, you will take and draw your gun, and aim it at the gizzard of the brute, or you’ll punch his booby head till he wishes he was dead and make of him a spectacle that’s cute.
A chump that talks of women is nothing that ishuman; make up your mind he’s just a low-down liar, who wouldn’t stand a chance to win a passing glance from women who just live for men to hire. By the hundreds on the Zone this class of vultures roam; they are ever on the watch to pick a flaw; they covet neighbors’ wives who are living decent lives, and to save their coin they’d break the moral law.
Now I hope you all are wise to the lying, boastful spies, who criticize their betters in the street, who pretend they’re looking sly and who wink the other eye at every decent woman that they meet. When some vulture tries this chaff, just say, “You make me laugh,” and hold him up to ridicule, the guy; you may bet your bottom dollar ’tis some gink that doesn’t holler, that gets the precious favors on the sly.
FAREWELL, O thou land of sweet sunshine, where I walked with non-sweatable pace; I was fed, I was clothed, and I humbugged; my lady I decked out with grace. From the cake with sugary frosting all covered with raisins I go, to the land where the natives are often addicted to shoveling snow, where I shan’t have a coon right before me to run when I bid for a thing, I go fromthe land of sweet loafing, where our Uncle George is the king.
Farewell, thou dear land of the Aztec, O, pulga, farewell, to thy sting, to the hum of the social mosquito, that Gorgas could trap while a-wing. Farewell to the nights of gay doing, to the mirth which I had on the sly, some kinds that I now am a-rueing, while our uncle just winked on the sly. When into a new job I sidle, somewhere in Nebraska’s broad space, I ain’t got enough to live idle, but I pray that the Lord give me grace, to find such a cinch unmolested, where no dictator ever shall say: “Your job I’m about to have vested, in a man who will work for his pay.” O! politics, where are the graces the Irish have seen in thy wake? I’ve dropped into many soft places, and was ousted out just for your sake. But no job was ever as downy as this one, the truth here I tell. My bald brow is wrinkled and frowny; dear land of the Aztec, farewell!
IT’S got ’em, yes, it’s got ’em; they’re loco, one and all. There has never been as many since the time of Adam’s fall. The man that lives across the way, the loved one of your soul; the guy who owes you money, all are loco on the whole. Yes, it’s got ’em. Some are offon trotting, and some on love and wine; some are off on politics, and some are off on coin. It’s got ’em; yes, it’s got ’em, in many different ways; the women’s skirts like trousers are, the men are wearing stays. It’s got ’em.
While alighting from the train at night in your grimy khaki pants, don’t wince to see your heart’s delight all togged out for a dance; don’t raise your eyes to look at her; be workmanlike and meek. She smiles on Major Dickelfer, she fears you’re goin’ to speak. For it’s got her.
You’ll find your kids a-cryin’ ’round the brown-skinned hired girl, the neighbors all a-pryin’, and your cassa in a whirl; with rats and bits of finery, with old stockings and old shoes. Don’t go to geetin’ squiffy; ‘twas just the thing you choose. And it’s got you. Don’t fret and fume about it; take your commissary book, go down and get your groceries, and bring them to the cook. Then take your kids an’ wash ’em up an’ change their little frocks; see they get their suppers, then mend your pants and socks. And don’t let it get you.
If your wife throws cups and saucers about your head at night, don’t shriek and call the neighbors in to put ’em in a fright. Don’t call on poor Johannes, and put him in a rage, but fold your arms about your breast, like a hero on the stage. She’s got it.
If your neighbor’s wife is flirting, don’t run to call police, just flirt a little bit yourself or go your way in peace. Don’t go to Sam’s and sit and tell the vultures all she said when you took her for the auto ride to Panama with “Red.” Or she’ll get you.
INGERSOLL said that hell would be where men played tag and harps all day, but just a few lines here will tell about some miseries that made a hell. When you work like a brute from morning to night, the result but another man’s joy and delight; when your wife growls late and early, too, and never speaks well of what you do: That’s hell!
When she runs away with another man, though she knows you are doing the best you can, you know it’s because your pay ain’t high, but you make up your mind that it’s best to lie; so when folks ask you the reason why, you say her old mother is going to die. Then, lo! the old woman turns up that night, and your neighbors say: “He’s a liar, all right.” That’s hell.
When some one you wouldn’t let wipe your feet tells to the vultures in the street that to gain your affections they needn’t try, that he’s the petted ginkon the sly, and some old gossip who this has heard comes round and tells you every word, your mind and soul are filled with dismay, but because you’re a lady there’s nothing to say. And it’s hell.
When your dress and your hat cost you five, and you sewed on them nights when half alive, but when you wear them the neighbors smile, and say to each other, “just see that style—catch on to the Paris gown and hat; where did she get coin to dress like that? That rig is a mighty costly one—and I wonder her husband don’t catch on.” You smile as you trip through the merry throng, smarting under an awful wrong. And it’s hell!
When you marry some mother’s angel pet, who away from coddling you cannot get, just make up your mind to find a way to bear your burden day by day. And when his misdoings are laid to you, you’ll say this old world is all askew. And it’s hell!
WHEN it enters your system, don’t try to squirm; just take your medicine, it’s a loco germ. It may not come till you’re old and gray, but every guy takes it on some day. It cuts no ice if her feet are big, and if in your heart you don’t like her rig; if her hands are coarse and a little bit red, and horse-hair rats are in her head.You will see the defects and will says, “By Jove! She’s the one for me.” You’re in love.
She’ll be indifferent, it’s just their way; a little bit selfish, a little bit gay, but she touched your hand and she makes you thrill; then lookout, old chap, you are losing your will. You’ll notice the paint if she uses such, but you’ll never think she has on too much. You’ll see she ain’t real, where she ought to be, and a thousand other defects you’ll see. But, no matter, you only think of the bliss, of getting from her the fatal kiss. You’re in love.
All your traditions are quite upset; what your mother taught you, you’ll quite forget; you’ll get suspicious of those you knew, and you’ll think your pals are in love with her, too. You’ll spend your coin, and you’ll spend it well, on the richest things the Chinks have to sell, and you’ll lay them down on the floor at her feet, and your heart will throb when her glance you meet. You’re in love.
You may have cherished a grand ideal all your former days, but there’s nothing real; the ones you knew in the days gone by will fade from your mind, and you will not sigh. The loved one’s voice may be rather strong, her chin may be weak and her nose too long; her manners, too, are a little crude, and she isn’t herself when she plays the prude. Thegrammar she uses is not in tone with the district school ma’am away back home. You’re in love.
You are caught in a net she has woven for you—a net from which have escaped a few; and if on the whole she offends your taste, being forty-five inches about the waist, and if you don’t fancy that seven shoe, never mind; she’s the one for you. You’ll forget and forgive if she has a past; you think you’re her first real love, and her last. You are hot all over, your heart beats fast. You’re in love.
SAY, girl, I admire your shape, an’ I want to take you to ride. I’m goin’ to get a coach closed in, so they won’t know who’s inside. An’, say, I wish you lived down the line, but you live like a speakitty. Wouldn’t you like a little time with a lovin’ guy like me? Straight goods, I like your style; I told a feller so; I admired you for quite a while, an’ I bet you didn’t know. I said to a guy, “I’m goin’ around an’ I’ll bet I’ll make a hit.” I won’t never breathe a dog gone sound—let me love you up a bit. How could I squeal, when I have a wife that thinks me the finest thing that ever drew the breath of life, an angel without a wing? I’d like to bring you a bottleof jam, some day from the commissary, livin’ alone without a man.
Say, kid, ain’t you free to marry? Class! What’s that got to do with us? Say, that puts me on the bum. Education, your foot! Don’t make such a fuss; see, I brought you some chewin’ gum. You’re just a little too touchy, see! I don’t understand your way. The wimmin I know are easy an’ free, an’ just a little bit gay. If I was just a man about town, don’t you believe I’d look it? I like you, girl; don’t wear such a frown! Do you think I’m a guy that’s crooked? I’m not of your class? Oh, that’s it, eh? Some chump that pushes a pen, that gets but a hundred a month for pay, is more in your line of men. Do you know what the Colonel said to me? an’ I think he’s always right. Education ain’t worth a darn, says he; ’tis a man that puts up the fight. Well, so long, kid, since you prefer a guy that pushes a pen, who has his little hundred per, but ain’t my class of men.
THE chumps in Panama were glad to do the turkey trot, and other stunts not quite so bad that folks call tommy rot. When Morton with his peaches came, the cavaliers made bids, preserved them up in dry champagne,and acted just like kids. A banker now is bankrupt, and the guy in the Elite is selling out his socks and pants to put him on his feet. Raul E. has a broken limb, he capered so each night. The peaches all looked up to him because his heart was light.
We hoary heads came from the Zone, in force, to see it done, and spent our coin, lest it be thought we didn’t like the fun. Our wives and mothers thought that we were at a mission church, listening to a sermon by the Rev. Baldhead Birch. And when we sought our peaceful homes with sanctimonious airs, and knelt beside our babies’ cots and taught them little prayers, we felt a sort of sneakish, like other hypocrites, and worried lest our wives hear, and have a thousand fits. But now these spasms are all gone; we’re quite ourselves again; our wives have never yet caught on, and therefore have felt no pain. The Morton Peaches were so wise, they took our coin away, and told us we were silly guys, like those along Broadway.
CATCH on to the girl with a dog on a string—a dog that was bred for the eye of a king—and she a pathetic figure to see, is proud that the mut has a pedigree. She studied eugenics for many a year, and lectured on institutionsqueer, but she was poor, and she feared to get old, so she sold herself for a pot of gold.
Ain’t that life?
She married a guy whose toes turn in, when he opens his mouth he has no chin, no lobes to his ears and he stutters some, and chews on opium as if ’twas gum. But she says she is proud to be that man’s wife, and calls him her dearest—
Say! Ain’t that life?
On a little farther a chap you’ll see, who is just as straight as a poplar tree; his chin is normal, his forehead is high; see, his face turns red as he passes her by, for down in his heart there’s a tiny spot, where her image will ever lie unforgot, and a restless longing has he for her. If the neighborhood knew it he’d be called a cur.
Ain’t that life?
As they pass each other they never speak. He looks indifferent, while she looks meek. And they drop their eyes when they chance to meet, and look at each other from some retreat. And she pretends that she doesn’t care, though in her face you can see despair. Her heart beats high; it’s an awful sin, but she’d like a son the image of him.
Ain’t that life?
In her home there’s a bundle of bone and skin; it has its father’s ears and chin, and the neighborssay, with voices glad, “Isn’t he cute? He looks like his dad!” But on her heart there’s an awful load, for she sees that her baby’s legs are bowed. She sees in his eyes a peculiar light, that keeps her awake in the dead of night. And she kneels on her knees and she breathes a prayer, for she knows that old Nature has gotten square.
That’s life!
THE latest order given out has made the chumps feel blue; they don’t know what it’s all about, but let me tell you, they’ve lost their graft, for when they go to the Isle across the bay they have to take their wallets, because they have to pay.
Some blame it all on Uncle Sam, and some on Uncle George, and others say he’s not to blame, because his heart is large; but a guy told me, in confidence, who seldom ever speaks, that he isn’t blaming any one but poor old baldhead Meeks.
Before that guy came back, said he, we could spend a little more on drinks and turkey trottings at Jones’s by the short. There’s one good thing about it, though, if you get a little tight, you’re not an orphan chap no more; you can stay away allnight. And if you stay out after nine, your time they cannot dock, since we began to pay our way we stay till twelve o’clock.
But, say! the wife won’t let me go to the Isle across the bay, because she says we can’t afford to pay two plunks a day. Should hubby rest, the wife will stay to mend the socks and pants; it cost too much to go with hub to learn the latest dance. To give good coin for rent and light and rest she can’t endure; the future isn’t looking bright, our graft is slipping sure.
OUR Uncle George is wide awake to things that are not so; he’s weeding out for pity’s sake the guys that ought to go. The vultures all are talking, they say he’s acting queer, because he’s on to faking ones that passed for highbrows here.
Our little faker daddy, with the whiskers on his chin, has gone to get a better job; now, isn’t that a sin? He was the king of fakers, all whiskers and no soul; he didn’t fake a single day when Uncle got control.
We hear that in Nebraska some folks are sawing wood that used to live in splendor here when faking times were good. If it was not for our Uncle they’dall be living still, in mansions fit for harem girls on Slyvan Ancon Hill. They say his nerve is getting weak, but he’s only getting wise; he’s handing out a line of dope that takes them by surprise. He has his wits about him yet, and his love for all things just, so when he says get up and get, the fakers know they must. Our Uncle has the helm, and he’s steering mighty well; he fears no politicians, they all can go to heaven.
The fawners and the cringers think the Zone is all askew, but Uncle never did have use for that that was not true.