CHARLES HOYT.
Frederick Hudson, in his History of Journalism in America, credits the Boston Post with having originated the column of funny paragraphs which are now seen in nearly all the leading newspapers of the United States. The All Sorts column of the Post was started when that paper first appeared, over half a century ago. It was in this department that Mrs. Partington and her son Ike were first introduced to the humor-loving public, and scores of writers have sent forth their wit, during the fifty years past, through this same medium.
George F. Babbit began writing the All Sorts for the Post seven or eight years ago, but relinquished the position a few years later. Babbitt was a graduate of Harvard college, and his witticisms in the Post were of a very brilliant character. The present “funny man” of the Post is Charles Hoyt, better known to his Boston friends as Charley Hoyt.
A well-known Boston journalist in a recent article says of him: “He is a well-proportionedman, lithe, active, and nervy in physique, a broad forehead, an open face on which candor is written in every feature, bright, restless eyes, firm mouth and chin, a clear, ruddy complexion, and a voice not loud or strident but clear as a bell in its enunciation. His column of All Sorts in the Post is a fine example of conscientious paragraphing, where neither time nor diverse labor interfere to distract or hurry the writer. It is enjoyed by thousands every day, who laugh at his quaint conceits and genuine wit.”
Hoyt is a native of Vermont, and comes of good, old Puritan stock. In early youth he held a public office, being page in the State Senate. In this school his intellect was sharpened, and his naturally retentive memory gathered together and carried away much which has been useful in later years. His knowledge of, and acquaintance with, public men, is wide and varied. In his personal address he is both pleasing and attractive. These are both admirable points in his favor, considering that he is a bachelor, and young at that.
Hoyt’s Ragbag stories are very entertaining:
RAGBAG’S PRACTICAL JOKE.The other night, after Mr. Ragbag had gone to bed, the idea of a very funny joke occurred to him. It seemed so funny that he went into a paroxysm of laughter, and twisted and squirmedso that he pulled the bed clothes all out at the foot and had to get out to tuck them in again, and got awful cold, and made as much noise as to awaken his wife in the next room, and she, on hearing the cause of the commotion, told Ragbag he was a fool and advised him to go to bed. He did so, but lay awake half the night thinking of the joke, and the next morning Ragbag hastily swallowed his breakfast, and hastened out on the street to play his joke. The first man he met was Gallagher. Gallagher’s business compels him to carry about one hundred keys, and Ragbag knew this. Gallagher was just the man Ragbag wanted to see. Rushing up to Gallagher he said:“Ah, Gallagher, have you lost a key?”“Don’t know,” replied the victim. “Let me see it.”“First see if you have lost one,” said Ragbag.So Gallagher took off his gloves and went to work. He searched pocket after pocket, and examined each and every bunch of keys carefully. It was sharp weather, and his fingers got cold and numb, but he kept at it. One hundred keys were a good many to keep track of, and Gallagher had to think of every lock about his establishment, and then look for that particular key, and it was a tedious job. And it wasn’t satisfactory, either, for Gallagher couldn’t quite make up hismind that one key was not missing. He demanded a sight of the key found. Then Ragbag’s self-control gave way. With a howl of laughter he cried:“Why, I haven’t found any. I only asked if you had lost one as a matter of curiosity.”It didn’t take three seconds for Gallagher to decide what to do. The snow for forty feet around was clawed and kicked into a cloud that filled the air. Folks looked out of the windows and howled to see the fun. And when Ragbag re-entered the house with his clothes torn, ear chawed, and eyes blacked, and explained that he had been playing his joke, his wife was more than ever convinced that he was an old donkey, and told him so. Somehow, at times, humor is fearfully discouraging in this country.
RAGBAG’S PRACTICAL JOKE.
The other night, after Mr. Ragbag had gone to bed, the idea of a very funny joke occurred to him. It seemed so funny that he went into a paroxysm of laughter, and twisted and squirmedso that he pulled the bed clothes all out at the foot and had to get out to tuck them in again, and got awful cold, and made as much noise as to awaken his wife in the next room, and she, on hearing the cause of the commotion, told Ragbag he was a fool and advised him to go to bed. He did so, but lay awake half the night thinking of the joke, and the next morning Ragbag hastily swallowed his breakfast, and hastened out on the street to play his joke. The first man he met was Gallagher. Gallagher’s business compels him to carry about one hundred keys, and Ragbag knew this. Gallagher was just the man Ragbag wanted to see. Rushing up to Gallagher he said:
“Ah, Gallagher, have you lost a key?”
“Don’t know,” replied the victim. “Let me see it.”
“First see if you have lost one,” said Ragbag.
So Gallagher took off his gloves and went to work. He searched pocket after pocket, and examined each and every bunch of keys carefully. It was sharp weather, and his fingers got cold and numb, but he kept at it. One hundred keys were a good many to keep track of, and Gallagher had to think of every lock about his establishment, and then look for that particular key, and it was a tedious job. And it wasn’t satisfactory, either, for Gallagher couldn’t quite make up hismind that one key was not missing. He demanded a sight of the key found. Then Ragbag’s self-control gave way. With a howl of laughter he cried:
“Why, I haven’t found any. I only asked if you had lost one as a matter of curiosity.”
It didn’t take three seconds for Gallagher to decide what to do. The snow for forty feet around was clawed and kicked into a cloud that filled the air. Folks looked out of the windows and howled to see the fun. And when Ragbag re-entered the house with his clothes torn, ear chawed, and eyes blacked, and explained that he had been playing his joke, his wife was more than ever convinced that he was an old donkey, and told him so. Somehow, at times, humor is fearfully discouraging in this country.