JOE C. ABY.
The subject of this sketch is a resident of New Orleans. His entire life, almost, has been spent there. His name,—that of Aby,—is an uncommon one and a short one, and with the short, very short, surname of Joe prefixed, makes the whole an extraordinary short name. Joe C. Aby has written much in the way of humor, under the rather curious name of “Hoffenstein.” The larger portion of his productions have appeared in the way of sketches, in the columns of that well known Southern newspaper, the New Orleans Times-Democrat.
Joe C. Aby was born on the 23d day of July, 1858, and is consequently one of the youngest of our American humorists. According to his own story, he was in boyhood “a tame sort of individual. I was not vicious, nor was I given to saying smart things, for the reason that my father, whose kindly hand is now still in death, had a habit of hovering around the rear portion of my anatomy with a strap, in order to impress upon my tendermind the fact that it was not becoming in a small boy to get ‘too big for his old clothes.’ His theory was, that the seat of a boy’s pants was the proper medium through which to reach the mind, and the demonstrations of his theory were invariably successful.
“My school life was not at all remarkable, or different from that of the average urchin. It consisted of thrashings, which I received from the pedagogue for not knowing my lessons. He was a man who clung to the motto: ‘Hit for the basement, let the rod fall where it may;’ but even while he was doing so, I felt that there was a destiny that would model my end, despite his efforts to hammer it out of shape. At the age of fourteen years I entered a collegiate institute, but at sixteen, my career there was abruptly terminated by the right boot of the principal, who foolishly believed that a student deserved immediate expulsion, who was bold enough to attempt to punch the head of a German professor. After my hasty exit from college, I migrated to Texas for the benefit of my health.
“For seven or eight years I lived among the cattle ranches in the southwestern portion of the Lone Star State. While in Texas I drifted around promiscuously from one kind of business to another, until a position was offered me, as a reporter,on the local staff of the Houston Daily Post—a journalistic venture which has since proved a success, and is now a leading paper in Texas. I made my appearance as a journalist with the first issue of the paper. During my sojourn on the staff of the paper, I dabbled somewhat in humorous writing, which attracted some attention. Finally, I received an offer from the New Orleans Times to join its staff of writers. This offer I accepted at once, and returned to my native city. I remained with the Times until its consolidation with the New Orleans Democrat was effected, when I was offered a position on the local staff of the hyphenated journal—The Times-Democrat. This offer I also accepted, and have since served that paper.”
Under thenom de plumeof “Hoffenstein,” Mr. Aby has written much that is not only funny, but ridiculously so. His Hoffenstein sketches in the Times-Democrat have won for him a national reputation, and his writings are reproduced in papers in various parts of the country. He is a young man, unmarried, handsome and dignified. A volume of the Hoffenstein sketches has been issued by a New York publishing house, and has been flattered by a ready sale.
One of the most popular of these sketches is the following
THERMOMETER PANTS.Hoffenstein was busily engaged scolding Hermann for not polishing a lot of brass jewelry there was in a show case, when a thin, stoop-shouldered countryman entered the store and inquired:“Have you got any good jean pants here?”“Certainly, my frent,” replied Hoffenstein, “ve makes a specialty uf goods in dot line, und ve defy competition. If ve sells anyding und you don’t lik it, you gets your money back or someding else in exshange, you know. Vas you a farmer?”“Yes, sir, I live up on Red River.”“Vell, den, you need a bair uf bants like dese,” said Hoffenstein, pulling out a sky-blue pair from a pile of clothing on the counter. “Dey vas de genervine doeskin, und will last de whole year oud.”The countryman took the pants to the light, examined the texture of the cloth, and then shaking his head knowingly said:“There’s too much cotton in them; they will shrink.”“Of course my frent dey will shrink, but vait und I tells you someding. If a man vat owns a pank or keeps a store comes here, I don’t sell him dem kind uf pants. Vy? Because dey vas made exbressly for de farming pisiness. Dey vas dedermometer pants, und a plessing to every farmer vat vears a bair uf dem. Do you know, my frent, dose bants vill dell you exactly vat de vedder will be. Ven it vas going to be vet and cold, dose bants vill begin to shrink up, und ven it vas going to be dry und varm, dey comes right down, you know. Dree years ago, I sell a bair of dem to a man vat vas named Vilking, und eber since den he makes good crops, ven de oder beoble don’t make noding, because he always knows py his dermometer pants vat de vedder vill be. After avile de beoble in de neighborhood finds oud de segret uf Vilkin’s success, and at the beginning of the planting season, you know, dey comes for dirty miles around, and if dey see Vilkin’s bants crawling up his leg dey holds off und vaits for a change, but if his bants vas down dey goes right back home, und puts in de crop. Dink of it, my frent; mit de thermometer bants, you can tell exactly ven to put in cabbage seed, und plant corn twice as better as mit an almanac, besides ven de vedder gets so cold und vet dot de bants goes up under your arms, you sew buttons on the front and vear him as a vest.”When Hoffenstein finished his yarn concerning the pants, the countryman smiled, and, turning abruptly on his heel, left the store.“Did you see de vay dot man acted, Hermann?” said Hoffenstein, angrily.“Yes, sir,” replied his clerk.“Vell, it shust shows dot de more you dry to help beoble along, de more, py tam, you don’t got any tanks for it.”
THERMOMETER PANTS.
Hoffenstein was busily engaged scolding Hermann for not polishing a lot of brass jewelry there was in a show case, when a thin, stoop-shouldered countryman entered the store and inquired:
“Have you got any good jean pants here?”
“Certainly, my frent,” replied Hoffenstein, “ve makes a specialty uf goods in dot line, und ve defy competition. If ve sells anyding und you don’t lik it, you gets your money back or someding else in exshange, you know. Vas you a farmer?”
“Yes, sir, I live up on Red River.”
“Vell, den, you need a bair uf bants like dese,” said Hoffenstein, pulling out a sky-blue pair from a pile of clothing on the counter. “Dey vas de genervine doeskin, und will last de whole year oud.”
The countryman took the pants to the light, examined the texture of the cloth, and then shaking his head knowingly said:
“There’s too much cotton in them; they will shrink.”
“Of course my frent dey will shrink, but vait und I tells you someding. If a man vat owns a pank or keeps a store comes here, I don’t sell him dem kind uf pants. Vy? Because dey vas made exbressly for de farming pisiness. Dey vas dedermometer pants, und a plessing to every farmer vat vears a bair uf dem. Do you know, my frent, dose bants vill dell you exactly vat de vedder will be. Ven it vas going to be vet and cold, dose bants vill begin to shrink up, und ven it vas going to be dry und varm, dey comes right down, you know. Dree years ago, I sell a bair of dem to a man vat vas named Vilking, und eber since den he makes good crops, ven de oder beoble don’t make noding, because he always knows py his dermometer pants vat de vedder vill be. After avile de beoble in de neighborhood finds oud de segret uf Vilkin’s success, and at the beginning of the planting season, you know, dey comes for dirty miles around, and if dey see Vilkin’s bants crawling up his leg dey holds off und vaits for a change, but if his bants vas down dey goes right back home, und puts in de crop. Dink of it, my frent; mit de thermometer bants, you can tell exactly ven to put in cabbage seed, und plant corn twice as better as mit an almanac, besides ven de vedder gets so cold und vet dot de bants goes up under your arms, you sew buttons on the front and vear him as a vest.”
When Hoffenstein finished his yarn concerning the pants, the countryman smiled, and, turning abruptly on his heel, left the store.
“Did you see de vay dot man acted, Hermann?” said Hoffenstein, angrily.
“Yes, sir,” replied his clerk.
“Vell, it shust shows dot de more you dry to help beoble along, de more, py tam, you don’t got any tanks for it.”