THE CHAMOIS EVIDENTLY LIKED THIS VERSE FOR ITS EYES TWINKLED
The chamois evidently liked this verse for its eyes twinkled and it laid its head gently on the Unwiseman's knee and looked at him appealingly as if to say, "More of that poetry please. You are a bard after my own heart." So the Unwiseman went on, keeping time to his verse by slight taps on the chamois' nose.
"It followed her to town one dayUnto the Country Fair,And earned five hundred dollars justIn shining silver-ware."
Whistlebinkie indulged in a loud whistle of mirth at this, which so startled the little creature that it leapt backward fifteen feet in the air and landed on top of a small pump at the rear of the yard, and stood there poised on its four feet just like the chamois we see in pictures standing on a sharp peak miles up in the air, trembling just a little for fear that Whistlebinkie's squeak would be repeated. A moment of silence seemed to cure this, however, for in less than two minutes it was back again at the Unwiseman's side gazing soulfully at him as if demanding yet another verse. Of course the Unwiseman could not resist—he never couldwhen people demanded poetry from him, it came so very easy—and so he continued:
"The children at the Country FairIndulged in merry squawksTo see the shammy polishingThe family knives and forks."The tablespoons, and coffee pots,The platters and tureens,The top of the mahogany,And crystal fire-screens."
"More!" pleaded the chamois with his soft eyes, snuggling its head close into the Unwiseman's lap, and the old gentleman went on:
"'O isn't he a wondrous kid!'The wondering children cried.We didn't know a shammy couldDo such things if he tried."And Mary answered with a smileThat dimpled up her chin'There's much that shammy's cannot do,But much that shammy-skin.'"
Whistlebinkie's behavior at this point became so utterly and inexcusably boisterous with mirth that the confiding little chamois was again frightened away and this time it gave three rapid leaps into the air which landed it ultimately upon the ridge-pole of the chalet, fromwhich it wholly refused to descend, in spite of all the persuasion in the world, for the rest of the afternoon.
"Very intelligent little animal that," said the Unwiseman, as he trudged his way home. "A very high appreciation of true poetry, inclined to make friendship with the worthy, and properly mistrustful of people full of strange noises and squeaks."
"He was awfully pretty, wasn't he," said Mollie.
"Yes, but he was better than pretty," observed the Unwiseman. "He could be made useful. Things that are only pretty are all very well in their way, but give me the useful things—like my kitchen-stove for instance. If that kitchen-stove was only pretty do you suppose I'd love it the way I do? Not at all. I'd just put it on the mantel-piece, or on the piano in my parlor and never think of it a second time, but because it is useful I pay attention to it every day, polish it with stove polish, feed it with coal and see that the ashes are removed from it when its day's work is done. Nobody ever thinks of doing such things with a plain piece of bric-a-bracthat can't be used for anything at all. You don't put any coal or stove polish on that big Chinese vase you have in your parlor, do you?"
"No," said Mollie, "of course not."
"And I'll warrant that in all the time you've had that opal glass jug on the mantel-piece of your library you never shook the ashes down in it once," said the Unwiseman.
"Mity-goo-dreeson-wy!" whistled Whistlebinkie. "They-ain't never no ashes in it."
"Correct though ungrammatically expressed," observed the Unwiseman. "There never are any ashes in it to be shaken down, which is a pretty good reason to believe that it is never used to fry potatoes on or to cook a chop with, or to roast a turkey in—which proves exactly what I say that it is only pretty and isn't half as useful as my kitchen-stove."
"It would be pretty hard to find anything useful for the bric-a-brac to do though," suggested Mollie, who loved pretty things whether they had any other use or not.
"It all depends on your bric-a-brac," said the Unwiseman. "I can find plenty of usefulthings for mine to do. There's my coal scuttle for instance—it works all the time."
"Coal-scuttles ain't bric-a-brac," said Whistlebinkie.
"My coal scuttle is," said the Unwiseman. "It's got a picture of a daisy painted on one side of it, and I gilded the handle myself. Then there's my watering pot. That's just as bric-a-bracky as any Chinese china pot that ever lived, but it's useful. I use it to water the flowers in summer, and to sift my lump sugar through in winter. Every pound of lump sugar you buy has some fine sugar with it and if you shake the lump sugar up in a watering pot and let the fine sugar sift through the nozzle you get two kinds of sugar for the price of one. So it goes all through my house from my piano to my old beaver hat—every bit of my bric-a-brac is useful."
"Wattonearth do-you-do with a-nold beevor-at?" whistled Whistlebinkie.
"I use it as a post-office box to mail cross letters in," said the Unwiseman gravely. "It's saved me lots of trouble."
"Cross letters?" asked Mollie. "You never write cross letters to anybody do you?"
"I'm doing it all the time," said the Unwiseman. "Whenever anything happens that I don't like I sit down and write a terrible letter to the people that do it. That eases off my feelings, and then I mail the letters in the hat."
"And does the Post-man come and get them?" asked Mollie.
"No indeed," said the Unwiseman. "That's where the beauty of the scheme comes in. If I mailed 'em in the post-office box on the lamp-post, the post-man would take 'em and deliver them to the man they're addressed to and I'd be in all sorts of trouble. But when I mail them in my hat nobody comes for them and nobody gets them, and so there's no trouble for anybody anywhere."
"But what becomes of them?" asked Mollie.
"I empty the hat on the first Tuesday after the first Monday of every month and use them for kindling in my kitchen-stove," said the Unwiseman. "It's a fine scheme. I keep out of trouble, don't have to buy so much kindling wood, and save postage."
"That sounds like a pretty good idea," said Mollie.
"It's a first class idea," returned Mr. Me, "and I'm proud of it. It's all my own and if I had time I'd patent it. Why I was invited to a party once by a small boy who'd thrown a snow-ball at my house and wet one of the shingles up where I keep my leak, and I was so angry that I sat down and wrote back that I regretted very much to be delighted to say that I'd never go to a party at his house if it was the only party in the world besides the Republican; that I didn't like him, and thought his mother's new spring bonnet was most unbecoming and that I'd heard his father had been mentioned for Alderman in our town and all sorts of disgraceful things like that. I mailed this right in my hat and used it to boil an egg with a month later, while if I'd mailed it in the post-office box that boy'd have got it and I couldn't have gone to his party at all."
"Oh—you went, did you?" laughed Mollie.
"I did and I had a fine time, six eclairs, three plates of ice cream, a pound of chicken salad, and a pocketful of nuts and raisins," said the Unwiseman. "He turned out to be a very nice boy, and his mother's spring bonnet wasn't hers at all but another lady's altogether, and hisfather had not even been mentioned for Water Commissioner. You see, my dear, what a lot of trouble mailing that letter in the old beaver hat saved me, not to mention what I earned in the way of food by going to the party which I couldn't have done had it been mailed in the regular way."
Here the old gentleman began to yodel happily, and to tell passersby in song that he was a "Gay Swiss Laddy with a carpet-bag, That never knew fear of the Alpine crag, For his eye was bright and his conscience clear, As he leapt his way through the atmosphere, Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, Trala-lolly-O."
"I do-see-how-yood-make-that-shammy-useful," said Whistlebinkie. "Except to try your poems on and I don't b'lieve he's a good judge o' potery."
"He's a splendid judge of queer noises," said the Unwiseman, severely. "He knew enough to jump a mile whenever you squeaked."
"Watt-else-coodie-doo?" asked Whistlebinkie through his hat. "You haven't any silver to keep polished and there aren't enough queer noises about your place to keep him busy."
"What else coodie-do?" retorted the Unwiseman, giving an imitation of Whistlebinkie that set both Mollie and the rubber doll to giggling. "Why he could polish up the handle of my big front door for one thing. He could lie down on his back and wiggle around the floor and make it shine like a lookin' glass for another. He could rub up against my kitchen stove and keep it bright and shining for a third—that's some of the things he couldie-doo, but I wouldn't confine him to work around my house. I'd lead him around among the neighbors and hire him out for fifty cents a day for general shammy-skin house-work. I dare say Mollie's mother would be glad to have a real live shammy around that she could rub her tea-kettles and coffee pots on when it comes to cleaning the silver."
"They can buy all the shammys they need at the grocer's," said Whistlebinkie scornfully.
"Dead ones," said the Unwiseman, "but nary a live shammy have you seen at the grocer's or the butcher's or the milliner's or the piano-tuner's. That's where Wigglethorpe——"
"Wigglethorpe?" cried Whistlebinkie.
"Yes Wigglethorpe," repeated the Unwiseman."That's what I have decided to call my shammy when I get him because he will wiggle."
"He don't thorpe, does he?" laughed Whistlebinkie.
"He thorpes just as much as you bink," retorted the Unwiseman. "But as I was saying, Wigglethorpe, being alive, will be better than any ten dead ones because he won't wear out, maids won't leave him around on the parlor floor, and just because he wiggles, the silver and the hardwood floors and front door handles will be polished up in half the time it takes to do it with a dead one. At fifty cents a day I could earn three dollars a week on Wigglethorpe——"
"Which would be all profit if you fed him on potery," said Whistlebinkie with a grin.
"And if I imported a hundred of them after I found that Wigglethorpe was successful," the Unwiseman continued, very wisely ignoring Whistlebinkie's sarcasm, "that would be—hum—ha——"
"Three hundred dollars a week," prompted Mollie.
"Exactly," said the Unwiseman, "which in a year would amount to—ahem—three times three hundred and sixty-five is nine, twice nine is——"
"It comes to $15,600 a year," said Mollie.
"Right to a penny," said the Unwiseman. "I was figuring it out by the day. Fifteen thousand six hundred dollars a year is a big sum of money and reckoned in eclairs at fifty eclairs for a dollar is—er—is—well you couldn't eat 'em if you tried, there'd be so many."
"Seven hundred and eighty thousand eclairs," said Mollie.
"That's what I said," said the Unwiseman. "You just couldn't eat 'em, but you could sell 'em, so really you'd have two businesses right away, shammys and eclaires."
"Mitey-big-biziness," hissed Whistlebinkie.
"Yes," said the Unwiseman, "I think I'll suggest it to my burgular when I get home. It seems to me to be more honorable then burguling and it's just possible that after a summer spent in the uplifting company of my kitchen stove and having got used to the pleasant conversation of my leak, and seen how peaceful it is to just spend your days exercising a sweet gentle umbrella like mine, he'll want to reform and go into something else that he can do in the day-time."
By this time the little party had reached the hotel, and Mollie's father was delighted to hear of the Unwiseman's proposition. It was an entirely new idea, he said, although he was doubtful if it was a good business for a burgular.
"People might not be willing to trust him with their silver," he said.
"Very well then," said the Unwiseman. "Let him begin on front door knobs and parlor floors. He's not likely to run away with those."
The next day the travellers left Switzerland and when I next caught sight of them they had arrived at Venice.
It was late at night when Mollie and her friends arrived at Venice and the Unwiseman, sleeping peacefully as he was in the cavernous depths of his carpet-bag, did not get his first glimpse of the lovely city of the waters until he waked up the next morning. Unfortunately—or possibly it was a fortunate circumstance—the old gentleman had heard of Venice only in a very vague way before, and had no more idea of its peculiarities than he had of those of Waycross Junction, Georgia, or any other place he had never seen. Consequently his first sight of Venice filled him with a tremendous deal of excitement. Emerging from his carpet-bag in the cloak-room of the hotel he walked out upon the front steps of the building which descended into the Grand Canal, the broad waterway that runs its serpentine length through this historic city of the Adriatic.
"'Gee Whittaker!'" he cried, as the great avenue of water met his gaze. "There's beena flood! Hi there—inside—the water main has busted, and the whole town's afloat. Wake up everybody and save yourselves!"
He turned and rushed madly up the hotel stairs to the floor upon which his friends' rooms were located, calling lustily all the way:
"Get up everybody—the reservoy's busted; the dam's loose. To the boats! Mollie—Whistlebinkie—Mister and Mrs. Mollie—get up or you'll be washed away—the whole place is flooded. You haven't a minute to spare."
"What's the matter, Mr. Me?" asked Mollie, opening her door as she recognized the Unwiseman's voice out in the hallway. "What are you scaring everybody to death for?"
"Get out your life preservers—quick before it is too late," gasped the Unwiseman. "There's a tidal wave galloping up and down the street, and we'll be drowned. To the roof! All hands to starboard and man the boats."
"Whatareyou talking about?" said Mollie.
"Look out your front window if you don't believe me," panted the Unwiseman. "The whole place is chuck full of water—couldn't bail it out in a week——"
"Oh," laughed Mollie, as she realized what it was that had so excited her friend. "Is that all?"
"All!" ejaculated the Unwiseman, his eyebrows lifting higher with astonishment. "Isn't it enough? What do you want, the whole Atlantic Ocean sitting on your front stoop?"
"Why—" began Mollie, "this is Venice——"
"Looks like Watertown," interrupted the Unwiseman.
"Thass-swattit-izz," whistled Whistlebinkie. "Venice is a water town. It's built on it."
"Built on it?" queried the Unwiseman looking scornfully at Whistlebinkie as much as to say you can't fool me quite so easily as that. "Built on water?" he repeated.
"Exactly," said Mollie. "Didn't you know that, Mr. Me? Venice is built right out on the sea."
"Well of all queer things!" ejaculated the Unwiseman, so surprised that he plumped down on the floor and sat there gazing wonderingly up at Mollie. "A whole city built on the sea! What's the matter, wasn't there land enough?"
"Oh yes, I guess there was plenty of land," said Mollie, "but maybe somebody else ownedit. Anyhow the Venetians came out here where there were a lot of little islands to begin with and drove piles into the water and built their city on them."
"Well that beats me," said the Unwiseman, shaking his head in bewilderment. "I've heard of fellows building up big copperations on water, but never a city. How do they keep the water out of their cellars?"
"They don't," said Mollie.
"Maybe they build their cellars on the roof," suggested Whistlebinkie.
"Well," said the Unwiseman, rising from the floor and walking to the front window and gazing out at the Grand Canal, "I hope this hotel is anchored good and fast. I don't mind going to sea on a big boat that's built for it, but I draw the line at sailin' all around creation in a hotel."
The droll little old gentleman poised himself on one toe and stretched out his arms. "There don't seem to be much motion, does there," he remarked.
"There isn't any at all," said Mollie. "It's perfectly still."
"I guess it's because it's a clam day," observed the Unwiseman uneasily. "I hope it'll stay clam while we're here. I'd hate to be caught out in movey weather like they had on that sassy little British Channel. This hotel would flop about fearfully andIbelieve it would sink if somebody carelessly left a window open, to say nothing of its falling over backward and letting the water in the back door."
"Papa says it's perfectly safe," said Mollie. "The place has been here more'n a thousand years and it hasn't sunk yet."
"All right," said the Unwiseman. "If your father says that I'm satisfied because he most generally knows what he's talking about, but all the same I think we should ought to have brought a couple o' row boats and a lot of life preservers along. I don't believe in taking any chances. What do the cab-horses do here, swim?"
"No," said Mollie. "There aren't any horses in Venice. They have gondolas."
"Gondolas?" repeated the Unwiseman. "What are gondolas, trained ducks? Don't think much o' ducks as a substitute for horses."
"Perfly-bsoyd!" whistled Whistlebinkie.
"I should think they'd drive whales," said the Unwiseman, "or porpoises. By Jiminy, that would be fun, wouldn't it? Let's see if we can't hire a four whale coach, Mollie, and go driving about the city, or better yet, if they've got them well broken, get a school of porpoises. We might put on our bathing suits and go horseback riding on 'em. I don't take much to the trained duck idea, ducks are so flighty and if they shied at anything they might go flying up in the air and dump us backwards out of our cab into the water."
"We're going to take a gondola ride this morning," said Mollie. "Just you wait and see, Mr. Me."
THEY ALL BOARDED A GONDOLA
So the Unwiseman waited and an hour later he and Mollie and Whistlebinkie boarded a gondola in charge of a very handsome and smiling gondolier who said his name was Giuseppe Zocco.
"Soako is a good name for a cab-driver in this town," said the Unwiseman, after he had inspected the gondola and ascertained that it was seaworthy. "I guess I'll talk to him."
"You-do-know-Eye-talian," laughed Whistlebinkie.
"It's one of the languages Idoknow," returned the Unwiseman. "I buy all my bananas and my peanuts from an Eye-talian at home and for two or three years I have been able to talk to him very easily."
He turned to the gondolier.
"Gooda da morn, Soako," he observed very politely. "You havea da prett-da-boat."
"Si, Signor," returned the smiling gondolier, who was not wholly unfamiliar with English.
"See what?" asked the Unwiseman puzzled, but looking about carefully to see what there was to be seen.
"He says we're at sea," laughed Whistlebinkie.
"Oh—well—that's it, eh?" said the Unwiseman. "I thought he only spoke Eye-talian." And then he addressed the gondolier again. "Da weather's mighta da fine, huh? Not a da rain or da heava da wind, eh? Hopa da babe is vera da well da morn."
"Si, Signor," said Giuseppe.
"Da Venn greata da place. Too mucha dawatt for me. Lika da dry land moocha da bett, Giuseppe. Ever sella da banann?" continued the Unwiseman.
"Non, Signor," replied Giuseppe. "No sella da banann."
"Bully da bizz," said the Unwiseman. "Maka da munn hand over da fist. You grinda da org?"
"Huh?" grinned Giuseppe.
"He doesn't understand," said Mollie giggling.
"I asked him if he ever ground a hand-organ," said the Unwiseman. "Perfectly simple question. I aska da questch, Giuseppe, if you ever grinda da org. You know what I mean. Da musica-box, wid da monk for climba da house for catcha da nick."
"What's 'catcha da nick'?" whispered Whistlebinkie.
"To catch the nickels, stoopid," said the Unwiseman; "don't interrupt. No hava da monk, Giuseppe?" he asked.
"Non, Signor," said the gondolier. "No hava da monk."
"Too bad," observed the Unwiseman. "Hand-org not moocha da good without da monk. Damonk maka da laugh and catcha da mun by da cupful. If you ever come to America, Giuseppe, no forgetta da monk with a redda da cap."
With which admonition the Unwiseman turned his attention to other things.
"Is that really Eye-talian?" asked Whistlebinkie.
"Of course it is," said the Unwiseman. "It's the easiest language in the world to pick up and only requires a little practice to make you speak it as if it were your own tongue. I was never conscious that I was learning it in my morning talks with old Gorgorini, the banana man at home. This would be a great place for automobiles, wouldn't it, Mollie?" he laughed in conclusion.
"I don't guesso," said Whistlebinkie.
The gondolier now guided the graceful craft to a flight of marble steps up which Mollie and her friends mounted to the Piazza San Marco.
"This is great," said the Unwiseman as he gazed about him and took in its splendors. "It's a wonder to me that they don't have a lot of places like this on the way over from New York to Liverpool. Crossing the ocean would be some fun if you could step off every hour or twoand stretch your legs on something solid, and buy a few tons of tumblers, and feed pigeons. Fact is I think that's the best cure in the world for sea-sickness. If you could run up to a little piazza like this three times a day where there's a nice restaurant waiting for you and no motion to spoil your appetite I wouldn't mind being a sailor for the rest of my life."
The travellers passed through the glorious church of San Marco, inspected the Doge's Palace and then returned to the gondola, upon which they sailed back to their hotel.
"Moocha da thanks, Giuseppe," said the Unwiseman, as he alighted. "Here's a Yankee da quart for you. Save it up and when you come to America as all the Eye-talians seem to be doing these days, it will help start you in business."
And handing the gondolier a quarter the Unwiseman disappeared into the hotel. The next day he entered Mollie's room and asked permission to sit out on her balcony.
"I think I'll try a little fishing this afternoon," he said. "It isn't a bad idea having a hotel right on the water front this way after all. You can sit out on your balcony and drop your line out intothe water and just haul them in by the dozen."
But alas for the old gentleman's expectations, he caught never a fish. Whether it was the fault of the bait or not I don't know, but the only things he succeeded in catching were an old barrel-hoop that went floating along the canal from the Fruit Market up the way, and, sad to relate, the straw hat of an American artist on his way home in his gondola from a day's painting out near the Lido. The latter incident caused a great deal of trouble and it took all the persuasion that Mollie's father was capable of to keep the artist from having the Unwiseman arrested. It seems that the artist was very much put out anyhow because, mix his colors as he would, he could not get that peculiarly beautiful blue of the Venetian skies, and the lovely iridescent hues of the Venetian air were too delicate for such a brush as his, and to have his straw hat unceremoniously snatched off his head by an old gentleman two flights up with an ordinary fish hook baited with macaroni in addition to his other troubles was too much for his temper, not a good one at best.
"I am perfectly willing to say that I am sorry,"protested the Unwiseman when he was hauled before the angry artist. "I naturally would be sorry. When a man goes fishing for shad and lands nothing but a last year's straw hat, why wouldn't he be sorry?"
"That's a mighty poor apology!" retorted the artist, putting the straw hat on his head.
"Well I'm a poor man," said the Unwiseman. "My expenses have been very heavy of late. What with buying an air-gun to shoot Alps with, and giving a quarter to the Ganderman to help him buy a monkey, I'm reduced from nine-fifty to a trifle under seven dollars."
"You had no business fishing from that balcony!" said the artist angrily.
"I haven't any business anywhere, I've retired," said the Unwiseman. "And I can tell you one thing certain," he added, "if I was going back into business I wouldn't take up fishing for straw hats and barrel-hoops in Venice. There's nothing but to trouble in it."
"I shall lodge a complaint against you in the Lion's Mouth," said the artist, with a slight twinkle in his eye, his good humor returning in the presence of the Unwiseman.
"And I shall fall back on my rights as an American citizen to fish whenever I please from my own balcony with my own bait without interruption from foreign straw hats," said the Unwiseman with dignity.
"What?" cried the artist. "You an American?"
"Certainly," said the Unwiseman. "You didn't take me for an Eye-talian, did you?"
"So am I," returned the artist holding out his hand. "If you'd only told me that in the beginning I never should have complained."
"Don't mention it," said the Unwiseman graciously. "I was afraid you were an Englishman, and then there'd been a war sure, because I'll never give in to an Englishman. If your hat is seriously damaged I'll give you my tarpaulin, seeing that you are an American like myself."
"Not at all," said the artist. "The hat isn't hurt at all and I'm very glad to have met you. If your hook had only caught my eye on my way up the canal I should have turned aside so as not to interfere."
"Well I'm mighty glad it didn't catch your eye," said the Unwiseman. "I could afford tobuy you a new straw hat, but I'm afraid a new eye would have busted me."
And there the trouble ended. The artist and the Unwiseman shook hands and parted friends.
"What was that he said about the Lion's Mouth?" asked the Unwiseman after the artist had gone.
"He said he'd lodge a complaint there," said Mollie. "That's the way they used to do here. Those big statues of lions out in front of the Doggies' Palace with their mouths wide open are big boxes where people can mail their complaints to the Government."
"Oh, I see," said the Unwiseman. "And when the Doggies get the complaints they attend to 'em, eh?"
"Yes," said Mollie.
"And who are the Doggies?" asked the Unwiseman. "They don't have dogs instead of pleece over here, do they? I get so mixed up with these Johns, and Bobbies, and Doggies I hardly know where I'm at."
"I don't exactly understand why," said Mollie, "but the people in Venice are ruled by Doggies."
"They're a queer lot from Buckingham Palace, London, down to this old tow-path," said the Unwiseman, "and if I ever get home alive there's no more abroad for your Uncle Me."
On the following day, Mollie's parents having seen all of Venice that their limited time permitted, prepared to start for Genoa, whence the steamer back to New York was to sail. Everything was ready, but the Unwiseman was nowhere to be found. The hotel was searched from top to bottom and not a sign of him. Giuseppe Zocco denied all knowledge of him, and the carpet-bag gave no evidence that he had been in it the night before as was his custom. Train-time was approaching and Mollie was distracted. Even Whistlebinkie whistled under his breath for fear that something had happened to the old gentleman.
"I hope he hasn't fallen overboard!" moaned Mollie, gazing anxiously into the watery depths of the canal.
"Here he comes!" cried Whistlebinkie, jubilantly, and sure enough down the canal seated on a small raft and paddling his way cautiously along with his hands came the Unwiseman, singingthe popular Italian ballad "Margherita" at the top of his lungs.
"Gander ahoy!" he cried, as he neared the hotel steps. "Sheer off there, Captain, and let me into Port."
The gondolier made room for him and the Unwiseman alighted.
"Wherehaveyou been?" asked Mollie, throwing her arms about his neck.
"Up the canal a little way," he answered unconcernedly. "I wanted to mail a letter to the Doggie in the Lion's Mouth."
"What about?" asked Mollie.
"Watertown, otherwise Venice," said the Unwiseman. "I had some suggestions for its improvement and I didn't want to go way without making them. There's a copy of my letter if you want to see it," he added, handing Mollie a piece of paper upon which he had written as follows:
29 Grand Canal St., Venice, It.
Ancient & Honorable Bow-wows:I have enjoyed my visit to your beautiful but wet old town very much and would respectfully advise you that there are several things you can do to keep it unspiled. These are as follows to wit viz:I. Bale it out once in a while and see that the barrel hoops in your Grand Canal are sifted out of it. They're a mighty poor stubstishoot for shad.II. Get a few trained whales in commission so that when a feller wants to go driving he won't have to go paddling.III. Stock your streets with trout, or flounders, or perch or even sardines in order that us Americans who feel like fishing won't have to be satisfied with a poor quality of straw hat.IV. During the fishing season compel artists returning from their work to wear beaver hats or something else that a fish-hook baited with macaroni won't catch into thus making a lot of trouble.V. Get together on your language. I speak the very best variety of banana-stand Italian and twenty-three out of twenty-four people to which I have made remarks in it have not been able to grasp my meaning.VI. Pigeons are very nice to have but they grow monotonous. Would suggest a half dozen first class American hens as an ornament to your piazza.VII. Stop calling yourself Doggies. It makes people laugh.With kind regards to the various Mrs. Ds, believe me to be with mucho da respecto,
Ancient & Honorable Bow-wows:
I have enjoyed my visit to your beautiful but wet old town very much and would respectfully advise you that there are several things you can do to keep it unspiled. These are as follows to wit viz:
I. Bale it out once in a while and see that the barrel hoops in your Grand Canal are sifted out of it. They're a mighty poor stubstishoot for shad.
II. Get a few trained whales in commission so that when a feller wants to go driving he won't have to go paddling.
III. Stock your streets with trout, or flounders, or perch or even sardines in order that us Americans who feel like fishing won't have to be satisfied with a poor quality of straw hat.
IV. During the fishing season compel artists returning from their work to wear beaver hats or something else that a fish-hook baited with macaroni won't catch into thus making a lot of trouble.
V. Get together on your language. I speak the very best variety of banana-stand Italian and twenty-three out of twenty-four people to which I have made remarks in it have not been able to grasp my meaning.
VI. Pigeons are very nice to have but they grow monotonous. Would suggest a half dozen first class American hens as an ornament to your piazza.
VII. Stop calling yourself Doggies. It makes people laugh.
With kind regards to the various Mrs. Ds, believe me to be with mucho da respecto,
Yoursa da trool,Da Unadawisamann.
P.S. If you ever go sailing abroad in your old town point her nose towards my country. We'll all be glad to see you over there and can supply you with all the water you need.
P.S. If you ever go sailing abroad in your old town point her nose towards my country. We'll all be glad to see you over there and can supply you with all the water you need.
Y da T,Mister Me.
It was with these recommendations to the Doges that the Unwiseman left Venice. Whether they were ever received or not I have never heard, but if they were I am quite sure they made the "Doggies" yelp with delight.
"Whatta da namea dissa cit?" asked the Unwiseman in his best Italian as the party arrived at Genoa, whence they were to set sail for home the next day.
"This is Genoa," said Mollie.
"What's it good for?" demanded the old gentleman, gazing around him in a highly critical fashion.
"It's where Christopher Columbus was born," said Mollie. "Didn't you know that?"
"You don't mean the gentleman who discovered the United States, do you?" asked the Unwiseman, his face brightening with interest.
"The very same," said Mollie. "He was born right here in this town."
"Humph!" ejaculated the Unwiseman. "Queer place for a fellow like that to be born in. You'd think a man who was going to discover America would have been born a little nearer the United States than this. Up inCanada for instance, or down around Cuba, so's he wouldn't have so far to travel."
"Canada and Cuba weren't discovered either at that time," explained Mollie, smiling broadly at the Unwiseman's ignorance.
"Really?" said the Unwiseman. "Well that accounts for it. I always wondered why the United States wasn't discovered by somebody nearer home, like a Canadian or a Cuban, or some fellow down around where the Panama hats come from, but of course if there wasn't any Canadians or Cubans or Panama hatters around to do it, it's as clear as pie." The old gentleman paused a moment, and then he went on: "So this is the place that would have been our native land if Columbus hadn't gone to sea, is it? I think I'll take home a bottle of it to keep on the mantel-piece alongside of my bottle of United States and label 'em' My Native Land, Before and After.'"
"That's a very good idea," said Mollie. "Then you'll have a complete set."
"I wonder," said the Unwiseman, rubbing his forehead reflectively, "I wonder if he's alive yet."
"What, Christopher Columbus?" laughed Mollie.
"Yes," said the Unwiseman. "I haven't seen much in the papers about him lately, but that don't prove he's dead."
"Why he discovered America in 1492," said Mollie.
"Well—let's see—how long ago was that? More'n forty years, wasn't it?" said the Unwiseman.
"I guess it was more than forty years ago," giggled Mollie.
"Well—say fifty then," said the Unwiseman. "I'm pretty nearly that old myself. I was born in 1839, or 1843, or some such year, and as I remember it we'd been discovered then—but that wouldn't make him so awfully old you know. A man can be eighty and still live. Look at old Methoosalum—he was nine hundred."
"Oh well," said Mollie, "there isn't any use of talking about it. Columbus has been dead a long time——"
"All I can say is that I'm very sorry," interrupted the Unwiseman, with a sad little shake of his head. "I should very much like to havegone over and called on him just to thank him for dishcovering the United States. Just think, Mollie, of what would have happened if he hadn't! You and I and old Fizzledinkie here would have had to be Eye-talians, or Switzers, and live over here all the time if it hadn't been for him, and our own beautiful native land would have been left way across the sea all alone by itself and we'd never have known anything about it."
"We certainly ought to be very much obliged to Mr. Columbus for all he did for us," said Mollie.
"I-guess-somebuddyelse-wudda-donit," whistled Whistlebinkie. "They cuddn'-ta-helptit-with-all-these-socean steamers-going-over-there every-day."
"That's true enough," said the Unwiseman, "but we ought to be thankful to Columbus just the same. Other peoplemighthave done it, but the fact remains that hediddo it, so I'm much obliged to him. I'd sort of like to do something to show my gratitude."
"Better write to his family," grinned Whistlebinkie.
"For a rubber doll with a squeak instead of brain in his head that's a first rate idea, Fizzledinkie," said the old gentleman. "I'll do it."
And so he did. The evening mail from the Unwiseman's hotel carried with it a souvenir postal card addressed to Christopher Columbus, Jr., upon which the sender had written as follows:
Genoa, Aug. 23, 19—.
Dear Christopher:As an American citizen I want to thank you for your Papa's very great kindness in dishcovering the United States. When I think that if he hadn't I might have been born a Switzer or a French John Darm it gives me a chill. I would have called on you to say this in person if I'd had time, but we are going to sail tomorrow for home and we're pretty busy packing up our carpet-bags and eating our last meals on shore. If you ever feel like dishcovering us on your own account and cross over the briny deep yourself, don't fail to call on me at my home where I have a fine kitching stove and an umbrella which will always be at your disposal.
Dear Christopher:
As an American citizen I want to thank you for your Papa's very great kindness in dishcovering the United States. When I think that if he hadn't I might have been born a Switzer or a French John Darm it gives me a chill. I would have called on you to say this in person if I'd had time, but we are going to sail tomorrow for home and we're pretty busy packing up our carpet-bags and eating our last meals on shore. If you ever feel like dishcovering us on your own account and cross over the briny deep yourself, don't fail to call on me at my home where I have a fine kitching stove and an umbrella which will always be at your disposal.
Yours trooly,The Unwiseman, U. S. A.
Later in the evening to the same address was despatched another postal reading:
P.S. If you happen to have an extra photograph of your Papa lying around the house that you don't want with his ortygraph on it I shall be glad to have you send it to me. I will have itframed and hung up in the parlor alongside of General Washington and President Roosevelt who have also been fathers of their country from time to time.
P.S. If you happen to have an extra photograph of your Papa lying around the house that you don't want with his ortygraph on it I shall be glad to have you send it to me. I will have itframed and hung up in the parlor alongside of General Washington and President Roosevelt who have also been fathers of their country from time to time.
Yours trooly,The Unwiseman, U. S. A.
"I'm glad I did that," said the Unwiseman when he told Mollie of his two messages to Christopher, Jr. "I don't think people as a rule are careful enough these days to show their thanks to other people who do things for them. It don't do any harm to be polite in matters of that kind and some time it may do a lot of good. Good manners ain't never out of place anywhere anyhow."
In which praiseworthy sentiment I am happy to say both Mollie and Whistlebinkie agreed.
The following day the travellers embarked on the steamer bound for New York. This time, weary of his experience as a stowaway on the trip over, the Unwiseman contented himself with travelling in his carpet-bag and not until after the ship had passed along the Mediterranean and out through the straits of Gibraltar, did he appear before his companions. His first appearance upon deck was just as the coast of Africa was fading away upon the horizon. He peered at this long and earnestly through a small blue bottle heheld in his hand, and then when the last vestige of the scene sank slowly behind the horizon line into the sea, he corked the bottle up tightly, put it into his pocket and turned to Mollie and Whistlebinkie.
"Well," he said, "that's done—and I'm glad of it. I've enjoyed this trip very much, but after all I'm glad I'm going home. Be it ever so bumble there's no place like home, as the Bee said, and I'll be glad to be back again where I can sleep comfortably on my kitchen-stove, with my beloved umbrella standing guard alongside of me, and my trusty leak looking down upon me from the ceiling while I rest."
"You missed a wonderful sight," said Mollie. "That Rock of Gibraltar was perfectly magnificent."
"I didn't miss it," said the Unwiseman. "I peeked at it through the port-hole and I quite agree with you. It is the cutest piece of rock I've seen in a long time. It seemed almost as big to me as the boulder in my back yard must seem to an ant, but I prefer my boulder just the same. Gibrallyper's too big to do anything with and it spoils the view, whereas my boulder can be rolled around the place without any troubleand doesn't spoil anything. I suppose they keep it there to keep Spain from sliding down into the sea, so it's useful in a way, but after all I'm just as glad it's here instead of out on my lawn somewhere."
"What have you been doing all these days?" asked Mollie.
"O just keeping quiet," said the Unwiseman. "I've been reading up on Christopher Columbus and—er—writing a few poems about him. He was a wonderful man, Columbus was. He proved the earth was round when everybody else thought it was flat—and how do you suppose he did it?"
"By sailin' around it," said Whistlebinkie.
"That was after he proved it," observed the Unwiseman, with the superior air of one who knows more than somebody else. "He proved it by making an egg stand up on its hind legs."
"What?" cried Mollie.
"I didn't know eggs had hind legs," said Whistlebinkie.
"Ever see a chicken?" asked the Unwiseman.
"Yes," said Whistlebinkie.
"Well, a chicken's only an advanced egg," said the Unwiseman.
"That's true," said Mollie.
"And chickens haven't got anything but hind legs, have they?" demanded the old gentleman.
"Thass-a-fact," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"And Columbus proved it by making the egg stand up?" asked Mollie.
"That's what history tells us," said the Unwiseman. "All the Harvard and Yale professors of the day said the earth was flat, but Columbus knew better, so he just took an egg and proved it. That's one of the things I've put in a poem. Want to hear it?"
"Indeed I do," said Mollie. "It must be interesting."
"It is—it's the longest poem I ever wrote," said the Unwiseman, and seeking out a retired nook on the steamer's deck the droll old fellow seated himself on a coil of rope and read the following poem to Mollie and Whistlebinkie.
"Columbus was a gentlemanWho sailed the briny sea.He was a bright young GenoanIn sunny ItalyWho once discovered just the planTo find Amerikee."
"Splendid!" cried Mollie, clapping her hands with glee.
"Perfly-bully!" chortled Whistlebinkie, with a joyous squeak.
"I'm glad you like it," said the Unwiseman, with a smile of pleasure. "But just you wait. The best part of it's to come yet."
And the old gentleman resumed his poem:
"He sought the wise-men of his time,And when the same were found,He went and whispered to them, 'I'mConvinced the Earth is round,Just like an orange or a lime—I'll bet you half a pound!'"Each wise-man then just shook his head—Each one within his hat.'Go to, Columbus, child,' they said.'Weknow the Earth is flat.Go home, my son, and go to bedAnd don't talk stuff like that.'"But Christopher could not be hushedBy fellows such as they.His spirit never could be crushedIn such an easy way,And with his heart and soul unsquushedHe plunged into the fray."
"What's a fray?" asked Whistlebinkie.
"A fight, row, dispute, argyment," said theUnwiseman. "Don't interrupt. We're coming to the exciting part."
And he went on:
"'I'll prove the world is round,' said he'For you next Tuesday night,If you will gather formallyAnd listen to the right.'And all the wise-men did agreeBecause they loved a fight."And so the wise-men gathered thereTo hear Columbus talk,And some were white as to the hairAnd some could hardly walk,And one looked like a Polar BearAnd one looked like an Auk."
"How-dju-know-that?" asked Whistlebinkie. "Does the history say all that?"
"No," said the Unwiseman. "The history doesn't say anything about their looks, but there's a picture of the whole party in the book, and it was just as I say especially the Polar Bear and the Auk. Anyhow, they were all there and the poem goes on to tell about it.
"Now when about the room they satColumbus he came in;Took off his rubbers and his hat,Likewise his tarpaulin.He cleared his throat and stroked the catAnd thuswise did begin."
"There wasn't any cat in the picture," explained the Unwiseman, "but I introduced him to get a rhyme for hat and sat. Sometimes you have to do things like that in poetry and according to the rules if you have a license you can do it."
"Have you got a license?" asked Whistlebinkie.
"Not to write poetry, but I've got a dog-license," said the Unwiseman, "and I guess if a man pays three dollars to keep a dog and doesn't keep the dog he's got a right to use the license for something else. I'll risk it anyhow. So just keep still and listen.
"'You see this egg?' Columbus led.'Now watch me, sirs, I begs.I'll make it stand upon its headOr else upon its legs.'And instantly 'twas as he saidAs sure as eggs is eggs."For whether 'twas an Egg from schoolOr in a circus taught,Or whether it was just a coolEgg of unusual sort,That egg stood up just like a spoolAccording to report."
"I bet he smashed in the end of it," said Whistlebinkie.
"Maybe it was a scrambled egg, maybe he stuck a pin in an end of it. Maybe he didn't. Anyhow, he made it stand up," said the Unwiseman, "and I wish you'd stop squeakyrupting when I'm reading."
"Go ahead," said Whistlebinkie meekly. "It's a perfly spulendid piece o' potery and I can't help showing my yadmiration for it."
"Well keep your yadmiration for the yend of it," retorted the Unwiseman. "We'll be in New York before I get it finished at this rate."
Whistlebinkie promised not to squeak again and the Unwiseman resumed.
"'O wonderful!' the wise-men cried.'O marvellous,' said they.And then Columbus up and triedThe egg the other way,And still it stood up full of prideOr so the histories say."Again the wise-men cried aloud,'O wizard, marvellous!Of all the scientific crowdThis is the man for us—O Christopher we're mighty proudOf you, you little cuss!'"
"That wasn't very polite," began Whistlebinkie.
"Now Squeaky," said the Unwiseman.
"'Scuse!" gasped Whistlebinkie.
And the Unwiseman went on:
"'For men who make an omletteWe really do not care;To poach an egg already yetIs easy everywhere;But he who'll teach it etiquette—He is a genius rare."'So ifyousay the Earth is roundWe think it must be so.Your reasoning's so very sound,Columbus don't you know.Come wizard, take your half-a-poundBefore you homeward go.'"
Whistlebinkie began to fidget again and his breath came in little short squeaks.
"But I don't see," he began. "It didn't prove——"
"Wait!" said the Unwiseman. "Don't you try to get in ahead of the finish. Here's the last verse, and it covers your ground.
"And thus it was, O children dear,Who gather at my knee,Columbus showed the Earth the sphereIt since has proved to be;Though how the Egg trick made it clear,I'm blest if I can see."
"Well I'm glad you put that last voyse in," said Whistlebinkie, "because I don't see either."
"Oh—I guess they thought a man who could train an egg to stand up was a pretty smart man," said Mollie, "and they didn't want to dispute with him."
"I shouldn't be surprised if that was it," said the Unwiseman. "I noticed too in the picture that Columbus was about twice as big as any of the wise-men, and maybe that had something to do with it too. Anyhow, he was pretty smart."
"Is that all you wrote?" asked Whistlebinkie.
"No," said the Unwiseman. "I did another little one called 'I Wonder.' There are a lot of things the histories don't tell you anything about, so I've put 'em all in a rhyme as a sort of hint to people who are going to write about him in the future. It goes like this:
"When Christopher Columbus came ashore,The day he landed in AmericorI wonder what he said when first he triedDown in the subway trains to take a ride?"When Christopher Columbus went up townAnd looked the country over, up and down,I wonder what he thought when first his eyeWas caught by the sky-scrapers in the sky?"When Christopher put up at his hotelAnd first pushed in the button of his bellAnd upward came the boy who orders takes,I wonder if he ordered buckwheat cakes?"When Christopher went down to WashingtonTo pay his call the President uponI wonder if the President felt queerTo know that his discoverer was here?"I wonder when his slow-poke caravelsWere tossed about by heavy winds and swells,If he was not put out and mad to spyThe ocean steamers prancing swiftly by?"
"I don't know about other people," said the Unwiseman, "but little things like that always interest me about as much as anything else, but there's nary a word about it in the papers, and as far as my memory is concerned when he first came I was too young to know much about what was going on. I do remember a big parade in his honor, but I think that was some years after the discovery."
"I guess it was," said Mollie, with a laugh. "There wasn't anything but Indians there when he arrived."
"Really? How unfortunate—how very unfortunate," said the Unwiseman. "To think that on the few occasions that he came here heshould meet only Indians. Mercy! What a queer idea of the citizens of the United States he must have got. Really, Mollie, I don't wonder that instead of settling down in New York, or Boston, or Chicago, he went back home again to live. Nothing but Indians! Well, well, well!"
And the Unwiseman wandered moodily back to his carpet-bag.
"With so many nice people living in America," he sighed, "it does seem too bad that he should meet only Indians who, while they may be very good Indians indeed, are not noted for the quality of their manners."
And so the little party passed over the sea, and I did not meet with them again until I reached the pier at New York and discovered the Unwiseman struggling with the Custom House Inspectors.