Alonzo Fitz, and Other Stories

  PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH

  Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and seeif he can discover anything harmful in them?

  Conductor, when you receive a fare, Punch in the presence of the passenjare! A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare, Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

  CHORUS

  Punch, brothers! punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

  I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago,and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possessionof me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; andwhen, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I hadeaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the daybefore--thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to myden to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get itto say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare." I fought hard foran hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, "A blue trip slip foran eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on andso on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined--I couldsee that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presentlydiscovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle.When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did nogood; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and wenton harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all theafternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner;suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bedand rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up atmidnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visibleupon the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of thepassenjare." By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled andwas distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--"Punch! oh, punch!punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

  Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, andwent forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev.Mr.------, to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared atme, but asked no questions. We started. Mr.------ talked, talked, talkedas is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile,Mr.------ said "Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggardand worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!"

  Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch brothers, punch with care!Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

  My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said:

  "I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be anyrelevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet--maybeit was the way you said the words--I never heard anything that soundedso pathetic. What is--"

  But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless,heartbreaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slipfor a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch inthe presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during theother nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr.------ laid his hand on myshoulder and shouted:--

  "Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we are at theTower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never gota response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look atit! look at it! Feast your eye on it! You have traveled; you have seenboasted landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion. Whatdo you say to this?"

  I sighed wearily; and murmured:--

  "A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-centfare, punch in the presence of the passenjare."

  Rev. Mr. ------ stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently,and looked long at me; then he said:--

  "Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those areabout the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anythingin them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them. Punch inthe--how is it they go?"

  I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines.

  My friend's face lighted with interest. He said:--

  "Why, what a captivating jingle it is! It is almost music. It flowsalong so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them overjust once more, and then I'll have them, sure."

  I said them over. Then Mr. ------ said them. He made one little mistake,which I corrected. The next time and the next he got them right. Now agreat burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingledeparted out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peacedescended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I did singfor half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward. Then myfreed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent talk of manya weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously,jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend'shand at parting, I said:--

  "Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't saida word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!"

  The Rev. Mr.------ turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh,and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:

  "Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of thepassenjare!"

  A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow!he has got it, now."

  I did not see Mr.------ for two or three days after that. Then, onTuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly intoa seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes tomy face and said:--

  "Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartlessrhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour afterhour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the tormentsof the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, andtook the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valuedold friend who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon. Itook my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse. But Inever got beyond the opening paragraph; for then the train startedand the car-wheels began their 'clack, clack-clack-clack-clack!clack-clack!--clack-clack-clack!' and right away those odious rhymesfitted themselves to that accompaniment. For an hour I sat there andset a syllable of those rhymes to every separate and distinct clackthe car-wheels made. Why, I was as fagged out, then, as if I had beenchopping wood all day. My skull was splitting with headache. It seemedto me that I must go mad if I sat there any longer; so I undressed andwent to bed. I stretched myself out in my berth, and--well, youknow what the result was. The thing went right along, just the same.'Clack-clack clack, a blue trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for aneight-cent fare; clack-clack-clack, a buff trip slip, clack clack-clack, for asix-cent fare, and so on, and so on, and so on punch in the presence ofthe passenjare!' Sleep? Not a single wink! I was almost a lunatic whenI got to Boston. Don't ask me about the funeral. I did the best I could,but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and woven inand out with 'Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presenceof the passenjare.' And the most distressing thing was that my deliverydropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing rhymes, and I couldactually catch absent-minded people nodding time to the swing of it withtheir stupid heads. And, Mark, you may believe it or not, but before Igot through the entire assemblage were placidly bobbing their heads insolemn unison, mourners, undertaker, and all. The moment I had finished,I fled to the anteroom in a state bordering on frenzy. Of courseit would be my luck to find a sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of thedeceased there, who had arrived from Springfield too late to get intothe church. She began to sob, and said:--

  "'Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn't see him before he died!'

  "'Yes!' I said, 'he is gone, he is gone, he is gone--oh, will thissuffering never cease!'

  "'You loved him, then! Oh, you too loved
him!'

  "'Loved him! Loved who?'

  "'Why, my poor George! my poor nephew!'

  "'Oh--him! Yes--oh, yes, yes. Certainly--certainly. Punch--punch--oh,this misery will kill me!'

  "'Bless you! bless you, sir, for these sweet words! I, too, suffer inthis dear loss. Were you present during his last moments?'

  "'Yes. I--whose last moments?'

  "'His. The dear departed's.'

  "'Yes! Oh, yes--yes--yes! I suppose so, I think so, I don't know! Oh,certainly--I was there--I was there!'

  "'Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege! And his lastwords--oh, tell me, tell me his last words! What did he say?'

  "'He said--he said--oh, my head, my head, my head! He said--he said--henever said anything but Punch, punch, punch in the presence of thepassenjare! Oh, leave me, madam! In the name of all that is generous,leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair!--a buff trip slip for asix-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare--endu--rance canno fur--ther go!--PUNCH in the presence of the passenjare!"

  My friend's hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and thenhe said impressively:--

  "Mark, you do not say anything. You do not offer me any hope. But, ahme, it is just as well--it is just as well. You could not do me anygood. The time has long gone by when words could comfort me. Somethingtells me that my tongue is doomed to wag forever to the jigger of thatremorseless jingle. There--there it is coming on me again: a blue tripslip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a--"

  Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank into a peaceful tranceand forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite.

  How did I finally save him from an asylum? I took him to a neighboringuniversity and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymesinto the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students. How is it withthem, now? The result is too sad to tell. Why did I write this article?It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose. It was to warn you, reader,if you should came across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them--avoidthem as you would a pestilence!