"No-o-o-oh m-a-a-an; I ain't sick. I tells you 'scuse."
The repeated imitation of a sorrowful goat was too much for theHonorable Tim.
"Bring that boy to me," he commanded. "I'll show you how to managerefractory and rebellious children."
With much difficulty and many assurances that the gentleman was notgoing to hurt him, Miss Bailey succeeded in untwining Morris's legs fromthe supports of the desk and in half carrying, half leading him up tothe chair of state. An ominous silence had settled over the room. EvaGonorowsky was weeping softly, and the redoubtable Isidore Applebaum wasstiffened in a frozen calm.
"Morris," began the Associate Superintendent in his most awful tones,"will you tell me why you raised your hand? Come here, sir."
Teacher urged him gently, and like dog to heel, he went. He haltedwithin a pace or two of Mr. O'Shea, and lifted a beseeching face towardhim.
"I couldn't to tell nothing out," said he. "I tells you 'scuse. I'm gota fraid."
The Honorable Tim lunged quickly and caught the terrified boypreparatory to shaking him, but Morris escaped and fled to his haven ofsafety--his Teacher's arms. When Miss Bailey felt the quick clasp of thethin little hands, the heavy beating of the over-tired heart, and thedeep convulsive sobs, she turned on the Honorable Timothy O'Shea andspoke:
"I must ask you to leave this room at once," she announced. ThePrincipal started and then sat back. Teacher's eyes were dangerous, andthe Honorable Tim might profit by a lesson. "You've frightened the childuntil he can't breathe. I can do nothing with him while you remain. Theexamination is ended. You may go."
Now Mr. O'Shea saw he had gone a little too far in his effort to createthe proper dramatic setting for his clemency. He had not expected theyoung woman to "rise" quite so far and high. His deprecatinghalf-apology, half-eulogy, gave Morris the opportunity he craved.
"Teacher," he panted; "I wants to whisper mit you in the ear."
With a dexterous movement he knelt upon her lap and tore out hissolitary safety-pin. He then clasped her tightly and made hisexplanation. He began in the softest of whispers, which increased involume as it did in interest, so that he reached the climax at the fullpower of his boy soprano voice.
"Teacher, Missis Bailey, I know you know what year stands. On'y it'spolite I tells you something, und I had a fraid the while the 'comp'nymit the whiskers' sets und rubbers. But, Teacher, it's like this: yourjumper's sticking out und you could to take mine safety-pin."
He had understood so little of all that had passed that he was beyondbeing surprised by the result of this communication. Miss Bailey hadgathered him into her arms and had cried in a queer helpless way. And asshe cried she had said over and over again: "Morris, how could you? Oh,how could you, dear? How could you?"
The Principal and "the comp'ny mit whiskers" looked solemnly at oneanother for a struggling moment, and had then broken into laughter, longand loud, until the visiting authority was limp and moist. The childrenwaited in polite uncertainty, but when Miss Bailey, after someindecision, had contributed a wan smile, which later grew into a shakylaugh, the First-Reader Class went wild.
Then the Honorable Timothy arose to say good-by. He reiterated hispraise of the singing and reading, the blackboard work and the moraltone. An awkward pause ensued, during which the Principal engaged theyoung Gonorowskys in impromptu conversation. The Honorable Tim crossedover to Miss Bailey's side and steadied himself for a great effort.
"Teacher," he began meekly, "I tells you 'scuse. This sort of thingmakes a man feel like a bull in a china shop. Do you think the littlefellow will shake hands with me? I was really only joking."
"But surely he will," said Miss Bailey, as she glanced down at thetangle of dark curls resting against her breast. "Morris, dear, aren'tyou going to say good-by to the gentleman?"
Morris relaxed one hand from its grasp on his lady and bestowed it onMr. O'Shea.
"Good-by," said he gently. "I gives you presents, from gold presents,the while you're friends mit Teacher. I'm loving much mit her, too."
At this moment the Principal turned, and Mr. O'Shea, in a desperateattempt to retrieve his dignity, began: "As to class management anddiscipline--"
But the Principal was not to be deceived.
"Don't you think, Mr. O'Shea," said he, "that you and I had better leavethe management of the little ones to the women? You have noticed,perhaps, that this is Nature's method."
[Footnote 3: From _Little Citizens_; reprinted by permission of McClure,Phillips & Company.
Copyright 1903 by the S.S. McClure Company.
Copyright 1904 by McClure, Phillips & Company.]
THE GENIAL IDIOT SUGGESTS A COMIC OPERA
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
"There's a harvest for you," said the Idiot, as he perused a recentlypublished criticism of a comic opera. "There have been thirty-nine newcomic operas produced this year and four of 'em were worth seeing. It isvery evident that the Gilbert and Sullivan industry hasn't gone to thewall whatever slumps other enterprises have suffered from."
"That is a goodly number," said the Poet. "Thirty-nine, eh? I knew therewas a raft of them, but I had no idea there were as many as that."
"Why don't you go in and do one, Mr. Poet?" suggested the Idiot. "Theytell me it's as easy as rolling off a log. All you've got to do is toforget all your ideas and remember all the old jokes you ever heard.Slap 'em together around a lot of dances, write two dozen lyrics aboutsome Googoo Belle, hire a composer, and there you are. Hanged if Ihaven't thought of writing one myself."
"I fancy it isn't as easy as it looks," observed the Poet. "It requiresjust as much thought to be thoughtless as it does to be thoughtful."
"Nonsense," said the Idiot. "I'd undertake the job cheerfully if somemanager would make it worth my while, and what's more, if I ever gotinto the swing of the business I'll bet I could turn out a libretto aday for three days of the week for the next two months."
"If I had your confidence I'd try it," laughed the Poet, "but alas, inmaking me Nature did not design a confidence man."
"Nonsense again," said the Idiot. "Any man who can get the editors toprint Sonnets to Diana's Eyebrow, and little lyrics of Madison Square,Longacre Square, Battery Place and Boston Common, the way you do, has aright to consider himself an adept at bunco. I tell you what I'll dowith you. I'll swap off my confidence for your lyrical facility and seewhat I can do. Why can't we collaborate and get up a libretto for nextseason? They tell me there's large money in it."
"There certainly is if you catch on," said the Poet. "Vastly more thanin any other kind of writing that I know. I don't know but that I wouldlike to collaborate with you on something of the sort. What is youridea?"
"Mind's a blank on the subject," sighed the Idiot. "That's the reason Ithink I can turn the trick. As I said before, you don't need ideas.Better off without 'em. Just sit down and write."
"But you must have some kind of a story," persisted the Poet.
"Not to begin with," said the Idiot. "Just write your choruses andsongs, slap in your jokes, fasten 'em together, and the thing is done.First act, get your hero and heroine into trouble. Second act, get 'emout."
"And for the third?" queried the Poet.
"Don't have a third," said the Idiot. "A third is alwayssuperfluous--but if you must have it, make up some kind of a vaudevilleshow and stick it in between the first and second."
"Tush!" said the Bibliomaniac. "That would make a gay comic opera."
"Of course it would, Mr. Bib," the Idiot agreed. "And that's what wewant. If there's anything in this world that I hate more than anotherit is a sombre comic opera. I've been to a lot of 'em, and I give you myword of honor that next to a funeral a comic opera that lacks gaiety isone of the most depressing functions known to modern science. Some of'em are enough to make an undertaker weep with jealous rage. I went toone of 'em last week called 'The Skylark' with an old chum of mine, whois a surgeon. You can imagine what sort of a thing it was when I tellyou that after the first act he s
uggested we leave the theater and comeback here and have some fun cutting my leg off. He vowed that if he everwent to another opera by the same people he'd take ether beforehand."
"I shouldn't think that would be necessary," sneered the Bibliomaniac."If it was as bad as all that why didn't it put you to sleep?"
"It did," said the Idiot. "But the music kept waking us up again. Therewas no escape from it except that of actual physical flight."
"Well--about this collaboration of ours," suggested the Poet. "What doyou think we should do first?"
"Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did yousuppose? A finale? Something like this:
"If you want to know who we are, Just ask the Evening Star, As he smiles on high In the deep blue sky, With his tralala-la-la-la. We are maidens sweet With tripping feet, And the Googoo eyes Of the Skippity-hi's, And the smile of the fair Gazoo; And you'll find our names 'Mongst the wondrous dames Of the Whos Who-hoo-hoo-hoo.
"Get that sung with spirit by sixty-five ladies with blonde wigs andgold slippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a troop of RussianCavalry, and you've got your venture launched."
"Where can you find people like that?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"New York's full of 'em," replied the Idiot.
"I don't mean the people to act that sort of thing--but where would youlay your scene?" explained the Bibliomaniac.
"Oh, any old place in the Pacific Ocean," said the Idiot. "Make your owngeography--everybody else does. There's a million islands out there ofone kind or another, and as defenseless as a two weeks' old infant. Ifyou want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make oneup for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of thatsort. After you've got your chorus going, introduce your villain, whoshould be a man with a deep bass voice and a piratical past. He's thechap who rules the roost and is going to marry the heroine to-morrow.That will make a bully song:
"I'm a pirate bold With a heart so cold That it turns the biggest joys to solemn sorrow; And the hero-ine, With her eyes so fine, I am going to-marry--to-morrow.
CHORUS:
"He is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow The maid with a heart full of sorrow; For her we are sorry For she weds to-morry-- She is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow.
"Gee!" added the Idiot enthusiastically. "Can't you almost hear thatalready?"
"I am sorry to say," said Mr. Brief, "that I can. You ought to call yourheroine Drivelina."
"Splendid," cried the Idiot. "Drivelina goes. Well, then on comesDrivelina and this beast of a Pirate grabs her by the hand and makeslove to her as if he thought wooing was a game of snap the whip. Shesings a soprano solo of protest and the Pirate summons his hirelings tocast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell when, boom! an American warshipappears on the horizon. The crew under the leadership of a man with asqueaky tenor voice named Lieutenant Somebody or other comes ashore,puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag while his crewsings the following:
"We are Jackies, Jackies, Jackies, And we smoke the best tobaccys You can find from Zanzibar to Honeyloo. And we fight for Uncle Sammy, Yes indeed we do, for damme You can bet your life that that's the thing to do--doodle-do! You can bet your life that that's the thing to doodle--doodle--doodle--doodle-do.
"Eh! What?" demanded the Idiot.
"Well--what yourself?" asked the Lawyer. "This is your job. What next?"
"Well--the Pirate gets lively, tries to assassinate the Lieutenant, whokills half the natives with his sword and is about to slay the Piratewhen he discovers that he is his long lost father," said the Idiot. "Theheroine then sings a pathetic love song about her Baboon Baby, in agreen light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys bangingcocoa-nut shells together. This drowsy lullaby puts the Lieutenant andhis forces to sleep and the curtain falls on their capture by thePirate and his followers, with the chorus singing:
"Hooray for the Pirate bold, With his pockets full of gold, He's going to marry to-morrow. To-morrow he'll marry, Yes, by the Lord Harry, He's go-ing--to-marry--to-mor-row! And that's a thing to doodle-doodle-doo.
"There," said the Idiot, after a pause. "How is that for a first act?"
"It's about as lucid as most of them," said the Poet, "but after all youhave got a story there, and you said you didn't need one."
"I said you didn't need one to start with," corrected the Idiot. "AndI've proved it. I didn't have that story in mind when I started. That'swhere the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn't even have tothink of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped rightout of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina hadbeen written on his heart for centuries. Then the title--Isle ofPiccolo--that's a dandy and I give you my word of honor I'd never eventhought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like a flashfrom the blue; and as for the coon song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there's achance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner andReginald De Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the lilt ofit:
"My Bab-boon--ba-habee, My Bab-boon--ba-habee-- I love you dee-her-lee Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee. My Baboon--ba-ha-bee, My Baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--Ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee.
"And all those pink satin monkeys bumping their cocoanut shells togetherin the green moonlight--"
"Well, after the first act, what?" asked the Bibliomaniac.
"The usual intermission," said the Idiot. "You don't have to write that.The audience generally knows what to do."
"But your second act?" asked the Poet.
"Oh, come off," said the Idiot rising. "We were to do this thing incollaboration. So far I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leavethe second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to doa little collabbing on your own account. What did you think you were todo--collect the royalties?"
"I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thingto do in a comic opera."
"Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my fullshare of it."
"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced inthe right place might stand a chance of a run."
"Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of somepenetration. How long a run?"
"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.
"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot with a smile.
"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac severely.
"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr.Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the Superintendent."
WAMSLEY'S AUTOMATIC PASTOR
BY FRANK CRANE
"Yes, sir," said the short, chunky man, as he leaned back against thegorgeous upholstery of his seat in the smoking compartment of thesleeping-car; "yes, sir, I knew you was a preacher the minute I laideyes on you. You don't wear your collar buttoned behind, nor a blackthingumbob over your shirt front, nor Presbyterian whiskers, nor alittle gold cross on a black string watch chain; them's the usual marks,I know, and you hain't got any of 'em. But I knew you just the same. Youcan't fool J.P. Wamsley. You see, there's a peculiar air about a manthat's accustomed to handle any particular line of goods. You can tell'em all, if you'll just notice,--any of 'em,--white-goods counter,lawyer, doctor, travelin' man, politician, railroad,--every one of 'em'sgot his sign out, and it don't take a Sherlock Holmes to read it,neither. It's the same way with them gospel goods. You'll excuse me, butwhen I saw you come in here and light a cigar, with an air ofI-will-now-give-you-a-correct-imitation-of-a-human-being, I says tomyself, 'There's one of my gospel friends.' Murder will out, as thefeller says.
"Experience, did you say? I must have had considerable experience? Well,I guess yes! Didn't you never h
ear of my invention, Wamsley's AutomaticPastor, Self-feedin' Preacher and Lightning Caller? Say, that was thehottest scheme ever. I'll tell you about it.
"You see, it's this way. I'm not a church member myself--believe in it,you know, and all that sort of thing,--I'm for religion strong, and whenit comes to payin' I'm right there with the goods. My wife is a member,and a good one; in fact, she's so blame good that we average up prettywell.
"Well, one day they elected me to the board of trustees at the church;because I was the heaviest payer, I suppose. I kicked some, not bein'anxious to pose as a pious individual, owin' to certain brethren in thetown who had a little confidential information on J.P. and might beinclined to get funny. But they insisted, allowin' that me bein' themost prominent and successful merchant in the town, and similar rot, Iought to line up and help out the cause, and so on; so finally I givein.
"I went to two or three of their meetin's--and say, honest, they werethe fiercest things ever."
The minister smiled knowingly.
"You're on, I see. Ain't those official meetin's of a church the limit?Gee! Once I went--a cold winter night--waded through snow knee-deep to agiraffe--and sat there two hours, while they discussed whether they'dfix the pastor's back fence or not--price six dollars! I didn't sayanything, bein' sort o' new, you know, but I made up my mind that nexttime I'd turn loose on 'em, if it was the last thing I did.
"I says to my wife when I got home, 'Em,' says I, 'if gittin' religiongives a man softenin' of the brain, like I see it workin' on them menthere to-night, I'm afraid I ain't on prayin' ground and intercedin'terms, as the feller says. The men in that bunch to-night was worth overeight hundred thousand dollars, and they took eleven dollars and ahalf's worth o' my time chewin' the rag over fixin' the parson's fence.I'm goin' to bed,' I says, 'and if I shouldn't wake up in the mornin',if you should miss petty in the mornin', you may know his vital powerswas exhausted by the hilarious proceedin's of this evenin'.'