The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. (of X.)

  "The least chip would be irreparable, I suppose," continued Mrs. Winter,"thousands couldn't pay if one were broken!"

  "Imagine the feelings of the custodian," said Emma. "I'm in a trembleall the time."

  "I pity you," said Mrs. Winter, as the two ladies passed on to Mrs.Winter's great-grandmother's blue and white embroidered bedspread.

  "Oh, Peggy, _do_ be careful!" whispered Johnny-Ivan; Peggy was sending avelocipede in dizzy circles round the counter.

  Now fate had ordered that at this critical instant the children shouldbe unguarded. Miss Hopkins had stepped aside at the call of an agitatedlady who had lost one of her art treasures in carriage; for the moment,there was no one near save a freckled boy in shabby overalls, who eyedthe toys wistfully from afar. He was the same little boy whomJohnny-Ivan had bribed with a jack-knife to close the gate a few weeksbefore; and he was in the Museum to help his mother, the scrub-woman ofthe store.

  Peggy grew more pleased with her play. The velocipede described widerand wider gyrations with accelerating speed; its keen buzz swelled onthe air.

  "It'll hit somepin!" warned Johnny-Ivan in an access of fear.

  But Peggy's soul was dauntless to recklessness. "No, it won't," sheflung back. Her shining head was between Johnny and the whirling wheels.He thought a most particularly beautiful little swinging gate in periland tried to swerve the flying thing; how it happened, neither of thechildren knew; there was a smash, a crash, and gate and velocipede layin splinters under a bronze bust. The glass of the show-case was etchedwith a sinister gray line.

  "_Now_ look what you've done!" exclaimed Peggy, with the naturalirritation of disaster. "Oh, my!" squeaked the shabby little boy, "won'tyou catch it!" Peggy's anger was swallowed up in fright and sympathy;she pushed Johnny-Ivan ahead of her. "That Miss Hopkins is looking,"cried she, "get behind these folks down the aisle!"

  She propelled the little boy out of the immediate neighborhood of thecalamity; she forced a wicked, deceitful smile (alas! guile comes easyto her sex) and pointed out things to him, whispering, "Look pleasant!Don't be so scared! They'll never know we did it." Already she wasshouldering her share in crime, with a woman's willingness; she said"we" quite unconsciously; but she added (and this was of directvolition): "I did it more'n you; you were just trying to keep the nastything straight; I was a heap more to blame. Anyhow, I guess it ain't soawful bad. Just those wooden things."

  Johnny-Ivan shook a tragic head; even his lips had gone bluish-white."She said thousands wouldn't repair the damage," moaned he.

  "You can't make me believe those mean little wooden tricks are worth anythousand dollars!" volleyed Peggy; nevertheless, her heart beatfaster,--grown people are so queer. "Are you sure she meant _them_?Maybe it was those things in the next glass case; they're her ownthings! They're some kind of Chinese china and cost a heap." Peggy'ssturdy womanly wits were rising from the shock.

  "And the show-case is broked!" sniffed Johnny-Ivan, gulping down a sob.

  "It ain't broke, it's only cracked; 'sides, it was cracked a right smartbefo'!"

  "But this was a new place--I know, 'cause I cut my finger on the other,scraping it over."

  "Well, anyhow, I reckon it didn't be much value," Peggy insisted.

  "I saw that young lady come back,"--Johnny-Ivan had switched on to a newtrack leading to grisly possibilities--"maybe _she'll_ find it!"

  "Well, we're gone, all right."

  Peggy gave an unprincipled giggle; "Maybe she'll think it was _him_."

  "Then we _got_ to tell," moaned Johnny.

  "No, we ain't. He'll run off and so she won't ask him questions."

  "But she'll _think_ it's him. It'll be mean."

  "No it won't."

  "It's mean to have somebody else take your blame or your punishment;mamma said so."

  The small casuist was too discreet to attack Johnny's oracle; she onlypouted her pretty lips and quibbled:

  "'Tain't mean if the people who get blamed are mean themselves--likehim. I don't care _how_ blamed he gets; I wouldn't care if he gotlicked."

  But Johnny's conscience was not so elastic. "I don't care, either," heprotested. "I--I wouldn't care if he was _deaded_"--anxious topropitiate--"but it would be mean just the same. I got to tell papa,Peggy, I truly have."

  Peggy grew very cross. "You are just the foolest, obsternatest littleboy I ever did see," she grumbled; "you're a plumb idiot! I'd like toslap you! Your papa'll be awful mad."

  Johnny-Ivan essayed an indifferent mien, but his eyes were miserable.

  "Say, Jo'nivan,"--her voice sank to a whisper that curdled hisblood--"were you ever spanked?"

  "Only Hilma sorter kinder--not really _spanking_, you know," confessedJohnny with a toss of his head. "I just made faces at her; I didn'tcry!" he bragged.

  "Never your mamma or your papa?"

  "Course not," said Johnny with a haughty air; "but, Peggy," he said verylow, "were you--did--"

  "Oh, my, yes! Mammy did when I was little. I'm too big now."

  "I'm too big, too, now, ain't I?"

  "I don't know," said Peggy. "Wulf Greiner was licked by teacher, andhe's thirteen. It's whether it's mighty bad, you know."

  Johnny-Ivan caught his breath and his legs shook under him; the horrorof his father's "licking" him came over him cold; it was not the pain;he had never minded Hilma's sturdy blows and he had let Michael cut asplinter out of his thumb with a pocket-knife, and never whimpered; itwas the ignominy, the unknown terror of his father's wrath that lookedawful to him. As he looked down the crowded room and suddenly beheldWinslow's face bent gravely over Miss Hopkins, who was talkingearnestly, he could hardly move his feet. Yet he had no thought ofwavering. "I _got_ to tell," he said, and walked as fast as he could,with his white face, straight to the group.

  Winslow looked down and saw the two children; and one could discover thesignals of calamity in their faces: Peggy's a fine scarlet andJohnny-Ivan's grayish-white.

  "What's the matter, Johnny?" asked Winslow.

  Johnny's eyelids were glued tight--just as they were when he pulledPeggy's tooth--he blurted everything out breathlessly: "I've donesomething _awful_, papa! It'll cost thousands of dollars."

  Emma Hopkins had considered Winslow an unattractive man, of a harshvisage, but now, as he looked at his little son, she changed her mind.

  "What did you do, son?" said he quietly; his hand found Johnny's browncurls and lay on them a second.

  "He didn't do it, really; it was _me_," Peggy broke in, too agitated forgrammar. "I was playing with the little tricks on the table, the models,sah, and I was making the v'losipid run round and he was 'fraid I'dbreak it; but _I_ did it, really, sah."

  "And the model fell on to something valuable? I see."

  "But he wasn't playing with it, he was only trying to keep me frombreaking--"

  "Well, young lady, you two are evidently in the same boat; but youaren't a bit sneaky, either of you. Let's see the wreckage; I supposeyou got into trouble because you wanted to see how things worked, andJohnny, as usual, couldn't keep out of other folks' hot water. Where'sthe ruin?"

  "The show-case is broked, too," said Johnny-Ivan in a woeful, smallvoice.

  "But it was cracked before," interjected Peggy.

  Winslow looked at her with a little twist. "That's a comfort," said he,"and you have horse sense, my little Southerner. I guess you didn'teither of you mean any harm--"

  "Indeed, no, sah, and Johnny was just as good; never touched a thing--"

  "But you see your intentions didn't protect you. Distrust goodintentions, my dears; look out for the possible consequences. However, Ithink there is one person to blame you haven't mentioned, and that isone Josiah C. Winslow, who let two such giddy young persons explore bythemselves. Contributory negligence is proved; and said Winslow will paythe bill and not kick."

  So saying, he took Peggy's warm, chubby little fingers in one of his bigwhite hands and Johnny-Ivan's cold little palm in the other, and noddeda farewell to Emma.

&nb
sp; THE BALLAD OF GRIZZLY GULCH[1]

  BY WALLACE IRWIN

  The rocks are rough, the trail is tough, The forest lies before, As madly, madly to the hunt Rides good King Theodore With woodsmen, plainsmen, journalists And kodaks thirty-four.

  The bob-cats howl, the panthers growl, "He sure is after us!" As by his side lopes Bill, the Guide, A wicked-looking cuss-- "Chee-chee!" the little birds exclaim, "Ain't Teddy stren-oo-uss!"

  Though dour the climb with slip and slime, King Ted he doesn't care, Till, cracking peanuts on a rock, Behold, a Grizzly Bear! King Theodore he shows his teeth, But he never turns a hair.

  "Come hither, Court Photographer," The genial monarch saith, "Be quick to snap your picture-trap As I do yon Bear to death." "Dee-lighted!" cries the smiling Bear, As he waits and holds his breath.

  Then speaks the Court Biographer, And a handy guy is he, "First let me wind my biograph, That the deed recorded be." "A square deal!" saith the patient Bear, With ready repartee.

  And now doth mighty Theodore For slaughter raise his gun; A flash, a bang, an ursine roar-- The dready deed is done! And now the kodaks thirty-four In chorus click as one.

  The big brown bruin stricken falls And in his juices lies; His blood is spent, yet deep content Beams from his limpid eyes. "Congratulations, dear old pal!" He murmurs as he dies.

  From Cripple Creek and Soda Springs, Gun Gulch and Gunnison, A-foot, a-sock, the people flock To see that deed of gun; And parents bring huge families To show what _they_ have done.

  In the damp corse stands Theodore And takes a hand of each, As loud and long the happy throng Cries, "Speech!" again and "Speech!" Which pleaseth well King Theodore, Whose practice is to preach.

  "Good friends," he says, "lead outdoor lives And Fame you yet may see-- Just look at Lincoln, Washington, And great Napoleon B.; And after that take off your hats And you may look at me!"

  But as he speaks, a Messenger Cries, "Sire, a telegraft!" The king up takes the wireless screed Which he opens fore and aft, And reads: "The Venezuelan stew Is boiling over. TAFT."

  Then straight the good King Theodore In anger drops his gun And turns his flashing spectacles Toward high-domed Washington. "O tush!" he saith beneath his breath, "A man can't have no fun!"

  Then comes a disappointed wail From every rock and tree. "Good-by, good-by!" the grizzlies cry And wring their handkerchee. And a sad bob-cat exclaims, "O drat! He never shot at me!"

  So backward, backward from the hunt The monarch lopes once more. The Constitution rides behind And the Big Stick rides before (Which was a rule of precedent In the reign of Theodore).

  [Footnote 1: From "At the Sign of the Dollar," by Wallace Irwin.Copyright, 1905, by Fox, Duffield & Co.]

  MY PHILOSOFY

  BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

  I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be, Much posted on philosofy; But thare is times, when all alone, I work out idees of my own. And of these same thare is a few I'd like to jest refer to you-- Pervidin' that you don't object To listen clos't and rickollect.

  I allus argy that a man Who does about the best he can Is plenty good enugh to suit This lower mundane institute-- No matter ef his daily walk Is subject fer his neghbor's talk, And critic-minds of ev'ry whim Jest all git up and go fer him!

  I knowed a feller onc't that had The yeller-janders mighty bad,-- And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet Would stop and give him some receet Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say He kindo' thought they'd go away Without no medicin', and boast That he'd git well without one doste.

  He kep' a-yellerin' on--and they Perdictin' that he'd die some day Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed, The feller did, and lost his head, And wundered in his mind a spell-- Then rallied, and, at last, got well; But ev'ry friend that said he'd die Went back on him eternally!

  Its natchurl enugh, I guess, When some gits more and some gits less, Fer them-uns on the slimmest side To claim it ain't a fare divide; And I've knowed some to lay and wait, And git up soon, and set up late, To ketch some feller they could hate Fer goin' at a faster gait.

  The signs is bad when folks commence A-findin' fault with Providence, And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake At ev'ry prancin' step they take. No man is grate tel he can see How less than little he would be Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare He hung his sign out anywhare.

  My doctern is to lay aside Contensions, and be satisfied: Jest do your best, and praise er blame That follers that, counts jest the same. I've allus noticed grate success Is mixed with troubles, more or less, And it's the man who does the best That gits more kicks than all the rest.

  THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

  BY BRET HARTE

  I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

  But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific man to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

  Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

  Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

  Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

  Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

  Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

  For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

  And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told, in simple language, what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

  LOST CHORDS

  BY EUGENE FIELD

  One autumn eve, when soft the breeze Came sweeping through the lattice wide, I sat me down at organ side And poured my soul upon the keys.

  It was, perhaps by heaven's design, That from my half unconscious touch, There swept a passing chord of such Sweet harmony, it seemed divine.

  In one soft tone it seemed to say The sweetest words I ever heard, Then like a truant forest bird, It soared from me to heaven away.

  Last eve, I sat at window whence I sought the spot where erst had stood A cord--a cord of hick'ry wood, Piled up against the back yard fence.

  Four dollars cost me it that day, Four dollars earned by sweat of brow, Where was the cord of hick'ry now? The thieves had gobbled it away!
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  Ah! who can ever count the cost, Of treasures which were once our own, Yet now, like childhood dreams are flown, Those cords that are forever lost.

  THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER

  BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

  The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees; And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees, And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly, Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings; And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

  You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow-- Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how; So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing-- But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing: And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest; And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right, Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!

  They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!