The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 246 : I never bet--ner never wrought Upon my feller-man to bet-- And yit, at times, I'v

I never bet--ner never wrought Upon my feller-man to bet-- And yit, at times, I've often thought Of my convictions with regret.

I bless the hoss from hoof to head-- From head to hoof, and tale to mane!-- I bless the hoss, as I have said, From head to hoof, and back again!

I love my G.o.d the first of all, Then Him that perished on the cross, And next, my wife,--and then I fall Down on my knees and love the hoss.

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE

BY S. E. KISER

He looked at my tongue and he shook his head-- This was Doctor Smart-- He thumped on my chest, and then he said: "Ah, there it is! Your heart!

You mustn't run--you mustn't hurry!

You mustn't work--you mustn't worry!

Just sit down and take it cool; You may live for years, I can not say; But, in the meantime, make it a rule To take this medicine twice a day!"

He looked at my tongue, and he shook his head-- This was Doctor Wise-- "Your liver's a total wreck," he said, "You must take more exercise!

You mustn't eat sweets.

You mustn't eat meats, You must walk and leap, you must also run; You mustn't sit down in the dull old way; Get out with the boys and have some fun-- And take three doses of this a day!"

He looked at my tongue, and he shook his head-- This was Doctor Bright-- "I'm afraid your lungs are gone," he said, "And your kidney isn't right.

A change of scene is what you need, Your case is desperate, indeed, And bread is a thing you mustn't eat-- Too much starch--but, by the way, You must henceforth live on only meat-- And take six doses of this a day!"

Perhaps they were right, and perhaps they knew, It isn't for me to say; Mayhap I erred when I madly threw Their bitter stuff away; But I'm living yet and I'm on my feet, And gra.s.s isn't all I dare to eat, And I walk and I run and I worry, too, But, to save my life, I can not see What some of the able doctors would do If there were no fools like you and me.

THE BOAT THAT AIN'T[4]

BY WALLACE IRWIN

A stout, fat boat for gailin'

And a long, slim boat for squall; But there isn't no fun in sailin'

When you haven't no boat at all.

For what is the use o' calkin'

A tub with a mustard pot-- And what is the use o' talkin'

Of a boat that you haven't got?

FOOTNOTES:

[4] From "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1904, by Dodd, Mead & Co.

HOW JIMABOY FOUND HIMSELF

BY FRANCIS LYNDE

When Jimaboy began to live by his wits--otherwise, when he set up author and proposed to write for bread and meat--it was a time when the public appet.i.te demanded names and _navete_. And since Jimaboy was fresh enough to satisfy both of these requirements, the editors looked with favor upon him, and his income, for a little while, exceeded the modest figure of the railroad clerks.h.i.+p upon which he had ventured to ask Isobel to marry him.

But afterward there came a time of dearth; a period in which the new name was no longer a thing to conjure with, and artlessness was a drug on the market. Cleverness was the name of the new requirement, and Jimaboy's gift was glaringly sentimental. When you open your magazine at "The Contusions of Peggy, by James Augustus Jimaboy," you are justly indignant when you find melodrama and predetermined pathos instead of the clever clowneries which the sheer absurdity of the author's signature predicts.

"Item," said Jimaboy, jotting it down in his notebook while Isobel hung over the back of his chair: "It's a perilous thing to make people cry when they are out for amus.e.m.e.nt. Did the postman remember us this morning?"

Isobel nodded mournfully.

"And the crop?" said Jimaboy.

"Three ma.n.u.scripts; two from New York and one from Boston."

"'So flee the works of men Back to the earth again,'"

quoted the sentimentalist, smiling from the teeth outward. "Is that all?"

"All you would care about. There were some fussy old bills."

"Whose, for instance?"

"Oh, the grocer's and the coal man's and the butcher's and the water company's, and some other little ones."

"'Some other little ones'," mused Jimaboy. "There's pathos for you. If I could ever get that into a story, with your intonation, it would be cheap at fifteen cents the word. We're up against it, Bella, dear."

"Well?" she said, with an arm around his neck.

"It isn't well; it's confoundedly ill. It begins to look as if it were 'back to the farm' for us."

She came around to sit on the arm of the chair.

"To the railroad office? Never! Jimmy, love. You are too good for that."

"Am I? That remains to be proved. And just at present the evidence is acc.u.mulating by the ream on the other side--reams of rejected MS."

"You haven't found yourself yet; that is all."

He forced a smile. "Let's offer a reward. 'Lost: the key to James and Isobel Jimaboy's success in life. Finder will be suitably recompensed on returning same to 506 Hayward Avenue, Cleland, Ohio.'"

She leaned over and planted a soft little kiss on the exact spot on his forehead where it would do the most good.

"I could take the city examination and teach, if you'd let me, Jimmy."

He shook his head definitely. That was ground which had been gone over before.