The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 150 : Then speaks the Court Biographer, And a handy guy is he, "First let me wind my bi

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, Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 flas.h.i.+ng spectacles Toward high-domed Was.h.i.+ngton.

"O tus.h.!.+" 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 Const.i.tution 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 inst.i.tute-- 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 trespa.s.sing 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 a.s.s--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 pa.s.sing 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.