The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 137 : But no finer specimen of unconscious humor has ever fallen under the sub-editorial eye

But no finer specimen of unconscious humor has ever fallen under the sub-editorial eye than "The Beautiful Circus Girl." In these enterprising days rising young authors sometimes boast in print of their ignorance of grammar and spelling, but the author of the aforementioned bit of fiction surpa.s.ses them all in that respect. It seems only just that such a unique gem should be rescued from the dull obscurity of the waste-basket.

THE BEAUTIFUL CIRCUS GIRL

Some years ago the quaint but slow little village of Mariana was all on the qui-of-eve with excitement. Pasted on every tree and sign was announcements of Hall's circus, and the aperence of pretty Rose Floid in the pearless feets of tight-rope dancing, and Seignor Paul Paulo as her attendent. All the vilage was agog, for in their midst had old Hall and his Wife whome he always (spoke of as the Misus) taken a small but quaint cotage, so as to make quiet and please Rose whose guardien he was.

In the distanse was seen an advancing teem, and mounted on its box driving was W. Alexander, distinguished as to aperence, tallent, and that charm, _money_. He was of the most patricien aristocrats of the place. Placed on the summit of one of those hils that spring up in the most unexpected ways and degrees was the quaint old Tudor mansion of the Alexanders called Waterloo, in rememberence of the home of his ancestors which now rests on the banks of the Potomack; a legend as to war and romance. Though bearing with him all the honners that Cambridg could confere, W. Alexander was a faverite in the vilage, being ever ready with a kind enquiry as to Parent, or peny for marbles, not forgetting his boyhoods days. Though the beau par excelant of the vilage, and posessing vast landed estate and a kind retinu, he was not haughty.

Every one was eger to see Rose perform. She in her pasage too and frow had won by her sweet manners (many likings) ere she exhibited her skill.

The eventful hour of promis came and what a crowd was there. Rose came fourth, asisted by Paul Paulo. His form was molded even as an Apolo, and his eger eye was fixed on the bony girl. She ballanced her pole, saught her equiliberum, and every heart was at her desposal, not accepting W.

Alexander. Seeing this, the dark pashonate eye of the Italian scowled.

So droped the curtain of the first performance. And W. Alexander stroled on towards his home, heart and head full of the beautiful circus girl, thoughts were very conflicting, love at first sight.

(We will skip, for want of s.p.a.ce, the exquisite pa.s.sages descriptive of the mutual love of Rose and W. Alexander, and pa.s.s on to the finale.)

There was a paus, a sencation, and Rose came fourth to meander in mid-air. Admeration was at its hight, as she swayed too and frow as it were a winged egle from some etherial climb.

Low! a paus--the rope snaps--and Rose falls to erth a helpless ma.s.s of youth and beauty. The venerable man of medicin closed her star-lit eyes now forever dimed to this world. And all knew she had walked the last rope that bound her to this erth.

What, who, was her murderer?

The rope seemed to be cut with some jaged instrument so that when her tiny feat pressed its coils it became her destroyer.

Suspician pointed at the Italian.

W. Alexander's old Father of sympathy now the strongest, entreted our Hero to sale for distent sh.o.r.es, there asisted by that balm time and change, there a.s.suage his grefe.

Well, came the last evening, and with the sadest of hearts and a bunch of sweet violets W. Alexander went to bid a long fare well.

But as he neared the sacred spot his heart seemed deadened. p.r.o.ne on her grave changing the snowy whiteness of the flowers with its crimson die was the body of Paul Paulo. Who by his own hand caused his life blood to floe as an attonement.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone-- With a dad-burn hook-and-line And a saplin'-pole--i swawn!

I've had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever _any_where!

Heaven to come can't discount mine Up and down old Brandywine!

Haint no sense in _wis.h.i.+n'_--yit Wisht to goodness I _could_ jes "Gee" the blame world round and git Back to that old happiness!-- Kindo' drive back in the shade "The old Covered Bridge" there laid Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!--it haint no _dream_ 'At I'm wantin',--but _the fac's_ As they wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!-- Gim me back my bare feet--and Stonebruise too!--And scratched and tanned!

And let hottest dog-days s.h.i.+ne Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees 'Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kindo' curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer's tune; And the smokin', chokin' dust O' the turnpike at its wusst-- _Sat.u.r.d'ys_, say, when it seems Road's jes jammed with country teams!--

Whilse the old town, fur away 'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand.

Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor O' the old bridge!--grind and roar With yer blame percession-line-- Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw-hat Off the foot-log!--what _I_ care?-- Fist shoved in the crown o' that-- Like the old Clown ust to wear.

Wouldn't swop it fer a' old Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!-- Keep yer _King_ ef you'll gim me Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fis.h.i.+n'-worms! er steal My best "goggle-eye!"--but you Can't lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin' like they ust to do!

So, in memory, to-day Same old ripple lips away At my cork and saggin' line, Up and down old Brandywine!

There the logs is, round the hill, Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift Out sunfish from daylight till Dew-fall--'fore he'd leave "The Drift"

And give _us_ a chance--and then Kindo' fish back home again, Ketchin' 'em jes left and right Where _we_ hadn't got "a bite!"

Er, 'way windin' out and in,-- Old path th'ough the iurnweeds And dog-fennel to yer chin-- Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds And cat-tails, smack into where Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare Us clean 'crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o' the dam It 'ud coax us furder still Tords the old race, slow and ca'm, Slidin' on to Huston's mill-- Where, I 'spect, "The Freeport crowd"

Never _warmed_ to us er 'lowed We wuz quite so overly Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it peared-like ever'thing-- Fur away from home as _there_-- Had more _relish_-like, i jing!-- Fish in stream, er bird in air!

O them rich old bottom-lands, Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!

Wortermelons--_master-mine!_ Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!--Lumps o' raw Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough With ripe yaller--like you've saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes _gorges_ o' wild plums, Till a feller'd suck his thumbs Clean up to his elbows! _My!_-- _Me some more er lem me die!_

Up and down old Brandywine!...

Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!-- Flick me with a pizenvine And yell "_Yip!_" and lem me loose!

--Old now as I then wuz young, 'F I could sing as I _have_ sung, Song 'ud surely ring _dee-vine_ Up and down old Brandywine!

JONES

BY LLOYD OSBOURNE

I

I could have taken "No" like a man, and would have gone away decently and never bothered her again. I told her so straight out in the first angry flush of my rejection--but this string business, with everything left hanging in the air, so to speak, made a fellow feel like thirty cents.

"It simply means that I'm engaged and you are not," I said.

"It's nothing of the kind," she returned tearfully. "You're as free as free, Ezra. You can go away this moment, and never write or anything!"

Her lips trembled as she said this, and I confess it gave me a kind of savage pleasure to feel that it was still in my power to hurt her.

It may sound unkind, but still you must admit that the whole situation was exasperating. Here was five-foot-five of exquisite, blooming, twenty-year-old American girlhood sending away the man she confessed to care for, because, forsooth, she would not marry before her elder sister! I always thought it was beautiful of Freddy (she was named Frederica, you know) to be always so sweet and tender and grateful about Eleanor; but sometimes grat.i.tude can be carried altogether too far, even if you _are_ an orphan, and _were_ brought up by hand. Eleanor was thirty-four if a day--a nice enough woman, of course, and college bred, and cultivated, and clever--but her long suit wasn't good looks. She was tall and bony; wors.h.i.+pped genius and all that; and played the violin.