The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 114 : AT AUNTY'S HOUSE BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY One time, when we'z at Aunty's

AT AUNTY'S HOUSE

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

One time, when we'z at Aunty's house-- 'Way in the country!--where They's ist but woods--an' pigs, an' cows-- An' all's out-doors an' air!-- An' orchurd-swing; an' churry-trees-- An' _churries_ in 'em!--Yes, an' these- Here red-head birds steals all they please, An' tetch 'em ef you dare!-- W'y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there, _We et out on the porch_!

Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut The table wuz; an' I Let Aunty set by me an' cut My vittuls up--an' pie.

'Tuz awful funny!--I could see The red-heads in the churry-tree; An' bee-hives, where you got to be So keerful, goin' by;-- An' "Comp'ny" there an' all!--an' we-- _We et out on the porch_!

An' I ist et _p'surves_ an' things 'At Ma don't 'low me to-- An' _chickun-gizzurds_--(don't like _wings_ Like _Parunts_ does! do _you_?) An' all the time, the wind blowed there, An' I could feel it in my hair, An' ist smell clover _ever_'where!-- An' a' old red-head flew Purt' nigh wite over my high-chair, _When we et on the porch_!

w.i.l.l.y AND THE LADY

BY GELETT BURGESS

Leave the lady, w.i.l.l.y, let the racket rip, She is going to fool you, you have lost your grip, Your brain is in a muddle and your heart is in a whirl, Come along with me, w.i.l.l.y, never mind the girl!

Come and have a man-talk; Come with those who _can_ talk; Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through; Love is only chatter, Friends are all that matter; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

Leave the lady, w.i.l.l.y, let her letter wait, You'll forget your troubles when you get it straight, The world is full of women, and the women full of wile; Come along with me, w.i.l.l.y, we can make you smile!

Come and have a man-talk, A rousing black-and-tan talk, There are plenty there to teach you; there's a lot for you to do; Your head must stop its whirling Before you go a-girling; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

Leave the lady, w.i.l.l.y, the night is good and long, Time for beer and 'baccy, time to have a song; Where the smoke is swirling, sorrow if you can-- Come along with me, w.i.l.l.y, come and be a man!

Come and have a man-talk, Come with those who _can_ talk, Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through; Love is only chatter, Friends are all that matter; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

Leave the lady, w.i.l.l.y, you are rather young; When the tales are over, when the songs are sung, When the men have made you, try the girl again; Come along with me, w.i.l.l.y, you'll be better then!

Come and have a man-talk, Forget your girl-divan talk; You've got to get acquainted with another point of view!

Girls will only fool you; We're the ones to school you; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

THE ITINERANT TINKER

BY CHARLES RAYMOND MACAULEY

Away off in front, and coming toward them along the same path, appeared a singularly misshapen figure. As they came nearer, d.i.c.key saw that it was an old man carrying on his back, at each side and in front of him, some part or piece of almost every imaginable thing. Umbrellas, chair bottoms, panes of gla.s.s, knives, forks, pans, dusters, tubs, spoons and stove-lids, graters and grind-stones, saws and samovars,--"Almost everything one could possibly think of," said d.i.c.key to himself.

The moment that the Fantasm caught sight of the strange figure he stopped, and d.i.c.key noticed that his face, which was tucked securely under his left arm, turned quite pale.

"Gracious me!" he exclaimed in a thoroughly frightened way. "There's the Itinerant Tinker again! Now," he added hastily and dolefully, "I shall have to leave you and run for it."

"Why, you're surely not afraid of _him_!" d.i.c.key exclaimed incredulously. d.i.c.key was really surprised, for the old man, so far as he could judge from that distance, wore an extremely mild and kindly look. "Why do you have to run?" he asked.

"Why? _Why?_" the Fantasm fairly shouted. "I told you a moment ago that he was the _Itinerant Tinker_! He tries to mend every broken and unbroken thing in Fantasma Land! Every time he catches me," went on the Fantasm, as he edged cautiously away, "he tries to glue on my head. It's very annoying--and, besides, it hurts! Good-by, d.i.c.key!" he called, and disappeared forthwith into the bushes.

"Isn't he a droll person?" thought d.i.c.key. "He never stops with me more than ten minutes at a time but what he either loses his head or runs away."

By that time the Itinerant Tinker had come up to where d.i.c.key stood. He sat wearily down on a boulder by the wayside, removed some of the heavier merchandise from off his back, and proceeded to mop his face vigorously with a great red handkerchief. d.i.c.key waited several minutes for the old man to speak; but the Itinerant Tinker only regarded him solemnly. He did not even smile.

"It's very warm work, sir," ventured d.i.c.key, at last, "carrying all that stuff--isn't it?"

"Stuff?" returned the Itinerant Tinker, in a very mild, but unmistakably hurt tone of voice.

"Well--" d.i.c.key hesitated timidly.

"_Don't_ call them stuff, please," sighed the Itinerant Tinker; "call them necessary commodities."

"But whatever one _does_ call them," d.i.c.key persisted, "they still make you warm to carry them all about, don't they?"

The Itinerant Tinker nodded his head and sighed again.

Again d.i.c.key waited for a considerable s.p.a.ce of time. But the old man would have been perfectly content to sit there for ever, d.i.c.key thought, without speaking. "I _do_ wish he would talk," said he to himself.

"It's awfully annoying to have him sit there and look at one without saying a word."

"What do you mend, sir?" d.i.c.key inquired at last.

"I tried once," sighed the Itinerant Tinker, sadly, "to mend the break of day. It took me twenty-seven hours and eleven minutes to fix it, and it broke every twenty-four. At that rate how long would it take to patch them all together?"

Another distressing silence.

"Have you figured _that_ out?" whispered the Itinerant Tinker at length.

"I haven't tried," d.i.c.key admitted.

"_I_ tried once," the Itinerant Tinker said, "but I ran out of paper and gave it up. Then, when the night fell," he resumed dolefully, after another long interval of silence, "I tried to prop it up. But I met with the same difficulty that confronted me in patching up the day, and was forced to abandon _that_ too."

"In which direction were you going when I met you?" d.i.c.key asked.

The Itinerant Tinker pointed ahead of him along the path and mopped his bald head.

"But where?" insisted d.i.c.key.

"To the Crypt. I was going to the Crypt," murmured the Itinerant Tinker, "to see whether I couldn't get some umbrellas to mend."

"But they don't need umbrellas in the Crypt, do they?" d.i.c.key asked, surprised.