The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 73 : He said, "You vagabone, I'll have you indicted for exhibitin dangerous and im

He said, "You vagabone, I'll have you indicted for exhibitin dangerous and immoral animals."

I replied, "Gentle Sir, there isn't a animal here that hasn't a beautiful moral, but you mustn't fondle 'em. You mustn't meddle with their idiotsyncracies."

The gentleman was a dramatic cricket, and he wrote a article for a paper, in which he said my entertainment wos a decided failure.

As regards Bears, you can teach 'em to do interestin things, but they're onreliable. I had a very large grizzly bear once, who would dance, and larf, and lay down, and bow his head in grief, and give a mournful wale, etsetry. But he often annoyed me. It will be remembered that on the occasion of the first battle of Bull Run, it suddenly occurd to the Fed'ral soldiers that they had business in Was.h.i.+ngton which ought not to be neglected, and they all started for that beautiful and romantic city, maintainin a rate of speed durin the entire distance that would have done credit to the celebrated French steed _Gladiateur_. Very nat'rally our Gov'ment was deeply grieved at this defeat; and I said to my Bear shortly after, as I was givin a exhibition in Ohio--I said, "Brewin, are you not sorry the National arms has sustained a defeat?" His business was to wale dismal, and bow his head down, the band (a barrel origin and a wiolin) playing slow and melancholy moosic. What did the grizzly old cuss do, however, but commence darncin and larfin in the most joyous manner? I had a narrer escape from being imprisoned for disloyalty.

DISLIKES

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I want it to be understood that I consider that a certain number of persons are at liberty to dislike me peremptorily, without showing cause, and that they give no offense whatever in so doing.

If I did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment towards myself on the part of others, I should not feel at liberty to indulge my own aversions. I try to cultivate a Christian feeling to all my fellow-creatures, but inasmuch as I must also respect truth and honesty, I confess to myself a certain number of inalienable dislikes and prejudices, some of which may possibly be shared by others. Some of these are purely instinctive, for others I can a.s.sign a reason. Our likes and dislikes play so important a part in the order of things that it is well to see on what they are founded.

There are persons I meet occasionally who are too intelligent by half for my liking. They know my thoughts beforehand, and tell me what I was going to say. Of course they are masters of all my knowledge, and a good deal besides; have read all the books I have read, and in later editions; have had all the experiences I have been through, and more too. In my private opinion every mother's son of them will lie at any time rather than confess ignorance.

I have a kind of dread, rather than hatred, of persons with a large excess of vitality; great feeders, great laughers, great story-tellers, who come sweeping over their company with a huge tidal wave of animal spirits and boisterous merriment. I have pretty good spirits myself, and enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but I am oppressed and extinguished by these great l.u.s.ty, noisy creatures, and feel as if I were a mute at a funeral when they get into full blast.

I can not get along much better with those drooping, languid people, whose vitality falls short as much as that of the others is in excess. I have not life enough for two; I wish I had. It is not very enlivening to meet a fellow-creature whose expression and accents say, "You are the hair that breaks the camel's back of my endurance, you are the last drop that makes my cup of woe run over;" persons whose heads drop on one side like those of toothless infants, whose voices recall the tones in which our old snuffling choir used to wail out the verses of

"Life is the time to serve the Lord."

There is another style which does not captivate me. I recognize an attempt at the _grand manner_ now and then, in persons who are well enough in their way, but of no particular importance, socially or otherwise. Some family tradition of wealth or distinction is apt to be at the bottom of it, and it survives all the advantages that used to set it off. I like family pride as well as my neighbors, and respect the high-born fellow-citizen whose progenitors have not worked in their s.h.i.+rt-sleeves for the last two generations full as much as I ought to.

But _grand-pere oblige_; a person with a known grandfather is too distinguished to find it necessary to put on airs. The few Royal Princes I have happened to know were very easy people to get along with, and had not half the social knee-action I have often seen in the collapsed dowagers who lifted their eyebrows at me in my earlier years.

My heart does not warm as it should do towards the persons, not intimates, who are always _too_ glad to see me when we meet by accident, and discover all at once that they have a vast deal to unbosom themselves of to me.

There is one blameless person whom I can not love and have no excuse for hating. It is the innocent fellow-creature, otherwise inoffensive to me, whom I find I have involuntarily joined on turning a corner. I suppose the Mississippi, which was flowing quietly along, minding its own business, hates the Missouri for coming into it all at once with its muddy stream. I suppose the Missouri in like manner hates the Mississippi for diluting with its limpid, but insipid current the rich reminiscences of the varied soils through which its own stream has wandered. I will not compare myself to the clear or the turbid current, but I will own that my heart sinks when I find all of a sudden I am in for a corner confluence, and I cease loving my neighbor as myself until I can get away from him.

UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM

BY ARTEMUS WARD

Uncle Simon he Clumb up a tree To see What he could see, When presentlee Uncle Jim Clumb up beside of him And squatted down by he.

THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

The Little Mock-man on the Stairs-- He mocks the lady's horse 'at rares At bi-sickles an' things,-- He mocks the mens 'at rides 'em, too; An' mocks the Movers, drivin' through, An' hollers "Here's the way _you_ do With them-air hitchin'-strings!"

"Ho! ho!" he'll say, Ole Settlers' Day, When they're all jogglin' by,-- "You look like _this_,"

He'll say, an' twis'

His mouth an' squint his eye An' 'tend like _he_ wuz beat the ba.s.s Drum at both ends--an' toots and blares Ole dinner-horn an' puffs his face-- The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!

The Little Mock-man on the Stairs Mocks all the peoples all he cares 'At pa.s.ses up an' down!

He mocks the chickens round the door, An' mocks the girl 'at scrubs the floor, An' mocks the rich, an' mocks the pore, An' ever'thing in town!

"Ho! ho!" says he, To you er me; An' ef we turns an' looks, He's all cross-eyed An' mouth all wide Like Giunts is, in books.-- "Ho! ho!" he yells, "look here at _me_,"

An' rolls his fat eyes roun' an' glares,-- "_You_ look like _this!_" he says, says he-- The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!

_The Little Mock-- The Little Mock-- The Little Mock-man on the Stairs, He mocks the music-box an' clock, An' roller-sofy an' the chairs; He mocks his Pa an' spec's he wears; He mocks the man 'at picks the pears An' plums an' peaches on the shares; He mocks the monkeys an' the bears On picture-bills, an' rips an' tears 'Em down,--an' mocks ist all he cares, An' EVER'body EVER'wheres!_

MAMMY'S LULLABY

BY STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN

Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?

Sunset still a-s.h.i.+nin' in de wes'; Sky am full o' windehs an' de stahs am peepin' froo-- Eb'ryt'ing but mammy's lamb at res'.

Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'lan', Swing 'im to'ds de Souf-- See dat dove a-comin' wif a olive in 'is mouf!

Angel hahps a-hummin', Angel banjos strummin'-- Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?

Cricket fiddleh sc.r.a.pin' off de rozzum f'um 'is bow, Whippo'will a-mo'nin' on a lawg; Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin' mighty slow-- Stahtled at de bahkin' ob de dawg; Swing de baby Eas'way, Swing de baby Wes', Swing 'im to'ds de Souflan' whah de melon grow de bes'!

Angel singers singin', Angel bells a-ringin', Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?

Eyelids des a-droopin' li'l loweh all de w'ile, Undeh lip a-saggin' des a mite; Li'l baby toofies showin' so't o' lak a smile, Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white.

Swing 'im to'ds de No'flan', Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'-- Woolly cloud a-comin' fo' t' wrap 'im in 'is fleece!

Angel ban' a-playin'-- Whut dat music sayin'?

"Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?"

MY SWEETHEART

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK

Her height? Perhaps you'd deem her tall-- To be exact, just five feet seven.

Her arching feet are not too small; Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven.

Slim are her hands, yet not too wee-- I could not fancy useless fingers, Her hands are all that hands should be, And own a touch whose memory lingers.

The hue that lights her oval cheeks Recalls the pink that tints a cherry; Upon her chin a dimple speaks, A disposition blithe and merry.

Her laughter ripples like a brook; Its sound a heart of stone would soften.