The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 32 : To even ast What wuz up, as he went past!Weather most outrageous hot!-- Fairly hear it

To even ast What wuz up, as he went past!

Weather most outrageous hot!-- Fairly hear it sizz Roun' Dock an' Mike--till Dock he shot, An' Mike he slacked that grip o' his An' fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz 'Bout half up, a-spittin' red, An' shuck his head-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

An' Dock he says, A-whisperin'-like,-- "It hain't no use A-tryin'!--Mike He's jes' ripped my daylights loose!-- Git that blame-don fiddler to Let up, an' come out here--You Got some burryin' to do,-- Mike makes _one_, an' I expects In ten seconds I'll make _two_!"

And he drapped back, where he riz, 'Crost Mike's body, black and blue, Like a great big letter X!-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

SHE TALKED

BY SAM WALTER FOSS

She talked of Cosmos and of Cause, And wove green elephants in gauze, And while she frescoed earthen jugs, Her tongue would never pause: On sages wise and esoteric, And bards from Wendell Holmes to Herrick: Thro' time's proud Pantheon she walked, And talked and talked and talked and talked!

And while she talked she would crochet, And make all kinds of macrame, Or paint green bobolinks upon Her mother's earthen tray; She'd decorate a smelling bottle While she conversed on Aristotle; While fame's proud favorites round her flocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!

She talked and made embroidered rugs, She talked and painted 'la.s.ses jugs, And worked five sea-green turtle doves On papa's shaving mugs; With Emerson or Epictetus, Plato or Kant, she used to greet us: She talked until we all were shocked, And talked and talked and talked and talked!

She had a lover, and he told The story that is never old, While she her father's bootjack worked A lovely green and gold.

She switched off on Theocritus, And talked about Democritus; And his most ardent pa.s.sion balked, And talked and talked and talked and talked.

He begged her to become his own; She talked of ether and ozone, And painted yellow poodles on Her brother's razor hone; Then talked of Noah and Neb'chadnezzar, And Timon and Tiglath-pileser-- While he at her heart portals knocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!

He bent in love's tempestuous gale, She talked of strata and of shale, And worked magenta poppies on Her mother's water pail; And while he talked of pa.s.sion's power, She amplified on Schopenhauer-- A pistol flashed: he's dead! Unshocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!

GRANDMA KEELER GETS GRANDPA READY FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL

BY SARAH P. McLEAN GREENE

Sunday morning nothing arose in Wallencamp save the sun.

At least, that celestial orb had long forgotten all the roseate flaming of his youth, in an honest, straightforward march through the heavens, ere the first signs of smoke came curling lazily up from the Wallencamp chimneys.

I had retired at night, very weary, with the delicious consciousness that it wouldn't make any difference when I woke up the next morning, or whether, indeed, I woke at all. So I opened my eyes leisurely and lay half-dreaming, half-meditating on a variety of things.

I deciphered a few of the texts on the scriptural patchwork quilt which covered my couch. There were--"Let not your heart be troubled,"

"Remember Lot's wife," and "Philander Keeler," traced in inky hieroglyphics, all in close conjunction.

Finally I reached out for my watch, and, having ascertained the time of day, I got up and proceeded to dress hastily enough, wondering to hear no signs of life in the house.

I went noiselessly down the stairs. All was silent below, except for the peaceful snoring of Mrs. Philander and the little Keelers, which was responded to from some remote western corner of the Ark by the triumphant snores of Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.

I attempted to kindle a fire in the stove, but it sizzled a little while, spitefully, as much as to say, "What, Sunday morning? Not I!" and went out. So I concluded to put on some wraps and go out and warm myself in the sun.

I climbed the long hill back of the Ark, descended, and walked along the bank of the river. It was a beautiful morning. The air was--everything that could be desired in the way of air, but I felt a desperate need of something more substantial.

Standing alone with nature, on the bank of the lovely river, I thought, with tears in my eyes, of the delicious breakfast already recuperating the exhausted energies of my far-away home friends.

When I got back to the house, Mrs. Philander, in simple and unaffected attire, was bustling busily about the stove.

The snores from Grandma and Grandpa's quarter had ceased, signifying that they, also, had advanced a stage in the grand processes of Sunday morning.

The children came teasing me to dress them, so I fastened for them a variety of small articles which I flattered myself on having combined in a very ingenious and artistic manner, though I believe those infant Keelers went weeping to Grandma afterward, and were remodeled by her all-comforting hand with much skill and patience.

In the midst of her preparations for breakfast, Madeline abruptly a.s.sumed her hat and shawl, and was seen from the window, walking leisurely across the fields in the direction of the woods. She returned in due time, bearing an armful of fresh evergreens, which she twisted around the family register.

When the ancient couple made their appearance, I remarked silently, in regard to Grandma Keeler's hair, what proved afterward to be its usual holiday morning arrangement. It was confined in six infinitesimal braids which appeared to be sprouting out, perpendicularly, in all directions from her head. The effect of redundancy and expansiveness thus heightened and increased on Grandma's features was striking in the extreme.

While we were eating breakfast, that good soul observed to Grandpa Keeler: "Wall, pa, I suppose you'll be all ready when the time comes to take teacher and me over to West Wallen to Sunday-school, won't ye?"

Grandpa coughed, and coughed again, and raised his eyes helplessly to the window.

"Looks some like showers," said he. "A-hem! a-hem! Looks mightily to me like showers, over yonder."

"Thar', r'aly, husband! I must say I feel mortified for ye," said Grandma. "Seein' as you're a perfessor, too, and thar' ain't been a single Sunday mornin' since I've lived with ye, pa, summer or winter, but what you've seen showers, and it r'aly seems to me it's dreadful inconsistent when thar' ain't no cloud in the sky, and don't look no more like rain than I do." And Grandma's face, in spite of her reproachful tones, was, above all, blandly sunlike and expressive of anything rather than deluge and watery disaster.

Grandpa was silent a little while, then coughed again. I had never seen Grandpa in worse straits.

"A-hem! a-hem! 'f.a.n.n.y' seems to be a little lame, this mornin'," said he. "I shouldn't wonder. She's been goin' pretty stiddy this week."

"It does beat all, pa," continued Grandma Keeler, "how 't all the horses you've ever had since I've known ye have always been took lame Sunday mornin'. Thar' was 'Happy Jack,' he could go anywhers through the week, and never limp a step, as n.o.body could see, and Sunday mornin' he was always took lame! And thar' was 'Tantrum'--"

"Tantrum" was the horse that had run away with Grandma when she was thrown from the wagon, and generally smashed to pieces. And now, Grandma branched off into the thrilling reminiscences connected with this incident of her life, which was the third time during the week that the horrible tale had been repeated for my delectation.

When she had finished, Grandpa shook his head with painful earnestness, reverting to the former subject of discussion.

"It's a long jaunt!" said he; "a long jaunt!"

"Thar's a long hill to climb before we reach Zion's mount," said Grandma Keeler, impressively.

"Wall, there's a darned sight harder one on the road to West Wallen!"

burst out the old sea-captain desperately; "say nothin' about the devilish stones!"

"Thar' now," said Grandma, with calm though awful reproof; "I think we've gone fur enough for one day; we've broke the Sabbath, and took the name of the Lord in vain, and that ought to be enough for perfessors."

Grandpa replied at length in a greatly subdued tone: "Wall, if you and the teacher want to go over to Sunday-school to-day, I suppose we can go if we get ready," a long submissive sigh--"I suppose we can."

"They have preachin' service in the mornin', I suppose," said Grandma.

"But we don't generally git along to that. It makes such an early start.

We generally try to get around, when we go, in time for Sunday-school.

They have singin' and all. It's just about as interestin', I think, as preachin'. The old man r'aly likes it," she observed aside to me; "when he once gets started, but he kind o' dreads the gittin' started."

When I beheld the ordeal through which Grandpa Keeler was called to pa.s.s, at the hands of his faithful consort, before he was considered in a fit condition of mind and body to embark for the sanctuary, I marveled not at the old man's reluctance, nor that he had indeed seen clouds and tempest fringing the horizon.