The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 4 : "Gracious!" said she; "what's that? I hope the gla.s.s isn't fr

"Gracious!" said she; "what's that? I hope the gla.s.s isn't fractioned, for it is a sure sign of calamity, and mercy knows they come along full fast enough without helping 'em by breaking looking-gla.s.ses."

There was another tap, and she caught sight of a white bean that fell on the floor; and there, reflected in the gla.s.s, was the face of Ike, who was blowing beans at the mirror through a crack in the door.

XXI

"As for the Chinese question," said Mrs. Partington, reflectively, holding her spoon at "present," while the vapor of her cup of tea curled about her face, which shone through it like the moon through a mist, "it is a great pity that somebody don't answer it, though who under the canister of heaven can do it, with sich letters as they have on their tea-chists, is more than I can tell. It is really too bad, though, that some lingister doesn't try it, and not have this provoking question asked all the time, as if we were ignoramuses, and did not know Toolong from No Strong, and there never was sich a thing as the seventh commandment, which, Heaven knows, suits this case to a T, and I hope the breakers of it may escape, but I don't see how they can. The question must be answered, unless it is like a cannondrum, to be given up, which n.o.body of any spirit should do."

She brought the spoon down into the cup, and looked out through the windows of her soul into celestial fields, peopled with pig-tails, that were all in her eye, while Ike took a double charge of sugar for his tea, and gave an extra allowance of milk to the kitten.

THE MENAGERIE

BY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

Thank G.o.d my brain is not inclined to cut Such capers every day! I'm just about Mellow, but then--There goes the tent flap shut.

Rain's in the wind. I thought so: every snout Was twitching when the keeper turned me out.

That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold.

Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephant Squeals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold, And jabber that it's rain-water they want.

(It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.)

I'll foot it home, to try and make believe I'm sober. After this I stick to beer, And drop the circus when the sane folks leave.

A man's a fool to look at things too near: They look back and begin to cut up queer.

Beasts do, at any rate; especially Wild devils caged. They have the coolest way Of being something else than what you see: You pa.s.s a sleek young zebra nosing hay, A nylghau looking bored and distingue,--

And think you've seen a donkey and a bird.

Not on your life! Just glance back, if you dare.

The zebra chews, the nylghau hasn't stirred; But something's happened, Heaven knows what or where, To freeze your scalp and pompadour your hair.

I'm not precisely an aeolian lute Hung in the wandering winds of sentiment, But drown me if the ugliest, meanest brute Grunting and fretting in that sultry tent Didn't just floor me with embarra.s.sment!

'Twas like a thunder-clap from out the clear-- One minute they were circus beasts, some grand, Some ugly, some amusing, and some queer: Rival attractions to the hobo band, The flying jenny, and the peanut-stand.

Next minute they were old hearth-mates of mine!

Lost people, eyeing me with such a stare!

Patient, satiric, devilish, divine; A gaze of hopeless envy, squalid care, Hatred, and thwarted love, and dim despair.

Within my blood my ancient kindred spoke-- Grotesque and monstrous voices, heard afar Down ocean caves when behemoth awoke, Or through fern forests roared the plesiosaur Locked with the giant-bat in ghastly war.

And suddenly, as in a flash of light, I saw great Nature working out her plan; Through all her shapes, from mastodon to mite, Forever groping, testing, pa.s.sing on To find at last the shape and soul of Man.

Till in the fullness of accomplished time, Comes brother Forepaugh, upon business bent, Tracks her through frozen and through torrid clime, And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent, The stages of her huge experiment;

Babbling aloud her shy and reticent hours; Dragging to light her blinking, slothful moods; Publis.h.i.+ng fretful seasons when her powers Worked wild and sullen in her solitudes, Or when her mordant laughter shook the woods.

Here, round about me, were her vagrant births; Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she essayed; Her qualms, her fiery prides, her craze mirths; The troublings of her spirit as she strayed, Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was afraid,

On that long road she went to seek mankind; Here were the darkling coverts that she beat To find the Hider she was sent to find; Here the distracted footprints of her feet Whereby her soul's Desire she came to greet.

But why should they, her botch-work, turn about And stare disdain at me, her finished job?

Why was the place one vast suspended shout Of laughter? Why did all the daylight throb With soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken sob?

Helpless I stood among those awful cages; The beasts were walking loose, and I was bagged!

I, I, last product of the toiling ages, Goal of heroic feet that never lagged-- A little man in trousers, slightly jagged.

Deliver me from such another jury!

The Judgment-day will be a picnic to't.

Their satire was more dreadful than their fury, And worst of all was just a kind of brute Disgust, and giving up, and sinking mute.

Survival of the fittest adaptation, And all their other evolution terms, Seem to omit one small consideration, To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms Have souls: there's soul in everything that squirms.

And souls are restless, plagued, impatient things, All dream and unaccountable desire; Crawling, but pestered with the thought of wings; Spreading through every inch of earth's old mire, Mystical hanker after something higher.

Wishes _are_ horses, as I understand.

I guess a wistful polyp that has strokes Of feeling faint to gallivant on land Will come to be a scandal to his folk; Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats and jokes.

And at the core of every life that crawls Or runs or flies or swims or vegetates-- Churning the mammoth's heart-blood, in the galls Of shark and tiger planting gorgeous hates, Lighting the love of eagles for their mates;

Yes, in the dim brain of the jellied fish That is and is not living--moved and stirred From the beginning a mysterious wish, A vision, a command, a fatal Word: The name of Man was uttered, and they heard.

Upward along the aeons of old war They sought him: wing and shank-bone, claw and bill, Were fas.h.i.+oned and rejected; wide and far They roamed the twilight jungles of their will; But still they sought him, and desired him still.

Man they desired, but mind you, Perfect Man, The radiant and the loving, yet to be!

I hardly wonder, when they come to scan The upshot of their strenuosity, They gazed with mixed emotions upon _me_.

Well, my advice to you is, Face the creatures, Or spot them sideways with your weather eye, Just to keep tab on their expansive features; It isn't pleasant when you're stepping high To catch a giraffe smiling on the sly.

If Nature made you graceful, don't get gay Back-to before the hippopotamus; If meek and G.o.dly, find some place to play Besides right where three mad hyenas fuss; You may hear language that we won't discuss.

If you're a sweet thing in a flower-bed hat, Or her best fellow with your tie tucked in, Don't squander love's bright springtime girding at An old chimpanzee with an Irish chin: _There may be hidden meaning in his grin_.

DOWN AROUND THE RIVER

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Noon-time and June-time, down around the river!

Have to furse with 'Lizey Ann--but lawzy! I fergive her!

Drives me off the place, and says 'at all 'at she's a-wis.h.i.+n', Land o' gracious! time'll come I'll git enough o' fis.h.i.+n'!

Little Dave, a-choppin' wood, never 'pears to notice; Don't know where she's hid his hat, er keerin' where his coat is,-- Specalatin', more'n like, he haint a-goin' to mind me, And guessin' where, say twelve o'clock, a feller'd likely find me.