Fables in Slang Part 3

MORAL: _If it is your Play to be a Hero, don't Renig._

_THE_ FABLE _OF THE_ PARENTS _WHO_ TINKERED _WITH THE_ OFFSPRING

A married Couple possessed two Boys named Joseph and Clarence. Joseph was much the older. His Parents brought him up on a Plan of their Own.

They would not permit him to play with other Boys for fear that he would soil himself; and learn to be Rude and Boisterous.

So they kept Him in the House, and: his Mother read to him about Little Rollo, who never lied or cheated, and who grew up to be a Bank President, She seemed to think that a Bank President was above Reproach.

Little Joseph was kept away from the Public Schools, and had to Play Games in the Garret with two Spindly Little Girls. He learned Tatting and the Herring-Bone St.i.tch. When he was Ten Years of age he could play Chop-Sticks on the Piano; his Ears were Translucent, and his Front Teeth showed like those of a Gray Squirrel.

The other Boys used to make Faces at him over the Back Fence and call him "Sis."

In Due Time he went to College, where he proved to be a Lobster. The Boys held him under the Pump the first Night. When he walked across the Campus, they would whistle, "I don't Want to Play in Your Yard." He began to drink Manhattan c.o.c.ktails, and he smoked Hemp Cigarettes until he was Dotty. One Day he ran away with a Girl who waited on the Table at his Boarding House, and his Parents Cast him Off. At Present he has charge of the Cloak Room at a Dairy Lunch.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOSEPH]

Seeing that the Home Training Experiment had been a Failure in the case of Joseph, the Parents decided to give Clarence a large Measure of Liberty, that he might become Acquainted with the Snares and Temptations of the World while he was Young, and thus be Prepared to side-step the Pitfalls when he was Older. They sent him to the Public Schools; they allowed him to roam at large with other Kids, and stay out at Nights; they kept Liquor on the Sideboard.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLARENCE]

Clarence stood in with the Toughest Push in Town, and thus became acquainted with the Snares and Temptations of the World. He learned to Chew Tobacco and Spit through his Teeth, shoot c.r.a.ps and Rush the Can.

When his Father suggested that he enter some Business House, and become a Credit to the Family, he growled like a Boston Terrier, and told his Father to go Chase Himself.

At present, he is working the Sh.e.l.ls with a Circus.

MORAL: _It all depends._

_THE_ FABLE _OF_ HOW _HE_ NEVER TOUCHED GEORGE

A comic Lover named George was sitting on the Front Porch with a good Side Hold on your old friend Mabel. They were looking into each other's Eyes at Close Range and using a rancid Line of Nursery Talk.

It was the kind of Conversation calculated to Jar a Person.

George murmured that Mabel was George's own Baby-Daby and she Allowed that he was a Tooney-Wooney little Bad Boy to hold his Itsy-Bitsy Bun of a Mabel so tight she could hardly breave. It was a sort of Dialogue that Susan B. Anthony would love to sit up Nights to Read.

While they were Clinched, Mabel's Father, a large, Self-Made Man, came down the Stairway and out to the Veranda.

This is where the Fable begins to Differentiate.

Although the Girl's name was Mabel and the Young Man's name was George, and the Father was a Self-Made Man, the Father did _not_ Kick the Young Man.

He asked him if he had Anything to Smoke.

George gave him an Imported Panetella and said He didn't believe it was going to Rain. Mabel's Father said it looked Black in the West, but he Reckoned it might blow around, like as not. Mabel said she wouldn't be a bit Surprised if it did blow around.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MABEL'S FATHER]

Mabel's Father told Mabel she could show George where the Ice-Box wuz in case he Expressed a Hankerin', and then he went down street to examine some Fishing Tackle just purchased by a Friend of his in the Hay and Feed Business. Just as Father struck the Cement Walk George changed to the Strangle Hold.

MORAL: _The Exception proves the Rule._

_THE_ FABLE _OF THE_ PREACHER _WHO_ FLEW _HIS_ KITE, _BUT_ NOT BECAUSE _HE_ WISHED _TO_ DO _SO_

A certain Preacher became wise to the Fact that he was not making a Hit with his Congregation. The Parishioners did not seem inclined to seek him out after services and tell him he was a Pansy. He suspected that they were Rapping him on the Quiet.

The Preacher knew there must be Something wrong with his Talk. He had been trying to Expound in a clear and straightforward Manner, omitting Foreign Quotations, setting up for ill.u.s.tration of his Points such Historical Characters as were familiar to his Hearers, putting the stubby Old English words ahead of the Latin, and rather flying low along the Intellectual Plane of the Aggregation that chipped in to pay his Salary.

But the Pew-Holders were not tickled. They could Understand everything he said, and they began to think he was Common.

So he studied the Situation and decided that if he wanted to Win them and make everybody believe he was a n.o.bby and Boss Minister he would have to hand out a little Guff. He fixed it up Good and Plenty.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GUFF]

On the following Sunday Morning he got up in the Lookout and read a Text that didn't mean anything, read from either Direction, and then he sized up his Flock with a Dreamy Eye and said: "We cannot more adequately voice the Poetry and Mysticism of our Text than in those familiar Lines of the great Icelandic Poet, Ikon Navrojk:

"To hold is not to have-- Under the seared Firmament, Where Chaos sweeps, and Vast Futurity Sneers at these puny Aspirations-- There is the full Reprisal."

When the Preacher concluded this Extract from the Well-Known Icelandic Poet he paused and looked downward, breathing heavily through his Nose, like Camille in the Third Act.

A Stout Woman in the Front Row put on her Eye-Gla.s.ses and leaned forward so as not to miss Anything. A Venerable Harness Dealer over at the Right nodded his Head solemnly. He seemed to recognize the Quotation.

Members of the Congregation glanced at one another as if to say: "This is certainly Hot Stuff!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: GOOD AND PLENTY]

The Preacher wiped his Brow and said he had no Doubt that every one within the Sound of his Voice remembered what Quarolius had said, following the same Line of Thought. It was Quarolius who disputed the Contention of the great Persian Theologian Ramtazuk, that the Soul in its reaching out after the Unknowable was guided by the Spiritual Genesis of Motive rather than by mere Impulse of Mentality. The Preacher didn't know what all This meant, and he didn't care, but you can rest easy that the Pew-Holders were On in a minute. He talked it off in just the Way that Cyrano talks when he gets Roxane so Dizzy that she nearly falls off the Piazza.

[Ill.u.s.tration: VENERABLE HARNESS DEALER]

The Parishioners bit their Lower Lips and hungered for more First-Cla.s.s Language. They had paid their Money for Tall Talk and were prepared to solve any and all Styles of Delivery. They held on to the Cushions and seemed to be having a Nice Time.

The Preacher quoted copiously from the Great Poet Amebius. He recited 18 lines of Greek and then said: "How true this is!" And not a Parishioner batted an Eye.

It was Amebius whose Immortal Lines he recited in order to prove the Extreme Error of the Position a.s.sumed in the Controversy by the Famous Italian, Polenta.

He had them Going, and there wasn't a Thing to it. When he would get tired of faking Philosophy he would quote from a Celebrated Poet of Ecuador or Tasmania or some other Seaport Town. Compared with this Verse, all of which was of the same School as the Icelandic Masterpiece, the most obscure and clouded Pa.s.sage in Robert Browning was like a Plate-Gla.s.s Front in a State Street Candy Store just after the Colored Boy gets through using the Chamois.