Humour of the North Part 1

Humour of the North.

by Lawrence J. Burpee.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Some day an enterprising editor may find time to glean from the whole field of Canadian literature a representative collection of wit and humour. It would include the productions of such acknowledged humorists as Thomas Chandler Haliburton and George Thomas Lanigan, as well as specimens of characteristic humour from writers who are better remembered by their more serious work. It would also include a great deal of genuine wit and humour, largely anonymous, in such Canadian periodicals as _Grip_, _Punch in Canada_, the _Grumbler_, the _Free Lance_, and _Diogenes_; and characteristic pa.s.sages from the speeches of such brilliant and witty debaters as Thomas D'Arcy McGee, Joseph Howe, and Nicholas Flood Davin. The present little collection obviously makes no such ambitious claim. It embraces, however, what are believed to be representative examples of the work of some of our better-known writers, many of which will no doubt be quite familiar to Canadian readers, but perhaps none the less welcome on that account.

For permission to reproduce these selections the Editor is indebted to the authors or their representatives, and in the case of the late Dr.

Drummond he is also indebted to the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. The selection from Joseph Howe's work is taken from his _Poems and Essays_; Haliburton's sketches are taken from _The Old Judge_; those of Dr. Drummond from _The Habitant_, _Johnnie Courteau_, and _The Voyageur_; that of Mrs. Cotes from her _Social Departure_; McCarroll's poem from _Madeleine_; Lanigan's Fables from the little volume published under that t.i.tle; and DeMille's selection from _The Dodge Club_. Lanigan's humorous verse was never brought together in book form.

Ottawa, _August, 1910_.

HUMOUR OF THE NORTH

THE BLUE NOSE

Let the Student of Nature in rapture descant, On the Heaven's cerulean hue; Let the Lover indulge in poetical rant, When the eyes of his Mistress are blue.

But fill high your gla.s.ses--fill, fill to the brim, I've a different toast to propose: While such eyes, and such skies, still are beaming for him, Here's a health to the jolly Blue Nose.

Let the Frenchman delight in his vine-covered vales, Let the Greek toast his old cla.s.sic ground; Here's the land where the bracing Northwester prevails, And where jolly Blue Noses abound.

Long--long may it flourish, to all of us dear, Loved and honoured by hearts that are true; But, should ever a foe chance his nose to show here He shall find all our Noses true Blue.

TO MARY

Oh! blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you, Nor suppose that my thoughts from the Preacher were straying, Tho' I stole a few glances--believe me 'tis true-- They were sweet ill.u.s.trations of what he was saying.

For, when he observed that Perfection was not To be found upon Earth--for a moment I bent A look upon you--and could swear on the spot That perfection in Beauty was not what he meant.

And when, with emotion, the worthy Divine On the doctrine of loving our neighbours insisted, I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine, I could love every soul of them while I existed.

And Mary, I'm sure 'twas the fault of those eyes-- 'Twas the l.u.s.tre of them to the error gave birth-- That, while he spoke of Angels that dwelt in the Skies, I was gazing with rapture at one upon Earth.

A TOAST

Here's a health to thee, Tom: a bright b.u.mper we drain To the friends that our bosoms hold dear, As the bottle goes round, and again and again We whisper, "We wish _he_ were here."

Here's a health to thee, Tom: may the mists of this earth Never shadow the light of that soul Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth To illumine the depths of the Bowl.

With a world full of beauty and fun for a theme, And a gla.s.s of good wine to inspire, E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood, Our pleasures are tasteless and dim, For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude Make us feel we're but happy with him.

Like the Triumph of old where the _absent one_ threw A cloud o'er the glorious scene, Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you, And think of the nights that have been.

When thy genius, a.s.suming all hues of delight Fled away with the rapturous hours, And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night, Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.

When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn, Shedding l.u.s.tre and life where it fell, As the sunlight, in which the tall mountain tops burn, Paints each bud in the lowliest dell.

When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed With humour and deviltry shone, And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed, Had mirth in its every tone.

Then a health to thee, Tom: ev'ry b.u.mper we drain But renders thy image more dear, As the bottle goes round, and again and again, We wish, from our hearts, you were here.

SHEEPSKINS AND POLITICS

You know Uncle Tim; he was small, very small--not in stature, for he was a six-footer, but small in mind and small in heart; his soul was no bigger than a flea's. "Zeb, my boy," says he to me one day, "always be neuter in elections. You can't get nothing by them but ill-will. Dear, dear! I wish I had never voted. I never did but oncest, and, dear, dear! I wish I had let that alone. There was an army doctor oncest, Zeb, lived right opposite to me to Digby: dear, dear! he was a good friend to me. He was very fond of wether mutton; and, when he killed a sheep, he used to say to me, 'Friend Tim, I will give you the skin if you will accept it.' Dear, dear! what a lot of them he gave me, first and last! Well, oncest the doctor's son, Lawyer Williams, offered for the town, and so did my brother-in-law, Phin Tucker; and, dear, dear! I was in a proper fix. Well, the doctor axed me to vote for his son, and I just up and told him I would, only my relation was candidating also; but ginn him my hand and promise I would be neuter. Well, I told brother-in-law the same, that I'd vote for him with pleasure, only my old friend, the doctor's son, was offering too; and, therefore, gave him my word also, I'd be neuter. And, oh, dear, dear! neuter I would have remained too, if it hadn't a-been for them two electioneering generals--devils, I might say--Lory Scott and Terry Todd. Dear, dear!

somehow or 'nother, they got hold of the story of the sheepskins, and they gave me no peace day or night. 'What,' says they, 'are you going to sell your country for a sheepskin?' The day of the election they seized on me, one by one arm, and the other by the other, and lugged me off to the poll, whether I would or no.

"'Who do you vote for?' said the sheriff.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' shouted Terry, in one ear.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' bellowed Lory, in the other ear.

"I was so frightened, I hardly knew what I did; but they tell me I voted for brother Phin! Dear, dear! the doctor never gave me a sheepskin while he lived after that. Dear, dear!--that was an ugly vote for me!"

THE DOCTOR

Old Dr. Green (you knowed him, in course--everybody knowed him) lived on Digby Neck. He was reckoned a skilful man, and was known to be a regular rotated doctor; but he drank like a fish (and it's actilly astonishing how many country doctors have taken to drink), and, of course, he warn't always a very safe man in cases where a cool head and a steady hand was needed (though folks did say he knowed a plaguey sight more, even when he was drunk, than one-half of them do when they are sober). Well, one day old Jim Reid, who was a pot-companion of his, sent him a note to come into town immediately, without the loss of one moment of time, and bring his amputating instruments with him, for there was a most shocking accident had happened to his house. So in come the doctor as hard as he could drive, looking as sorry, all the time, as if he didn't live by misfortunes and accidents, the old hypocrite!

"My dear friend," said he solemnly, to Reid, and a-taking of him by the hand, and giving it a doleful shake--"My dear friend, what is the matter?--who is hurt? And what the devil is to pay now? How thankful we all ought to be that the accident hasn't occurred to one whom we all respect so much as you!"

And then he unpacked his instruments, off with his coat, and up with his sleeves; and, with one hand, pulls a hair out of his head, and, with the other, takes his knife and cuts it in two, to prove the edge was all right. Then he began to whistle while he examined his saw, for nothing puts these chaps in such good humour as cutting and slashing away at legs and arms--operating, as they call it--and, when all was ready, says he--

"Reid," says he, a-tapping him on the shoulder, "where is the patient?"

Well, Reid opened the door of another room, and there was a black boy a-holding of a duck on the table that had broke his leg!