Little Masterpieces of American Wit and Humor Volume II Part 13

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 Washington 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.--_Works_.

FROM THE "LECTURE."

Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a splendid skeleton. He didn't weigh any thing scarcely,--and I said to myself,--the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous curiosity. It is a long voyage--as you know--from New York to Melbourne--and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He had never been on the ocean before--and he said it agreed with him.--I thought so!--I never saw a man eat so much in my life.

Beef--mutton--pork--he swallowed them all like a shark--and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs.

The result was that when we reached Melbourne this infamous skeleton weighed sixty-four pounds more than I did!

I thought I was ruined--but I wasn't. I took him on to California--another very long sea voyage--and when I got him to San Francisco I exhibited him as a fat man.

This story hasn't any thing to do with my Entertainment, I know--but one of the princ.i.p.al features of my Entertainment is that it contains so many things that don't have any thing to do with it....

I like Music.--I can't sing. As a singist I am not a success. I am saddest when I sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder even than I am....

I met a man in Oregon who hadn't any teeth--not a tooth in his head--yet that man could play on the ba.s.s drum better than any man I ever met....

Brigham Young has two hundred wives. Just think of that! Oblige me by thinking of that. That is--he has eighty actual wives, and he is spiritually married to one hundred and twenty more. These spiritual marriages--as the Mormons call them--are contracted with aged widows--who think it a great honor to be sealed--the Mormons call it being sealed--to the Prophet.

So we may say he has two hundred wives. He loves not wisely--but two hundred well. He is dreadfully married. He's the most married man I ever saw in my life....

I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I was in Utah.

It was leap-year when I was there--and seventeen young widows--the wives of a deceased Mormon--offered me their hearts and hands. I called on them one day--and taking their soft white hands in mine--which made eighteen hands altogether--I found them in tears.

And I said--"Why is this thus? What is the reason of this thusness?"

They hove a sigh--seventeen sighs of different size.--They said--

"Oh--soon thou wilt be gonested away!"

I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested.

They said--"Doth not like us?"

I said--"I doth--I doth!"

I also said--"I hope your intentions are honorable--as I am a lone child--my parents being far--far away."

They then said--"Wilt not marry us?"

I said--"Oh no--it cannot was."

Again they asked me to marry them--and again I declined. When they cried--

"Oh--cruel man! This is too much--oh! too much!"

I told them that it was on account of the muchness that I declined.--_Works_.

FRANK R. STOCKTON.

(BORN, 1834.)

OUR TAVERN.

It was about noon of a very fair July day, when Euphemia and myself arrived at the little town where we were to take the stage up into the mountains. We were off for a two weeks' vacation and our minds were a good deal easier than when we went away before, and left Pomona at the helm. We had enlarged the boundaries of Rudder Grange, having purchased the house, with enough adjoining land to make quite a respectable farm.

Of course I could not attend to the manifold duties on such a place, and my wife seldom had a happier thought than when she proposed that we should invite Pomona and her husband to come and live with us. Pomona was delighted, and Jonas was quite willing to run our farm. So arrangements were made, and the young couple were established in apartments in our back building, and went to work as if taking care of us and our possessions was the ultimate object of their lives. Jonas was such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble from tree-man or lightning rodder during this absence.

Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far from the point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain range, and about sixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friend of ours, who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country was lovely, and the house was kept by a farmer, who was a good soul, and tried to make his guests happy. These were generally pa.s.sing farmers and wagoners, or stage-pa.s.sengers, stopping for a meal, but occasionally a person from the cities, like our friend, came to spend a few weeks in the mountains.

So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just what we wanted. When I took our place at the stage-office, I inquired for David b.u.t.ton, the farm tavern-keeper before mentioned, but the agent did not know of him.

"However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and he'll set you down at the house."

So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that we were to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the trip, although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a delightful one. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time, through the woods, but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn in the road often gave us lovely views of the foot-hills and the valleys behind us.

But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found out after we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settle this matter before starting, but I am not at all sure that it would have been so. We were going to this tavern, and did not wish to go anywhere else. If people did not know where it was, it would be well for us to go and look for it. We knew the road that it was on, and the locality in which it was to be found.

Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, pa.s.sing along the road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the other way,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's.

"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for the pa.s.sengers to take supper."

"Well, then, it ain't on this side o' the ridge," said the driver; "we stop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side, at Pete Lowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it called the 'Ridge House'?"

I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that it was not on the other side of the ridge.

"Then," said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But I've only been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved away afore I come. But there ain't no tavern this side the ridge, arter ye leave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge."

There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and who had listened with considerable interest to this conversation. Presently, one of them turned around to me and said:

"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"