The Wit and Humor of America Volume I Part 21

BY ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD

I

When Darby saw the setting sun, He swung his scythe, and home he run, Sat down, drank off his quart, and said, "My work is done, I'll go to bed."

"My work is done!" retorted Joan, "My work is done! your constant tone; But hapless woman ne'er can say, 'My work is done,' till judgment day.

You men can sleep all night, but we Must toil."--"Whose fault is that?" quoth he.

"I know your meaning," Joan replied, "But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied; I will go on, and let you know What work poor women have to do: First, in the morning, though we feel As sick as drunkards when they reel; Yes, feel such pains in back and head As would confine you men to bed, We ply the brush, we wield the broom, We air the beds, and right the room; The cows must next be milked--and then We get the breakfast for the men.

Ere this is done, with whimpering cries, And bristly hair, the children rise; These must be dressed, and dosed with rue, And fed--and all because of you: We next"--Here Darby scratched his head, And stole off grumbling to his bed; And only said, as on she run, "Zounds! woman's clack is never done."

II

At early dawn, ere Phoebus rose, Old Joan resumed her tale of woes; When Darby thus--"I'll end the strife, Be you the man and I the wife: Take you the scythe and mow, while I Will all your boasted cares supply."

"Content," quoth Joan, "give me my stint."

This Darby did, and out she went.

Old Darby rose and seized the broom, And whirled the dirt about the room: Which having done, he scarce knew how, He hied to milk the brindled cow.

The brindled cow whisked round her tail In Darby's eyes, and kicked the pail.

The clown, perplexed with grief and pain, Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again: When turning round, in sad amaze, He saw his cottage in a blaze: For as he chanced to brush the room, In careless haste, he fired the broom.

The fire at last subdued, he swore The broom and he would meet no more.

Pressed by misfortune, and perplexed, Darby prepared for breakfast next; But what to get he scarcely knew-- The bread was spent, the b.u.t.ter too.

His hands bedaubed with paste and flour, Old Darby labored full an hour: But, luckless wight! thou couldst not make The bread take form of loaf or cake.

As every door wide open stood, In pushed the sow in quest of food; And, stumbling onward, with her snout O'erset the churn--the cream ran out.

As Darby turned, the sow to beat, The slippery cream betrayed his feet; He caught the bread trough in his fall, And down came Darby, trough, and all.

The children, wakened by the clatter, Start up, and cry, "Oh! what's the matter?"

Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed, And hapless Darby bawled aloud, "Return, my Joan, as heretofore, I'll play the housewife's part no more: Since now, by sad experience taught, Compared to thine my work is naught; Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take, Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake, And never more transgress the line Our fates have marked, while thou art mine.

Then, Joan, return, as heretofore, I'll vex thy honest soul no more; Let's each our proper task attend-- Forgive the past, and strive to mend."

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-c.o.c.k, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallelooyer as he tiptoes on the fence, Oh, it's then's the time a feller is a feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of gracious rest, As he leaves the house bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

There's sompin kind o' hearty-like about the atmosphere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here.

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and the buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin', and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the early autumn days Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty rustle of the ta.s.sels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kind o' lonesome like, but still A preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The straw-stack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed, The hosses in their stalls below, the clover overhead,-- Oh, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

LAFFING

BY JOSH BILLINGS

Anatomikally konsidered, laffing iz the sensation ov pheeling good all over, and showing it princ.i.p.ally in one spot.

Morally konsidered, it iz the next best thing tew the 10 commandments....

Theoretikally konsidered, it kan out-argy all the logik in existence....

Pyroteknikally konsidered, it is the fire-works of the soul....

But i don't intend this essa for laffing in the lump, but for laffing on the half-sh.e.l.l.

Laffing iz just az natral tew c.u.m tew the surface az a rat iz tew c.u.m out ov hiz hole when he wants tew.

Yu kant keep it back by swallowing enny more than yu kan the heekups.

If a man _kan't_ laff there iz sum mistake made in putting him together, and if he _won't_ laff he wants az mutch keeping away from az a bear-trap when it iz sot.

I have seen people who laffed altogether too mutch for their own good or for ennyboddy else's; they laft like a barrell ov nu sider with the tap pulled out, a perfekt stream.

This is a grate waste ov natral juice.

I have seen other people who didn't laff enuff tew giv themselfs vent; they waz like a barrell ov nu sider too, that waz bunged up t.i.te, apt tew start a hoop and leak all away on the sly.

Thare ain't neither ov theze 2 ways right, and they never ought tew be pattented....

Genuine laffing iz the vent ov the soul, the nostrils of the heart, and iz just az necessary for health and happiness az spring water iz for a trout.

Thare iz one kind ov a laff that i always did rekommend; it looks out ov the eye fust with a merry twinkle, then it kreeps down on its hands and kneze and plays around the mouth like a pretty moth around the blaze ov a kandle, then it steals over into the dimples ov the cheeks and rides around into thoze little whirlpools for a while, then it lites up the whole face like the mello bloom on a damask roze, then it swims oph on the air with a peal az klear and az happy az a dinner-bell, then it goes bak agin on golden tiptoze like an angel out for an airing, and laze down on its little bed ov violets in the heart where it c.u.m from.

Thare iz another laff that n.o.body kan withstand; it iz just az honest and noisy az a distrikt skool let out tew play, it shakes a man up from hiz toze tew hiz temples, it dubbles and twists him like a whiskee phit, it lifts him oph from his cheer, like feathers, and lets him bak agin like melted led, it goes all thru him like a pikpocket, and finally leaves him az weak and az krazy az tho he had bin soaking all day in a Rushing bath and forgot to be took out.

This kind ov a laff belongs tew jolly good ph.e.l.lows who are az healthy az quakers, and who are az eazy tew pleaze az a gall who iz going tew be married to-morrow.

In konclushion i say laff every good chance yu kan git, but don't laff unless yu feal like it, for there ain't nothing in this world more harty than a good honest laff, nor nothing more hollow than a hartless one.

When yu do laff open yure mouth wide enuff for the noize tew git out without squealing, thro yure hed bak az tho yu waz going tew be shaved, hold on tew yure false hair with both hands and then laff till yure soul gets thoroly rested.

But i shall tell yu more about theze things at sum fewter time.

GRIZZLY-GRU

BY IRONQUILL

O Thoughts of the past and present, O whither, and whence, and where, Demanded my soul, as I scaled the height Of the pine-clad peak in the somber night, In the terebinthine air.