The Wit and Humor of America Volume VIII Part 33

Said Gra.s.s, "What is that noise That startles and destroys Our blessed summer brooding when we're tired?"

"That's folk a-praising G.o.d,"

Said the tough old cynic Clod; "They do it every Sunday, They'll be all right on Monday; It's just a little habit they've acquired."

And laughter spread among the little leaves.

"THE DAY IS DONE"

BY PHOEBE CARY

The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker, Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That I can not well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,-- A good and regular meal-- That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn't give a farthing For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the "finally, brethren,"

That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook.

And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run.

MR. DOOLEY ON GOLF

BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE

"An' what's this game iv goluf like, I dinnaw?" said Mr. Hennessy, lighting his pipe with much unnecessary noise. "Ye're a good deal iv a spoort, Jawnny: did ye iver thry it?"

"No," said Mr. McKenna. "I used to roll a hoop onct upon a time, but I'm out of condition now."

"It ain't like base-ball," said Mr. Hennessy, "an' it ain't like shinny, an' it ain't like lawn-teenis, an' it ain't like forty-fives, an' it ain't"--

"Like canvas-back duck or anny other game ye know," said Mr. Dooley.

"Thin what is it like?" said Mr. Hennessy. "I see be th' pa-aper that Hobart What-d'ye-call-him is wan iv th' best at it. Th' other day he made a scoor iv wan hundherd an' sixty-eight, but whether 'twas miles or st.i.tches I cudden't make out fr'm th' raypoorts."

"'Tis little ye know," said Mr. Dooley. "Th' game iv goluf is as old as th' hills. Me father had goluf links all over his place, an', whin I was a kid, 'twas wan iv th' princ.i.p.al spoorts iv me life, afther I'd dug the turf f'r th' avenin', to go out and putt"--

"Poot, ye mean," said Mr. Hennessy. "They'se no such wurrud in th'

English language as putt. Belinda called me down ha-ard on it no more thin las' night."

"There ye go!" said Mr. Dooley, angrily. "There ye go! D'ye think this here game iv goluf is a spellin' match? 'Tis like ye, Hinnissy, to be refereein' a twinty-round glove contest be th' rule iv three. I tell ye I used to go out in th' avenin' an' putt me mashie like h.e.l.l-an'-all, till I was knowed fr'm wan end iv th' county to th' other as th'

champeen putter. I putted two men fr'm Roscommon in wan day, an' they had to be took home on a dure.

"In America th' ga-ame is played more ginteel, an' is more like cigareet-smokin', though less onhealthy f'r th' lungs. 'Tis a good game to play in a hammick whin ye're all tired out fr'm social duties or shovellin' c.o.ke. Out-iv-dure golf is played be th' followin' rules. If ye bring ye'er wife f'r to see th' game, an' she has her name in th'

paper, that counts ye wan. So th' first thing ye do is to find th'

raypoorter, an' tell him ye're there. Thin ye ordher a bottle iv brown pop, an' have ye'er second fan ye with a towel. Afther this ye'd dhress, an' here ye've got to be dam particklar or ye'll be stuck f'r th'

dhrinks. If ye'er necktie is not on sthraight, that counts ye'er opponent wan. If both ye an' ye'er opponent have ye'er neckties on crooked, th' first man that sees it gets th' stakes. Thin ye ordher a carredge"--

"Order what?" demanded Mr. McKenna.

"A carredge."

"What for?"

"F'r to take ye 'round th' links. Ye have a little boy followin' ye, carryin' ye'er clubs. Th' man that has th' smallest little boy it counts him two. If th' little boy has th' rickets, it counts th' man in th'

carredge three. The little boys is called caddies; but Clarence Heaney that tol' me all this--he belongs to th' Foorth Wa-ard Goluf an'

McKinley Club--said what th' little boys calls th' players'd not be fit f'r to repeat.

"Well, whin ye dhrive up to th' tea grounds"--

"Th' what?" demanded Mr. Hennessy.

"Th' tea grounds, that's like th' home-plate in base-ball or ordherin' a piece iv chalk in a game iv spoil five. It's th' be-ginnin' iv ivrything. Whin ye get to th' tea grounds, ye step out, an' have ye'er hat irned be th' caddie. Thin ye'er man that ye're goin' aginst comes up, an' he asks ye, 'Do you know Potther Pammer?' Well, if ye don't know Potther Pammer, it's all up with ye: ye lose two points. But ye come right back at him with an upper cut: 'Do ye live on th' Lake Sh.o.r.e dhrive?' If he doesn't, ye have him in th' nine hole. Ye needn't play with him anny more. But, if ye do play with him, he has to spot three b.a.l.l.s. If he's a good man an' shifty on his feet, he'll counter be askin' ye where ye spend th' summer. Now ye can't tell him that ye spent th' summer with wan hook on th' free lunch an' another on th' ticker tape, an' so ye go back three. That needn't discourage ye at all, at all. Here's yer chance to mix up, an' ye ask him if he was iver in Scotland. If he wasn't, it counts ye five. Thin ye tell him that ye had an aunt wanst that heerd th' Jook iv Argyle talk in a phonograph; an', onless he comes back an' shoots it into ye that he was wanst run over be th' Prince iv Wales, ye have him groggy. I don't know whether th' Jook iv Argyle or th' Prince iv Wales counts f'r most. They're like th' right an' left bower iv thrumps. Th' best players is called scratch-men."

"What's that f'r?" Mr. Hennessy asked.

"It's a Scotch game," said Mr. Dooley, with a wave of his hand. "I wonder how it come out to-day. Here's th' pa-aper. Let me see. McKinley at Canton. Still there. He niver cared to wandher fr'm his own fireside.

Collar-b.u.t.ton men f'r th' goold standard. Statues iv Heidelback, Ickleheimer an' Company to be erected in Washington. Another Vanderbilt weddin'. That sounds like goluf, but it ain't. Newport society livin'

in Mrs. Potther Pammer's cellar. Green-goods men declare f'r honest money. Anson in foorth place some more. Pianny tuners f'r McKinley. Li Hung Chang smells a rat. Abner McKinley supports th' goold standard.

Wait a minyit. Here it is: 'Goluf in gay attire.' Let me see. H'm.

'Foozled his aproach,'--nasty thing. 'Topped th' ball.' 'Three up an'

two to play.' Ah, here's the scoor. 'Among those prisint were Messrs.

an' Mesdames'"--

"Hol' on!" cried Mr. Hennessy, grabbing the paper out of his friend's hands. "That's thim that was there."

"Well," said Mr. Dooley, decisively, "that's th' goluf scoor."