The Wit and Humor of America Volume I Part 23

I wanted to get up and fight the door-tender, but I couldn't.

One of the conversationalists was sitting on my overcoat.

I felt that if I got up and called my coat back to Papa she might lose the thread of her story, and the jar would be something frightful.

So I sat still and saved her life.

The one on my right must have been the Lady President of The Hammer Club.

She was talking about some other girl and she didn't do a thing to the absent one.

She said she was svelte.

I suppose that's Dago for a shine.

That's the way with some women. They can't come right out and call another woman a polish. They have to beat around the bush and chase their friends to the swamps by throwing things like "svelte" at them.

Tush!

I tried to duck the foreign tattle on my right and by so doing I'm next to this on my left:

"Oh, yes; I think politics is just too lovely! I don't know whether I'd rather be a Democrat or a Republican, but I think--oh! just look at the hat that woman has on! Isn't that a fright? Wonder if she trimmed it herself. Of course she did; you can tell by--"

I'm gasping for breath when the broad lady across the aisle gets the floor:

"No, indeed! I didn't have Eliza vaccinated. Why, she's too small yet, and don't you know my sister's husband's brother's child was vaccinated, and she is younger than our Eliza, but I don't just care, I don't want--"

Then the sweet girlish thing on my left gave me the corkscrew jab.

It was the finish:

"Isn't that lovely? Well, as I was telling you, Charlie came last night and brought Mr. Storeclose with him. Mr. Storeclose is awfully nice. He plays the mandolin just too sweet for anything, and--"

Me!--to the oyster beds! No male impersonators garroting a mandolin--not any in mine!

When I want to take a course in music I'll climb into a public library and read how Baldy Sloane wrote the Tiger Lily with one hand tied behind him and his feet on the piano.

So I fell off the car and crawled home to mother.

THE MUSKEETER

BY JOSH BILLINGS

Muskeeters are a game bug, but they won't bite at a hook. Thare iz millyuns ov them kaught every year, but not with a hook, this makes the market for them unstiddy, the supply allways exceeding the demand. The muskeeto iz born on the sly, and c.u.ms to maturity quicker than enny other ov the domestik animiles. A muskeeter at 3 hours old iz just az reddy and anxious to go into bizzness for himself, az ever he iz, and bites the fust time az sharp, and natral, as red pepper duz. The muskeeter haz a good ear for musik, and sings without notes. The song ov the muskeeto iz monotonous to sum folks, but in me it stirs up the memorys ov other days. I hav lade awake, all nite long, menny a time and listened to the sweet anthems ov the muskeeter. I am satisfied that thare want nothing made in vain, but i kant help thinking how mighty kluss the musketoze k.u.m to it. The muskeeter haz inhabited this world since its kreashun, and will probably hang around here until bizzness closes. Whare the muskeeter goes to in the winter iz a standing konumdrum, which all the naturalists hav giv up, but we kno he dont go far, for he iz on hand early each year with hiz probe fresh ground, and polished. Muskeeters must be one ov the luxurys ov life, they certainly aint one ov the necessarys, not if we kno ourselfs.

THE TURNINGS OF A BOOKWORM

BY CAROLYN WELLS

Love levels all plots.

Dead men sell no tales.

A new boom sweeps clean.

Circ.u.mstances alter bookcases.

The more haste the less read.

Too many books spoil the trade.

Many hands make light literature.

Epigrams cover a mult.i.tude of sins.

Ye can not serve Art and Mammon.

A little sequel is a dangerous thing.

It's a long page that has no turning.

Don't look a gift-book in the binding.

A gilt-edged volume needs no accuser.

In a mult.i.tude of characters there is safety.

Incidents will happen even in the best regulated novels.

One touch of Nature makes the whole book sell.

Where there's a will there's a detective story.

A book in the hand is worth two in the library.

An ounce of invention is worth a pound of style.

A good name is rather to be chosen than great characters.

Where there's so much puff, there must be some buyer.

THE FEAST OF THE MONKEYS

BY JOHN PHILIP SOUSA

In days of old, So I've been told, The monkeys gave a feast.

They sent out cards, With kind regards, To every bird and beast.

The guests came dressed, In fashion's best, Unmindful of expense; Except the whale, Whose swallowtail, Was "soaked" for fifty cents.

The guests checked wraps, Canes, hats and caps; And when that task was done, The footman he With dignitee, Announced them one by one.

In Monkey Hall, The host met all, And hoped they'd feel at ease, "I scarcely can,"

Said the Black and Tan, "I'm busy hunting fleas."

"While waiting for A score or more Of guests," the hostess said, "We'll have the Poodle Sing _Yankee Doodle_, A-standing on his head.

And when this through, Good Parrot, you, Please show them how you swear."

"Oh, dear; don't cuss,"

Cried the Octopus, And he walked off on his ear.