Part 1

FRONTIER HUMOR IN VERSE, PROSE AND PICTURE.

BY PALMER COX, AUTHOR OF “QUEER PEOPLE,” “THE BROWNIES,” ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED.

EDGEWOOD PUBLISHING COMPANY.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1889, by HUBBARD BROS., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.

PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE.

Not only is truth stranger than fiction, but it is funnier also. Just as some men have no eye for colors, but are color blind; so some men have no eye for fun, but are fun blind. Happy is the man who can see the humor which bubbles up in daily life; doubly happy he who, having seen, can tell the fun to others and so spread the glad contagion of a laugh; but thrice happy is the man who, having seen, can tell the fun; and having told, can picture it for others’ eyes and so roll on the rollicking humor, for the brightening of a world already far too sad.

Palmer Cox is one who sees, and tells, and pictures all the fun within his reach, as this volume of Frontier Humor will certainly attest.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

PAGE

AH TIE—THAT DEADLY PIE, 17

NEW YEAR’S CALLERS, 21

SCENES ON THE SIDEWALK, 26

SAM PATTERSON’S BALLOON, 31

MY CANINE, 53

JIM DUDLEY’S FLIGHT, 56

TRIALS OF THE FARMER, 67

A CUNNING DODGE 69

A TERRIBLE TAKE IN, 73

A FAMILY JAR, 78

THE ROD OF CORRECTION, 85

GONE FROM HIS GAZE, 89

ST. PATRICK’S DAY, 91

THE CONTENTED FROG, 97

ALL FOOLS’ DAY, 103

FINDING A HORSE-SHOE, 107

AN EVENING WITH SCIENTISTS, 117

OUR TABLE GIRL, 120

AN OLD WOMAN IN PERIL, 122

FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE, 128

ODE ON A BUMBLE-BEE, 131

DUDLEY AND THE GREASED PIG, 135

CORA LEE, 156

A BRILLIANT FORENSIC EFFORT, 162

VISITING A SCHOOL, 169

THE REJECTED SUITOR, 171

A NIGHT OF TERROR, 175

MY DRIVE TO THE CLIFF, 178

SECOND SIGHT, 184

THE THIEF, 187

A STARTLING CAT-ASTROPHE, 194

A TRIP TO THE MOUNTAINS, 196

AN IMPATIENT UNDERTAKER, 209

SERMON ON A PIN, 218

DUDLEY’S FIGHT WITH THE TEXAN, 221

ROLLER SKATING, 242

A TERRIBLE NOSE, 243

A MASKED BATTERY, 249

THE PRIZE I DIDN’T WIN, 257

THE COUNTRYMAN’S TOOTH, 260

MINING STOCKS, 262

ODE ON A FLEA, 265

FIGHTING IT OUT ON THAT LINE, 268

DUDLEY’S FIGHT WITH DR. TWEEZER, 271

MY NEIGHBOR WORSTED, 285

THE BREATHING SPELL, 289

A VISIT TO BENICIA, 290

TOO MUCH OF INDIAN, 297

GOING UP THE SPOUT, 299

THE GLORIOUS FOURTH, 309

JIM DUDLEY’S SERMON, 313

THE POISONED PET, 337

SEEKING FOR A WIFE, 340

DAVID GOYLE, THE MILLER MAN, 349

HEELS UP AND HEADS DOWN, 360

THE BITTER END, 362

A TRIP TO THE INTERIOR, 367

HUNTING WITH A VENGEANCE, 385

THE ART GALLERY, 391

A ROLLING STONE, 396

RIDING IN THE STREET CARS, 399

SIMON RAND, 408

THE VALUE OF A COLLAR, 420

QUAINT EPITAPHS, 425

MISTAKEN IDENTITY, 430

FLIRTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 435

THE CHAMPION MEAN MAN, 436

IN A THOUSAND YEARS, 452

THE COBBLER’S END, 454

THE LAST OF HIS RACE, 460

JIM DUDLEY’S RACE, 462

OLEOMARGARINE, 481

DINING UNDER DIFFICULTIES, 483

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS, 486

COURT-ROOM SCENES, 489

THE MASON’S RIDE, 493

JUNE, 497

THE ANNIVERSARY, 500

A COUNTRY TOWN, 503

A TRIP ACROSS THE BAY, 507

CHRISTMAS EVE, 513

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

Pictorial Title, iii

A Tight Place, 19

Starting Out, 23

A Little Mixed, 24

The Ex-veteran of Waterloo, 27

A Miner who will soon be Minus, 28

May and December, 30

Sam Patterson, 32

Premature Ascent, 37

Attempted Abduction of Sam’s Wife, 39

“Let Me Git Out,” 41

“Go in, Cripple,” 49

A Right Angled Try-ankle, 51

A Prey to Disease, 54

Bob Browser, 57

Old Hurley Welcomes Jim, 61

Old Hurley on the War Path, 65

A Happy Thought, 68

Advance of the Cripple Brigade, 71

“Pay in Advance, Sir,” 75

Emperor Nelson, of San Francisco, 77

Stranger Who Went Not In, 79

The Stranger Who Went In, 83

A Rear Attack, 87

Little Dog’s Leather Collar, 90

In the Morning, 93

In the Evening, 94

In Meditation, 98

Bob’s Attack, 101

Alas! Poor Frog, 102

April, 103

Sold, 104

The Horse-shoe Charm, 109

Repairs Needed, 113

The President of the Academy, 119

The Old Lady’s Ascent, 124

The Trying Moment, 129

Judge Perkins, 140

Bad for the Fruit Business, 143

Bow-legged Spinny, 146

Nip and Tuck, 151

More Light on the Subject, 154

The Chief, 158

Behind the Bars, 161

The Advocate, 163

Bill of Divorce, 167

Head of his Class, 169

Foot of her Class, 170

A Suitor Nonsuited, 172

A Rousing Event, 176

Slightly Embarrassing, 181

Badly Mixed, 182

The Economist Seeing Double, 186

Richard Roe, the Sardine Thief, 189

The Judge, 191

Neck to Neck, 199

Steam let On, 203

Blow me Up! 207

Business is Business, 213

Bill After his Glass Eye, 223

The Ministerial Looking Man, 227

Startling Disclosures, 234

Busting his Bugle, 244

The One-eyed Swede, 250

Needed Air, 254

The Best Shot, 258

The Ascent, 263

The Descent, 264

Going for the Doctor, 274

Hands Up and Heads Down, 279

Alas! Poor Doctor, 281

One of Heenan’s Mementoes, 292

A Scientific Opening, 294

An Object of Suspicion, 300

On a Raid, 304

The Glorious Fourth, 309

Arousing the Dog, 311

The Final Explosion, 312

Something New, 314

The Doctor’s Scourge, 318

Joe Grimsby, 322

Truth is Powerful, 328

Mr. Spudd, 331

The Old Interrogator, 332

Having a Quiet Time, 339

The Crone, 341

Attending to Business, 345

Partner Wanted, 347

The New Acquaintance, 353

A One-sided Operation, 357

Lively Work, 364

A Mosquito on the Scent, 368

To the Hilt in Blood, 371

The Orchestra, 374

Macbeth, 378

Othello, 379

A Startling Apparition, 383

Advance of the Expedition, 386

Boggs Retrieving his Game, 390

From a Painting by an Old Master, 392

Love’s Young Dream, 394

A Through Passenger, 397

The Signal Station, 400

Rather “Sloroppy,” 403

Sniffing the Battle from Afar, 404

Alighting Gracefully, 407

Revenge is Sweet, 411

The Exploring Party, 413

“Up he Comes,” 416

Unpromising Outlook, 418

No Collar, No Crumbs, 422

The Sexton, 429

The Clergyman in Limbo, 432

Sleepy Doby, 440

Opening his Heart, 444

Swearing to Get Even, 449

A Moving Scene, 457

Slipping Off the Mortal Coil, 458

The Last of his Race, 460

Abe Drake, 464

Kate Rykert, 466

Mrs. O’Laughlan, 472

Just as it Was, 473

Curing People’s Corns, 478

Bummers on the Raid, 484

A Drowsy Jury, 490

The Rocky Road to Masonry, 495

June, 497

The Fire Department, 506

Peering into the Depths, 508

Good-Bye, 509

Sketching from Nature, 510

So Sick! 511

At the Rail, 512

AH TIE. THAT DEADLY PIE.

I Sing the woe and overthrow Of one debased and sly, Who entered soft a baker’s shop, And stole a currant pie.

And not a soul about the place, And no one passing by, Chanced to detect him in the act, Or dreamed that he was nigh.

The moon alone with lustre shone, And viewed him from the sky, And broadly smiled, as musing on The sequel by and by.

Ah Tie began, while fast he ran, To gobble down the pie, Determined that, if caught at last, No proof should meet the eye.

For not the fox, for cunning famed, The crow, or weasel, sly, Could with that erring man compare— The heathen thief, Ah Tie.

But, blessings on the pastry man! Oh! blessings, rich and high, Upon the cook who cooked a rag Within that currant pie!

Dim was the light, and large the bite The thief to bolt did try, And in his haste, along with paste, He gulped the wiper dry.

So thus it proves that slight affairs Do oft, as none deny, For good or evil, unawares, Be waiting with reply.

The influence of every plot, Or action bold or sly, Or good or bad, mistake or not, Will speak, we may rely.

He strove in vain, with cough and strain. And finger swallowed nigh, Or in, or out, to force the clout, Or turn the thing awry.

But tight as wadding in a gun, Or cork in jug of rye, The choking gag, but half-way down, Fast in his throat did lie.

Not finger point, or second joint, Or heaving cough, or pry, Did seem to change its posture strange, Or work a passage by.

The Lord was there, as everywhere— His ways who can descry? He turned to use the rag that missed The cook’s incautious eye.

The race was short, as it must be When lungs get no supply Of ever needful oxygen, The blood to purify.

It matters not how large or small The man, or beast, or fly, A little air must be their share, Or else to life “good bye.”

Slow grew his pace, and black his face, And blood-shot rolled his eye; And from his nerveless fingers fell The fragments of the pie.

The broken crust rolled in the dust, While scattered currants fly; But ah, the fatal part had gone Upon its mission high.

Then down he dropped, a strangled man, Without a witness nigh— And Death, the grim old boatman, ran His noiseless shallop by.

NEW YEAR’S CALLERS.

Heigh ho, the New Year is again upon us with its open houses, its “hope you’re wells,” and its “bye bye’s.”

Let what will grow dull or rusty, the sweeping scythe of old Time is ever sharp and busy. How tempered must be that blade which nothing can dull or turn aside.

Now as I sit by my window and look pensively out upon the streets I see them crowded with callers, all anxious to increase the number of their acquaintances. They ring, scrape, and wait. The door opens and they disappear from my view, but fancy pictures them out as they doubtless appear inside, embarrassed because of a painful dearth of words. The weather, fortunately, is a standing theme of conversation. It will always bear comment, and but for this how many callers—who perhaps can hardly come under the head of acquaintances—would wish themselves well out upon the street again, even before sampling the customary wine and cake.

But Fashion is King, and when he nods, his satellites and minions must obey or perish. But I, who come not under the awe of his scepter, have few calls to make. With a leaking roof and no bolt to my door I can keep “open house” without going to the expense of procuring cake or wine, and for this left-handed blessing may the Lord make me truly thankful.

I have been sitting by my window most of the day, watching gentlemen—who were not so fortunate as myself. And I notice with considerable pain—for as reader and writer cannot understand each other too soon, I may as well inform you at once that I am a philanthropist—that some of these callers present an aspect in the evening quite different from their festive morning appearance. Here, for instance, is a sketch of an exquisite as he appears when starting to make his numerous calls. Mark what grace is in every movement as he struts the pavement with military precision, adjusting his lavender-colored kids as he goes. There is something in the airy set of his stylish new stove-pipe, in the very easy elegance of manner with which he holds the crystal orb over his left optic, that bespeaks the born gentleman. Not to a rise in stocks, he would tell you, or a lucky lottery ticket, does he owe his carriage, but to a line of ancestors which he can trace back, perhaps, to the very loins of William the Conqueror.

Look now upon _this_ picture. The unpracticed eye could hardly recognize the gentleman, and yet this is the same sociable but absent-minded individual, as he appeared in the evening frogging up the steps of the dwelling opposite, to make his third call upon the same family. He is evidently “turned around,” poor fellow. Ah, this mixing of coffee, tea, and wine, not to mention stronger potations, will play the mischief with a man, and no mistake about it. The young ladies, with mouths ajar and dilated eyes, look out upon him through partially closed blinds. But he recks not of it as he leans backward, pulling and jerking at the bell knob as though he was drawing on a tight boot. The bell-hanger will doubtless have a job in that house to-morrow. The question naturally arises, will they chalk the gentleman down as a caller each time he favors them with his presence? Now that I think of it, they might do so with an easy conscience, for he is certainly not the man he was when he first offered the compliments of the day.

SCENES ON THE SIDEWALK.

I sit at my window to view the odd sights, And whatever to study or action invites Upon the white paper before me I spread, By aid of my constant companion, the Lead.

A lady of Fashion sails by like a queen, With ruffles and lace, and her _satin de chine_; Her shimmering train as it now sweeps the street, Is sadly ensnaring a gentleman’s feet. It is painfully plain an apology’s due; But which should apologize first of the two?

And next, an old man full of years shuffles by, His nose to the dust, and his back to the sky; The few snowy hairs that still cling to his head Far down o’er his collar untidily spread. And who now would think that the feeble, dry hand That hardly can free the rude cane from the sand, Once swung a long saber, that cut its way through The cuirassiers’ helmets at famed Waterloo? Old Time warps the figure firm-knitted and square, He sharpens the feature, he blanches the hair, And bows the proud head, be it ever so high; This much hath he done for the man passing by.

Away, to the fields of the diamond and ruby, The miner sets out, like a consummate booby; What loads the poor fellow proposes to pack: His rifle, his shovel, his grub, and his sack; His rifle to guard against numerous ills, His shovel to shovel his way to the hills, The long leather sack he bears in his hand, To hold the bright gems he may pick from the sand; In fancy I see him ascend the steep hill, Or traverse the plain with his sack empty still; While down on his head ever scorching-hot rays Descend from th’ unclouded sun like a blaze,— Too far from his friends, and too nigh to his foes, Who welcome the stranger with arrows and bows, And rifles, and war-clubs, and hatchets of stone, And weapons for scalping, and lances of bone. Trudge on to your treasure (?), poor dupe of the knave And prey of the savage—pass on to your grave.

Now stepping as one, see the new-married pair Emerge from the church. What a contrast is there! Come haste to the window and gaze out with me— Ere they enter their carriage the pair you may see. Oh, May and December! extremes of the year, When linked thus together, how odd they appear; The bride in her teens, with a mind as unstable As ladders of fame, or a medium’s table; With a riotous pulse, and her blood all aglow With the fervor of passion, of pleasure, and show. The bridegroom is pussy, rheumatic and old, His teeth are in rubber, his blood thin and cold; His nose tells a tale of inordinate drams, The gout has laid hold of his corn-laden yams; The hairs on his cranium scattering stand, Like ill-nourished blades on a desert of sand.

I muse as I gaze on their arms softly twined; How soon some young maidens can alter their mind! ’Tis scarcely three weeks since I heard her declare, When speaking of him who now walks by her there, In marriage she never would give him her hand Though rolling in gems, like a horse in the sand. But she clings to him now, as a green, sappy vine

Embraces the trunk of a time-honored pine; While her looks and her manner would seem to imply That she never before on a man cast an eye; But I, delving back through the layers of Time, Exhume the pale ghost of a youth in his prime, Whose feelings were tortured, whose reason was muddied, Whose pistol was emptied, whose temple was ruddied; Because of coquetry so heartless and strange, Her passion for diamonds, her longing for change.

Pass on, happy bride, with your beaming young face; May happiness still with your moments keep pace, And never mistrust pierce the groom at your side That wealth, and not virtues, have won him his bride.

SAM PATTERSON’S BALLOON.

Last night while a party of us were sitting around the table in the cabin of the _New World_, talking about the “Avitor” and aerial sailing generally, our conversation was interrupted by a dark, raw-boned Hoosier who had entered the cabin shortly after the steamer left her wharf. He kept squirming on his chair for some time, and was evidently anxious to take part in the conversation. “I say, boys, I’m Sam Patterson,” he commenced at last, “and if this yer dish is free and no one han’t no objections, I’d like mi’ty well to dip _my_ spoon in.”

All turned to look at the speaker. Even the fat old gentleman who during our conversation had not taken his eyes from the _Christian Guardian_ he was reading, stretched up and peered over the top of the paper at Sam. Before any one could reply the Hoosier gave his chair a hitch nigher the table and went on:

“I say, boss,” he continued, addressing his conversation to me, perhaps because I had just been expressing my opinion, “I don’t go a picayune on navigatin’ the air. They ain’t no need of talkin’ and gassin’ about crossin’ the ’tlantic or any of them foolish ventur’s. I happen to know somethin’ about balloonin’, and understand pooty near what you _can_ do and what you _can’t_ do with one of them fellers. I’d a plag’y sight ruther undertake to cross the ocean in a dug-out, than ventur’ in one of them tricky cobwebs; you can’t depend on ’em. Thar like a flea—when a man thinks he’s got ’em he hain’t.”

“Perhaps you are misled by prejudice?” I ventured to remark.

“No, I ain’t nuther,” answered the Hoosier, “I speak from experience. I’ve bin thar.”

“Oh! you have given the aeronautic science some attention then?” I said. “An inventor, I presume?”

“Wal, no. I don’t exactly claim to be an inventor,” he replied; “I reckon I foller’d on the old plan, exceptin’ in the material used in constructin’.”

“Did you ever make an ascension?” I asked.

“Wal, yes, I’ve bin up _some_,” he answered dryly.

“Have you ever been very high?” inquired the fat old gentleman, who seemed to grow interested.

“Perhaps not so high as eagles or turkey-buzzards fly, but a mi’ty sight higher than barn-yard fowls ventur’,” answered the Hoosier. “You see,” he continued, “I was stayin’ down to Orleans once for about a week, and thar was a professor had a balloon in the park hitched to a stake, and he was histin’ people up the length of the rope for two bits a head. I stepped into the cradle that was a hangin’ to it, and went up the length of the rope, and liked it pooty well. I went up three or four times and made considerable inquiries about the manner of constructin’ and inflatin’, as I was cal’latin to rig up one when I got hum to Tuckersville.

“When I got back I telled Sal what I was bent on doin’. She tried pooty hard to git the notion out of my head, but t’was stuck thar, like a bur to a cow’s tail. I telled her it mout be the makin’ of us, so arter a while she gin in, and as silk was too alfired expensive Sal gin me a lot of bed sheets and helped me sew ’em together down in the cellar. We put it together down thar ’cause I didn’t want any of the neighbors to know what was up, until I could astonish ’em some fine mornin’ by risin’ above the hull caboodle, and for wunst lookin’ down on some on ’em that was snuffin’ around and tryin’ to look down on me mi’ty bad.

“I used a rousin’ great corn basket for the cradle, and arter she was all ready for inflatin’ I had my life insured, ’cause I didn’t want Sal to suffer by any of my ventur’s. Then I went to Sol Spence, the lawyer, and had him draw up the writin’s of a will, and while he was doin’ it he worked the balloon secret out of me, and wanted me to take him along. I telled him ’twas pooty risky business, and that he’d hev to run some chances, as I was cal’latin’ on seein’ what clouds war made of before I came down. He said them war his sentiments exactly; that he allers had a great hankerin’ to git up thar and see what sort of a spongy thing they war, anyhow.