Chapter 6

The fools don't all go to Denver town, Nor do they all from the mines come down. 'Most all of us have in our day-- In some sort of shape, some kind of way-- Painted the town with the old stuff, Dipped in stocks or made some bluff, Mixed wines, old and new, Got caught in wedlock by a shrew, Stayed out all night, tight, Rolled home in the morning light, With crumpled tie and torn clawhammer, 'N' woke up next day with a katzenjammer, And walked, oh ----, how we walked.

Now, don't try to yank every bun, Don't try to have all the fun, Don't think that you know it all, Don't think real estate won't fall, Don't try to bluff on an ace, Don't get stuck on a pretty face, Don't believe every jay's talk-- For if you do you can bet you'll walk!

MR. DOOLEY ON GOLD-SEEKING

BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE

"Well, sir," said Mr. Hennessy, "that Alaska's th' gr-reat place. I thought 'twas nawthin' but an iceberg with a few seals roostin' on it, an' wan or two hundherd Ohio politicians that can't be killed on account iv th' threaty iv Pawrs. But here they tell me 'tis fairly smothered in goold. A man stubs his toe on th' ground, an' lifts th' top off iv a goold mine. Ye go to bed at night, an' wake up with goold fillin' in ye'er teeth."

"Yes," said Mr. Dooley, "Clancy's son was in here this mornin', an' he says a frind iv his wint to sleep out in th' open wan night, an' whin he got up his pants assayed four ounces iv goold to th' pound, an' his whiskers panned out as much as thirty dollars net."

"If I was a young man an' not tied down here," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd go there: I wud so."

"I wud not," said Mr. Dooley. "Whin I was a young man in th' ol' counthry, we heerd th' same story about all America. We used to set be th' tur-rf fire o' nights, kickin' our bare legs on th' flure an' wishin' we was in New York, where all ye had to do was to hold ye'er hat an' th' goold guineas'd dhrop into it. An' whin I got to be a man, I come over here with a ham and a bag iv oatmeal, as sure that I'd return in a year with money enough to dhrive me own ca-ar as I was that me name was Martin Dooley. An' that was a cinch.

"But, faith, whin I'd been here a week, I seen that there was nawthin' but mud undher th' pavement,--I larned that be means iv a pick-axe at tin shillin's th' day,--an' that, though there was plenty iv goold, thim that had it were froze to it; an' I come west, still lookin' f'r mines. Th' on'y mine I sthruck at Pittsburgh was a hole f'r sewer pipe. I made it. Siven shillin's th' day. Smaller thin New York, but th' livin' was cheaper, with Mon'gahela rye at five a throw, put ye'er hand around th' glass.

"I was still dreamin' goold, an' I wint down to Saint Looey. Th' nearest I come to a fortune there was findin' a quarther on th' sthreet as I leaned over th' dashboord iv a car to whack th' off mule. Whin I got to Chicago, I looked around f'r the goold mine. They was Injuns here thin. But they wasn't anny mines I cud see. They was mud to be shovelled an' dhrays to be dhruv an' beats to be walked. I choose th' dhray; f'r I was niver cut out f'r a copper, an' I'd had me fill iv excavatin'. An' I dhruv th' dhray till I wint into business.

"Me experyence with goold minin' is it's always in th' nex' county. If I was to go to Alaska, they'd tell me iv th' finds in Seeberya. So I think I'll stay here. I'm a silver man, annyhow; an' I'm contint if I can see goold wanst a year, whin some prominent citizen smiles over his newspaper. I'm thinkin' that ivry man has a goold mine undher his own dure-step or in his neighbor's pocket at th' farthest."

"Well, annyhow," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd like to kick up th' sod, an' find a ton iv gold undher me fut."

"What wud ye do if ye found it?" demanded Mr. Dooley.

"I--I dinnaw," said Mr. Hennessy, whose dreaming had not gone this far. Then, recovering himself, he exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "I'd throw up me job an'--an' live like a prince."

"I tell ye what ye'd do," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye'd come back here an' sthrut up an' down th' sthreet with ye'er thumbs in ye'er armpits; an' ye'd dhrink too much, an' ride in sthreet ca-ars. Thin ye'd buy foldin' beds an' piannies, an' start a reel estate office. Ye'd be fooled a good deal an' lose a lot iv ye'er money, an' thin ye'd tighten up. Ye'd be in a cold fear night an' day that ye'd lose ye'er fortune. Ye'd wake up in th' middle iv th' night, dhreamin' that ye was back at th' gas-house with ye'er money gone. Ye'd be prisidint iv a charitable society. Ye'd have to wear ye'er shoes in th' house, an' ye'er wife'd have ye around to rayciptions an' dances. Ye'd move to Mitchigan Avnoo, an' ye'd hire a coachman that'd laugh at ye. Ye'er boys'd be joods an' ashamed iv ye, an' ye'd support ye'er daughters' husbands. Ye'd rackrint ye'er tinants an' lie about ye'er taxes. Ye'd go back to Ireland on a visit, an' put on airs with ye'er cousin Mike. Ye'd be a mane, close-fisted, onscrupulous ol' curmudgeon; an', whin ye'd die, it'd take haf ye'er fortune f'r rayqueems to put ye r-right. I don't want ye iver to speak to me whin ye get rich, Hinnissy."

"I won't," said Mr. Hennessy.

LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM

BY WALLACE IRWIN

I

Say, will she treat me white, or throw me down, Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand, Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand, Knife me, or make me think I own the town? Will she be on the level, do me brown, Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand, Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band, Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown?

I do not know, nor do I give a whoop, But this I know: if she is so inclined She can come play with me on our back stoop, Even in office hours, I do not mind-- In fact I know I'm nice and good and ready To get an option on her as my steady.

VIII

I sometimes think that I am not so good, That there are foxier, warmer babes than I, That Fate has given me the calm go-by And my long suit is sawing mother's wood. Then would I duck from under if I could, Catch the hog special on the jump and fly To some Goat Island planned by destiny For dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood. But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree, The trade in lager beer is still a-humming, A schooner can be purchased for a V Or even grafted if you're fierce at bumming. My finish then less clearly do I see, For lo! I have another think a-coming.

IX

Last night I tumbled off the water cart-- It was a peacherino of a drunk; I put the cocktail market on the punk And tore up all the sidewalks from the start. The package that I carried was a tart That beat Vesuvius out for sizz and spunk, And when they put me in my little bunk You couldn't tell my jag and me apart.

Oh! would I were the ice man for a space, Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut, Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly race Around the eaves that from my forehead jut-- Or will a carpenter please come instead And build a picket fence around my head?

XII

Life is a combination hard to buck, A proposition difficult to beat, E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet, In forty flickers, it's the same hard luck, And you are up against it nip and tuck, Shanghaied without a steady place to eat, Guyed by the very copper on your beat Who lays to jug you when you run amuck. O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain. On the T square I do not like your style; For you are playing favorites again And you have got me handicapped a mile. Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf: Go take a running jump and chase yourself!

XIV

O mommer! wasn't Mame a looty toot Last night when at the Rainbow Social Club She did the bunny hug with every scrub From Hogan's Alley to the Dutchman's Boot, While little Willie, like a plug-eared mute, Papered the wall and helped absorb the grub, Played nest-egg with the benches like a dub When hot society was easy fruit!

Am I a turnip? On the strict Q.T., Why do my Trilbys get so ossified? Why am I minus when it's up to me To brace my Paris Pansy for a glide? Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scored A flock of zeros on my tally-board.

XXI

At noon to-day Murphy and Mame were tied. A gospel huckster did the referee, And all the Drug Clerks' Union loped to see The queen of Minnie Street become a bride, And that bad actor, Murphy, by her side, Standing where Yours Despondent ought to be. I went to hang a smile in front of me, But weeps were in my glimmers when I tried. The pastor murmured, "Two and two make one," And slipped a sixteen K on Mamie's grab; And when the game was tied and all was done The guests shied footwear at the bridal cab, And Murphy's little gilt-roofed brother Jim Snickered, "She's left her happy home for him."

HOW "RUBY" PLAYED

BY GEORGE W. BAGBY

(Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes to hear Rubinstein, and gives the following description of his playing.)

Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty-cornerdest pianner you ever laid eyes on; somethin' like a distracted billiard-table on three legs. The lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If it hadn't been, he'd 'a' tore the entire inside clean out and shattered 'em to the four winds of heaven.

_Played well?_ You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. When he first sit down he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin' and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle-leedled a little on a treble, and twoodle-oodled some on the base,--just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to a man sittin' next to me, says I, "What sort of fool playin' is that?" And he says, "Heish!" But presently his hands commenced chasin' one another up and down the keys, like a passel of rats scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' the wheel of a candy cage.

"Now," I says to my neighbor, "he's showin' off. He thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no idee, no plan of nothin'. If he'd play me a tune of some kind or other, I'd--"

But my neighbor says, "Heish!" very impatient.

I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking up away off in the woods and call sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up and see that Rubin was beginning to take some interest in his business, and I sit down again. It was the peep of day. The light came faint from the east, the breezes blowed gentle and fresh, some more birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People began to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like they'd split their little throats; all the leaves was movin', and flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman anywhere. It was a fine mornin'.

And I says to my neighbor, "That's music, that is."

But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat.

Presently the wind turned; it begun to thicken up, and a kind of gray mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground; some flashed up like long pearl ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies. It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams, running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, except that you could kinder see the music, especially when the bushes on the banks moved as the music went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds sing: it was a foggy day, but not cold.

The most curious thing was the little white angel-boy, like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music brook and led it on, and on, away out of the world, where no man ever was, certain, I could see the boy just as plain as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, where some few ghosts lifted their hands and went over the wall, and between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men that loved 'em, but could never get anigh 'em, who played on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I could have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I don't know who, better than the men with the guitars did.

Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could 'a' got up then and there and preached a better sermon than any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world left to live for, not a blame thing, and yet I didn't want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't understand it. I hung my head and pulled out my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud to keep me from cryin'. My eyes is weak anyway; I didn't want anybody to be a-gazin' at me a-sniv'lin', and it's nobody's business what I do with my nose. It's mine. But some several glared at me mad as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin changed his tune. He ripped out and he rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to look any man in the face, and not afraid of nothin'. It was a circus and a brass band and a big ball all goin' on at the same time. He lit into them keys like a thousand of brick; he give 'em no rest day or night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin', and, not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumped spang onto my seat, and jest hollered,--

_"Go it, my Rube!"_

Every blame man, woman and child in the house riz on me, and shouted, "Put him out! put him out!"

"Put your great-grandmother's grizzly gray greenish cat into the middle of next month!" I says. "Tech me if you dare! I paid my money, and you jest come anigh me!"

With that some several policemen run up, and I had to simmer down. But I would 'a' fit any fool that laid hands on me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die.

He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies and tip-toed fine from end to end of the key-board. He played soft and low and solemn. I heard the church bells over the hills. The candles of heaven was lit, one by one; I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from the world's end to the world's end, and all the angels went to prayers.... Then the music changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, and began to drop--drip, drop--drip, drop, clear and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. It was sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a sweet-heart sweetened with white sugar mixed with powdered silver and seed-diamonds. It was too sweet. I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, "Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't interrup' me."

He stopped a moment or two to catch breath. Then he got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeve, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He slapped her face, he boxed her jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her cheeks, until she fairly yelled. He knocked her down and he stamped on her shameful. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and _then_ he wouldn't let her up. He run a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the base, till he got clean in the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder through the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got 'way out of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer than the p'ints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And _then_ he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He for'ard two'd, he crost over first gentleman, he chassade right and left, back to your places, he all hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade all, in and out, here and there, back and forth, up and down, perpetual motion, double twisted and turned and tacked and tangled into forty-eleven thousand double bow-knots.

By jinks! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fetcht up his right wing, he fetcht up his left wing, he fetcht up his center, he fetcht up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his cannon,--siege-guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder,--big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rocked--heavens and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Samson in a 'simmon-tree, Tump Tompson in a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle- ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle--raddle-addle-eedle--riddle-iddle-iddle- iddle--reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle--p-r-r-r-rlank! Bang!!! lang! perlang! p-r-r-r-r-r!! Bang!!!!

With that bang! he lifted himself bodily into the a'r, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on the pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quivers, and I know'd no mo'.

When I come to, I were under ground about twenty foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before and never expect to ag'in. Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know my name. The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, "Hot music on the half-shell for two!"

PLAGIARISM

BY JOHN B. TABB

If Poe from Pike The Raven stole, As his accusers say, Then to embody Adam's soul, God _plagiarised_ the clay.

GO LIGHTLY, GAL

(THE CAKE-WALK)

BY ANNE VIRGINIA CULBERTSON

Sweetes' li'l honey in all dis lan', Come erlong yer an' gimme yo' han', Go lightly, gal, go lightly! Cawn all shucked an' de barn flo' clear, Come erlong, come erlong, come erlong, my dear, Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Fiddles dey callin' us high an' fine, "Time fer de darnsin', come an' jine," Go lightly, gal, go lightly! My pooty li'l honey, but you is sweet! An' hit's clap yo' han's an' shake yo' feet, Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Hit's cut yo' capers all down de line, Den mek yo' manners an' tiptoe fine, Go lightly, gal, go lightly! Oh, hit's whu'll yo' pardners roun' an' roun', Twel you hyst dey feet clean off de groun', Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Oh, hit's tu'n an' twis' all roun' de flo', Fling out yo' feet behime, befo', Go lightly, gal, go lightly! Gre't Lan' o' Goshen! but you is spry! Kain't none er de urr gals spring so high, Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Oh, roll yo' eyes an' wag yo' haid An' shake yo' bones twel you nigh most daid, Go lightly, gal, go lightly! Doan' talk ter me 'bout gittin' yo' bref, Gwine darnse dis out ef hit cause my def! Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Um-humph! done darnse all de urr folks down! Skip erlong, honey, jes' one mo' roun'! Go lightly, gal, go lightly! Fiddles done played twel de strings all break! Come erlong, honey, jes' one mo' shake, Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

Now teck my arm an' perawd all roun', So dey see whar de _sho'-nuff_ darnsers foun', Go lightly, gal, go lightly! Den gimme yo' han' an' we quit dish yer, Come erlong, come erlong, come erlong, my dear, Go lightly, gal, go lightly!

THE GOLFER'S RUBAIYAT[1]

BY H.W. BOYNTON

Wake! for the sun has driven in equal flight The stars before him from the Tee of Night, And holed them every one without a miss, Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.

Now the fresh Year, reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye, And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.

Come, choose your ball, and in the Fire of Spring Your Red Coat, and your wooden Putter fling; The Club of Time has but a little while To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.

Whether at Musselburgh or Shinnecock, In motley Hose or humbler motley Sock, The Cup of Life is ebbing Drop by Drop, Whether the Cup be filled with Scotch or Bock.

A Bag of Clubs, a Silver-Town or two, A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag--and Thou Beside me caddying in the Wilderness-- Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.

They say the Female and the Duffer strut On sacred Greens where Morris used to put; Himself a natural Hazard now, alas! That nice hand quiet now, that great Eye shut.

I sometimes think that never springs so green The Turf as where some Good Fellow has been, And every emerald Stretch the Fair Green shows His kindly Tread has known, his sure Play seen.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent Jamie and His, and heard great argument Of Grip and Stance and Swing; but evermore Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand sought to make it grow; And this was all the Harvest that I reaped: "You hold it This Way, and you swing it So."

The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck, Moves on: nor all your Wit or future Luck Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke, Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.

And that inverted Ball they call the High-- By which the Duffer thinks to live or die, Lift not your hands to IT for help, for it As impotently froths as you or I.

Yon rising Moon that leads us Home again, How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising wait for us At this same Turning--and for One in vain.

And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been And am no more above the pleasant Green, And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole I made in One--ah! pay my Forfeit then!

[Footnote 1: By permission of Fox, Duffield and Company. From _The Golfer's Rubaiyat_. Copyright, 1901, by Herbert S. Stone and Company.]

MR. DOOLEY ON REFORM CANDIDATES

BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE

"That frind iv ye'ers, Dugan, is an intilligent man," said Mr. Dooley. "All he needs is an index an' a few illusthrations to make him a bicyclopedja iv useless information."

"Well," said Mr. Hennessy, judiciously, "he ain't no Soc-rates an' he ain't no answers-to-questions colum; but he's a good man that goes to his jooty, an' as handy with a pick as some people are with a cocktail spoon. What's he been doin' again ye?"