Chapter 9

Of course the Essy I writ for the Social Science Society is a more finisheder production than the one on Cats, which was wroten when my mind was crood, and afore I had masterd a graceful and ellygant stile of composition. I could not even punctooate my sentences proper at that time, and I observe with pane, on lookin over this effort of my youth, that its beauty is in one or two instances mar'd by ingrammaticisms. This was inexcusable, and I'm surprised I did it. A writer who can't write in a grammerly manner better shut up shop.

You shall hear this Essy on Animals. Some day when you have four hours to spare, I'll read it to you. I think you'll enjoy it. Or, what will be much better, if I may suggest--omit all picturs in next week's _Punch_, and do not let your contributors write eny thing whatever (let them have a holiday; they can go to the British Mooseum;) and publish my Essy intire. It will fill all your collumes full, and create comment. Does this proposition strike you? Is it a go?

In case I had read the Essy to the Social Sciencers, I had intended it should be the closin attraction. I intended it should finish the proceedins. I think it would have finished them. I understand animals better than any other class of human creatures. I have a very animal mind, and I've been identified with 'em doorin my entire perfessional career as a showman, more especial bears, wolves, leopards and serpunts.

The leopard is as lively a animal as I ever came into contack with. It is troo he cannot change his spots, but you can change 'em for him with a paint-brush, as I once did in the case of a leopard who wasn't nat'rally spotted in a attractive manner. In exhibitin him I used to stir him up in his cage with a protracted pole, and for the purpuss of makin him yell and kick up in a leopardy manner, I used to casionally whack him over the head. This would make the children inside the booth scream with fright, which would make fathers of families outside the booth very anxious to come in--because there is a large class of parents who have a uncontrollable passion for takin their children to places where they will stand a chance of being frightened to death.

One day I whacked this leopard more than ushil, which elissited a remonstrance from a tall gentleman in spectacles, who said, "My good man, do not beat the poor caged animal. Rather fondle him."

"I'll fondle him with a club," I ansered, hitting him another whack.

"I prithy desist," said the gentleman; "stand aside, and see the effeck of kindness. I understand the idiosyncracies of these creeturs better than you do."

With that he went up to the cage, and thrustin his face in between the iron bars, he said, soothingly, "Come hither, pretty creetur."

The pretty creetur come-hithered rayther speedy, and seized the gentleman by the whiskers, which he tore off about enuff to stuff a small cushion with.

He said, "You vagabone, I'll have you indicted for exhibitin dangerous and immoral animals."

I replied, "Gentle Sir, there isn't a animal here that hasn't a beautiful moral, but you mustn't fondle 'em. You mustn't meddle with their idiotsyncracies."

The gentleman was a dramatic cricket, and he wrote a article for a paper, in which he said my entertainment wos a decided failure.

As regards Bears, you can teach 'em to do interestin things, but they're onreliable. I had a very large grizzly bear once, who would dance, and larf, and lay down, and bow his head in grief, and give a mournful wale, etsetry. But he often annoyed me. It will be remembered that on the occasion of the first battle of Bull Run, it suddenly occurd to the Fed'ral soldiers that they had business in Washington which ought not to be neglected, and they all started for that beautiful and romantic city, maintainin a rate of speed durin the entire distance that would have done credit to the celebrated French steed _Gladiateur_. Very nat'rally our Gov'ment was deeply grieved at this defeat; and I said to my Bear shortly after, as I was givin a exhibition in Ohio--I said, "Brewin, are you not sorry the National arms has sustained a defeat?" His business was to wale dismal, and bow his head down, the band (a barrel origin and a wiolin) playing slow and melancholy moosic. What did the grizzly old cuss do, however, but commence darncin and larfin in the most joyous manner? I had a narrer escape from being imprisoned for disloyalty.

DISLIKES

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I want it to be understood that I consider that a certain number of persons are at liberty to dislike me peremptorily, without showing cause, and that they give no offense whatever in so doing.

If I did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment towards myself on the part of others, I should not feel at liberty to indulge my own aversions. I try to cultivate a Christian feeling to all my fellow-creatures, but inasmuch as I must also respect truth and honesty, I confess to myself a certain number of inalienable dislikes and prejudices, some of which may possibly be shared by others. Some of these are purely instinctive, for others I can assign a reason. Our likes and dislikes play so important a part in the order of things that it is well to see on what they are founded.

There are persons I meet occasionally who are too intelligent by half for my liking. They know my thoughts beforehand, and tell me what I was going to say. Of course they are masters of all my knowledge, and a good deal besides; have read all the books I have read, and in later editions; have had all the experiences I have been through, and more too. In my private opinion every mother's son of them will lie at any time rather than confess ignorance.

I have a kind of dread, rather than hatred, of persons with a large excess of vitality; great feeders, great laughers, great story-tellers, who come sweeping over their company with a huge tidal wave of animal spirits and boisterous merriment. I have pretty good spirits myself, and enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but I am oppressed and extinguished by these great lusty, noisy creatures, and feel as if I were a mute at a funeral when they get into full blast.

I can not get along much better with those drooping, languid people, whose vitality falls short as much as that of the others is in excess. I have not life enough for two; I wish I had. It is not very enlivening to meet a fellow-creature whose expression and accents say, "You are the hair that breaks the camel's back of my endurance, you are the last drop that makes my cup of woe run over;" persons whose heads drop on one side like those of toothless infants, whose voices recall the tones in which our old snuffling choir used to wail out the verses of

"Life is the time to serve the Lord."

There is another style which does not captivate me. I recognize an attempt at the _grand manner_ now and then, in persons who are well enough in their way, but of no particular importance, socially or otherwise. Some family tradition of wealth or distinction is apt to be at the bottom of it, and it survives all the advantages that used to set it off. I like family pride as well as my neighbors, and respect the high-born fellow-citizen whose progenitors have not worked in their shirt-sleeves for the last two generations full as much as I ought to. But _grand-père oblige_; a person with a known grandfather is too distinguished to find it necessary to put on airs. The few Royal Princes I have happened to know were very easy people to get along with, and had not half the social knee-action I have often seen in the collapsed dowagers who lifted their eyebrows at me in my earlier years.

My heart does not warm as it should do towards the persons, not intimates, who are always _too_ glad to see me when we meet by accident, and discover all at once that they have a vast deal to unbosom themselves of to me.

There is one blameless person whom I can not love and have no excuse for hating. It is the innocent fellow-creature, otherwise inoffensive to me, whom I find I have involuntarily joined on turning a corner. I suppose the Mississippi, which was flowing quietly along, minding its own business, hates the Missouri for coming into it all at once with its muddy stream. I suppose the Missouri in like manner hates the Mississippi for diluting with its limpid, but insipid current the rich reminiscences of the varied soils through which its own stream has wandered. I will not compare myself to the clear or the turbid current, but I will own that my heart sinks when I find all of a sudden I am in for a corner confluence, and I cease loving my neighbor as myself until I can get away from him.

UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM

BY ARTEMUS WARD

Uncle Simon he Clumb up a tree To see What he could see, When presentlee Uncle Jim Clumb up beside of him And squatted down by he.

THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

The Little Mock-man on the Stairs-- He mocks the lady's horse 'at rares At bi-sickles an' things,-- He mocks the mens 'at rides 'em, too; An' mocks the Movers, drivin' through, An' hollers "Here's the way _you_ do With them-air hitchin'-strings!" "Ho! ho!" he'll say, Ole Settlers' Day, When they're all jogglin' by,-- "You look like _this_," He'll say, an' twis' His mouth an' squint his eye An' 'tend like _he_ wuz beat the bass Drum at both ends--an' toots and blares Ole dinner-horn an' puffs his face-- The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!

The Little Mock-man on the Stairs Mocks all the peoples all he cares 'At passes up an' down! He mocks the chickens round the door, An' mocks the girl 'at scrubs the floor, An' mocks the rich, an' mocks the pore, An' ever'thing in town! "Ho! ho!" says he, To you er me; An' ef we turns an' looks, He's all cross-eyed An' mouth all wide Like Giunts is, in books.-- "Ho! ho!" he yells, "look here at _me_," An' rolls his fat eyes roun' an' glares,-- "_You_ look like _this!_" he says, says he-- The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!

_The Little Mock-- The Little Mock-- The Little Mock-man on the Stairs, He mocks the music-box an' clock, An' roller-sofy an' the chairs; He mocks his Pa an' spec's he wears; He mocks the man 'at picks the pears An' plums an' peaches on the shares; He mocks the monkeys an' the bears On picture-bills, an' rips an' tears 'Em down,--an' mocks ist all he cares, An' EVER'body EVER'wheres!_

MAMMY'S LULLABY

BY STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN

Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo? Sunset still a-shinin' in de wes'; Sky am full o' windehs an' de stahs am peepin' froo-- Eb'ryt'ing but mammy's lamb at res'. Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'lan', Swing 'im to'ds de Souf-- See dat dove a-comin' wif a olive in 'is mouf! Angel hahps a-hummin', Angel banjos strummin'-- Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?

Cricket fiddleh scrapin' off de rozzum f'um 'is bow, Whippo'will a-mo'nin' on a lawg; Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin' mighty slow-- Stahtled at de bahkin' ob de dawg; Swing de baby Eas'way, Swing de baby Wes', Swing 'im to'ds de Souflan' whah de melon grow de bes'! Angel singers singin', Angel bells a-ringin', Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?

Eyelids des a-droopin' li'l loweh all de w'ile, Undeh lip a-saggin' des a mite; Li'l baby toofies showin' so't o' lak a smile, Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white. Swing 'im to'ds de No'flan', Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'-- Woolly cloud a-comin' fo' t' wrap 'im in 'is fleece! Angel ban' a-playin'-- Whut dat music sayin'? "Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?"

MY SWEETHEART

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK

Her height? Perhaps you'd deem her tall-- To be exact, just five feet seven. Her arching feet are not too small; Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven. Slim are her hands, yet not too wee-- I could not fancy useless fingers, Her hands are all that hands should be, And own a touch whose memory lingers.

The hue that lights her oval cheeks Recalls the pink that tints a cherry; Upon her chin a dimple speaks, A disposition blithe and merry. Her laughter ripples like a brook; Its sound a heart of stone would soften. Though sweetness shines in every look, Her laugh is never loud, nor often.

Though golden locks have won renown With bards, I never heed their raving; The girl I love hath locks of brown, Not tightly curled, but gently waving. Her mouth?--Perhaps you'd term it large-- Is firmly molded, full and curving; Her quiet lips are Cupid's charge, But in the cause of truth unswerving.

Though little of her neck is seen, That little is both smooth and sightly; And fair as marble is its sheen Above her bodice gleaming whitely. Her nose is just the proper size, Without a trace of upward turning. Her shell-like ears are wee and wise, The tongue of scandal ever spurning.

In mirth and woe her voice is low, Her calm demeanor never fluttered; Her every accent seems to go Straight to one's heart as soon as uttered. She ne'er coquets as others do; Her tender heart would never let her. Where does she dwell? I would I knew; As yet, alas! I've never met her.

THE AUTO RUBAIYAT[5]

BY REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN

Move!--Or the Devil Red who puts to flight Whate'er's before him, to the Left or Right, Will toss you high as Heaven when he strikes Your poor clay carcass with his master-might!

As the Cock crows the "Fiends" who stand before The Starting-Point, amid the Stream's wild roar, Shake hands, make wills, and duly are confess'd, Lest, once departed, they return no more.

For whether towards Madrid or Washington, Whether by steam or gasoline they run, Pedestrians keep getting in their way, Chauffeurs are being slaughtered one by one.

A new Fool's every minute born, you say; Yes, but where speeds the Fool of Yesterday? Beneath the Road he sleeps, the Autos roar Close o'er his head, but can not thrill his clay.

Well, let him sleep! For what have ye to do With him, who this or Anything pursue So it take swiftness?--Let the Children scream, Or Constables shout after--heed not you.

Oh ye who anti-auto laws would make And still insist upon the silly brake, Get in, and try a spin, and then you'll see How many fines you will impose--and take!

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Tank that cheers, Nor heed the Law's rebuke, the Rabble's tears, Quick! For To-morrow you and I may be Ourselves with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

A pair of Goggles and a Cap, I trow, A Stench, a Roar, and my Machine and Thou Beside me, going ninety miles an hour-- Oh, Turnpike-road were Paradise enow!

Ah, Love, could we successfully conspire Against this sorry World for our desire, Would we not shatter it to bits without So much of damage as a busted tire?

With Gasoline my fading Life provide, And wash my Body in it when I've died, And lay me, shrouded in my Cap and Cape, By some not Autoless new Speedway's side.

Yon "Devil" that goes pricking o'er the Plain, How oft hereafter will she go again! How oft hereafter will she seek her prey? But seek, alas, for one of us in vain!

And when, like her, O Love, you come to take Your morning spin for Appetite's sweet sake, And pass the spot where I lay buried, then, In memory of me, fling wide the Brake!

[Footnote 5: Lippincott's Magazine.]

THE TWO LADIES

BY CAROLYN WELLS

Once on a Time there were Two Ladies at a Shop where Gorgeous and Expensive Silks were temptingly displayed. "Only Six Dollars a Yard, Madam," said the Shopman to One of the Ladies, as he held up the Lustrous Breadths in those Tempting Fan-shaped Folds peculiar to Shopmen.

The Lady hesitated, and looked Dubiously at the Silk, for she knew it was Beyond her Means.

The Shopman Continued: "Very Cheap at the Price, and I have Only this One Dress Pattern remaining. You will Take it? Yes? Certainly, I will Send it at Once."

The Lady went away filled with Deep Regret because she had squandered her Money so Foolishly, and wished she had been Firm in her Refusal to buy the Goods.

The Other Lady saw a similar Silk. She felt it Between her Fingers, Measured its Width with her Eye, and then said Impulsively, "Oh, That is just What I Want. I will Take Twenty Yards."

No Sooner was the Silk cut off than the Lady felt Sharp Twinges of Remorse, for she knew she must Pay for it with the Money she had Saved Up for a new Dining-Room Carpet.

MORALS:

This Fable teaches that the Woman Who Deliberates Is Lost, and That We Should Think Twice Before We Speak Once.

THE DIAMOND WEDDING

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

O Love! Love! Love! What times were those, Long ere the age of belles and beaux, And Brussels lace and silken hose, When, in the green Arcadian close, You married Psyche under the rose, With only the grass for bedding! Heart to heart, and hand to hand, You followed Nature's sweet command, Roaming lovingly through the land, Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.

So have we read in classic Ovid, How Hero watched for her belovèd, Impassioned youth, Leander. She was the fairest of the fair, And wrapt him round with her golden hair, Whenever he landed cold and bare, With nothing to eat and nothing to wear, And wetter than any gander; For Love was Love, and better than money; The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey; And kissing was clover, all the world over, Wherever Cupid might wander.

So thousands of years have come and gone, And still the moon is shining on, Still Hymen's torch is lighted; And hitherto, in this land of the West, Most couples in love have thought it best To follow the ancient way of the rest, And quietly get united.

But now, True Love, you're growing old-- Bought and sold, with silver and gold, Like a house, or a horse and carriage! Midnight talks, Moonlight walks, The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh, The shadowy haunts, with no one by, I do not wish to disparage; But every kiss Has a price for its bliss, In the modern code of marriage;

And the compact sweet Is not complete Till the high contracting parties meet Before the altar of Mammon; And the bride must be led to a silver bower, Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower That would frighten Jupiter Ammon!

I need not tell How it befell, (Since Jenkins has told the story Over and over and over again In a style I can not hope to attain, And covered himself with glory!) How it befell, one summer's day, The king of the Cubans strolled this way-- King January's his name, they say-- And fell in love with the Princess May, The reigning belle of Manhattan; Nor how he began to smirk and sue, And dress as lovers who come to woo, Or as Max Maretzek and Julien do, When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies' view, And flourish the wondrous baton.

He wasn't one of your Polish nobles, Whose presence their country somehow troubles, And so our cities receive them; Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees, Who ply our daughters with lies and candies Until the poor girls believe them. No, he was no such charlatan-- Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan, Full of gasconade and bravado-- But a regular, rich Don Rataplan, Santa Claus de la Muscovado, Señor Grandissimo Bastinado. His was the rental of half Havana And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna, Rich as he was, could hardly hold A candle to light the mines of gold Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers; And broad plantations, that, in round figures, Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers! "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!" The Señor swore to carry the day, To capture the beautiful Princess May, With his battery of treasure; Velvet and lace she should not lack; Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black, Genin and Stewart his suit should back, And come and go at her pleasure; Jet and lava--silver and gold-- Garnets--emeralds rare to behold-- Diamonds--sapphires--wealth untold-- All were hers, to have and to hold: Enough to fill a peck measure!

He didn't bring all his forces on At once, but like a crafty old Don, Who many a heart had fought and won, Kept bidding a little higher; And every time he made his bid, And what she said, and all they did-- 'Twas written down, For the good of the town, By Jeems, of _The Daily Flyer_.

A coach and horses, you'd think, would buy For the Don an easy victory; But slowly our Princess yielded. A diamond necklace caught her eye, But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh. She knew the worth of each maiden glance, And, like young colts, that curvet and prance, She led the Don a deuce of a dance, In spite of the wealth he wielded. She stood such a fire of silks and laces, Jewels and gold dressing-cases, And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls, That every one of her dainty curls Brought the price of a hundred common girls; Folks thought the lass demented! But at last a wonderful diamond ring, An infant Kohinoor, did the thing, And, sighing with love, or something the same, (What's in a name?) The Princess May consented.

Ring! ring the bells, and bring The people to see the marrying! Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor Throng round the great cathedral door, To wonder what all the hubbub's for, And sometimes stupidly wonder At so much sunshine and brightness which Fall from the church upon the rich, While the poor get all the thunder.

Ring, ring! merry bells, ring! O fortunate few, With letters blue, Good for a seat and a nearer view! Fortunate few, whom I dare not name; Dilettanti! Créme de la Créme! We commoners stood by the street façade, And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade. We saw the bride In diamond pride, With jeweled maidens to guard her side-- Six lustrous maidens in tarletan. She led the van of the caravan; Close behind her, her mother (Dressed in gorgeous _moire antique_, That told as plainly as words could speak, She was more antique than the other) Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan, Santa Claus de la Muscovado, Señor Grandissimo Bastinado. Happy mortal! fortunate man! And Marquis of El Dorado!