The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) by Marshall P. Wilder (classic english novels .TXT) 📖
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face—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!
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;
[Pg 541] 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!
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;
[Pg 541] 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!
[Pg 542] MAMMY'S LULLABY BY STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN
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!
[Pg 542] 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?
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?
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.
[Pg 543] 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?"
[Pg 544] MY SWEETHEART BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK
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.
[Pg 543] 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?"
[Pg 544] 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.
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.
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.
[Pg 545]
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.
[Pg 545]
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.
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.
[Pg 546] THE AUTO RUBAIYAT[5] BY REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN
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.
[Pg 546] 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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
[Pg 547]
With him, who this or Anything pursue
So it take swiftness?—Let the Children scream,
Or Constables shout after—heed not you.
[Pg 547]
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!
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.
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!
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?
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.
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!
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!
[Pg 548] THE TWO LADIES BY CAROLYN WELLS
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!
[Pg 548] 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.[Pg 549]
THE DIAMOND WEDDING BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMANO 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.
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.
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;
[Pg 550] 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.
And still the moon is shining on,
Still Hymen's torch is lighted;
[Pg 550] 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;
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!
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,
[Pg 551] 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.
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,
[Pg 551] 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
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
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