The Wit and Humor of America, Volume X (of X) by Marshall P. Wilder (sites to read books for free .txt) 📖

submit
To paying out quarters and sundry dimes;
This is Her brother—whose urchin wit
Moves me to wrath a thousand times;
This is Her brother—and hence I smile
And jest and cringe at his tyranny,
And call him "smart"! But just wait a while
Till he's my brother—and then we'll see!
[Pg 2003] THE JACKPOT BY IRONQUILL

I sauntered down through Europe,
I wandered up the Nile,
I sought the mausoleums where the mummied Pharaohs lay;
I found the sculptured tunnel
Where quietly in style
Imperial sarcophagi concealed the royal clay.
Above the vault was graven deep the motto of the crown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

It's strange what deep impressions
Are made by little things.
Within the granite tunneling I saw a dingy cleft;
It was a cryptic chamber.
I drew, and got four kings.
But on a brief comparison I laid them down and left,
Because upon the granite stood that sentence bold and brown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

I make this observation:
A man with such a hand
Has psychologic feelings that perhaps he should not feel,
But I was somewhat rattled
[Pg 2004]And in a foreign land,
And had some dim suspicions, as I had not watched the deal.
And there was that inscription, too, in words that seemed to frown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

These letters were not graven
In Anglo-Saxon tongue;
Perhaps if you had seen them you had idly passed them by.
I studied erudition
When I was somewhat young;
I recognized the language when it struck my classic eye;
I saw a maxim suitable for monarch or for clown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

Detesting metaphysics,
I can not help but put
A philosophic moral where I think it ought to hang;
I've seen a "boom" for office
Grow feeble at the root,
Then change into a boomlet—then to a boomerang.
In caucus or convention, in village or in town:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
[Pg 2005]

DUM VIVIMUS VIGILAMUS BY JOHN PAUL

Turn out more ale, turn up the light;
I will not go to bed to-night.
Of all the foes that man should dread
The first and worst one is a bed.
Friends I have had both old and young,
And ale we drank and songs we sung:
Enough you know when this is said,
That, one and all,—they died in bed.
In bed they died and I'll not go
Where all my friends have perished so.
Go you who glad would buried be,
But not to-night a bed for me.

For me to-night no bed prepare,
But set me out my oaken chair.
And bid no other guests beside
The ghosts that shall around me glide;
In curling smoke-wreaths I shall see
A fair and gentle company.
Though silent all, rare revelers they,
Who leave you not till break of day.
Go you who would not daylight see,
But not to-night a bed for me:
For I've been born and I've been wed—
[Pg 2006]All of man's peril comes of bed.

And I'll not seek—whate'er befall—
Him who unbidden comes to all.
A grewsome guest, a lean-jawed wight—
God send he do not come to-night!
But if he do, to claim his own,
He shall not find me lying prone;
But blithely, bravely, sitting up,
And raising high the stirrup-cup.
Then if you find a pipe unfilled,
An empty chair, the brown ale spilled;
Well may you know, though naught be said,
That I've been borne away to bed.
[Pg 2007]

AT AUNTY'S HOUSE BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

One time, when we'z at Aunty's house—
'Way in the country!—where
They's ist but woods—an' pigs, an' cows—
An' all's out-doors an' air!—
An' orchurd-swing; an' churry-trees—
An' churries in 'em!—Yes, an' these-
Here red-head birds steals all they please,
An' tetch 'em ef you dare!—
W'y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there,
We et out on the porch!

Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut
The table wuz; an' I
Let Aunty set by me an' cut
My vittuls up—an' pie.
'Tuz awful funny!—I could see
The red-heads in the churry-tree;
An' bee-hives, where you got to be
So keerful, goin' by;—
An' "Comp'ny" there an' all!—an' we—
We et out on the porch!

An' I ist et p'surves an' things
'At Ma don't 'low me to—
An' chickun-gizzurds—(don't like wings
[Pg 2008]Like Parunts does! do you?)

An' all the time, the wind blowed there,
An' I could feel it in my hair,
An' ist smell clover ever'where!—
An' a' old red-head flew
Purt' nigh wite over my high-chair,
When we et on the porch!
[Pg 2009]

WILLY AND THE LADY BY GELETT BURGESS

Leave the lady, Willy, let the racket rip,
She is going to fool you, you have lost your grip,
Your brain is in a muddle and your heart is in a whirl,
Come along with me, Willy, never mind the girl!

Come and have a man-talk;
Come with those who can talk;
Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through;
Love is only chatter,
Friends are all that matter;
Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

Leave the lady, Willy, let her letter wait,
You'll forget your troubles when you get it straight,
The world is full of women, and the women full of wile;
Come along with me, Willy, we can make you smile!

Come and have a man-talk,
A rousing black-and-tan talk,
There are plenty there to teach you; there's a lot for you to do;
Your head must stop its whirling
Before you go a-girling;
[Pg 2010]Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you

Leave the lady, Willy, the night is good and long,
Time for beer and 'baccy, time to have a song;
Where the smoke is swirling, sorrow if you can—
Come along with me, Willy, come and be a man!

Come and have a man-talk,
Come with those who can talk,
Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through;
Love is only chatter,
Friends are all that matter;
Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

Leave the lady, Willy, you are rather young;
When the tales are over, when the songs are sung,
When the men have made you, try the girl again;
Come along with me, Willy, you'll be better then!

Come and have a man-talk,
Forget your girl-divan talk;
You've got to get acquainted with another point of view!
Girls will only fool you;
We're the ones to school you;
Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!
[Pg 2011]

A NEW YEAR IDYL BY EUGENE FIELD

Upon this happy New Year night,
A roach crawls up my pot of paste,
And begs me for a tiny taste.
Aye, eat thy fill, for it is right
That while the rest of earth is glad,
And bells are ringing wild and free,
Thou shouldst not, gentle roachling, be
Forlorn and gaunt and weak and sad.

This paste to-night especially
For thee and all thy kind I fixed,
You'll find some whiskey in it mixed,
For which you have to thank but me.
So freely of the banquet take,
And if you chance to find a drop
Of liquor, prithee do not stop
But quaff it for thy stomach's sake.

Why dost thou stand upon thy head,
All etiquette requirements scorning,
And sing "You won't go home till morning"
And "Put me in my little bed"?
Your tongue, fair roach, is very thick,
Your eyes are red, your cheeks are pale,
Your underpinning seems to fail,
You are, I wot, full as a tick.
[Pg 2012]

ENVOI

I think I see that roach's home,
That roach's wife, with broom in hand,
That roach come staggering homeward and
Then all is glum and gloom and gloam.
[Pg 2013]

A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME BY THOMAS YBARRA

Oh! the Roman was a rogue,
He erat, was, you bettum;
He ran his automobilis
And smoked his cigarettum;
He wore a diamond studibus,
An elegant cravattum,
A maxima cum laude shirt,
And such a stylish hattum!

He loved the luscious hic-hæc-hock,
And bet on games and equi;
At times he won; at others, though,
He got it in the nequi;
He winked (quo usque tandem?)
At puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes even made
Those goo-goo oculorum!

He frequently was seen
At combats gladiatorial,
And ate enough to feed
Ten boarders at Memorial;
He often went on sprees
And said, on starting homus,
"Hic labor—opus est,
[Pg 2014]Oh, where's my hic—hic—domus?"

Although he lived in Rome—
Of all the arts the middle—
He was (excuse the phrase)
A horrid individ'l;
Ah! what a diff'rent thing
Was the homo (dative, hominy)
Of far-away B. C.
From us of Anno Domini.
[Pg 2015]

LITTLE BOPEEP AND LITTLE BOY BLUE BY SAMUEL MINTURN