The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VIII (of X), Marshall P. Wilder [the best e book reader .txt] 📗

a Fo'th-o'-July,
Ef he hedn't got some machine to try."
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn!
Le's hurry back an' hide'n the barn,
An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!"
"Agreed!" Through the orchard they crept back,
Along by the fences, behind the stack,
And one by one, through a hole in the wall,
[Pg 1545]In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all;
And a very astonishing sight was that,
When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat.
And there they hid;
And Reuben slid
The fastenings back, and the door undid.
"Keep dark!" said he,
"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."

As knights of old put on their mail,—
From head to foot an iron suit,
Iron jacket and iron boot,
Iron breeches, and on the head
No hat, but an iron pot instead,
And under the chin the bail
(I believe they call the thing a helm),
Then sallied forth to overwhelm
The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm,—
So this modern knight
Prepared for flight,
Put on his wings and strapped them tight,
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,—
Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip;
Ten feet they measured from tip to tip!
And a helm had he, but that he wore,
Not on his head, like those of yore,
But more like the helm of a ship.
"Hush!" Reuben said,
"He's up in the shed!
He's opened the winder,—I see his head!
He stretches it out, an' pokes it about,
Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear
[Pg 1546]An' nobody near:
Guess he do'no' who's hid in here!
He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!
Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still!
He's a climbin' out now—Of all the things!
What's he got on? I van, it's wings!
An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail!
An' there he sets, like a hawk on a rail!
Steppin' careful, he travels the length
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat,
Peeps over his shoulder, this way an' that,
Fur to see 'f the 's any one passin' by;
But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.
They turn up at him a wonderin' eye,
To see—The dragon! he's goin' to fly!
Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!
Flop—flop—an' plump
To the ground with a thump!
Flutt'rin an' flound'rin', all 'n a lump!"

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,
Heels over head, to his proper sphere,—
Heels over head and head over heels,
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,—
So fell Darius. Upon his crown,
In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down,
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,
Broken braces and broken springs,
Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting-stars, and various things,
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff,
And much that wasn't so sweet by half.
Away with a bellow fled the calf;
[Pg 1547]And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?
'Tis a merry roar from the old barn door,
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying,
"Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?"
Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,
Darius just turned and looked that way,
As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff.
"Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"
He said; "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight
O' fun in't when ye come to light."

I just have room for the MORAL here:
And this is the moral: Stick to your sphere.
Or, if you insist, as you have the right,
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is, Take care how you light.
[Pg 1548] PAPER: A POEM BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

Some wit of old,—such wits of old there were,—
Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care,
By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Called clear blank paper every infant mind!
Then still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I (can you pardon my presumption), I—
No wit, no genius—yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce,
The wants of fashion, elegance and use.
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray not the fop,—half powder and half lace,—
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place;
He's the gilt paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the escritoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy-paper, of inferior worth,—
Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed.
[Pg 1549]Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper, such as peddlers choose
To wrap up wares which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame and fortune in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout.
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought
Deems this side always right, and that stark naught;
He foams with censure, with applause he raves,—
A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves:
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure,—
What's he? What? Touch-paper, to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the same class you'll find:
They are the mere waste paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet;
She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet,
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one, I'll bring;
[Pg 1550]'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing,
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims, are his own,
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone;
True genuine royal paper is his breast,—
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.
[Pg 1551]

NIAGARA BE DAMMED[7] BY WALLACE IRWIN

"Them beauties o' Nature," said Senator Grabb,
As he spat on the floor of Justitia's halls,
"Is pretty enough and artistic enough—
Referrin', of course, to Niagara Falls,
Whose waters go rumblin' and mumblin' and grumblin'
And tearin' and stumblin' and bumblin' and tumblin'
And foamin' and roarin'
And plungin' and pourin'
And wastin' the waters God gave to us creechers
To wash down our liquor and wash up our feechers—
Then what in the deuce
Is the swish-bingled use
O' keepin' them noisy old cataracts busy
To give folks a headache and make people dizzy?

"Some poets and children and cripples and fools
They say that them Falls is eternal. That so?
Say, what is Eternity, Nature, and God
Compared to the Inter-Graft Gaslighting Co.?
Could all the durn waterfalls born in creation
Compete with a sugar or soap corporation?
But Nature, you feel,
Has a voice in the deal?
She ain't. For I'm deaf both in that ear and this un—
[Pg 1552]If Nature talks Money I'm willin' to listen!
So bring on your dredges,
And shovels and sledges,
Yer bricklayers, masons, yer hammers and mauls—
The public be dammed while we dam up the Falls.

"Just look at the plans o' me beautiful dream!
A sewer-pipe conduit to carry the Falls
Past eight hundred mill-wheels (great savin' of steam):
The cliffs to be covered with dump heaps and walls,
With many a smokestack and fly-wheel and pulley,
Bridge, engine, and derrick—say, won't it look bully!
With, furnaces smokin',
And stokers a-stokin'
With factory children a-workin' like Scotches
A-turnin' out chewing-gum, shoe-laces, watches,
And kitchen utensils,
And patent lead-pencils,
And mission-oak furniture, pie-crust, and flannels—
Thus turnin' Niag' to legitimate channels.

"The province o' Beauty," said Senator Grabb,
"Is bossed by us fellers that know what to do.
When Senator Copper hogs half of a State
He builds an Art Palace on Fift' Avenoo.
What people believed in the dark Middle Ages
Don't go in this chapter o' history's pages,
And the worship of mountains
And rivers and fountains
Is sinful, idolatrous, dark superstition—
And likely to lose in a cash proposition.
Ere the good time is past
Let's get busy and cast
Our bread on the waterfall—it'll come back.
We'll first pass the Grabb Bill, and then pass the sack."
[Pg 1553]

THE FORBEARANCE OF THE ADMIRAL[8] BY WALLACE IRWIN

I ain't afeard o' the Admiral,
Though a common old tar I be,
And I've oftentimes spoke to the Admiral
Expressin' a bright idee;
For he's very nice at takin' advice
And a tractable man is he.

For once I says to the Admiral,
Unterrified, though polite,
"Don't think me critical, Admiral,
But yer vessel ain't sailin' right;