The Wit and Humor of America Volume V Part 24

Well, sir, when she saw the ad next morning that old hen just scratched gravel. Went all around town saying that I had given a five-hundred-dollar shed to charity and painted a thousand-dollar ad on it. Allowed I ought to send my check for that amount to the _creche_ fund. Kept at it till I began to think there might be something in it, after all, and sent her the money. Then I found a fellow who wanted to build in that neighborhood, sold him the lot cheap, and got out of the _creche_ industry.

I've put a good deal more than work into my business, and I've drawn a good deal more than money out of it; but the only thing I've ever put into it which didn't draw dividends in fun or dollars was worry. That is a branch of the trade which you want to leave to our compet.i.tors.

I've always found worrying a blamed sight more uncertain than horse-racing--it's harder to pick a winner at it. You go home worrying because you're afraid that your fool new clerk forgot to lock the safe after you, and during the night the lard refinery burns down; you spend a year fretting because you think Bill Jones is going to cut you out with your best girl, and then you spend ten worrying because he didn't; you worry over Charlie at college because he's a little wild, and he writes you that he's been elected president of the Y.M.C.A.; and you worry over William because he's so pious that you're afraid he's going to throw up everything and go to China as a missionary, and he draws on you for a hundred; you worry because you're afraid your business is going to smash, and your health busts up instead. Worrying is the one game in which, if you guess right, you don't get any satisfaction out of your smartness. A busy man has no time to bother with it. He can always find plenty of old women in skirts or trousers to spend their days worrying over their own troubles and to sit up nights waking his.

Speaking of handing over your worries to others naturally calls to mind the Widow Williams and her son Bud, who was a playmate of mine when I was a boy. Bud was the youngest of the Widow's troubles, and she was a woman whose troubles seldom came singly. Had fourteen altogether, and four pair of 'em were twins. Used to turn 'em loose in the morning, when she let out her cows and pigs to browse along the street, and then she'd shed all worry over them for the rest of the day. Allowed that if they got hurt the neighbors would bring them home; and that if they got hungry they'd come home. And someways, the whole drove always showed up safe and dirty about meal time.

I've no doubt she thought a lot of Bud, but when a woman has fourteen it sort of unsettles her mind so that she can't focus her affections or play any favorites. And so when Bud's clothes were found at the swimming hole one day, and no Bud inside them, she didn't take on up to the expectations of the neighbors who had brought the news, and who were standing around waiting for her to go off into something special in the way of high-strikes.

She allowed that they were Bud's clothes, all right, but she wanted to know where the remains were. Hinted that there'd be no funeral, or such like expensive goings-on, until some one produced the deceased. Take her by and large, she was a pretty cool, calm cuc.u.mber.

But if she showed a little too much Christian resignation, the rest of the town was mightily stirred up over Bud's death, and every one just quit work to tell each other what a n.o.ble little fellow he was; and how his mother hadn't deserved to have such a bright little sunbeam in her home; and to drag the river between talks. But they couldn't get a rise.

Through all the worry and excitement the Widow was the only one who didn't show any special interest, except to ask for results. But finally, at the end of a week, when they'd strained the whole river through their drags and hadn't anything to show for it but a collection of tin cans and dead catfish, she threw a shawl over her head and went down the street to the cabin of Louisiana Clytemnestra, an old yellow woman, who would go into a trance for four bits and find a fortune for you for a dollar. I reckon she'd have called herself a clairvoyant nowadays, but then she was just a voodoo woman.

Well, the Widow said she reckoned that boys ought to be let out as well as in for half price, and so she laid down two bits, allowing that she wanted a few minutes' private conversation with her Bud. Clytie said she'd do her best, but that spirits were mighty snifty and high-toned, even when they'd only been poor white trash on earth, and it might make them mad to be called away from their high jinks if they were taking a little recreation, or from their high-priced New York customers if they were working, to tend to cut-rate business. Still, she'd have a try, and she did. But after having convulsions for half an hour, she gave it up.

Reckoned that Bud was up to some cussedness off somewhere, and that he wouldn't answer for any two-bits.

The Widow was badly disappointed, but she allowed that that was just like Bud. He'd always been a boy that never could be found when any one wanted him. So she went off, saying that she'd had her money's worth in seeing Clytie throw those fancy fits. But next day she came again and paid down four bits, and Clytie reckoned that that ought to fetch Bud sure. Someways though, she didn't have any luck, and finally the Widow suggested that she call up Bud's father--Buck Williams had been dead a matter of ten years--and the old man responded promptly.

"Where's Bud?" asked the Widow.

Hadn't laid eyes on him. Didn't know he'd come across. Had he joined the church before he started?

"No."

Then he'd have to look downstairs for him.

Clytie told the Widow to call again and they'd get him sure. So she came back next day and laid down a dollar. That fetched old Buck Williams'

ghost On the jump, you bet, but he said he hadn't laid eyes on Bud yet.

They hauled the Sweet By and By with a drag net, but they couldn't get a rap from him. Clytie trotted out George Was.h.i.+ngton, and Napoleon, and Billy Patterson, and Ben Franklin, and Captain Kidd, just to show that there was no deception, but they couldn't get a whisper even from Bud.

I reckon Clytie had been stringing the old lady along, intending to produce Bud's spook as a sort of red-fire, calcium-light, grand-march-of-the-Amazons climax, but she didn't get a chance. For right there the old lady got up with a mighty set expression around her lips and marched out, muttering that it was just as she had thought all along--Bud wasn't there. And when the neighbors dropped in that afternoon to plan out a memorial service for her "lost lamb," she chased them off the lot with a broom. Said that they had looked in the river for him and that she had looked beyond the river for him, and that they would just stand pat now and wait for him to make the next move.

Allowed that if she could once get her hands in "that lost lamb's" wool there might be an opening for a funeral when she got through with him, but there wouldn't be till then. Altogether, it looked as if there was a heap of trouble coming to Bud if he had made any mistake and was still alive.

The Widow found her "lost lamb" hiding behind a rain-barrel when she opened up the house next morning, and there was a mighty touching and affecting scene. In fact, the Widow must have touched him at least a hundred times and every time he was affected to tears, for she was using a bed slat, which is a powerfully strong moral agent for making a boy see the error of his ways. And it was a month after that before Bud could go down Main Street without some man who had called him a n.o.ble little fellow, or a bright, manly little chap, while he was drowned, reaching out and fetching him a clip on the ear for having come back and put the laugh on him.

No one except the Widow ever really got at the straight of Bud's conduct, but it appeared that he left home to get a few Indians scalps, and that he came back for a little bacon and corn pone.

I simply mention the Widow in pa.s.sing as an example of the fact that the time to do your worrying is when a thing is all over, and that the way to do it is to leave it to the neighbors. I sail for home to-morrow.

Your affectionate father, JOHN GRAHAM.

FAREWELL

_Provoked by Calverley's "Forever"_

By Bert Leston Taylor

"Farewell!" Another gloomy word As ever into language crept.

'Tis often written, never heard, Except

In playhouse. Ere the hero flits-- In handcuffs--from our pitying view.

"Farewell!" he murmurs, then exits R.U.

"Farewell" is much too sighful for An age that has not time to sigh.

We say, "I'll see you later," or "Good-by!"

When, warned by chanticleer, you go From her to whom you owe devoir, "Say not 'good-by,'" she laughs, "but 'Au Revoir!'"

Thus from the garden are you sped; And Juliet were the first to tell You, you were silly if you said "Farewell!"

"Farewell," meant long ago, before It crept, tear-spattered, into song, "Safe voyage!" "Pleasant journey!" or "So long!"

But gone its cheery, old-time ring; The poets made it rhyme with knell-- Joined it became a dismal thing-- "Farewell!"

"Farewell!" into the lover's soul You see Fate plunge the fatal iron.

All poets use it. It's the whole Of Byron.

"I only feel--farewell!" said he; And always fearful was the telling-- Lord Byron was eternally Farewelling.

"Farewell!" A dismal word, 'tis true (And why not tell the truth about it!); But what on earth would poets do Without it?

MY RUTHERS

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

[Writ durin' State Fair at Indanoplis, whilse visitin' a Soninlaw then residin' thare, who has sence got back to the country whare he says a man that's raised thare ot to a-stayed in the first place.]

I tell you what I'd ruther do-- Ef I only had my ruthers,-- I'd ruther work when I wanted to Than be bossed round by others;-- I'd ruther kindo' git the swing O' what was _needed_, first, I jing!

Afore I _swet_ at anything!-- Ef I only had my ruthers;-- In fact I'd aim to be the same With all men as my brothers; And they'd all be the same with _me_-- Ef I only had my ruthers.

I wouldn't likely know it all-- Ef I only had my ruthers;-- I'd know _some_ sense, and some base-ball-- Some _old_ jokes, and--some others: I'd know _some politics_, and 'low Some tarif-speeches same as now, Then go hear Nye on "Branes and How To Detect Theyr Presence." _T'others_, That stayed away, I'd _let_ 'em stay-- All my dissentin' brothers Could chuse as sh.o.r.e a kill er cuore, Ef I only had my ruthers.

The pore 'ud git theyr dues _some_times-- Ef I only had my ruthers,-- And be paid _dollars_ 'stid o' _dimes_, Fer children, wives and mothers: Theyr boy that slaves; theyr girl that sews-- Fer _others_--not herself, G.o.d knows!-- The grave's _her_ only change of clothes!

... Ef I only had my ruthers, They'd all have "stuff" and time enugh To answer one-another's Appealin' prayer fer "lovin' care"-- Ef I only had my ruthers.

They'd be few folks 'ud ast fer trust, Ef I only had my ruthers, And blame few business-men to bu'st Theyrselves, er harts of others: Big Guns that come here durin' Fair- Week could put up jest anywhare, And find a full-and-plenty thare, Ef I only had my ruthers: The rich and great 'ud 'sociate With all theyr lowly brothers, Feelin' _we_ done the honorun-- Ef I only had my ruthers.