The Wit and Humor of America Volume II Part 9

"No, I don't: I'm talking 'bout her father,--he that married Abe Simm's da'ter and got a power of land by it; and that gal, their da'ter, one of these days will step right into them swamps."

"Oh," I replied, "_Mrs._ Perrine's daughter," accenting the "Missis!"

"Mussus or Miss, it's all the same in Jersey," he answered.

Knowing this, Ike's appeal was intelligible. To proceed with our story, the driver, very angry by this time, shouted,--

"I dells you oonst more for der last dime. I'fe got der small pox! unt Mishter Ellis he gifs me a leffy to gif der small pox to Miss Scutter; unt if dat vrow is Miss Scutter, I bromised to gif her ter small pox."

It was _Miss_ Scudder, and I explained to her that it was a _small box_ he had for her. The affair was soon settled as regarded its delivery, but not as regards the laughter and shouts of the occupants of the old stage-coach as we rolled away from Jericho. The driver joined in, although he had no earthly idea as to its cause, and added not a little to it by saying, in a triumphant tone of voice,--

"I vos pound to gif ter olt voomans ter small pox!"

WALK

BY WILLIAM DEVERE

Up the dusty road from Denver town To where the mines their treasures hide, The road is long, and many miles, The golden styre and town divide.

Along this road one summer's day, There toiled a tired man, Begrimed with dust, the weary way He cussed, as some folks can.

The stranger hailed a pa.s.sing team That slowly dragged its load along; His hail roused up the teamster old, And checked his merry song.

"Say-y, stranger!" "Wal, whoap."

"Ken I walk behind your load A spell in this road?"

"Wal, no, yer can't walk, but git Up on this seat an' ride; git up hyer."

"Nop, that ain't what I want, Fur it's in yer dust, that's like a smudge, I want to trudge, for I desarve it."

"Wal, pards, I ain't no hog, an' I don't Own this road, afore nor 'hind.

So jest git right in the dust An' walk, if that's the way yer 'clined.

Gee up, ger lang!" the driver said.

The creaking wagon moved amain, While close behind the stranger trudged, And clouds of dust rose up again.

The teamster heard the stranger talk As if two trudged behind his van, Yet, looking 'round, could only spy A single lonely man.

Yet heard the teamster words like these Come from the dust as from a cloud, For the weary traveler spoke his mind.

His thoughts he uttered loud, And this the burden of his talk: "Walk, now, you ----, walk!

Not the way you went to Denver?

Walk, ---- ----! Jest walk!

"Went up in the mines an' made yer stake, 'Nuff to take yer back to ther state Whar yer wur born.

Whar'n h.e.l.l's yer corn?

Wal, walk, you ----, walk!

"Dust in yer eyes, dust in yer nose, Dust down yer throat, and thick On yer clothes. Can't hardly talk?

I know it, but walk, you ----, walk!

"What did yer do with all yer tin?

Ya-s, blew every cent of it in; Got drunk, got sober, got drunk agin.

Wal, walk, ----! Jest walk.

"What did yer do? What didn't yer do?

Why, when ye war thar, yer gold-dust flew, Yer thought it fine to keep op'nin' wine.

Now walk, you ----, walk.

"Stop to drink? What--water?

Why, thar Water with you warn't anywhere.

'Twas wine, Extra Dry. Oh, You flew high-- Now walk, you ----, walk.

"Chokes yer, this dust? Wal, that Ain't the wust, When yer get back whar the Diggins are No pick, no shovel, no pan; Wal, yer a healthy man, Walk--jest walk."

The fools don't all go to Denver town, Nor do they all from the mines come down.

'Most all of us have in our day-- In some sort of shape, some kind of way-- Painted the town with the old stuff, Dipped in stocks or made some bluff, Mixed wines, old and new, Got caught in wedlock by a shrew, Stayed out all night, tight, Rolled home in the morning light, With crumpled tie and torn clawhammer, 'N' woke up next day with a katzenjammer, And walked, oh ----, how we walked.

Now, don't try to yank every bun, Don't try to have all the fun, Don't think that you know it all, Don't think real estate won't fall, Don't try to bluff on an ace, Don't get stuck on a pretty face, Don't believe every jay's talk-- For if you do you can bet you'll walk!

MR. DOOLEY ON GOLD-SEEKING

BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE

"Well, sir," said Mr. Hennessy, "that Alaska's th' gr-reat place. I thought 'twas nawthin' but an iceberg with a few seals roostin' on it, an' wan or two hundherd Ohio politicians that can't be killed on account iv th' threaty iv Pawrs. But here they tell me 'tis fairly smothered in goold. A man stubs his toe on th' ground, an' lifts th' top off iv a goold mine. Ye go to bed at night, an' wake up with goold fillin' in ye'er teeth."

"Yes," said Mr. Dooley, "Clancy's son was in here this mornin', an' he says a frind iv his wint to sleep out in th' open wan night, an' whin he got up his pants a.s.sayed four ounces iv goold to th' pound, an' his whiskers panned out as much as thirty dollars net."

"If I was a young man an' not tied down here," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd go there: I wud so."

"I wud not," said Mr. Dooley. "Whin I was a young man in th' ol'

counthry, we heerd th' same story about all America. We used to set be th' tur-rf fire o' nights, kickin' our bare legs on th' flure an'

wis.h.i.+n' we was in New York, where all ye had to do was to hold ye'er hat an' th' goold guineas'd dhrop into it. An' whin I got to be a man, I come over here with a ham and a bag iv oatmeal, as sure that I'd return in a year with money enough to dhrive me own ca-ar as I was that me name was Martin Dooley. An' that was a cinch.

"But, faith, whin I'd been here a week, I seen that there was nawthin'

but mud undher th' pavement,--I larned that be means iv a pick-axe at tin s.h.i.+llin's th' day,--an' that, though there was plenty iv goold, thim that had it were froze to it; an' I come west, still lookin' f'r mines.

Th' on'y mine I sthruck at Pittsburgh was a hole f'r sewer pipe. I made it. Siven s.h.i.+llin's th' day. Smaller thin New York, but th' livin' was cheaper, with Mon'gahela rye at five a throw, put ye'er hand around th'

gla.s.s.

"I was still dreamin' goold, an' I wint down to Saint Looey. Th' nearest I come to a fortune there was findin' a quarther on th' sthreet as I leaned over th' dashboord iv a car to whack th' off mule. Whin I got to Chicago, I looked around f'r the goold mine. They was Injuns here thin.

But they wasn't anny mines I cud see. They was mud to be shovelled an'

dhrays to be dhruv an' beats to be walked. I choose th' dhray; f'r I was niver cut out f'r a copper, an' I'd had me fill iv excavatin'. An' I dhruv th' dhray till I wint into business.

"Me experyence with goold minin' is it's always in th' nex' county. If I was to go to Alaska, they'd tell me iv th' finds in Seeberya. So I think I'll stay here. I'm a silver man, annyhow; an' I'm contint if I can see goold wanst a year, whin some prominent citizen smiles over his newspaper. I'm thinkin' that ivry man has a goold mine undher his own dure-step or in his neighbor's pocket at th' farthest."

"Well, annyhow," said Mr. Hennessy, "I'd like to kick up th' sod, an'

find a ton iv gold undher me fut."

"What wud ye do if ye found it?" demanded Mr. Dooley.