Nye and Riley's Wit and Humor Part 13

Vex no more that mind of his, We, to him, are but as phizz Unto pop that knows it is.

Haply, even as we prate Of him HERE--in astral state-- Or jackastral--he, elate,

Brouses 'round, with sportive hops In far fields of sphery crops, Nibbling stars like clover-tops.

He, occult and psychic, may Now be solving why to-day Is not midnight.--But away!

Cease vain queries! Let us go!

Leave him all unfathomed.--Lo, He can hear his whiskers grow.

The Diary of Darius T. Skinner

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL, New York, Dec. 31, 188-.--It hardly seems possible that I am here in New York, putting up at a hotel where it costs me $5 or $6 a day just simply to exist. I came here from my far away-home entirely alone. I have no business here, but I simply desired to rub up against greatness for awhile. I need polish, and I am smart enough to know it.

"I write this entry in my diary to explain who I am and to help identify myself in case I should come home to my room intoxicated some night and blow out the gas.

"The reason I am here is that last summer while whacking bulls, which is really my business, I grub-staked Alonzo McReddy and forgot about it till I got back and the boys told me that Lon had struck a First National bank in the shape of the Sarah Waters claim. He was then very low with mountain fever and so n.o.body felt like jumping the claim.

Sat.u.r.day afternoon Alonzo pa.s.sed away and left me the Sarah Waters.

That's the only sad thing about the whole business now. I am raised from bull-whacking to affluence, but Alonzo is not here. How we would take in the town together if he'd lived, for the Sarah Waters was enough to make us both well fixed.

"I can imagine Lon's look of surprise and pride as he looks over the outer battlements of the New Jerusalem and watches me paint the town.

Little did Lon think when I pulled out across the flat with my whiskers full of alkali dust and my cuticle full of raw agency whisky, that inside of a year I would be a nabob, wearing biled s.h.i.+rts every single day of my life, and clothes made specially for me.

"Life is full of sudden turns, and no one knows here in America where he'll be in two weeks from now. I may be back there a.s.sociating with greasers again as of yore and skinning the same bulls that I have heretofore skun.

"Last evening I went to see 'The Mikado,' a kind of singing theater and Chinese walk-around. It is what I would call no good. It is acted out by different people who claim they are Chinamen, I reckon. They teeter around on the stage and sing in the English language, but their clothes are peculiar. A homely man, who played that he was the lord high executioner and chairman of the vigilance committee, wore a pair of wide, bandana pants, which came off during the first act. He was cool and collected, though, and so caught them before it was everlastingly too late. He held them on by one hand while he sang the rest of his piece, and when he left the stage the audience heartlessly whooped for him to come back.

"'The Mikado' is not funny or instructive as a general thing, but last night it was accidently facetious. It has too much singing and not enough vocal music about it. There is also an overplus of conversation through the thing that seems like talking at a mark for $2 a week. It may be owing to my simple ways, but 'The Mikado' is too rich for my blood.

"We live well here at the Fifth Avenue. The man that owns the place puts two silver forks and a clean tablecloth on my table every day, and the young fellows that pa.s.s the grub around are so well dressed that it seems sa.s.sy and presumptions for me to bother them by asking them to bring me stuff when I'd just as soon go and get it myself and nothing else in the world to do.

"I told the waiter at my table yesterday that when he got time I wished he would come up to my room and we could have a game of old sledge. He is a nice young man, and puts himself out a good deal to make me comfortable.

"I found something yesterday at the table that bothered me. It was a new kind of a silver dingus, with two handles to it, for getting a lump of sugar into your tea. I saw right away that it was for that, but when I took the two handles in my hand like a nut cracker and tried to scoop up a lump of sugar with it I felt embarra.s.sed. Several people who were total strangers to me smiled.

"After dinner the waiter brought me a little pink-gla.s.s bowl of lemonade and a clean wipe to dry my mouth with, I reckon, after I drank the lemonade. I do not pine for lemonade much, anyhow, but this was specially poor. It was just plain water, with a lemon rind and no sugar into it.

"One rural rooster from Pittsburg showed his contempt for the blamed stuff by was.h.i.+ng his hands in it. I may be rough and uncouth in my style, but I hope I will never lower myself like that in company."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MAN IN THE MOON]

O, The Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; Whee!

Whimm!

Ain't you sorry for him?

And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun,-- So he just dreams of stars, as the doctors advise-- My!

Eyes!

But isn't he wise-- To just dream of stars, as the doctors advise?

And The Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-- Whee!

Whing!

What a singular thing!

I know; but these facts are authentic, my dear,--

There's a boil on his ear, and a corn on his chin-- He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in-- Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know; Whang!

Ho!

Why, certainly so!-- It might be a dimple turned over, you know!

And The Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee-- Gee!

Whizz!

What a pity that is!

And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.-- So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with porridge-crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a j.a.panese fan, Whing!

Whann!

What a marvelous man!

What a very remarkably marvelous man!

[Ill.u.s.tration: His Christmas Sled.]

I watch him, with his Christmas sled; He hitches on behind A pa.s.sing sleigh, with glad hooray, And whistles down the wind; He hears the horses champ their bits, And bells that jingle-jingle-- You Woolly Cap! you Scarlet Mitts!

You miniature "Kriss Kringle!"

I almost catch your secret joy-- Your chucklings of delight, The while you whizz where glory is Eternally in sight!

With you I catch my breath, as swift Your jaunty sled goes gliding O'er gla.s.sy track and shallow drift, As I behind were riding!

He winks at twinklings of the frost.

And on his airy race, Its tingles beat to redder heat The rapture of his face:-- The colder, keener is the air, The less he cares a feather.

But, there! he's gone! and I gaze on The wintriest of weather!

Ah, boy! still speeding o'er the track Where none returns again, To Sigh for you, or cry for you, Or die for you were vain.-- And so, speed on! the while I pray All nipping frosts forsake you-- Ride still ahead of grief, but may All glad things overtake you!

Her Tired Hands