Little Masterpieces of American Wit and Humor Volume I Part 6

A certain learned professor in New York has a wife and family, but, professor-like, his thoughts are always with his books.

One evening his wife, who had been out for some hours, returned to find the house remarkably quiet. She had left the children playing about, but now they were nowhere to be seen.

She demanded to be told what had become of them, and the professor explained that, as they had made a good deal of noise, he had put them to bed without waiting for her or calling a maid.

"I hope they gave you no trouble," she said.

"No," replied the professor, "with the exception of the one in the cot here. He objected a good deal to my undressing him and putting him to bed."

The wife went to inspect the cot.

"Why," she exclaimed, "that's little Johnny Green, from next door."

FIVE LIVES

Five mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.

To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty sh.e.l.l Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: "Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence When I am very old, yon s.h.i.+mmering doom Comes drawing down and down, till all things end?"

Then with a wizen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of G.o.d had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim of mind; and thus he mused: "Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls!

Made in the image"--a hoa.r.s.e frog croaks from the pool, "Hark! 'twas some G.o.d, voicing his glorious thought In thunder music. Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.

Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wriggle about, and munch a trace of sc.u.m."

He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, p.r.i.c.ked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist; and he knew positively; "There was no world beyond this certain drop.

Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough."

Then swaggering half a hair's breadth hungrily, He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet; And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: "Oh, little female monad's lips!

Oh, little female monad's eyes!

Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!"

The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove, Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives aeonian moments had gone wheeling by, The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed: A glistening film--'twas gone; the leaf was dry.

The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

JAMES T. FIELDS

THE OWL-CRITIC

A Lesson to Fault-finders

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop: The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!

I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology.

I've pa.s.sed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've _studied_ owls, And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that att.i.tude.

He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd!

To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed _him_ don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pa.s.s Off on you such poor gla.s.s; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I would stuff in the dark An owl better than that; I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coa.r.s.e leather.

In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance a.n.a.lytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

A CAUSE FOR THANKS

A country parson, in encountering a storm the past season in the voyage across the Atlantic, was reminded of the following: A clergyman was so unfortunate as to be caught in a severe gale in the voyage out. The water was exceedingly rough, and the s.h.i.+p persistently buried her nose in the sea. The rolling was constant, and at last the good man got thoroughly frightened. He believed they were destined for a watery grave. He asked the captain if he could not have prayers. The captain took him by the arm and led him down to the forecastle, where the tars were singing and swearing. "There," said he, "when you hear them swearing, you may know there is no danger." He went back feeling better, but the storm increased his alarm. Disconsolate and una.s.sisted, he managed to stagger to the forecastle again. The ancient mariners were swearing as ever. "Mary," he said to his sympathetic wife, as he crawled into his berth after tacking across a wet deck, "Mary, thank G.o.d they're swearing yet."

JOHN HAY

LITTLE BREECHES

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will and that sort of thing---- But I b'lieve in G.o.d and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along---- No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sa.s.sy, Always ready to swear and fight---- And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I pa.s.sed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of mola.s.ses And left the team at the door.