7lL r^-r^r ._ .-.■(■(.'■.•"■';(;25 oo; AND OTHER TALES crisp paragraph would be " passed along" after the fashion prevalent in the old days when American humor was strug- ghng for popular recognition. So the Professional Humorist com- municated with his fellow funny men, and told them that unless concerted measures were taken the old-fashioned crisp paragraphs would be relegated to the obscurity shared by other features of ante-bellum journalism ; and, the funny men becoming alarmed, a general con- vention of the order was promptly called and as quickly assembled. At this gathering of the comic writers various means whereby the Young Man of Talent should be destroyed were dis- cussed, " It would be better," said a hoary and solemn humorist, whose calling was in- dicated by a cane made in imitation of a length of stovepipe, with a handle of goat's horn, " much better, I think, if we . 226 JXD OTHER TALES were to prevail upon him to enter Society as a literaiy celebrity, and make a prac- tice of attending kettledrums and recep- tions, "where he will be encouraged by women to talk about his literary methods, and where he will be tempted to partake of the tea and cake and weak punch which have ruined so many brilliant careers. If, in addition to that, we can arrange with the Society reporters to pubhsh his name among ' the well-known literary and artistic people present' as often as possible, his descent will be swift and sure." " There is one thing necessary to make that combination invincible," said a para- grapher whose sound logic and conser- vatism had long since gained for him the name of " The Sage of Schoharie " : " we must call the attention of somebody like Mr. Aldrich or Mr. Howells to his work, and induce him to express a favorable opinion of it. If Mr. Aldrich would only 227 AND OTHER TALES say that he has a ' dainty style/ or if Mr. Howells Avould praise him for his ' subtle delineation of character/ his book, which is coming out in a few weeks, would fall flat on the market. Then, if he showed any signs of life after that, Edmund Gosse might administer the coup de grace with a favorable review in some English fort- nightly." These measures having received the in- dorsement of every member of the union, it was resolved that they should be promptly carried thi'ough ; but before the meeting adjourned the Professional Hu- morist arose and begged to be allowed to say a few words. " I have no doubt," he said, "■ that the course we have decided upon will result in driving this new-comer from the field of letters ; but if it does not I have a plan in my head which has never failed yet. It has already, within my own memory, driven several of our most promising 228 AND OTHER TALES wi'iters to the Potters Field, and if des- perate measures become necessary we will try it, but only as a last resort." * # * # * A year rolled by, and again the mem- bers of the union assembled for their annual convention. As they passed through Fourteenth Street on theii* way to the hall of meet- ing, a sad-eyed, despondent figure stood on the sidewalk and endeavored to sell them lead-pencils at their own price. A smile of triiimph lit up the face of the Professional Humorist as he dii'ccted the attention of his fellow-members to the mournful, ill-clad Avretch on the curb- stone. ''I told 3^ou my scheme would work," he said. It was even so. Neither the kettle- drums nor the commendations of the wiseacres of hterature had had any effect on the Young Man of Talent, who had gone steadily on with his work, unspoiled AND OTHER TALES by feminine flattery, and heedless of the praise or commendations of the critics. It was only when these attempts npon his reputation and popularity had failed that the Professional Humoiist threw himself into the breach with a paragraph — which was given instant and wide pub- licity by the rest of the Association — stating that the gifted young writer was the Dickens of America. And then the Young Man of Talent tottered to his fall. 230 THE SOCIETY REPORTER'S CHRISTMAS. Early morn in the little parlor of a humble white cottage, where Susan Swal- lowtail sat waiting for her husband to return from the baU. It lacked but a few days of Christmas, and she had arisen with her little ones at five o'clock in order that WiUiam, her husband, might have a warm breakfast and a loving greeting on his re- turn after his long night's work. Seated before the fii-e, with her sewing on her lap, Susan Swallowtail's thoughts went back to the days when William, then on the threshold of his career as a Society reporter, had first won her young heart by his description of her costume at the ball 231 AND OTHER TALES of the " Ladies' Daughters' Association of the Ninth Ward." She remembered how gaHantly and tenderly he had wooed her through the columns of the four weekly and Sunday papers in which he conducted the "Fashion Chit-chat" columns, and then the tears filled her eyes as memory brought once more before her the terrible night when Wilham ca,me to the house and asked her father, the stern old house and sign painter, for his daughter's hand. "And yet," said Susan to herself, "my life has not been altogether an unhappy one in spite of our poverty. William has a kind heart, and I am sui-e that if he had an^-thing to wear besides his dress-suit and flannel dressing-gown he would often brighten my lot by taking me out some- where in the da>i:une. Ah, if papa would only relent! But I fear he will never forgive me for my marriage." Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of famiUar footsteps in the haU, 232 AND OTHER TALES and the next moment her husband had clasped her in his arms, while the childi-en clung to his ulster and clamored for their early morning kiss. But there was a cloud on the young husband's brow and a tremor on liis lips as he said, "Run away now, little ones; papa and mama have something to say to each other that little ears must not hear." " My darling," he said, as soon as they were alone, -'I fear that our Christmas will not be a very merry one. You know how we always depend on tlie ball of the Gnt-edged Coterie for om- Christmas dinner ? " " Indeed I do," replied the young wife, with a bright smile; "what beautiful slices of roast beef and magnificent mince- pies you always bring home from that ball ! Surely they will give then* enter- tainment on Chnstmas eve this year as they always have ? " 233 AND OTHER TALES ''Yes, but — can you bear to hear it, my own love ? " "Let me know the worst," said the young wife, bravely. " Then," said William, hoarsely, " I will tell you. I am not going to that ball. The city editor is going to take the as- signment himself, and I must go to a literary and artistic gathering, where there will be nothing but tea and recita- tions." ''Yes," said Susan, bitterly, "and sand- wiches so thin that they can be used to watch the eclipse of the sun. But what have you brought back with you now? I hope it is something nourishing." " My darhng," replied William Swallow- tail, in faltering tones, "I fear you are doomed to another disappointment. I have done my best to-night, but this is all I could get my hands on ; " and with these words he drew from the pockets of his heavy woolen ulster a paper bag filled 234 JXI) OTHER TALES ^vith wane jelly, a box of marrons glaces, and two pint bottles of champagne. " Is that all ? " said Susan, reproachf nil}-. ''The children have had nothing to eat since j'esterday morning except pdfes de foie grrrts,macai*oons,and hothouse grapes. All day long they have been crying for corned-beef sandwiches, and I have had none to give them. You told me, Wil- liam, when we parted in the early eve- ning, that you Avere going to a house where there Avould be at least ham, and perhaps bottled beer, and now you return to me wdth this paltry package of jelly and that very sweet "udne. I hope, William " — and a cold, hard look of suspicion crept into her face — ''that you have not forgotten your vows and given to another — " " Susan ! " cried William Swallowtail, "how can you speak or even think of such a thing, when you know full well that— " But Susan withdrew from his embrace, 235 AND OTHER TALES and asked in bitter, cold accents, "Was there ham at that reception or was there not?" " There was ham, and corned beef too, I wUl not deny it; but — " " Then, William, with what woman have you shared it ? " demanded the young wife, drawing herself up to her fuU height, and fixing her dark, flashing eyes fuU upon him. "Susan, I implore you, listen to me, and do not judge me too harshly. There was ham, but there were several German noblemen there too — Baron Sneeze of the Austrian legation. Count Pretzel, and a dozen more. The smell of meat in- flamed them, an d I fought my way tlu-ough them in time to save only this from the wreck." He drew from his ulster-pocket some- thing done up in a inece of paper, and handed it to his wife. She opened the package and saw that it contained what 23G AND OTHER TALES looked like a long piece of very highly polished ivory. Then her face softened, her lips trembled, and her ej^es brimmed over with tears. " Forgive me, William, for my unjust suspicions," she exclaimed, as she threw herself once more into his arms. " This mute ham-bone tells me far more strongly than any words of youi's could the story of the Society reporter's awful struggle for life." William kissed his young wife affec- tionately, and then sat down to the break- fast which she had prepared for him. "I hope," she said, cheerfully, as she took a dish of lobster salad from the oven, where it had been warmed over, "that you will keep a sharp lookout for quail this week. It would be nice to have one or two for om- Christmas dinner. Of course we cannot afford corned beef and cabbage like those rich people whom you call by their fii'st names when you write about them in the Sunday papers ; but I 237 AND OTHER TALES do hope we will not be obliged to put up with cakes and pastry and such wretched stuff." " Quail ! "exclaimed her husband ; " they are so scarce and shy this winter that we are obliged to take setter-dogs with us to the entertainments at which they are served. But I will do my best, darling." As soon as William had gone to bed Susan took from its hiding-place the present which she had prepared for her husband, and proceeded to sew it to the inside of his ulster as a Christmas sur- prise for him. She sighed to think that it was the best she could afford this year. It was a useful rather than an ornamental gift — a simple rubber pocket, made from a piece of an old mackintosh, and in, tended for William to carry soup in. But Susan had a bright, hopeful spirit, and a smile soon smoothed the fmrows from her face as she murmured, "How nice it will be when William comes home 238 JXD OTHER TALES with his new pocket tilled with nice, warm, uom-ishing bouillon ! " and then she glanced up from her work and saw that her daughter, little golden-haired Eva, had entered the room and was looking at her out of her great, truthful, deep-blue eyes. ***** It was Christmas eve, and as Jacob Scaffold trudged through the frosty streets the keen air brought a ruddy glow to his cheeks and tipped his nose with a brighter carmine than any that he used in the practice of his art. Entering the hall in which the ball of the Gilt- edged Coterie was taking place, the proud old house and sign painter quickly divest- ed himself of his outer wraps and made his way to the committee-room. Then, adorned with a huge badge and streamer, he strolled out to greet his friends, who were making meiry on the poUshed floor of the ball-room. But al- 239 AND OTHER TALES though the band played its most stirring- measures and the lights gleamed on arms and necks of dazzling wliiteness, old Jacob Scaffold sighed deeply as he seated him- self in a rather obscure corner and allowed his eyes to roam about the room as if in search of some familiar face. The fact was that the haughty, pm*se- proud old man was thinking of another Christmas eve ten years before when his daughter Susan had danced at this same ball, the brightest, the prettiest, and the most sought-after girl on the floor. "And to think," said the old man to himself, "that, with all the opportunities she had to make a good match, she should have taken up with that reporter in the shiny dress-suit ! It's five years since I've heard anything of her, but of late I've been thinking that maybe I was too harsh with her, and perhaps — " His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, who told him that 240 AND OTHER TALES some one desired to see him in the com- mittee-room. On reaching that apart- ment he found a httle girl of perhaps eight years of age, phiinly clad, and carry- ing a basket in her hand. Fixing her eyes on Jacob Scaffold, she said : " Please, sir, are you the chau-man of the press committee ? " *' I am," replied the puzzled artist ; " but who are you ? " " I am the reporter of the Sunday Guff. My papa has charge of the 'What the Four Hundi'cd are Doing ' column, but to- night he is obliged to attend a cliromo- literary reception, where there will be nothing to eat but tea and cake. Papa has reported your baUs and chowder ex- cursions for the past five years, and we have always had ham for dessert for a week afterward. We had all been look- ing forward to your Christmas-eve ball, and when papa told us that he would have to go to the tea and cake place to- 241 AND OTHER TALES night mama felt so badly that I took papa's ticket out of his pocket when he was asleep and came here myself. Papa has a thick ulster, full of nice big pockets, that he puts on when he goes out to re- port, but I have brought a basket." The child finished her simple and affect- ing narrative, and the members of the press committee looked at one another dumfounded. Jacob Scaffold was the first to break the silence. " And what is your name, little child ? " he inquired. ''Eva Swallowtail," she answered, as she turned a pair of trusting, innocent blue eyes full upon liim. The old man grew pale and his lips trembled as he gathered his gTandchild in his arms. The other members of the committee softly left the room, for they all knew the story of Susan Scaffold's mhaJliance and her f athei-'s bitter feelings toward her and her husband. 242 AND OTHER TALES "What!" cried Jacob Scaffold, "my gi'andchild wanting l)read ? Come to me, little one, and we'll see what can be done for yon." And putting on his hea\y nlster he took httle Eva by the hand and led the way to the great thoronghfare, on which the stores were still open. # * * * * It was a happy family party that sat down to dinner in William Swallowtail's humble home that bright Christmas day, and well did the httle ones enjoy the treat which tlieir generous new-found grandparent provided for them. Thej^ began with a soup made of wine jelly, and ended ^dth a delicious dessert of corned-beef sandwiches and large Ger- man pickles ; and then, when they could eat no more, and not even a pork pie could tempt their appetites. Grandpa Scaffold told his daughter that he was wilHng to Uft his son-in-law from the hard and 243 AND OTHER TALES ill-paid labor of AVTiting Society chron- icles, and give him a chance to better himself with a whitewash brush. " And/' continued the old man, " if I see that he possesses true artistic talent, I will some day give him a chance at the side of a house." 244 THE DYING GAG. There was au affecting scene on the stage of a New York theatre the other night — a scene invisible to the audience and not down on the bills, but one far more touching and pathetic than any- thing enacted before the foothghts that night, although it was a minstrel com- pany that gave the entertainment. It was a wild, blustering night, and the wind howled mom-nf ully around the street- corners, bhuding the pedestrians with the clouds of dust that it caught up from the gutters and hurled into their faces. Old man Sweeny, the stage doorkeeper, dozing in his little glazed box, was awak- ened by a sudden gust that banged the 245 AND OTHER TALES stage door and then went howling along the corridor, almost extinguishing the gas-jets and making the minstrels shiver in their dressing-rooms. " What ! you here to-night ? " exclaimed old man Sweeny as a frail figure muffled up in a huge ulster staggered through the doorway and stood leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath. "Yes; I felt that I couldn't stay away from the footlights to-night. They tell me I'm old and worn out and had better take a rest, but I'll go on till I drop ; " and with a hollow cough the Old Gag plodded slowly down the dim and di-afty corridor, and sank wearily on a sofa in the big dressing-room, where the other Gags and Conundrums were awaiting their cues. " Poor old fellow ! " said one of them, sadly, " he can't hold out much longer." "He ought not to go on except at matinees," replied another veteran, who 246 AND OTHER TALES was standing in front of the mii*ror trim- ming his long, silvery beard; and just then an attendant came in with several basins of gruel, and the old Jests tucked napkins under their chins and sat down to partake of a little nourishment before going on. The bell tinkled and the entertainment began. One after another the Jokes and Conundrums heard their cues, went on, and returned to the dressing-room; for they aU had to go on again in the after- piece. The house was crowded to the dome, and there was scarcely a dry eye in the vast audience as one after another of the old Quips and Jests that had been treasured household words in many a family came on and then disappeared to make room for others of their kind. As the evening wore on the whisper ran through the theatre that the Old Gag was going on that night — perhaps for the last time; and many an eye grew 247 AND OTHER TALES dim, many a pulse beat quicker at the thought of listening once more to that hoary Jest, about whose head were clus- tered so many sacred memories. Meanwhile the Old Gag was sitting in his corner of the di'essing-room, his head bowed on his breast, his gTuel untasted on the tray before him. The other Gags came and went, but he heeded them not. His thoughts were far away. He was dreaming of old days, of liis early strug- gles for fame, and of his friends and companions of years ago. "Wliere are they now?" he asked himself, sadly. " Some are wanderers on the face of the earth, in comic operas. Two of them found ignoble gi'aves in the ' Tourists' ' company. Others are sleeping beneath the daisies in Harper's ' Editor's Drawer.' " " You're called, sir ! " The Old Gag awoke from his reverie, and started to his feet with sometliing of the old-time fire flashing in his eye. 248 AND OTHER TALES Throwing aside liis heavy ulster, he stag- gered to the entrance and stood there l^atiently waiting for his cue. " You're hardly strong enough to go on to-night," said a Merry Jest, touching him kindly on the arm ; but the gray-bearded one shook him off, sapng hoarsely : " Let be ! let be ! I must read those old lines once more — it may be for the last time." And now a solemn hush fell upon the vast audience as a sad-faced minstrel ut- tered in tear-compeUing accents the most pathetic words in all the literature of minstrels}^ : " And so you say, Mr. Johnson, that all the people on the ship were peiishing of hunger, and yet you were eating fried eggs. How do you account for that ? " For one moment a deathlike silence prevailed. Then the Old Gag stepped forward and in clear, ringing tones re- pUed: AND OTHER TALES " The ship lay to, and I got one." A wild, heart-rending sob came from the audience and relieved the tension as the Old Gag staggered back into the en- trance and fell into the friendly arms that were waiting to receive him. Sobbing Conundrnms bore him to a couch in the dressing-room. "Weeping Jokes strove in vain to brmg back the spark of hfe to his inanuuate form. But all to no avail. The Old Gag was dead. 250 ''ONLY A TYPE-WRITER." Scene. Cave of the experiencecllsLA^AGER in the centre of a labyrinth under the stage. Manager (to energetic young Draj\iatist ivho has tracJced him to his lair). Yes, young feller, IVe read youi- play, and, while it's fii'st-class in its way, it ain't exactly what I want. Now you seem to be a pushing, active sort of a feller — if you hadn't been you never would have found your way in here — and if you can only get me up the sort of piece I want we can do a little business together. In writing a play you've got to bear one thing in mind, and that is to adapt your- self to the public taste and the resources of the theatre. Ai-e you on ? 251 AND OTHER TALES Dramatist. Certainly, sir ; and I shall be only too happy to write something especially for your theatre. I think I can do it if I only get a chance. Sardou is my model. Manager. Well, Sardou is all right enough in liis way, but I'm looking after something entirely different. Now I want a strong melodrama, and I'm going to call it Only a Type-writer; or, The Pulse of the Great Metropolis. There are twenty thousand type-writei-s in the city, and they'll aU want to see it, and each of them will fetch her mother or her feller along with her. Then they'll gabble about it to all the people they know — nothing hke a lot of women to advertise a piece — and if there's any go in the play at aU it'U be talked about from Harlem to the Battery before it's been on the boards a week. Now, of course, there's got to be a moral ; in fact, you've got to come out pretty d — d strong with your moral. My idea AND OTHER TALES is this: In the first act you show the type-writer — whose folks are all gilt- edged people and 'waj^ up — in an elegant cottage at Newport. She's a light-hearted, innocent girl in a white muslin dress Avith a blue sash. I'm going to east Pearl Li-sdngston for the part, and she's alwaj^s crazy to make up for an innocent girl. Recollect you can't spread the innocence and simplicity on too thick. Li\angston wants to say a prayer with her hair hang- ing down her back, so if you can ring that in somehow it'U be aU the better. You must give her a good entrance, too, or she'll kick like a steer. DRA3IATIST. Excuse me, but I don't see exactly how a type- writer could hve in a Newport cottage. Manager. I'm coming to that right away. You see this act is just to show her as a light-hearted, innocent girl whose father has always been loaded up with dust, so she's never known what it 253 AND OTHER TALES was to holler for a sealskin sack and not get it. But in the end of the act the father goes broke and exclaims, " Merciful heavens, we are beggars ! " and drops dead. His wife gives a shriek, and all the society people rush on from the wings so as to make a picture at the back, while the daughter — that's Livingston, you knoAV — takes the centre of the stage and says, " No, mother" — or "mommer" would sound more affectionate, maybe — "No, mommer," she says, " not beggars yet, for I will work for you ! " Curtain ! Are you on to the idea ? Dramatist. Well, I believe I under- stand youi' scheme so far. But who's the hero, and where do you get your comedy element ? Manager, Oh, the comedy is easy enough to manage, and as for the hero, I forgot to tell you that he shows up in the first act and wants to marry her, but she gives him the bounce because he's 254 AND OTHER TALES poor as a crow. Better make him an Ar- tist or something of that sort. It might be a good idea to have him a reporter, and then he can read some good strong lines about the dignity of his profession or something of that sort, just so as to catch on with the press boys. Well, the next act shows the gii'l living in a garret in New York, supporting herself and her mother by type-wi'itiug. Lay it on thick about their being poor and industrious and aU that, and have some good lines about the noble working-girl or the vir- tuous type-writer or something of that sort. Livingston's got an elegant new silk gown that she says she's going to wear in that act, so you'll have to give her a few lines to explain that although they're poor she still has that di'ess and won't part with it because her father gave it to her, and so she wears it at home nights when the other one's in the wash. 255 AND OTHER TALES Dramatist. Excuse me, but isn't it rather strange for a poor type-writer to appear in a handsome new silk dress when she's having hard work to support herself and her mother ? Why not put her in a plain gingham gown — ? Manager. Plain gingham be blowed ! Say, young feller, when you know that cat Livingston as well as T do, you won't sit here talking about plain gingham gowns. No, siree; she won't touch any part unless she can dress it right up to the handle. Well, this act is in two scenes. The first is a front scene show- ing the humble house on the virtuous- poverty plan, with the old lady warming her hands at a little fire and saying, " Oh, it is bitter cold to-night, and the wind cuts like a knife." And then we can have the wind whistling through the garret in a melancholy sort of way. The next scene shows a broker's office where the type-writer is employed. Here you can 256 AND OTHER TALES iTiQ in a little comedy and show them ha\'ing a lot of fun while the old man is out at lunch. Livingston's got some fii-st- rate music— sort of pathetic-like — and you can wi'ite some words to it for her to sing. Write something appropriate, such as, " I'm only a working-gii-1, but I'm vir- tuous, noble, and true." How does that sound, hey? Well, in this act her em- ployer insults her, and she leaves him, though she hasn't a cent in the world and doesn't know where to go. You must give her a good strong scene, and have the cuiiaiu fall on a tableau of indignant virtue rebuking the tempter. You must have a pictm-e there that we can use on a three-sheet poster. In the next act we have the grand climax. The villain still pursues her to her new place, for she gets a job with the aid of the poor young lover who was bounced in the fii'st act. Just as the old vOlaiu is about to seize her and carry her off by main force, the 257 AND OTHER TALES youug lover rushes in and knocks him out with a fli'e-shovel. He falls and breaks his skull. In comes the doctor — the lover goes to fetch him — and meanwhile the type- writer gives him some pious talk and converts him. Maybe it would be a good idea to ring in the prayer in tliis act. Livingston's dead stuck on having it in the piece. Well, he repents of his wicked- ness, and when the doctor says he has only ten minutes to Hve he says, " Oh, if I but had the time I would make a will and leave all my wealth to this noble girl ; but there is not time enough to wi'ite it." And then Livingston says, "What's the matter with my doing it on my faithful type-wTiting machine ? " or words to that effect. So she takes it down like light- ning, and he has just time to sign it before he expii-es. Now, young feller, you've got my idea of a play. You go to work and write something on that basis; and mind you don't forget what I said 258 AXD OTHER TALES about Li\diigstou's prayer and silk dress, but don't work 'em both in in the same act. Fetch it around to me and maybe we can do business. Do you want to tackle the job? Dra:\iatist {diibiomhj). I'U try, sir, but I'm afraid it's a little out of my line. 259 THE CULTURE BUBBLE IN OURTOWN. You must know, in the first place, that I am a resident of the thriving city of Ourtown, where for twenty years past I have held the position of libraiian in the town Hbrary — a place which has, of coiu'se, brought me into contact with the most intellectual circles of society, and has won for me general recognition as the leader of literary and artistic thought in my native city. Last winter I retui'ned to Ourtown after a six months' absence, and found to my dismay that the social hfe of the place was altered almost beyond recog- nition. " And is the Coasting Club still 260 AND OTHER TALES floui'isMng ? " I inquii-ed, eagerly, for there was a foot of snow on the ground, and my memorj' went back to the jolly moon- light slides that we used to enjoy on the North Hill, and the late suppers of fried oysters, beer, cheese, and even hot mince- pie which had no terrors for us. " The Coasting Club ! " retorts Mrs. Jack S\Tnple, to whom my remark was ad- di'essed ; " mercy, no ! We haven't even tJioughf of coasting this winter. As for me, I've been so interested in the Satur- day Night Club that I haven't had a moment's time for anj'thing else. Oh, you'U be sm-prised when you see how much more cultured the town is now than it was when you went away ! You never hear anything now about skating or coast- ing or sleigh-rides or doings of that sort. It's all Ibsen and Browning and Tolstoi and pre-Raphaelite art and Emerson nowadays, and Professor Gnowital says that there's as much real culture in Our- 261 AND OTHER TALES town, in proportion to the number of in- habitants, as there is in Boston." My eyes dilated as Mrs. Symple rattled off this jargon about the intellectual growth of Ourtowu. A year ago I had regarded her as a young woman with brain-cells of the most primitive form imaginable, picking up pebbles on the shores of the Shakespeare class ; and here she was drinking deep draughts of ad- vanced thought, and talking about Ibsen and Tolstoi and Emerson as glibly as if they were old acquaintances. "And who is Professor Gnowital?" I asked, " and by what formula does he es- timate the comparative degrees of culture to the square foot in Boston and Our- towu ? He must be a man of remarkable gifts." " Remarkable gifts ! " echoed Mrs. Sym- ple, " well, I should think so. He comes from Boston and he's been giving read- ings here before the Saturday Night Club. 262 AND OTHER TALES And oh, vou must come and make an addi-ess at the meeting next week ! It's to be the grand gala one of the whole course. Professor Gnowital is coming on to attend it with some really cultivated people from Boston, and you'll be sur- prised to see what a fine literary society there is here now." I agi-eed to address the Saturday Night Club, but I saw with deep sorrow that the town had simply gone mad over what it termed " culture." People whom I had always regarded as but little better than haK-wits were gravely uttering opinions about Carlyle and Emerson, or " doing " German hterature through the medium of English translations. And all this idiocy in place of the Shakespeare Club, sleigh- rides, late suppers, and coasting, that once made life so dehghtf ul for us aU, Mrs. Symple had asked me to address the club on whatever topic I might select, and while I was considering the invita- 263 AND OTHER TALES tiou a gi-eat idea took possession of my braiu. To think was to act ; and without a moment's delay I sat down and wi*ote a long letter to my old friend, Dr. Paule- jeune, begging him to come up and ad-^ dress the club in my stead, and by so doing render a service not only to his lifelong friend, but to the great cause of enlightenment and human progress as well. Now Dr. Paule,jeune is not only an educated man with the thinking habit long fastened upon him, but also that rara avis, a Frenchman who thoroughly understands the language, literatui-e, and social structure of America. Moreover he possesses in a nuirked degree the pa- triotism, wit, and cynicism of liis race, and has a few hearty prejudices against certain modern vogues in art which are remote from the accepted ideals of the Latin race. Happily enough his name was well known in Ourtown by reason 264 AND OTHEi: TALES of his little volume of essaj^s, wliicli had just then made its appearance. Our town society never gathered in stronger force than it did on the evening of the Saturday Night Club meeting at the Assembly Rooms. At half -past eight the president of the club introduced the first speaker, Mr. W. Brindle Fantail, a yoimg man who made himself conspic- uous in Boston a few years ago by means of Bro^aiing readings, which he con- ducted -odth a brazen effrontery that compelled the unwilling admiration of his rivals. In the words of Jack Symple, " He caught the Browning boom on the rise and worked it for all it was worth." Mr. Fantail advanced to the edge of the platform, ran a large flabby hand thi-ough his dank shock of hght hair, and then an- nounced as his subject, "Tolstoi, the Modem Homer." Then, with that calm self-possession which has carried hun un- harmed thi-ough many a dreary mono- 265 AND OTHER TALES logue or reading, he told his hearers what a great man Tolstoi was, and how gi-ate- ful they ought to be for an opportunity to learn of his many excellences. Of course he did not put it quite as broadly as that, but that was the gist of his re- marks. He told us, moreover, that the whole range of English hterature con- tained no such work of fiction as Sevas- topol, and that no writer of modern times excelled — or even equaled — this Russian Homer. " In short," he said, impressively, " Tolstoi is distinctly epoch-making." The next speaker was the illustrious Professor Gnomtal, who declared that Oui-town would never experience any ^genuine intellectual development unless a thorough study of the fantastic ro- mances of Hoffmann was begun at once. I cannot imagine what started the pro- fessor off on that tack unless it was a desire to choose a subject of which his hearers knew absolutely nothing. His 266 AND OTHER TALES words had a gi-eat effect, however, for very few members of the chib had ever heard of Hoffmanu, and it had never oc- curred to these that his ghostly tales were at all in the line of that modern cultm-e which they all adored. The next speaker was Mrs. Measel, whose career I have watched with feel- ings of mingled respect and amazement. Mrs. Measel has taught art in a dozen towns, lectured on the Great Unknowable in at least two of the large cities, and given *' Mornings with Montaigne," *' Bab- blings from Browning," and "Studies from Stepniak," in whatever place she could obtain a hearing. On this occasion she talked about the renaissance of some- thing or other, I've forgotten exactly what — and, by the way, there is no bet- ter word for use in culture circles than renaissance, and that, too, whether you can pronounce it or not — well, she be- gan ^\dth her renaissance, but very soon 267 AND OTHER TALES branched off into a dissertation on Tolstoi and Ibsen and a few more " epoch- making" people with whose names she happened to be familiar. I remember she said that The DolTs House was one of the grandest plays of modern times, whereat Dr. Paulejeune, who had listened to everything up to this point without tui'ning a hair, smiled broadly. On the whole Mrs. Measel's was a good shallow talk for good shallow people, and I am sure she made a delightful impression on us all. Then, at a signal from the president, Dr. Paulejeune made his way to the plat- form and delivered an address which I am sure will never be forgotten by those who heard it. It was a daring speech for anj^ one to make, and particularly so for a stranger, and that it proved effective in a far higher degree than either of us had ever expected was due to the tact, scholar- ship, subtlety, and sincerity of my dis- tinguished friend. Dr. Emile Paulejeune. 268 AND OTHER TALES The doctor began with a gi*aceful trib- ute to the eloquence, wit, and scholarship of the speakers who had preceded him, and then went on to say that he had chosen as the subject of his discoiu'se one of the gi*eatest writers of fiction that the world has ever known — Daniel De Foe. There was hearty applause at this, and some scratching of heads and obvious efforts on the part of certain guests to remember who De Foe was and what he had written. I could not help turning in my chair to take a look at Mrs. SjTuple. The poor httle woman was leaning for- ward with an expression of absolute dismay on her silly face. I could read her thoughts plainly : " Oh dear, this new doctor has been and gone and di-agged up another man for me to read about, and I'm sure if I get one more book into my head it'U crowd some other one out ! " But the look of dismay changed to one of blank, open-mouthed amazement, which 269 AKD OTHER TALES was shared by a large number of the guests, as Dr. Paulejeune continued im- pressively : " And the book which I have come prepared to speak of is Robinson Crusoe." Then the doctor took up, each in its turn, the writings and writers whom we had heard commended by the previous speakers. " Tolstoi is all very well," he said, "if you happen to be fond of Rus- sian pessimism, and are not fortimate enough to be familiar with classic Eng- lish literature, which contains hundreds of stronger, better-drawn pictures than Sevastopoiy He dismissed Hoffmann from the discussion ^\dth the contemp- tuous remark that he was "simply a Dutch Poe, and very Dutch at that." In speaking of Ibsen he threw his audience into convulsions of laughter by gravely comparing The JDolVs House with Jacob Abbott's Eollo Learning to Work, a book which he assured us not only surpassed 270 AXD OTHER TALES Ibsen's masterpiece in the simplicity and directness of its style, but abounded in dramatic situations that were as thrilling as any that the Northern wi'iter had ever de\dsed. " For instance/' he said, " there is a chapter in that estimable little RoUo book which tells us how the hero was making a woodpile, and, disregarding the sound counsel of the conservative Jonas, insisted upon piling the sticks of wood Anth the smaU ends out and the large ends inside against the waU of the wood- shed. Do any of you, my friends, recall the scene of the heap toppling over ? It is portrayed in Mr. Abbott's most realistic style, and is in itself an ideal Ibsen climax. " Do you know," he exclaimed, advanc- ing to the edge of the platform and shak- ing a long, bony forefinger at his audi- tors, "do you know — you who call this Scandinavian a dramatist — that perhaps the most thrilling dramatic situation in 271 AND OTHER TALES all literature is foiiud liere in this book, Bohinson Crusoe f If you want to know what a dramatic situation is, read Daniel De Foe's account of Crusoe finding the human footprint on the shore of his des- ert island. And then read the whole book carefully through and enjoy its vivid descriptions, its superb English, its philosophy, and the great lessons which it teaches. And when you have finished it ask yourselves if any man ever ob- tained as complete a mastery of the magic, beautiful art of story-telling as did Daniel De Foe ! " When the doctor finished his address he was greeted with thunders of applause, wlule FantaU, Gnomtal, and Mrs. Measel sat dazed at this sudden attack on their stronghold. "Thank Heaven for a little plain, or- dinary sense at last," was the way in which some one expressed the common sentiment of the club. 272 ^YD OTHEB TALES "And to think," chattered Mrs. S^an- pie, "that we were cultivated all along- and didn't know it! Why, I read the Rollo books and Robinson Crusoe when I was a child, and never di'eamt that they were artistic or literary or that sort of thing. I thought they were just stories. The idea of our paj'ing a dollar apiece for Mrs. Measel's lectures, and muddling our heads with Ibsen and Tolstoi and the rest of them that Professor Gnowital told us were so grand, while all the time we were really cultured and didn't know it ! " The result of m}^ friend's lecture was that within a week we were sliding down- hill and enjoying ourselves in the old way, and in less than a fortnight the pro- phets of culture had departed in search of fresh pastures. I do hope, however, that Mrs. Measel will succeed, for she deserves to if ever a woman did. She has educated two chil- dren on the profits — or rather the spoils 273 AND OTHER TALES — of the Browning craze, and lias made Tolstoi pay for the care of an invalid sister. She gi\'es more culture for the money than any one in the business, and I can heartily commend her to any club or community that feels a yearning for the Unknowable. 274 SOME THOUGHTS ON THE CON- STRUCTION AND PRESERVA- TION OF JOKES. I. — THE "JOKAL CALENDAR." Every joke has its appropriate season. The true humorist — one who finds com- edy in everything- — gathers his ideas from what goes on about him, and by a subtle alchemy of his own distils from them jokes suitable to the changing seasons. The only laws to which child- hood willingly yields obedience are those unwritten statutes which compel the proper observance of " trap-time," " kite- time," and " marble-time." So even must the humorist recognize the different periods allotted respectively to goats, 275 AND OTHER TALES stovepipes, ice-cream, and other founda- tions of merriment. The JoTiol Calendar begins in the early summer, when girls are leading young men into ice-cream saloons, and keepers of summer resorts are preparing new swindles for their guests. Soon the farmer will gather in his crop of sum- mer boarders ; the city fisherman will en- tangle his patent flies in the branches of lofty trees, while the country lad catches all the trout with a worm. Then the irate father and the bulldog will drive the lover from the front gate, while married men who remain in the city during their wives' absence play poker until early morn and take grass-widows to Coney Island. About this tune the chronicler of humor goes into the countr}", whence he will return in the early fall with a fresh stock of ideas, gathered in the vil- lage store, at the farm-house table, and by the shores of the sounding sea. 27G AXD OTHER TALES Beginning his autumn labors witli the scent of the hay-fields in his nostrils, and the swaying boughs of the pine forest still wliispering in his ears, the humorist offers a few dainty paragraphs on the simple joys of rural life. The farmer who dines in his shu*t-sleeves, the an- tiquity of the spring fowl, the translucent milk, and the saline qualities of the pork which grace the table ; the city man who essays to milk the cow, and the country deacon who has been " daown to York " — all these are sketched with vi\id pen for the delectation of his readers. But it must be remembered that these subjects have been used during the whole sum- mer ; and the humorist, after his return to the city, can offer, at the best, but an aftermath of farm-house fun. If it be a late fall the pubhc may slide along on banana and orange peel jokes until the first cold snap warns housekeepers of the necessity of putting up stovepipes. 277 AND OTHER TALES (Note. — About this time print para- graph of gas-company charging a man for gas while his house was closed for the summer. Allusions to the extortions of gas-companies are always welcome.) Stovepipe jokes must be touched upon lightly, for the annual spring house-clean- ing will bring the pipes down again, six months later, to the accompaniment of cold dinners, itinerant pails of hot soap- suds, and other miseries incident to that domestic event. And now that the family stovepipe has ceased to exude smoke at every joint and pore, tho humorist finds liimseK fairly equipped for his year's work. The boys are at school ; lodge-meetings have be- gun, and sleepless wives are waiting for their tiiiant lords ; coUege graduates are seeking positions in newspaper offices (and sometimes getting and keeping them, though it won't do to let the pub- lic know it) ; election is at hand, and 278 AND OTHER TALES candidates are kissing babies and setting up the drinks for their constituents; young men of slender means are laying pipes for thicker clothes — in short, a man must be dull of wit who cannot find food for comic paragraphs in what goes on about him at this fruitful season. The ripening of the chestnut-burr, and the harvesting of its fmit — beautifully symboheal of the humorist's vocation — form another admirable topic at this time. Winter comes with its snow and ice, and the small boy, who is always around, moulds the one into balls for destructive warfare, while corpulent gentlemen and pedestrians bearing eggs and other fragile articles slip and fall on the other. Oys- ter-stews, and girls who pine for them ; the female craving for matinee tickets, and the high hats which obstruct the view of those in the back seats; nocturnal revelrj'' in saloon and ball-room; low- necked dresses ; and the extortionate idle- 279 AXD OTHER TALES ness of the plumber now keep the pen of the comic wi'iter constantly at work. Chapters on the pawning, borrowing, lending, and renovation of the dress-coat are also timely. Spring biings the perennial spring poet with his rejected manuscript; the actor with his wintei-'s ulster ; the health-giving bock-beer ; and, above all, the goat, in the delineation of whose pranks and foUies the Jolidl Calendar reaches its climax. What the reindeer is to the Laplander the goat is to the writer of modern humor. His whole life is devoted to the service of the paragraphist. He eats tomato-cans and crinoline ; he rends the theatre-poster from the wall, and con- sumes the bucket of paste ; he rends the clothes from the line, and devours the curtain that flutters in the basement win- dow ; he upsets elderh^ men, and charges, with lowered horns, at lone and fear- stricken women. 280 AXD OTHER TALES But as the eucroachments of civiliza- tion have driven the buffalo from his native plains, so is the goat, propelled by a stern city ordinance, slowly but sui-ely disappearing from the streets and vacant lots which once knew him so M^eU. He is making his last stand now in the rocky fastnesses of Harlem. I have seen hun perched on an inaccessible crag on the border-land of Morrisania, looking down with solemn eyes on the great city where he once roamed careless and free from can to ash-barrel. Etched against a back- ground of lowering clouds, his was, in- deed, an impressive figure, the apotheosis of American hmnor. II. — THE IDEA AND ITS EMBELLISH]\IENT. In the construction of a joke the chief requisite is the Idea. Making jokes without ideas is like making bricks without straw; and the 281 A2fD OTHER TALES people who tried that were sent out into the Wilderness to wander for forty years and live exclusively on manna and water — a diet which is not provocative of humor. Indeed it is a noteworthy fact that although the cliildren of Israel were accompanied in their journeying by herds of goats, and were constantly hearing stories of the huge squashes and clusters of gi"apes which grew in the Promised Land — the California of that period — yet we have no record that they availed themselves of such ob\dous opportunities for jesting. The humorist, ha\dng prociu'ed his Idea, should divest it of all superfluities, place it on the table before him, and then fall into a reverie as to its possibilities. Let us suppose, for example, that his Idea, in a perfectly nude condition, looks some- thing like this : "A girl is thin enough to make a good match for any one." 282 ^VD OTHER TALES Now it will not do to offer this simple statement as a joke. It is merely an Idea, or the nucleus of a short story, and can be greatly improved by a little verbiage. There would be no point gained in calling the girl a New Yorker, or even a Philadelphian, though the latter city is usually fair game for the paragraphist. She should certainly hail from Boston. The girls of that city are identified in the popular mind with eye-glasses, long words, angularity and other outward and visible signs of severe mental disciphne and parsimony in diet. The ideal Boston girl is not rotund. On the contrary, she is 'endowed with a sharply defined outline, and a profile which suggests self-abnega- tion in the matter of food. A little dia- lect will help the story along amazingly ; therefore let the scene be laid in niral New England, and let the point be made with the usual rustic prefix of " Wa-al ! " This will afford an opportunity to utilize 283 AND OTHER TALES a few miuor ideas relative to New Eng- land rural customs, the maintenance of city boarders, the food pro\dded, the econ- omy practised, and other salient features of country life. So, by judicious expansion — not pad- ding — the humorist will stretch Ms little paragraph into a very respectable story, something like this : Sample of Short Story Erected on Para- graph. A summer evening of exquisite calm and sweetness. The golden haze of sun- set sheds its soft tints on hill and plain, and pours a flood of mellow light over the roofs and trees of the quaint old vil- lage street. The last rays of the sun, fall- ing through the waging boughs of elm and maple, form a checkered, ever-mov- ing pattern on the wall of the meeting- house; they kindle beacon-fii-es on the 284 AXD OTHER TALES distant heights of Baldhead JNIoimtaiu, and linger in tender caress on the dainty aubm-n tresses of Priscilla Wliitney, who is disphiying her flounces, furbelows, and other " citified fixin's " on the front piazza of Deacon Pogi-am's residence. (It will be seen that the beginning of this paragraph is written in a serious vein ; but the last two lines prepare the reader for a comic story. He now makes up his mouth for the laugh which awaits him a little farther along.) From the kitchen comes a pleasant aroma of burnt bread-crusts, as dear old Samanthy Pogram, her kindly face covered with its snow-white glory, pre- pares the coffee for supper. Meanwhile the worthy deacon, in stocking-feet and shirt-sleeves, sits by the open door and enjoys the cool evening breeze that sweeps in refreshing gusts dowm the fertile valley of the Pockohomock. " There ye be again, Sarah," says Aunt 285 AND OTHER TALES Samanthy to the hired help, a shade of annoyance crossing- her fine old face. "Hain't I told ye time 'u' again not to put fresh eggs in the boarders' omelet? I suppose ye think there hain't such a thing as a stale eg^ in the haouse, but ye must be wastin' good ones on the city folks ! Sakes alive ! but I'U be glad when they've cleaned aout, bag 'n' baggage. I'm nigh tuckered aout a-waitin' on 'em 'n' puttin' up with then- frills 'n' fancy doin's." "They tell me, Samanthy," says the deacon, "that young Rube Perkins is kinder makin' up to one of aom* boarders. I s'pose ye hain't noticed nothin', mebbe ? " "I've seen him a-settin' alongside o' that dough-faced critter times enough so he'd like ter wear aout the rocker on the piazzy ; but I guess Rube had better not set enny too much store by what she says to him. Them high-toned Whitney folks o' hern daown Bosting way hain't over 286 AND OTHER TALES 'n' above anxious to liev Rube Perkins fur a son-in-law, I kin tell ye." " Wa-al," di'awls the deacon, reflectively, "I kalkerlate they've got an idee she'd better make a good match while she's abaout it." "She's thin enough to make a lucifer match," rejoins Aunt Samanthy ; and with this parting bit of ii'ony she goes in to put the saleratus biscuit on the tea-table. Of coui-se this is not a model of a hu- morous story, but it will pass muster. It is, however, a very creditable specimen of a story built up, as I have shown, on a very slender foundation. Some humor- ists would give it an apologetic title, such as "Rural Sarcasm," or "Aunt Saman- thy's Little Joke," in order to let the reader down easy. 287 AND OTHER TALES ni. — REVAJVIPING OLD JOKES. It often happens that the humorist finds himself unexpectedly called upon for jokes at a moment when he has no ideas about him. Perhaps he is away from his workshop where his tools are kept, or perhaps he has lost the combi- nation of the safe in which his precious ideas are securely locked up. The prob- lem of how to make l)ricks without straw, and the awful fate of the people who at- tempted it, stares him in the face. But his keen intelligence comes to his aid. Like the trusty guide in Mayne Reid's story, he exclaims, " Ha, it is the celebrated joke-root bush, called by the Apaches the ha-ha plant ! " and seizing an ancient jest, he tears it from the soil, carefully cleanses the esculent root from its clinging mould, and then proceeds to revamp it for mod- ern use. 288 AND OTHER TALES The joke should be one that has slowly ripeued uuder the suns of distant eUmes and other days. It should be perfectly mellow, and care must be taken to re- move from it Jill particles of dust and lichen. Let us suppose, for example, that the joke, divested of all superfluities, pre- sents this appearance : "A man once gave his friend a very small cup of very old wine, and the friend remarked that it was the smallest thing • of its age he had ever seen." I have selected this joke because it is one of the oldest of which the world has any record. . The world has known many changes since ci\'ilization reached the point that made old wine an appreciated and ac- knowledged delight to the dwellers in the fertile valley of the Euphrates, and thus threw open the doors for the appearance of this joke. The dust of him who gave and of him who di-ank the wine are 289 AND OTHER TALES blended together in the soil of that once populous region. Stately sarcophagi mark the last resting-places of many who have enjoyed this ancient bit of mer- riment. Empires have crumbled since then ; mighty rulers have yielded the in- signia of their power at the imperative summons of the conqueror of all ; yet nothing has interrupted the stately, sol- emn march of this joke along the corri- dors of time. It flourished in Byzantium ; it lingered in tender caress on each of the seven hills of Rome ; when Hannibal led his cohorts across the snow-clad Alps it stepped out from behind a crag and said, " Here we are again ! " And the as- tonished warrior recognized it at once, al- though it wore a peaked hat and a goitre. It has awakened laughter among effem- inate and refined Athenians as they lay stretched in languid and perfumed ease immediately after the luxurious bath, and about two hvindred years before Christ. 290 AXD OTHER TALES It has been said that eleanliuess is next to godliness, and yet we find tliat in this instance there was room to slip this joke in between the two, and have two hun- di*ed years of space left. It is found in the sacred \mtings of Confucius, side by side with his memo- rable injunction to his followers not to shed a single cuff or sock unless the ticket should be forthcoming. Under the iron crown of Lombardy and the lilies of France this joke has lived and thrived. It has even been published in the Phila- delphia Ledger, which is a sure proof of its antiquity. Sm-ely no one but an American himior- ist could look upon this hoary relic with- out feelings of veneration. Let us see what the humorist does with it : That which has worn a toga in Rome and a coat of mail in the middle ages, he now clothes in the habihments of the present day. Watch him as he arrays it 291 AND OTHER TALES in the high hat, the patent-leather shoes, the cutaway coat, and the eye-glasses of modern times, and, behold, we have : " Young Ai'thur Cecil, of the Knicker- bocker Club, prides himself on his know- ledge of wines, and boasts of a cellar of his own which cannot be matched on this side of the water. Bilkins dined wdth him the other night, and as a gi-eat treat his host poured out into a hquor-glass a few drops of priceless old . " ' There, my boy,' he exclaimed, ' you'll not find a di'op of that anywhere in New York except on my table ! ' " Bilkins took it down at a single gulp, smacked his lips, and said : " ' I'll tell you what it is, old man. There ain't many things Ij'ing around loose that are as old as this and haven't grown any bigger.' '' The joke was too good to keep, and Cecil had to square himself at the club by ordering up a basket of Mumm." 292 A2^D OTHER TALES IV. — THE OBVIOUS JOKE. A large class of simple-minded people believe that the obvious joke is the most delightful form of humor. An obvious joke is one whose point or climax can be seen from the very start, and is, in fact, a natui'al sequence to the beginning. For example, when we begin to read of a city dude who professed to under- stand the distinctively rui*al art of milk- ing a cow, and volunteered to show his friends how to do it, we know perfectly well that he is going to get knocked out in the attempt, and that the story will end in a humorous description of the in- dignities inflicted upon liim by the en- raged animal. The only chance for vari- ety in the sketch lies in the manner in which the cow will resent the dude's im- pertinence. She may impale him on one or both of her horns ; she may hurl him 293 AND OTHER TALES on a dungliill and dance on his prostrate form ; she may content herself with kick- ing him ; but whatever she does she will be sure to upset the milk-pail and excite the laughter of the lover of obvious hu- mor. Of course a professional humorist never reads an obvious joke. He knows exactly what is going to happen the mo- ment his eye falls on the first paragraph. If a tatterdemalion appears at the county fair with a broken-down plug which he offers to trot against any horse on the track, the professional humorist knows that the decrepit charger is going to win the race, and that his owner will go away with his pockets bulging out with the money he has won from the too confiding. If a man holding four aces is persis- tently raised by a gentleman of quiet de- meanor and bland, childlike face, we can call the latter's hand without looking at it, because we know from long famUiar- 294 AND OTHER TALES ity with American humorous literature, as ■well as poker, that he holds a straig-ht flush. Some wi'iters have had the effron- tery to deal him a royal flush, forgetting that he has already given his opponent all the aces. If a gentleman of apparently delicate physique resents the impertinence of a bully who is forcing his attentions upon a lady, we know, without reading to the end of the chapter, that the man of effem- inate build is in reality a prize-fighter or a college athlete, and wUl bundle the bully out on the sidewalk with gi-eat ra- pidity. The professional humorist shuns these " comics " as he would the plague. They make him tired. He knows how easy they are to construct. Moreover he de- spises alike the mind that gives them birth and that which finds them funny. The recipe for their concoction is very simple : 295 AND OTHER TALES Think of some acquaintance who ha- bitually eats sugar on his lettuce and sweetens his claret. The man who says, " I don't want none of this J-taUan cater- waulin'. The good old-fashioned tunes, like 'Silver Threads among the Gold/ suit me right down to the ground. I don't want none of yer fancy gimcracks 'n' kickshaws in mine." Try to remem- ber the sort of thing that has moved this man to laughter, and then fashion a joke on the same plan, taking pains to make it apparent to the most primitive intellect. Persons of this description are found in large numbers in the rural districts, and, therefore, any story tending to cast ridicide on the city man who puts on au-s, or, in other words, affects the amenities of civilized life, is sure to be appreciated. For example : It is the delight of sportsmen to fish for trout with fly-rods and tackle of an elaborate description, to the intense amusement of the yokel who 296 AXD OTHER TALES catches fish, not for sport, but in order that he may sell them at an exorbitant price to some ignorant stranger. Now it is a very easy matter to compose a stoiy on this basis suited to the comprehension of such a rustic. The following is a fair specimen of a stoiy of the class I have described : " He was a real sportsman, just fi-om the city, and he had come down into the country to show the benighted inhabi- tants how to catch fish. He had a new patent rod in his right hand and a brand- new basket over his left shoulder. In his coat-tail pocket he carried a silver flask, and in his breast-pocket a big wallet filled with all the latest devices in newfangled flies. He walked down the road with the air of a man who had come to catch fish and knew just how to do it. " It was growing dark when he returned to the hotel, wet, muddy, and weary, and sadly laid aside his implements of sport. 297 AND OTEER TALES " ' Fish don't bite in this blawsted coun- try, yer know/ was his reply to the land- lord's cheery inquiry, ' What luck ? ' '' And just at this moment who should come along but old Bill Simons's sandy- haired, freckle-faced boy Jim, with his birch-pole over his shoulder, and a fine string of the speckled beauties in his brown paw. " ' Good Gawd ! ' exclaimed the dude, ' how did 3"ou catch those, me boy ? ' " '■ Hook 'n' line, yer fool ! How d'yer s'pose ? ' was Jim's answer, as he pulled a handful of angleworms, the last of his bait, from his pocket, and threw them out of the window." 298 McCLURE'S MODEL VILLAGE FOR LITERARY TOILERS. I PAID a visit yesterday to the model village of Syndicate, founded by Mr. S. S. McCIure for the benefit of the literary bands employed in his great enterprises, and I am bound to say that in point of neatness, order, and the completeness of its sanitary arrangements it is infinitely superior to the similar town of Pullman or any of the colonies established by the late BaroQ Hirsch. It is situated on a bit of rising ground that overlooks the Hackensack River, the site having been chosen with a view to economy and convenience in the ship- ping of material by water. The village 299 AND OTHER TALES has been in existence a little less than two years, but it already has a popula- tion of nearly four thousand able-bodied authors, poets and syndicate hands, to- gether with their wives and families, most of whom do their work in the vil- lage, though fully a hundred go each day to the McClare factory, in Twenty- fifth Street, returning in the evening in time to take part in the social life of the community. On the banks of the river Mr. Mc- Clure has built a dock and warehouse for the reception and storage of goods. Yesterday the scene on the water-front was an animated one. A bark from Palestine, manned by the swarthy chil- dren of the East, was discharging its cargo of photographs of the Holy Land, reminiscences of the Hebrew patriarchs, bales of straw garnered by Boaz espe- cially for the McClure monthly, and other raw materials to be used in the you AND OTHER TALES literary works. In the offiDg I saw the fleet canal-boat Potato Bug, hailing from Galesburg, III, and laden with hitherto unpublished photographs of Ulysses S. Grant and recollections of that warrior, •and of his uncles, his aunts, his progeni- tors, his progeny, his man-servant, his maid-servant, his cattle, and the reporter within his gates. At the same time a stanch schooner was receiving its cargo of serials, short stories, poems, and memoirs, destined for the New York office. I observed that the greatest care was exercised by the men in the work of stowing away the cargo, the ship having previously been ballasted with humorous articles and pungent literary reviews. I found the village apparently de- serted ; only the smoke from the chim- neys showed me that the place was inhabited. But very soon the noon whistle blew, and nlraost immediately 301 AND OTHER TALES the streets swarmed with well-fed, cheer- ful literary toilers. I was deeply im- pressed with the evidences of content- ment and happiness that greeted me on every side. In the bright faces that smiled into mine I saw nothing to re- mind me of the sullen, low-browed, hag- gard literary weavers that one encoun- ters at the Authors' Club, or that may be seen lurking in the doorways of Union Square, with poems clutched in their toil-stained hands. Some of the work is done in the shops under the supervision of foremen, but there is a great deal of piece-work given out and taken by the authors to their homes. Nearly a hundred hands are kept constantly busy on the Grant me- moirs, under the careful supervision of Mr. Hamlin Garland. Near by, working under glass, I saw half a dozen pallid young men, all recent discoveries of Mr, W. D. Howells. The work of these 303 AXD OTHER TALES spring lambs will be placed upon Mr. McC lure's counters at an early day. Witb Mr. McClure's permission I talked with several of the authors and questioned them closely in regard to the wages paid them and the conveniences and luxuries that the village of Syndi- cate affords to its inhabitants. Nearly every one of these frankly said that he preferred his life there to the more di- verting existence in the congested sec- tions of New York. " And," he replied, "Mr. McClure frequently drafts off a squad of us for some special work in New York, and that makes a very pleas- ant variety in our lives. We are con- veyed in a small steamboat from here to the foot of Twenty-fifth Street, and then transferred to the factory, near Lexing- ton Avenue, where we work until four o'clock, when we are returned in the same manner. Sometimes, when there is a great pressure of work on hand, the 303 AND OTHER TALES cabin of the steamboat is fitted up with benclies and we do piece-work, both coming and going, thus adding consid- erably to our pay." At one o'clock the factory whistle blew again and the men returned to their work. Mr. McClure took me through one of the large buildings and explained every detail of the work to me. Every morning the foreman goes from bench to bench and gives an idea to each author. Just before noon he passes along again and carefully exam- ines the unfinished work, and, late in the afternoon, a final inspection is made, after which the goods are packed and sent down to the wharf for shipment. I inquired whether there was any truth in the report that several authors had been taken with severe illness im- mediately after beginning work at Syn- dicate, whereupon the foreman explained that this had happened several times, 304 AND OTHER TALES but it bad always resulted from giving au author a whole idea all at once — something to which very few of them had ever been accustomed. I learned, also, that child labor is strictly prohibited on the McClure prop- erty. This was rather a surprise to me, for I have been a diligent reader of " McClure's Magazine " ever since it was started. The art department has not been put into working order yet, but there is a large blacksmith shop near the village, which is celebrated for the inferior quality of its work, and, as its proprietor and foreman are both drink- ing, shiftless men, the place will prob- ably develop into an art shop, in which case it will turn out all the pictures for the magazine and syndicate. As I was taking my leave, my atten- tion was drawn to several large oat fields in the neighborhood of the village, and I was thereby led to suspect that Mr. 305 AND OTHER TALES McClure was turning out literature by horse-power. " Not at all,'' be said, when I ques- tioned him on the subject. '' Every- thing here is made by hand, but I have made a contract with a padrone for a force of Scotch dialect authors, whom I must feed, clothe, and house while they are writing for me. I expect them within a week. I shall put them at once on a serial called ' Blithe Jockie's Gane Awee,' which will be my 'feature ' for the coming year." 306 ARRIVAL OF THE SCOTCH AU- THORS AT McCLURE'S LIT- ERARY COLONY. Yesterday morning, at a very early hour, I was awakened by an imperative summons from one of the trusty sleuths that patrol the river-front in the interest of the paper on which I am employed and informed that a band of celebrated literary men had just been landed from a tramp steamer at a Hoboken pier. The reticence of actors, singers, au- thors, practical evangelists, and female temperance agitators concerning their movements renders it necessary for a great daily paper to maintain a corps of reliable spies, whose duty it is to meet 307 AND OTHER TALES every incoming steamer and see that neither Henry Irving nor Steve Brodie nor Lady Henry Somerset lands unob- served and uuchrouicled on our hospi- table shores. The human ferret who aroused me from my slumbers declared that the newly arrived authors were met at the pier by an active, enthusiastic little man, who instantly departed with them in the direction of the setting sun. " And what makes you think that they were literary men ? " I inquired. " Are they entered on the ship's papers as able-bodied authors ? " " Naw," rejoined the sleuth, " They're beatin' the contract labor law. I knew they was authors the minute I seen the little man that met them at the dock. He's a regular author's padrone. He's got a hull town full of 'em back in Jer- sey some place. I've known him this five year or more." 308 AND OTHER TALES I waited to hear no more, for I knew that the active little man could be none other than McClure ; and so I started without a moment's delay for the village of Syndicate on the banks of the fra- grant Hackensack. On my way to the station for the au- thors' settlement I met a small boy hur- rying along the dusty highway. I rec- ognized him as the son of an author who is now acting as timekeeper of the Grant memoir gang, and stopped him to inquire about Mr. McClure. " That's him a-coming there now, T think,'' replied the urchin. I looked in the direction indicated, and saw what seemed to be a drove of cattle slowly approaching and enveloped in a cloud of dust. I sauntered along to meet them, and in a quarter of an hour, at a sharp turn in the road, I en- countered the strangest literary gather- ing that it has ever been my fortune to 309 AND OTHER TALES behold ; and when I say this I do not forget that I have frequented some of the most brilliant literary and artistic salons that New York has ever known. At the head of the cavalcade marched Mr. S. S. McClnre, the noted philan- thropist, magazine editor, and founder of the model village of Syndicate, He carried a pair of bagpipes under his arm, and presented such a jaded and travel-stained appearance that I was in- voluntarily reminded of the Wandering Jew. Behind him marched a band of strange-looking men, attired in kilts and wearing broad whiskers, long bristly hair, and bare knees, A collie dog, panting and dust-covered, but still sharp- eyed and vigilant, trotted along beside them to prevent them from straying away and losing themselves in the New Jersey prairies. As soon as Mr, McClure's eyes fell upon me a bright smile lit up his face, 310 AND OTHER TALES and he stopped short in the road, raised the pipe to his lips, and burst into a tri- umphant strain of Scotch music. Those that followed him paused in their course, and with one accord began a masterly saltatorial effort, which, I have since learned, enjoys great vogue in Glasgow and Dundee under the name of the "Sawbath Fling." While they danced the collie squatted on his hindquarters and watched them with bright, sleepless eves, " McClure," I cried, " in the name of all that is monthly and serial, what does this mean ? " " Ford," he replied solemnly, as he advanced and took me by the hand, "you know that I have published Lin- coln and Napoleon and Grant and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Dodge and Company Ward, but I have something far greater than all these for the year 1897. Can you not guess the meaning 311 AND OTHER TALES of this brave cavalcade that you see be- fore vou ? " " What ! Have joii actually secured Professor Garnier's 'Equatorial Conver- sational Class ' as contributors to your monthly ? That is, indeed, a literary triumph ! " '' Equatorial nothing," retorted the great editor, testily. " I have just im- ported a herd of blooded Scotch dialect authors under a one year's contract. We had to walk all the way out from Hoboken, because I only agreed to pay their fares to that point, and you know it's thirty cents from there out, and a Scotchman always likes to walk and see scenery when he can. The result was that I had to walk, too, for fear Scribner or some of those pirates would coax them away from me, and I swear that if it hadn't been for that dog of mine I don't think I could have got them out here at all." 312 AND OTHER TALES At this moment the authors resumed their march, for they were eager to reach their journey's end, and we followed behind them, with the faithful collie trotting contentedly along. As we walked Mr. McClure con- tinued : " We passed through a subur- ban town about an hour ago, where one of those other Scotch authors was giving a morning lecture, and, before I knew it, we were in front of the very church in which he was at work. They heard him bleating, and there would have been a regular stampede if it hadn't been for that dog. He had the leader of them by the throat before you could say ' bawbee,' and then he barked and growled and snapped at them, and finally chased the whole pack off the church steps and uj) the street. I got him of a firm of Edinboro' publishers, and I am going to have a kennel for him in my New York office and use him in a dozen 313 AND OTHER TALES different ways. Look at him now, will you ! ■' I glanced around and saw that one of the authors had contrived to detach him- self from the drove and was leaning over the fence engrossed in thu contemplation of an advertisement of Glenlivet whis- key, which had caught his wandering eye, and as I looked, the dog came hur- rying up from behind, nipped him, with a snarl of assumed ferocity, in the calf of his leg, and sent him scampering back to his place with the others. We were now entering the principal thoroughfare of Syndicate, and the au- thors looked about in wonder at the si- lent streets and long rows of neat white cottages in which the literary toilers dwell. From the large brick factory, where the posthumous works of great authors are prepared, came the sound of busy, whirring wheels and the scratch- ing of steam pens. In the art depart- 14 A^^D OTHER TALES merit the sledge-hammers were falling on the anvils in measured cadence — in short, everything told the story of cheerful literary activity. Mr. McClure threw open the door of a large white- washed building, gave the word of com- mand to the dog, and in less than a minute the sagacious quadruped had rounded up the herd of authors and driven them into their corral. "Good-by," said the editor as lie closed and bolted the door and turned to take my outstretched hand. " Good- by," he continued solemnly, and then raised his hands above my head. I took off my hat. " Now is the time to subscribe," said Mr. McClure, impressively. !15 THE CANNING OF PEKISHABLE LITERATURE. Satueday is a half holiday at Mr. Mc- Clure's village of Syndicate. On that day the noon whistle means complete cessation of work, as it always has in every one of the departments of Mr. McClure's great enterprise. On the occasion of a recent Saturday visit to this model settlement I found scores of well-fed, happy-looking prosers and poets riding their bicycles up and down tke village street or sitting in rows on the fence rails eagerly discussing the condition of the literary market and the business prospects for the coming year. In the large playground which lies to 316 AND OTHER TALES the uorth of the village an exciting game of football was in progress between two picked elevens, one selected from the various " reminiscence - of - celebrities " gangs emplo3^ed about the works, and the other made up from the day shift of " two-rhyme-to-the-quatrain " poets. The Scotch dialect authors were seated on the piazza in front of their quarters, rnendino: their shoes, washing their clothes, and preparing in other ways for the impending "Sawbath." Mr. McClure tells me that they are very shy and sus- picious, and refuse to mingle socially with the other hands. One of them, Dr. Baw- bee MacFudd, was confined to his room with brain fever, the result of having been asked to spend something the last time he went out of the house. Just beyond the barn devoted to the Scotchmen Mr. McClure showed me a building which he erected last spring and which is now used as a canning factory 317 AND OTHER TALES and warehouse for the storage of perish- able goods. " You see," said Mr. McClure, " we are doing a very large business here, and supplying not only my own magazine and newspaper syndicate with matter, but also various other publications, which I cannot name for obvious reasons, so it frequently happens that we find our- selves at the close of some holiday sea- son with a number of poems, stories, or essays relating to that particular holiday left on our hands. These 'perishable goods,' as we call them in the trade, were formerly a total loss, but now we can and preserve them until the holiday comes round again." Mr. McClure directed my attention to the wooden shelves which encircled the main room of the building, and which contained long rows of neat tin cans and glass jars, hermetically sealed and appro- priately labelled. In the Thanksgiving 318 AND OTHER TALES department were to be found cans con- taining comic turkey dinners in prose and verse, '' First Thanksgiving in America " stories of the old Plymouth Eock brand so popular in New England, serious verses designed for " Woman and Home" departments in provincial newspapers, and other seasonable goods. Some of these were marked with a red X, indicating, as Mr. McCIure informed me, that they were of the patent adjust- able brand, made popular throughout the country by his syndicate, and could be changed into Christmas goods by merely altering the name of the holiday. We were still standing there, when one of the hands, who seemed to be working overtime, appeared with a step-ladder, climbed up to one of the highest shelves, and brought down three dusty Washington's Birthday jars, which he opened on the spot. Two were in good condition, but the third containing a 319 AND OTHER TALES poem on " Our Uncrowned King," was foand to be in a bad state of preservation and emitted such a frightful odor that the workman hastily carried it outside the building, Mr. McClnre and I follow- ing to see what was the matter with it. The poem was lifted out with a pair of pincers, and we saw in an instant that decay had started in the third verse, in which " Mount Yernon " was made to rhyme with " burning," and had spread until the whole thing was ruined. " I am very lucky to get off as easily as this," said Mr. McClure, as he noted the name of the author of the defective rhyme, " because it sometimes happens that these jars containing rotten poetry explode and do a great deal of damage. "These are our odd lots," he ex- plained, as we continued our tour of in- spection. " Here are a few cans of ' Envois ' for use in the repair shops, and here are a lot of hitherto unpub 330 AND OTHER TALES lished portraits of people and pictures of houses and babies and all sorts of things that have been left over from our serials, and will come in handy for the Grant memoirs. Those pictures of the chil- dren of old Zachariah Corncob, who used to live next door to Lincoln, will do very well for Benjamin Franklin or Henry Clay in infancy, and there is that house that Mr. and Mrs. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward used to live in, left over from a lot of forty that I contracted for last year ; that will look well as the house that would be occupied by An- drew Jackson if he were alive now and lived in Massachusetts. You see, I am reducing the literary business to a sys- tem, and my plan is to have nothing go to waste." "It seems to me, McClure," I re- marked, as we left the building, "that vou have evervthine- here but love poems ; won't they bear canning, too? " 321 AND OTHER TALES " Certainly," replied the great manu- facturer, " but I have to put them all in cold storage, even during the winter months." 322 LITERARY LEAVES BY MAN- ACLED HANDS. The attempt of Warden Sage, of Sing Sing, to provide literary labor for the idle convicts has excited so much inter- est that yesterday morning a party of well-known literary men visited the state prison on invitation of the warden, and made a careful inspection of the methods employed in turning out con- vict-labor prose and verse. Some of this work is done in the cells, and some is carried on in the shops for- merly devoted to the manufacture of clothing, brushes, shoes, and other ar- ticles turned out under the old contract system. In the corridors outside the 323 AND OTHER TALES cells and in the shops were to be seen " trusties " going about with dictionaries, both Webster and rhyming, which they supplied to any convict who raised his hand as a signal. The visitors proceeded down one of the corridors, and, at the request of the warden, examined some of the pieces of manuscript that were passed out to them through the cell bars. On one tier thej found a squad of short-term men hard at work on a job intended for the " Home and Fireside " department of a new weekly. They examined with much interest a serviceable article called "How to Dress Well for Very Little Money," which bore the signature of "Fairy Casey," and were much pleased with its style and texture. Mr. Gilder, who was of the party, and has had long experi- ence in reading manuscript, was inclined to criticise the paragraph which stated that linemen's boots could be worn 334 AND OTHER TALES at all times after dark, but it was ex- plained to him that that was merely carelessness on the part of Mr. Casej, who is a second-storj man, and who for- got he was not writing exclusively for his own profession. At the next cell they stopped to look at an essay called " Umbrellas and Cake Baskets, Spoons and Candlesticks, or How to Make Home Beautiful," the work of " Slippery Dutch," the promi- nent sneak thief. Other specimens of manuscript exam- ined by the visitors were " How to Keep the Feet Warm, or What to Do with Our Kerosene and Shingles," by Mor- decai Slevinsky, the only long-term man in the gang, and having thirty-seven years yet to serve ; " Safe Storage for Negotiable Railroad Bonds," by ''Jimmy the Cracksman," and a two-thousand- word poem in hexameter natnrd " Throw- ing the Scare, or the Chasing of the ^25 AND OTHER TALES Comeback," an extremely creditable job turned out by Chauncey Throwdown, formerly a ward detective, who partially reformed two years ago, and was caught and sentenced while trying to lead a bet- ter life and earn a more honest living as a bank thief. Mr. McClure, who was of the party, was very much pleased with this poem, and asked permission to buy it of the convict, saying that it was just wide enough to fit the pages of his magazine ; but his offer was refused on the ground that the verses were part of the job contracted for by the editor of a new periodical. A slight discussion ou the higher ethics of poetry followed, to which such of the convicts as were within earshot listened with deep inter- est. Mr. Gilder claimed that the best, most serviceable, and ornamental poetry to be had in the market was that which came in five or six inch lengths, not counting the title or signature, and bore 326 A]VD OTHER TALES the well-known "As One Who" brand that the " Century Magazine " has done so much to popularize. Poems of this description, he explained, are known to the trade as Al sonnets, and are very beautiful when printed directly after a section of continued story, affording, as they do, a great relief to tired eyes, " Do you think the idea and the verses should appear on the same page ? " inquired the warden, who is eager to learn all that he can of the pro- fession of letters. " It has not been my practice to print them in that fashion," replied Mr. Gil- der, " and in my own poems I am al- ways careful to avoid such a combina- tion, believing it to be thoroughly in- harmonious." At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the noise of a desperate struggle at the other end of the tier, and a moment later four keepers appeared, AND OTHER TALES dragging with them one of the most des- perate convicts in the prison. It was ascertained that he had expressed his willingness to devote himself to literary work at the closing of the quarries, but had requested that the fact should be kept a secret, as it might be used against him in after life. He had been fur- nished with pen and paper and a pan of Scotch dialect, but instead of taking hold with the rest of the gang and work- ing on his section of the serial story, " The Gude Mon o' Linkumdoodie," he secretly constructed a fine saw and was caught in the very act of cutting through the bars of his cell. The warden, who is a very just man, rebuked the keepers severely for their carelessness in putting such temptation in the way of any prisoner. He bade them take the offending convict down to the dark cell and keep him there until he could find a rhyme for " sidewalk." 328 AND OTHER TALES "And remember," he called after them, " in future see that no dialect of any kind is issued to the prisoners until it is thoroughly boiled." The visitors then made their way to the shops, where they found gangs of convicts at work under the supervision of keepers. The prison choir was prac- tising some new hymns and, at the war- den's request, rendered a beautiful new song composed not long ago by the Rev. Gideon Shackles, the prison chaplain, and entitled " Shall We Gather Up the River ? " They had just finished, when the tramp of heavy feet was heard, and in a mo- ment there came around the corner a line of men in prison dress walking, single file, in lock-step. Under the lead- ership of two trusties they made their way to a long table, seated themselves at it, and began to write with great diligence. "Who are those men?" inquired Mr. 329 AND OTHER TALES McCliire, with some interest. " I hope you are not putting any of your gangs on Washington or Lincoln or Grant this winter, for that would throw a great many of my writers out of employment." " No," replied the warden, " that is simply the regular eight-hour shift of Cuban war correspondents, and very busy we keep them, too. You see, a number of newspaper editors are finding out that we can furnish just as good an article of Cuban news here in Sing Sing as they can get from Key West, where the bulk of the work has been done heretofore." TJjere was silence for a moment, and then Mr. McClure remarked in a very low voice, " I'll take the names of some of those fellows down. One of these days they'll be good for reminiscences of 'How I Freed Cuba,' or 'The True Story of the Great Conflict at Our Very Gates,' or something of that sort." McCLURE'S BIRTHDAY AT SYN- DICATE VILLAGE. Never since the foundation of Mc- Clure's model village of Syndicate has the valley of the Hackensack rung with such hearty, innocent mirth as it did yesterday, when McClure's birthday was observed in a fitting manner by the in- habitants of the literary village. Mr. McClure, who generously bore the entire expense of the merrymaking, arrived in the village nearly a week ago, and since then has been engrossed in his prepara- tions for what he declared should be the most notable literary gathering ever seen on this continent; and when the factories closed at six o'clock on Saturday even- 331 AND OTHER TALES ing all the bands were notified that they would not be opened again until Tues- day morning, and that the piece-workers would be paid for Monday as if they were salaried employees, in order that the holiday might cost them nothing. It is by such acts of generosity that Mr. McClure has made himself beloved by all literary workers whose good fortune it has been to do business with him. And it is because of this and many other acts of generosity on Mr. Mc- Clure's part that that upright and dis- criminating manufacturer found no diffi- culty in securing a score of willing volunteers at an early hour on Monday morning, when it became necessary to transfer to the lighter Paragraph several cases of Daniel Webster portraits and a section of the new Kipling serial for im- mediate shipment to New York. This work accomplished, the hands returned to the village in time to prepare for the 332 AND OTHER TALES merrymaking, which began shortly after one o'clock. At precisely twelve o'clock a special train arrived from New York laden with invited guests, among whom were a great many men and women well known in literary and artistic circles. Mr. McClure welcomed us cordially as we alighted at the station, and then led the way to the art department, where a toothsome collation had been spread. The fires had been put out in the forges, the huge bellows were all motionless, and the anvils now served to support the wide boards whicb were used as a banqueting table. It was difficult for me to realize that this well-swept, neatly garnished room was the smoky, noisy art department, with fierce flames leap- ing from a dozen banks of glowing coals, that I had visited but a few days before. At the conclusion of the banquet the 333 AND OTHER TALES guests were escorted to seats which had been reserved for them on the village green, and immediately afterward the sports began. The first athletic event was the put- ting of the twenty-pound joke from " Harper's Bazar." There were eight competitors in this contest, including Mr. Hamlin Garland, who mistook a block of wood for the joke, threw it, and was disbarred, as were two other contestants who were unable to see the jokes after they had put them. The next event was an obstacle race for the cashier's window, open to mem- bers of the artistic as well as the literary section of the settlement, the former being subjected to a handicap of three extra " O. K.'s " on account of their su- perior sprinting qualities with such a goal in sight. This contest was won by a one-legged man, whose infirmity was offset by the fact of his long experience 334 AND OTHER TALES in cashier chasing in the office of the " Illastrated American." Then came what was called a " Park Row contest," open to all ex-journalists, in the form of a collar-and-elbow wres- tling match for the city editor's desk, catch as catch can. There were seven contestants in this match, each of whom was obliged to catch all the others in the act of doing something wrong and re- port the same at headquarters. The prize was given to a gentleman who had filled every position on the " Herald " from window-cleaner to editor-in-chief, and is now spending his declining years at the copy desk in that establishment, and taking a morose and embittered view of life. The running high jump next occupied the attention of the spectators. A huge pile of remii^iscences of prominent states- men, writers, and other famous charac- ters was placed on the ground, the prize 335 AND OTHER TALES to be awarded to the author who could jump over the greatest number'of them without touching the top of the heap. This proved to be an exceedingly spir- ited and interesting contest, and the pile slowly increased in height until there was but one contestant left who could clear it. He proved to be a complete outsider, the grand-uncle of one of the poets, who had asked permission to take part in the sports as a guest of Mr. Mc- Clure's. The old gentleman was visibly affected when the prize was handed to him, and explained his success by re- marking that for many years he had been in the habit of skipping all the reminiscences in " McClure's Magazine" whenever he came across them, and this habit, coupled with his regular mode of life, had enabled him to lead all his competitors, even at his adv^inced age. Mr. Gilder, of the " Century Magazine," was kind enough to lend his aid in the 336 AND OTHER TALES manuscript- thro wing contest which fol- lowed. Forty poets, armed to the teeth with their wares, assailed the " Century " editor with poems, and got them all back again without an instant's delay. The speed with which the experienced editor returned each wad of manuscript to its sender was the subject of general ad- miring comment to all present except the poets themselves, who found them- selves unable to land a single verse. Mr. Gilder was so fatigued with his efforts that he asked to be excused from play- ing the part of the bag in the bag-punch- ing contest which the poets were anxious to have given. The sports closed with a novel and interesting game, in which everybody joined with hearty good-will and enthu- siasm. This game was called " Chasing the Greased Publisher," An agile Har- per, having been greased from head to foot, was let loose on -the common and 337 AND OTHER TALES pursued for twenty minutes by tlie ex- cited literary citizens. The skill which he displayed in eluding his pursuers, doubling on his tracks and breaking away from the insecure hold of some ravenous poet, served to make the con- test the most exciting and enjoyable event of the whole day's programme. He was finally caught by Mr. Joel Ben- ton, who floored him with a Thanksgiv- ing ode, delivered between the eyes. It was 4:30 o'clock when the games closed, and I was compelled to return to the city without waiting to enjoy the literary exercises which were held dur- ing the evening. I had a short conversation with Mr. McClure, however, and asked him if he did not find that it paid him to keep his workmen in good health and spirits the year round. Mr. McClure replied that he did, and that he proposed to encourage all sorts of innocent pastimes — of the 338 AND OTHER TALES kind that we had witnessed — and permit his literary and artistic hands to enjoy festivals and merrymakings at frequent intervals throughout the year. As the train steamed out of the depot I heard the inhabitants begin their even- ing hymn: " Thou art, McClure, the light and life Of all this wondrous world we see." 339 LITERATURE BY PRISON CON- TRACT LABOR. The enforced idleness of state prison convicts has led some of the large manu- facturers and dealers to seriously con- sider the advisability of giving employ- ment to some of them in the different branches of their literary establishments. Mr. Bok recently purchased a quan- tity of "Just Among Ourselves " goods, but found them to be inferior in quality to the samples from which they were ordered, so he refused to accept them, and they were subsequently sold at a reduced rate to Mr. Peter Parley, who is now editing the Sunday supplement of the " New York Times." The Harpers have 340 AXD OTHER TALES been more successful, having bad more experience in this peculiar line. It is an open secret that the ten acres of his- torical and other foreign matter con- tracted for two or three years ago and signed with the nom de plume "Poultney Bigelow " are really the work of a gang of long-term men in the Kings County Penitentiary, while fully half their poetry comes from the same institution. Not long ago, however, the long-term- ers, hoping by working overtime to secure a little money for themselves, prepared and offered to the proprietors of the Franklin Square foundry a short story, which those discerning publishers were compelled to decline because they did not like its moral. The story is as follows, and is called : caf:6 THROWOUT ; OR, THE nEY rube's DREAM. It was a cold, blustering night in the very heart of the bitter month of Janu- 341 AND OTHER TALES aiy, and the stranger who entered the front door of the Cafe Throwout, on Sixth Avenue, let in after him a fierce gust of wind that brought a chill to the two men who were seated at a table in the corner, engaged in earnest conversa- tion, and caused the bartender — the only other occupant of the room — to look up quickly from the sporting paper which engrossed his attention and closely scan the face of the newcomer. " Gimme a hot apple toddy, an' put a little nutmeg on the top of it," said the newcomer as he dropped into an arm- chair by the stove and stretched out his hands to catch some of the genial warmth. The bartender silently prepared the drink, and the two men in the corner continued their conversation, but in low- ered tones and with less eagerness than before, for both of them were sharply watching the new arrival. It was a 343 AXD OTHER TALES Strange pair to find in a Tenderloin bar- room, and it was not easy to conceive of two men, differing so widely in appear- ance and manner, having anything in common. The elder of the two wore a black broadcloth suit of clerical cut, dea- conish whiskers of iron-gray, a white lawn tie, and a mouth so devoid of ex- pression that its owner was perfectly safe in exposing it without the precautionary covering of beard or mustache. His companion looked as if he might have come in that very afternoon, in his best clothes, from some point midway be- tween Rochester and Elmira. He wore a checked suit of distinctly provincial cut, a cloth cap similar to those worn by rustic milkmen on cold mornings, a high, turn-down collar, and no cravat, and, for ornament, a rather conspicuous bit of jewelry, which might have been an heirloom known to the family as " gran'- pa's buzzom pin." 343 AND OTHER TALES As the bartender handed the hot drink to the man beside the stove, the clergyman whispered in a low voice to his companion, " I wonder what his graft is ! " " Graft — nothing ! " retorted the other ; "there's one of him born every hour — didn't I tell you ? Look at the roll he's flashing up ! He handles money as if he'd never heard of the Cafe Throwout before." It was true. The newcomer, in pay- ing for his drink, had drawn from his pocket a large roll of greenbacks, dis- playing them as carelessly as if he had been in a banking house instead of in one of the most famous resorts for smart people that the Tenderloin precinct contains. Of course by this time the reader has discovered that the man in clerical garb and his companion of provincial aspect were " smart " people, each working his 344 A^D OTHER TALES own particular graft with skill and suc- cess. The faces of both brightened when their eyes fell upon the newcomer, who was a sucker of the kind sometimes sent by a beneficent Providence to his afflicted people in times of drought. The elder of the two men was known to those who contributed to the orphan asylum that he conducted in Dreamland as the Rev. William Cassock, but the workers of the town called him " Soapy Sam." His companion's face adorns the largest and most interesting gallerj' of portraits that the city contains, and is labelled in the catalogue and explana- tory text-book pertaining to the gallery, "Crooked Charlie, the man of many grafts." The two had, indeed, known hard times since the close of the summer and were now in no mood to let any stranger go unscathed. A sudden gleam of intel- ligence came into "Crooked Charlie's" Mo AND OTHER TALES face, and at the same moment a bright light gilded the tips of the Rev. William Cassock's iron-gray whiskers. " Gimme another o' them toddies and don't forgit the nutmeg," cried the stran- ger, and then the two smart people rose in their places and made a mysterious signal to the bartender. As the sucker by the stove slowly sipped his second drink, the red-hot iron in front of him changed into the glowing base of the old wood-burner that has warmed two generations of loafers in the little manufacturing town of Bilkville Centre, Conn. He could hear the voice of old Hiram Goodsell in- viting him to a game of "setback" in the back room of tbe tavern, and then some invisible force bore him up to the big hall over the schoolhouse, where the firemen's ball was in progress, and he found himself balancing to corners with Mirandy Tucker, her that was a Larrabee. 346 AND OTHER TALES " Cross over ! Cross back ! Balance all and swing your partners ! " chanted old Bill Cady, and the sucker went swinging down the room and out into the cold field and across the snow to the railroad train which whirled him on to New York. He was filled with glad antici- pations : he would go to see Lydia Thompson, he would plunge into the heart of the gay and beautiful Tender- loin, where the corks pop merrily all night long and the ivory chips rattle, and the music of the banjo and piano fills the air. Yes, here was New York at last, and here was the kindly old gen- tleman, known affectionately as Grand Central Pete, who has directed the urban revels of many a lonely stranger. The old man welcomes him and explains that the city pays him to look after unsus- pecting visitors and keep them from being robbed before they get to Forty- first Street. Arm in arm, the two bend 347 AJVD OTHER TALES their steps toward what is believed in the provinces to be the merry quarter of the town, stopping only at a saloon to enable the sucker to change a counter- feit twenty-dollar bill for an obliging gentleman who hopes he will enjoy his stay in the city. They are in the midst of gayety now, and as he sits there bv the stove, uncon- scious of where he is, he is living over again the delights of many memorable nights in the great metropolis. He hears the glad strains of the piano, the merry shouts of feminine laughter, and sees the whirling skirts and flying feet of myriad fleet dancers. His throat is parched and he must have wine, and so must they all, at his expense. Kindly faces cluster around him, kind hands help to pull his money from his pocket, and, lest he should lose them, his watch from his fob, his rings from his fingers, his pin and studs from his shirt. 348 AND OTHER TALES These are iudeed swift passing, merry hours " Have to wake up, sir ; it's one o'clock, and I've got to close up ! Didn't you have a watch-chain on when you came in here first ? " It is the bartender who has broken the spell, and the sucker's glad dream is over. * " Well, suppose you take the watoh, and I'll take the pin and studs, and we'll divide the sleeve buttons," says Crooked Charlie to his companion as the two enter a saloon a few blocks away from the Cafe Throwout. " That's all right, that's all right," re- joins the Rev. William Cassock as he stuffs his share of the bills away in an inside pocket, " but in the meantime let us not forget that the same Providence that caused the manna to fall in the desert and sent the ravens down to feed 349 AND OTHER TALES Elisha brought this sucker to the Cafe Throwout and cast over him the mystic spell of deep, painless sleep. By the way, let me compliment you on a certain detail in your make-up which has at- tracted my attention. I notice that you wear one of those dude collars, without either cravat or pin. That is in keep- ing with your part. A jay would be content with such a collar, but one of us would get a cravat and pin first." 350 CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE SYNDI- CATE VILLAGE. One bright morning about six weeks before Christmas Day the spirit of dili- gence in well-doing descended like a dove and took complete possession of the brain and soul of INIi*. S. S. McClure, the benev- olent founder of the thriving literary village of Syndicate, which stands on the banks of the Hackensack River, an en- during monument to his far-seeing phi- lanthropy. From that moment he seemed to lose interest in the great loom-room, where busy hands made the shuttles fly to and fro as they wove their reminiscences of Abraham Lincoln. At midnight, when 351 AND OTHER TALES the foreman opened the furnace door and the fierce flames lit up the grimy but in- tellectual faces of the workmen who stood watching the History of Our ^ya)' with Spain, as it was run into the moulds, Mr. McClure was not present. His face was seen no more in the noisy blacksmith-shop, where strong arms forged the hitherto unpublished portraits of American states- men. Even when a careless workman in the packing- room dropped a railroad story and shivered that fragile bit of literary bric-a-brac into a thousand pieces, the great Master forgot to reprimand him, so busy was he with his own thoughts. But the literary workmen did not take advantage of the preoccupation of the great Master Mechanic of all modern letters and slight the tasks that had been intrusted to them. On the contrary, they plunged into their tasks with redoubled energy, for well they knew that it was some plan for their happiness that filled 352 AXD OTHER TALES the busy mind of the Master, some scheme for the fitting celebration of Christmas Eve, which, next to McClure's Bh'thday, is the chief holiday in the literaiy calen- dar. And so, into the web and woof of many a Recollection of Daniel Webster and Later Life of Lincoln were woven bright anticipations of the merry Christ- mas which S. S. McClure was preparing for his trusty employees. Each year Mr. McClure devises a new form of holiday celebration, and this year his bounty took the shape of a huge Christ- mas tree, from whose branches hung the packages that contained presents for his guests. Christmas Eve is always a half -holiday at the McClure works ; and at precisely noon on Saturday the factor}^ whistle blew, the great wheels began to slow up, the dynamos, which furnish light, heat, and ideas for the entire factory, ceased to throb, and the cheerful workers put aside 353 ANB OTHER TALES their uncompleted tasks and set about the welcome labor of making ready for their Christmas celebration. In less time than it takes to tell it, the huge store-room, in which the winter supply of literature had already begun to accumulate, was swept clean, garnished with boughs of evergreen, and brightened with sprigs of holly. Scarcely had this work been completed when a shout told of the arrival of the Christmas tree, drawn by four oxen, on the huge extension-wagon used in transporting Scotch serial stories from the foundry to the steamboat landing. In the twinkling of an eye, a score of able-bodied bards seized the great evergreen and placed it upright in the curtained recess at one end of the room, and then every one withdrew, leaving Mr. McClure himself, with four trustworthy aids, to deck: the tree and hang the presents on its limbs. During the afternoon the happy littera- teurs, released from their daily toil, thi-ew 354 AND OTHER TALES themselves heartily into the enjoyment of all kinds of winter sport. Some put on skates and sped up and down the frozen surface of the Haekensack, while others coasted downhill, thi-ew snowballs at one another, and even made little sliding-places on the sidewalk, where they enjoyed them- selves to their hearts' content. When twilight fell upon the settlement they all entered then* homes, to emerge half an hour later, clothed in Sunday attire, with their faces and hands as clean as soap and water could make them, ready to sit down to the gi'eat Christmas banquet provided for them by theii* employer. It is doubtful if there has ever been as large a number of literary men seated at any banquet-table as gathered on this evening as the guests of Master Mechanic McClure. Tlie host sat at the ui)per end of the great horseshoe table, and beside him were invited guests representing the literary profession in its many phases. The 355 "i*^/ AND OTHER TALES guests were deftly and quickly served by a corps of one-rhyrae-to-tlie-quatrain poets who had formerly been contributors to Mr. Spencer's organ of thought, the Illus- irated American, and were thoroughly accustomed to waiting. At the close of the feast a huge pie was placed upon the table, and instantly opened by Mr. McClure. Thereupon, to the delight of all the guests, Mr. J. K. Bangs sprang forth and sang a solemn and beautiful hallelujah in praise of the Harper publications. After the applause which followed this unexpected encomium of the great pub- lishing-house had subsided, Mr. McClure introduced to his employees the Hterary centipede, Mr. Harry Thurston Peck, who stood up in his place, with a pen in each claw, and explained how it was possible not only to work with all his tentacles at once, but also to give the lie to the old story of the Crow and the Fox, by editing 356 AND OTHER TALES a magazine with his teeth, and at the same time lecturing to the Cohimbia Col- lege students without letting go of liis job. During Mr. Peck's remarks the giver of the feast quietly withdi-ew, and, as the speaker ended, the cui*tains were with- drawn, revealing the great, brilliantly lighted tree, and Mr. McClure himself in the . garb of Santa Claus, ready to dis- tribute the Christmas gifts. There was a present for every one, and aU had been chosen with special reference to individ- ual tastes. To one was given a sled, to another a pair of skates, to a third a suit of warm underwear, and to a fourth a silver-mounted ivory foot-rule for scan- ning poetry. To such of the workmen as held an unusually high record for a year of indus- trious work, not marred by any breakage of valuable goods, Mr. McClure gave also an order for some article which could eas- ily be prepared in odd moments, and which ■ 357 AKD OTHER TALES would be liberally paid for when com- pleted and packed for shipment. Among the orders thus given were twelve for plain, hand-sewed, unbleached Christmas stories for actors, to sign in the holiday numbers of the dramatic week- lies. The great annual syndicate article, " Christmas in Many Lands," was ordered from the foreman of each department, in recognition of the high quality of goods turned out in every part of the shop. Other literary plums given Out for the picking were " Christmas Eve on the East Side," "Christmas at the North Pole," " Christmas in Patagonia," " Christmas at the South Pole," " Christmas in the Luna- tic Asylum," '' Christmas in the Siberian Mines," " Christmas with Hall Caine," aiid "Christmas in the Condemned •Cell.''' While the delighted guests were open- ing their bundles and examining their presents, the noble-hearted Master Me- chanic stepped forward and announced 358 AND OTHER TALES that the Christmas prize offered by the Netv York Journal, to be competed for by the inhabitants of Syndicate, had been awarded to the author of " Christmas Inside the Anaconda," described by a Journal representative who got swal- lowed on Christmas Eve. Santa Claus then announced that there was still one present to be given, but that the person for whom it was intended had been preverited by reason of rheumatism and other infirmities incidental to old age from being present. This person, he ex- plained, was the oldest poet in his employ, one who had for years innumerable la- bored faithfully at bench and lap-stone, and had been • one of the first to find employment in the now bustling model village of Syndicate. '' His poems," cried Mr. McClure', warml}'', "lie scattered throughout the valley of American letters, from the earliest pages of Petersons^ and Godey's down to the very latest of the 359 AND OTHER TALES Century and Scribner^s. Unlike the dis- tinguished gentleman who has already addressed you, he became wedded in early life to the literary customs of an older generation, and has never been able to learn how to. write with his feet. For that reason his output is limited. I am sure that you will all rejoice with. him over a gift which is designed to make him com- fortable during the rest of his days, and I call upon a committee of his friends to bear to his humble home these nice warm blankets, these thick woolen socks, and an order to write a weekly article on ' Books that have Helped Me,' so long as the breath remains in his body." At this new instance, of generosity on the part of their beloved employer the entire company uttered a mighty shout of approval, and, seizing the gifts from the hands of Santa Clans, departed in a body to inform worthy old bedridden Peleg Scan of his good fortune. 360 : ••. V- , University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 • Box 951388 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. Form L-9-15m-2,'36 UNIVERSITY OP |ALIFORKI^ UNIVERSITY OF C AUFORNI A-LOS ANGELES L 007 774 597 4 UC SOUTHERN REGIOfJAL LIBRARY rAr^H^lTY AA 000 647 264 i