Step Lively! A Carload of the Funniest Yarns that Ever Crossed the Footlights

"By way of destroying the illusion still further I will, with your permission, occupy the time while the stage is being made ready for the next act by reciting 'Hooligan at the Bat.'"

Which he proceeded to do.

And I fancy those misguided people soon wished they had not resurrected him so soon.

When you manage to run across an original man it pays to cultivate his acquaintance.

Hobbyhead has been a gold mine to me.

Whenever I have an attack of the blues I just hunt him up, and ten to one forget all my troubles.

A few more of his sort would make a stampede among the physicians out our way.

To tell the truth, every humorist knocks out a dozen doctors.

We were chatting the other day about things sacred and profane, when I chanced in the course of some remarks to mention that when Gabriel blew his horn on the final resurrection morn a good many persons would be surprised at the company they kept.

"Humph," grunted Hobbyhead, "don't you believe that our friend Gabriel will be the only trumpet sounder at the grand round-up."

"Why don't you think he won't?" I asked.

"Because every self-made man will insist on blowing his own horn."

While we were taking a walk through the country we met a farmer driving a fine bull in to market.

Both of us commented on the fact that it had a scrubby tail, and when Hobbyhead insisted on addressing the man I knew he had conceived a bright thought.

"I suppose, my friend, you'll have to sell that beast wholesale," he said.

The owner came from his reverie.

"What fer?"

"Well," assured my solemn friend, nodding his head toward the scrubby tuft of hair, and pursing his lips, "well, you see you cant have him re-tailed."

But occasionally Hobbyhead finds himself tripped up.

The pitcher may go to the well once too often.

I saw the deed done recently, and you ought to have been there to watch the humorist turn green with envy.

He was having some additions made to his country house, and had occasion to hire a tramp carpenter.

Somehow he was suspicious of the man's ability, and proceeded to put him through a course of sprouts.

"See here, my friend, do you know all about carpenter work?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"You can make windows, doors and blinds?"

"Why, certain, sir."

"How would you make a Venetian blind?"

The man considered steadily for several minutes.

"I think," he remarked finally, with a grin, "that I would punch him in the eye."

He was engaged as soon as John recovered his breath.

Such sharp-edged tools are rare among journeymen carpenters, and I've suspected Hobbyhead meant to utilize the fellow in order to brighten his own wits.

Hobbyhead's smallest boy came home from the Barnum show the other evening.

It was his first outing of the sort, and he was bursting with the knowledge of the wonders he had seen.

His parental guardian, of course, questioned him regarding the stupendous aggregation, and soon discovered that among the many astonishing gymnasts little Jack had been especially attracted toward the wizard who ties himself up into a bunch of knots.

"I'm going to be a contortionist when I grow up," he proudly announced, "and right away to-morrow you'll see me start in trainin'."

"All right," said the interested parent; "it's a glorious career, my son, and to show you how much I appreciate your ambition I shall order half a bushel of green apples to be sent around. They'll give you a good start."

Hobbyhead claims that he gets many of his tidiest puns from this young hopeful.

For instance, when little Jack was studying his book one evening he called his father's attention to a fact which he was sturdily prepared to dispute.

"Say, pa, this book says nature never wastes anything."

"I guess that's right, my son," replied the father, thoughtlessly.

"Then what's the use of a cow having two horns when she can't even play on one," asked Jack, triumphantly.

Hobbyhead's genius failed him in the emergency.

When Hobbyhead was taking a holiday down at Long Branch, with his family, the price he had to pay rather congealed his blood.

Some of the descendants of Captain Kidd must have settled there and grown up with the country.

At any rate they bleed a man just as thoroughly as in the palmy days of Blackbeard and his corsair crew.

Hobbyhead had intended spending two weeks at the shore, but when he scanned his bill he found he would have just about money enough left to pay fares home.

And he considered there must have been some mistake about it to leave him even that.

While he was feeling sore and disgruntled, he chanced to fall into conversation with the proprietor.

This gentleman complained that the rats gave them considerable trouble, and that he would pay considerable to be rid of the gnawing rodents.

"I can tell you an infallible cure, sir," said Hobbyhead.

"I should be deeply obliged to you," returned the landlord.

"Well, then, once a week make out your bill and charge the rats as you've charged me, and I'll be hanged if the rats ever come to your house again," said Hobbyhead.

Would you believe it, that landlord was hurt.

Some people never can take a joke.

Recently I came across a young fellow employed on a daily paper, and whom I have known some time.

As a usual thing he was a happy-go-lucky, cheerful chap, and I was surprised to see the dejected look on his face.

Remember, too, he had been only recently married, and to a charming girl, at that.

I immediately experienced some curiosity to know what had upset him.

"Hello, old chap!" I said. "You look glum. Nothing happened, eh? Not fired?"

"No; job's all right. I'm worried – that all," he replied.

"What's the trouble?"

"Well, I'll tell you. Fact is, I've got a seal-skin wife and a muskrat salary."

Then I laughed.

"Don't let that worry you, old man! Most of us fellows are in the same predicament. It's the same old story, so common – a champagne appetite and a lager beer pocketbook. Get used to it in time, so cheer up. Let's liquidate."

Perhaps you may never have suspected that I was one of the heroes who stormed San Juan Hill.

Only for me and Teddy there might have been a different story to tell of that great day.

I seldom mention the fact, being constitutionally bashful.

And, besides, it pleases me to see all the glory go to the man who leads such a strenuous life.

But, honest Injun, I was there where the Spanish Mausers were cracking merrily, and I wouldn't like to tell you how much foreign lead I took that day.

Perhaps you may remember that at one time matters got so hot that there was considerable consternation among our bold boys in blue.

One fellow, who was evidently getting his baptism in fire, had stood it for a time, though his knees must have been knocking together some.

It became necessary to retreat temporarily, while the bullets sang around like mad hornets; but once started for the rear this fellow's legs actually ran away with him.

He plunged along like a rhinoceros, utterly regardless.

An officer bellowed after him.

"Here, you, what are you running for?"

I saw the scared New Englander turn his head and throw over his shoulder:

"Because I can't fly, you darned fool!"

Hello, there, what was that – actually a mosquito trying to nip me, the bloodsucker!

Come to think of it, skeeters are about the slickest nuisances we've got.

Have you ever thought what sly coons they are, and how they maneuvre to get their suction pump at work, just as if they had learned army tactics?

Say, ever been down in Jacksonville when the mercury's so high you can't breathe and the skeeters are humming their monotonous anthem? This is the song they sing:

 
When at night yer gently sleepin',
Sleepin' in your trunnle bed,
An' yer hear a buzzin', creepin',
Creepin' round yer drowsy head;
Such a gentle kind o' buzzin',
Seems like some one's sayin' "Cousin,
Couz-in, couz-zin, couz-z-zin, couz-z-z-zin!"
When ye ain't got no sich kin,
Heads in under quick, an' cheat 'er!
It's a low down female skeeter,
That's a-lyin'
And a tryin'
To break in.
 
 
An' there ain't no good o' slidin'
'Neath the bedclothes – she won't leave —
For she knows yer only hidin'
An' yer got ter rise to breathe,
So she'll hover 'round there buzzin'
'Bout that everlastin' "Cousin,
Couz-in, couz-zin, couz-z-zin, couz-z-z-zin!"
She must love that chap a lot.
Heads from under – biff! she's got yer,
An' I told yer that she'd swat yer,
General Jackson!
Say, I'm axin'
Did she swat?
 
 
If yer git as hot as tinder,
Crouchin' thar beneath that sheet,
An' she journeys out the winder,
Don't you think you've fooled that skeet,
For she'll hustle back a buzzin',
"Couz-in, couz-zin, couz-z-zin, couz-z-z-zin!"
They'll locate you in the dark —
Biff! She has 'bout all ye owe 'er,
An' ye wonder why ole Noah
Let the first two,
An' the worst two,
In the ark!
 

Aha! There's my friend Judge Longears in the back row. Now, don't everybody rubber. Well, well, well, he's scooted. I pity these bashful men. Judge Longears has in his day defended all manner of criminals.

Some of them escaped punishment Which they richly deserved, simply because they were wise enough to employ a smart lawyer.

And no doubt the fee he received often constituted the proceeds of the very robbery of which they had just been proven innocent.

Even in his early career I remember he had an experience of this character.

In my hearing his good wife said to him:

"So you cleared that poor Mr. Liftem from the charge of stealing that turkey? I'm glad of it, but he's such a worthless character that I don't believe you'll ever get a cent for your services."

I have never forgotten the smile that stole over the placid face of Longears, as he replied:

"Perhaps not, Maria, but I've got an all-fired good turkey out in the woodshed, just the same."

But I tell you Longears was a terror in his young days. I've seen him bullyrag a poor devil in the box until he caused him to say just what he wanted.

There are some men, however, who are the quintessence of meekness.

I knew one whose gardener used to crib and sell his fruit and vegetables, and had to be dismissed.

For the sake of his wife and family he gave him a letter of recommendation, which ran about like this:

"I hereby certify that Thomas Buck has been my gardener for over two years, and that during that time he got more out of my garden than any other man I ever employed."

I saw two disreputable citizens meet the other day, and judged they had not run across each other for a long spell of Sundays.

"Hullo, Hans, how's the wurrld threatin' ye?" demanded the one who bore the map of Ireland on his face.

"I do not gomplain somethings mabbe. Such vindy veather is goot for my professions quite," replied the German.

"Be jabers, it's getting up in the wurrld ye must be. 'Pon yer 'onor now, phat do yees do to make a living?"

"I examine ribs."

"And I break the same; but phat joke is it ye're afther giving me to say yer a surgeon?"

"You should not so quick joomp at conclusions – I am an umbrella mender."

"On me own part, it's no need I hav to wurrk at all, since discoverin' that I belonged to a swell family."

"You don't say!"

"And that wun av me ancestors was a minute man."

"Ish it possible – tell me how that might come?"

"Why, don't ye see, ye omadhaun, didn't that same mimber av the family wurrk on Sixty-second Street?"

Then the rattle of an elevated train drowned the rest.

I felt that I had lost five dollars by not hearing how Hans got back again.

Sometimes when the Sunday morning bells calling to church jangle from various spires, I think of the well-known old poem on the subject of their music; and then my mind goes out to other belles, to be seen parading in their best gowns, ready to break the hearts of admiring mankind.

And talking about women makes you think of song. Wine, women and song, you know. We'll cut out the wine and have the song. Here she goes:

 
Oh! the belles!
Summer belles!
What a plentitude of heartaches their giddiness compels;
How they giggle, giggle, giggle,
In the sea-breeze laden night,
How their victims squirm and wriggle
In an ecstasy of fright.
 
 
How they hurt
When they flirt,
When with ghoulish glee they gloat
On the squirming of a fellow when they have him by the throat.
 
 
Oh! the belles!
Brazen belles!
How they conjure, scheme and plan
To entrap the summer man,
The ribbon counter gentlemen who masquerade as swells.
 
 
Oh! the belles!
Greedy belles!
How they wring, wring, wring
Soda water, everything,
From the pockets of those "Cash!" – exclaiming swells.
 
 
Oh! the belles!
Foxy belles!
What a wealth of hints they fling
To compel the pleasant ring,
Diamond ring!
Ah! the heart engaging ring
Of the golden wedding bells, bells, bells, bells, bells.
Oh! the belles!
 

I spent a week or two with a friend in the suburbs last spring.

He had one little chap that greatly interested me.

He reminded me of what I must have been, for he was eternally in a peck of trouble.

Liked candy, too, and when I found that he no longer hooked lumps of sugar out of the bowl on the table, I became convinced that his cure must have been radical.

So I made an investigation.

The woodshed figured largely in the matter, too.

That brought back other tender recollections, for, do you know, we once had a woodshed.

Favorite place for an affectionate interview between father and son.

I never go past one without feeling hurt.

Frederick was inclined to be confidential, and readily admitted that his mother's solicitude concerning his state of health, and the possibility of his contracting a crop of worms from too steady a sugar diet had prompted her to a little exercise.

"She laid it on just like I was a little pig," he complained.

I saw the connection immediately.

"Just so," I said, "a ham, sugar-cured."

Bijinks buttonholed me on the way here, and I could see from his face that he was laying for me.

I've given him numerous falls from time to time, and he swore to get even.

I think he must have sat up nights, and just from curiosity I'd like to compare his gas bill with that of last month.

Good jokes come high, I tell you, and I'm really afraid poor old Bijinks will never be the same man he was before.

Success has made his hat seem too small, and presently I'll hear of him applying for my job.

But about the thing he tossed me.

Purposely he introduced the subject of the navy.

"Talking of ships," he said, soberly, "I suppose courtship might properly be considered a transport."

I told him that it was cruel to take advantage of me.

"But, sometimes," he continued, mercilessly, "it is nothing more nor less than a sort of wor – ship."

Then he artfully began to tell what wonders he had seen over in London during the time Edward was crowned king.