Chapter XII (2)

The business of the day being done, Johns started for home. On the way he bought himself a hat, and put it on. He had never bought a hat since he was married, without the style, price and color, being passed on by Mrs. Johns. He dropped into his club, played a game of bridge and had a glass of wine with a friend, much to the astonishment of the boys; for all these things were known to be objectionable to Mrs. Johns. If Johns’ name was mentioned in club circles, men smiled and said he had taken the veil. Leaving the club, Johns took a hansom and drove home, smoking a cigar, which hansom and cigar were other things objectionable to Mrs. Johns.

At first thought, the behavior of Johns may seem to have been positively brutal, in doing with malice prepense so many things objectionable to his wife. But there was some wisdom in his course, as will appear.

To relate such an incident as the action of Johns in the hearing of ladies would be productive of sundry indignant sniffs and snorts, and such remarks as, “I would like to have seen him try it on me;” but the sniffs, snorts and remarks would all come from the same type of women--old stagers, not young, inexperienced things, like Mrs. Johns, just turned twenty-three.

When Johns arrived at his home, Mrs. Johns was on the verandah waiting. She was not looking very agreeable, for Johns was late for dinner--an unpardonable offence.

Mrs. Johns saw the cigar, saw the hansom, saw the hat, smelled the wine as Johns kissed her, and saw the time by her tiny wrist watch. Her first impression was that Johns was intoxicated; but a second look into his eye, and a consideration of his general bearing, told her he was quite sober. She was quite perplexed, non-plused, and, in consequence, mad, very mad, and hurt, too. Beyond all, however, she was curious to know what it all meant. She concluded, finally, that Johns had met one of his horrid former friends, and had been “showing off.”

Mrs. and Mr. Johns, like well-behaved people, walked silently and decorously into dinner and sat down, both thoughtful. Johns had nothing to say, until cross-examination opened by the plaintiff. Mrs. Johns had lots to say; but was undecided where to commence in order to make the most of her efforts. She did not wish to seem puzzled or curious, so refrained from asking questions. She sullenly waited, hoping that Johns would venture to report and offer explanations, thus giving her an opening. But Johns did nothing of the kind. He silently and complacently proceeded to take his soup, which was very exasperating, altogether too much, in fact, for Mrs. Johns, who finally cast discretion to the winds and allowed her pent-up anger to have its way. She stormed and raved, and abused poor Johns till she was spent, Johns meanwhile making vain attempts to calm her and explain just in the way he had planned to do; but he got no chance till Mrs. Johns broke down and gave way to tears. Then Johns explained how he had been thinking about the many things his wife worried herself with, and how he had decided that she had too much to think of; and that he had done all the things he ought not to have done, like the miserable sinner mentioned in the prayer book, just to illustrate the number of things she was attempting to regulate, all to no end, because she only made him uncomfortable and failed to achieve happiness for herself. He put the matter very nicely and coolly, without losing his temper; but the kind of oil he attempted to throw on the troubled waters of Mrs. Johns’ temper did not seem to be the right kind of oil, for she waxed frantic under his disclosures, and said things of all kinds, many of them quite untrue, among which last she said that she did not love Johns, never did love him, and never would; that she despised him; that he was a low, uncouth, and uncultured brute, and that it was only for the sake of appearances that she had remained with him and tried to make him fit for polite society, and that he was just like other men, selfish and thoughtless after a few years’ marriage.

Women say this kind of thing every day to men whom they worship, and never expect to be taken at par and never should be. The value of a statement by a woman is entirely different to the value of a statement by a man.

At this point Johns made a grave mistake. He took his wife’s intemperate utterances at par. He was deeply grieved to learn what he thought was the real condition of her mind, and, believing, that all happiness was gone for him, and that there was no use continuing the painful scene, he made for his hat, intending to leave the house.

Mrs. Johns, seeing his move, ran to him and clung about his neck, saying: “Don’t go out Jack; please don’t go; you have never done this before; stay and be what you have always been to me; forgive me for saying such wicked things; they are not true, Jack; I do not mean them at all.”

Here Johns made another mistake, he thought it was all over. He assured his wife that he loved her, and received like assurances from her. He kissed her, and she tossed his hair with loving fingers and smiled. Then as they sat together on a tete-a-tete sofa in the drawing room she sweetly said: “Now, John, promise me that you will never do anything like that again. You know I am always right about things, and so promise me that you will never go to the club again, or smoke horrid cigars, or play cards, or drink wine, or be late for dinner, or wear clothes I do not like, or, or, or anything.” Johns paused. If he had said, “Yes, dear,” he would have been ruined for life, and Mrs. Johns would have loved him less and less as years went by, and would have despised him always; but he did not say, “Yes, dear.” On the contrary, he said, “No, dear; I cannot promise so much.” And he explained as well as he could why he could not make foolish blanket promises, covering all his future life in all its petty details, and he tried to make her see how unreasonable she would be to insist on such a demand promissory note. He exampled husbands she knew, who notoriously hood-winked and humbugged their wives with wicked and foolish lies, because they were afraid to be themselves. He pictured to her the forlorn state of her father as a horrible specimen of petticoat government. He was eloquent, and he thought convincing, in his plea for some liberty. If Mrs. Johns had had half the common sense she prided herself on having, she would have accepted his explanation. She would have seen that it was just as foolish to expect to manage all the details of a man’s doings, comings and goings, wearings and tastes, as it would be for a man to offer to do the same for a woman; but, of course, no person, man or woman, is quite as wise as they believe themselves to be, and besides, Mrs. Johns was still mad and thought she was in a contest for her liberty, instead of seeing that she was attacking her husband’s liberty. She became cold and dignified, and calmly told Johns that he was a calculating, unsympathetic brute, and that she would forthwith return to her ma.

Johns begged her not to be hasty. He prayed her to think it over; but he was forced by the stubborn, spoiled woman, to choose between a general promise to give up all liberty of thought, speech and action, or allow her to go back to her mother.

Mrs. Johns, without delay or preparation, went to her mother, and remained exactly eight days, receiving during that time eight letters from Johns; but refraining from reply.

During these eight days Mrs. Johns made great progress in wisdom. She made many useful discoveries, and thought much. She discovered that living with mother was not half as pleasant as living with Johns; that home was not what it used to be in her single days; that mother was very self-opinionated; that Johns could write much more interesting letters than she thought he could; that there are several kinds of love and several kinds of love letters; and that Johns knew how to write them all; that Johns was not so pliable as she had imagined he was; and that, anyway, she would rather love a man who had character enough to assert himself than a weakling.

On the eighth day of her separation from Johns, Mrs. Johns was sitting alone in her mother’s drawing room in the dusk of the evening musing on things in general, on her lot in particular, and on the revolt of Johns. She had the last letter from Johns tightly clasped in her hand, and she surprised herself saying aloud, “Poor Jack.” A week prior she would have murmured, “Poor me.” She was also surprised to feel tear drops in her eyes, and to find that resentment against Johns had no more place in her heart. She knelt down by the grate fire, and by its light she noticed the time on her wrist watch--half-past five. If she had been at her own home, Jack would be in or just coming in; he would be putting his arm around her and kissing her. What had he done, anyway, that was so dreadful, that she should leave him? He was certainly the best behaved man she knew. What was he doing now?

A sudden impulse seized her. She rushed to her room, and hastily donned a wrap, and hurried out towards her own home, wondering what she was going to do, what she was going to say, and what she was going to see; but nothing seemed to matter except that she must see Jack.

As she neared the familiar door she automatically put her hand into her bag for her key. It was there. Trembling now and eager, she opened the door and slipped in. All was quiet. Without expecting to see any one, she pushed her head between the portieres of the drawing room door, and peeped in. Horrors! Some one was there, and looking right at her. What Mrs. Johns saw was certainly unexpected and disconcerting. It was big Jack Johns, lying stretched on the best sofa, his head bolstered with the best sofa pillows, and puffing clouds of smoke from a pipe about her lovely drawing room. What she said was, “Why, Jack!” and Jack said, “You, Florry! Have you come back to hubby to be a good girl?”

Mrs. Johns’ reply was tears for a few seconds. Then she said: “Oh, Jack, I thought I could come back; but I see I cannot, because you do not love me or you would never have smoked in my drawing room, put your feet on the sofa, and your head on the best sofa pillows in the house.” Johns, now sitting up, laughed, drew his wife down beside him on the sofa and replied:

“Why, darling, it would be as wise for me to say that you do not love me or you would not mention such things as sofa cushions and sofas in the same breath with love. What does anything matter, dear, if two people love each other? If you love me, it is because I am myself, as I love you because you are your own dear self. I love you, faults and all, and you must love me faults and all, too. The way for us to be happy is for each to allow the other nearly as much liberty as though we were single. Love cannot stand continuous worry about small things. You know very well that I would not have desecrated your drawing room had you been here; but you being gone from me, drawing room, cushions or sofa had no value to me, other than the comfort they could afford me. Come now, is it a new start?”

“Oh, Jack, you do not understand,” said Mrs. Johns. “But I do understand,” replied Johns. “I understand very plainly, indeed, that we could never be happy in the way we were going. I could not be happy in one continued round of obeying orders, so like a private in a regiment of soldiers; and you could not be happy with a man you had to worry over and fuss about all the time as if he were a child. In that way we would worry each other out of all comfort in life, as I see many couples foolishly do. Let us be different from other couples.”

Mrs. Johns was thinking: “Where have you been, Jack, the last eight nights?” she asked.

“Why, I do not remember, dear, exactly;” answered Johns, “to the club mostly, and down town and around.”

“There, I knew it,” cried Mrs. Johns, “I knew you had been around, and you know how I hate men who go around.”

“But don’t be hasty, dear,” said Johns. “Where have you been? Have you not been around during the past eight days?”

“Yes, I have, Jack, but you know a woman’s around, and a man’s around, are not alike,” sobbed Mrs. Johns.

“No; no more than their clothes are alike, thank heaven,” said Johns.

“And where is the maid?” asked Mrs. Johns.

“Fired,” replied Johns.

“Discharged!” exclaimed Mrs. Johns. “Oh, Jack, you are dreadful. Where will I get another? You are turning out so different to what you used to be; so different to what I expected. I don’t believe I love you any more.”

“Try a little,” said Johns, kissing her without her offering much resistance. “Try,” kisses, “try again,” more kisses. Oh, it was disgusting the way she gave in.

“You are different too, dear;” continued Johns, “so different from the pliable, unsophisticated young thing of twenty I courted. At twenty-three you are quite old and domineering, and it does not become you a bit to become domineering. It makes lines on your face to be domineering. Will we go down to the cafe for dinner?”

“I don’t know, John.” “Well, I know,” said Johns. “Go and get your things on and we will take dinner at the Place Viger, anyway, without conditions; perhaps people have begun to talk already about your being away.”

“Jack,” said Mrs. Johns, with arms about his neck, “you are a horrid, practical beast, and I love you. I’ll be back in a minute,” and she ran upstairs to dress for dinner at the Place Viger. She was a dear woman, and Johns knew it.

Twenty years have passed since that dinner at the Place Viger, and Mrs. Johns has now assorted little Johns; six, from 2 feet high to 5 feet 6; and all Johns’ friends swear she is the best fellow in the world, and all her own friends say she is a charming hostess, a good wife, a fond mother, a sweet woman, or a true friend, according to the degree of intimacy they enjoy. Fact is, she is all of these things.

L’ENVOI

If I should die to-night,
And in the course of time arrive in hell,
I would not feel discomfort or be nervous,
After ten years’ experience in the Civil Service,
If the devil himself should undertake,
For my reward my few grey hairs to comb
With a red hot, sharp, electric rake, I’d say
“Why, this is just like home.”

THE CRUISE OF THE “PORKYPINE”

Being as I wuz gettin’
To be in the seer and yeller,
I didn’t expec to sail no more
But to stay at ’ome an’ meller;
When my ole Capting Mark
He bellers over the phone:
“Wot, ho! Mate, bizzy with yer kit,
We sails fer parts unknown.
I’ve shipped me crew,
An’ a goodish slew,
Of the best prog I ken afford.
We sails termorrer at seven bells,
Screw yer nut and git aboard.”
So this is ’ow I comes to sail
As Mate of the Porkypine.
I gets aboard and we pulls out
At a quarter to arf past nine.
When I comes to look over the crew,
Fer the Capting leaves all to me,
I finds as tough a lot o’ swabs
As ever put to sea.
The cook were a ginger-colored duck,
Hailin’ frum Bosting taown,
He sartinly cud cook a bit
An’ he cud swar me down.
He wuz tall an’ lanky an’ thin,
With a mouth like a gash in a pie,
At cookin’ an’ swarin’ he were good,
Wot else ye cud stick in yer eye.
Then there were the dorg,
Which Wiggles were her name;
She were shipped as Mascot
An’ acted well as that same.
Then fer a general utility ’and,
We ’ad the Scientific
To swob the decks and dishes,
Which ’is duties was not specific.
When all wuz cleared away,
An’ everything was snug
He amuses hisself with a bottle
O’ dope, a-pottin’ fly and bug.
I’ve hearn tell of a bug house
But never seen one afore,
An’ I’ll be swat in the neck if it ain’t
The rummiest game off shore.
Then there were Sid, a bit of a kid,
Who signs as a Ginger Beer
To run the machine, save gasolene,
An’ we let the skipper steer.
These and me and the skipper was the crew,
Of the good ship Porkypine,
And Lord wot a time I ’ad
A makin’ ’em tow the line.
Well, we sails away on
A werry fine day, I think it were in June,
The Porkypine makin’ her eight mile,
So we gets there pretty soon.
Up, up we goes the Rideau Canal,
Not carin’ fer wind nor weather,
An’ at each of the locks, cook hits the ice box,
And we ’as our grog together.
We ’adn’t pawsed mor’n forty lock
Before the sun wuz settin’,
An’ the Capting ’owls “down anchor,
Fer ’ere we’ll fish be gettin’”.
So we outs with our rods and drops our lines,
While cook in the galley cuts loose,
But blow me tight if ever a bite
Worth a squirt o’ terbacker juice.
Then we goes below an’ does the eats,
At which game that Sid is a prize,
He stows more in his hold than any soul
I ever seen twice his size.
He eats an’ eats an’, tear me sheets,
If he ever turns a hair,
An’ washes all down with a quart o’ tea
Till I thot he’d bust in ’is chair.
Then the Scientific he cleans up,
An’ the yarns begin to spin,
An’ we puffs our pipe an’ sips our grog
Till it’s time fer to turn in.
An’ so we goes along all fair,
Fer three whole nights an’ days,
Fishin’, drinkin’ an’ eatin’,
And a-soakin’ of our clays.
Then the ’orrible thing ’appens
That ends our ’opes to roam,
Blow me blarsted mizzen lights,
We all ’ad to come ’ome.

THE MATE.

AN OPERA IN ONE ACT

ENTITLED “THE TIME SERVERS”

As the curtain rises a large and motley crew of nondescript humanity is discovered, of all shapes, sizes, and complexions, no two being alike, except in the special feature that all wear a halter about the neck. All howl to Calliope obligato:

At us please take a look,
You’ll find us on the List
In the Auditor’s Blue Book,
Where none of us are missed;
We scribble and figure and write
From morning until night;
We’re in a sorry plight,
And oh--oh--oh--oh--oh!!!

Cages are arranged R. and L. and up stage. The chorus disappears into these as Deputy enters. Deputy comes well down stage throws out his chest and sings:

I now declare
There’s nothing to compare
With my style and air,
When I’m in my chair:
And I further declare, without fear of opposition,
That no man alive can fill my position.

Chiefs, 1st, 2nd and 3rd class clerks. Class A and B, with sub-divisions, messengers, and packers crowd out of the cages and come down and sing similarly:

Deputy in high falsetto:

You see, you see,
They all agree
With the opinion I express
Regarding me.

Chorus replies, forte:

You’re all at sea,
You’re all at sea,
The fellows we sing about
Is we.

Enter the Minister, gazing heavenward. Deputy dives into a hole, and pulls hole in after him. Chorus proceeds to look like thirty cents. Minister sings:

It’s curious to contemplate
The ways of different men
Who by the force of Character
Do climb on top, or when
By scheme or lucky circumstance
Their little selves they find
Perched on high public prominence,
Far above common kind.
One does a funny dance,
Or some weird trick fantastic,
Oblivious to the smiles and tears
He causes by his antic.
Another swells his chest
And apes a thoughtful front,
And fondly hopes the world looks on
To see him do his stunt.
A third would lead society,
And in cultured circles shine,
And thinks the fact accomplished when
Instead of “eating” he must “dine.”

Enter the Civil Service Commissioners. The Minister takes a back seat. Commissioners sing duo (Chorus stand at attention):

Did it ever strike you
That if you knew
The reason for the other fellow’s
Point of view,
You’d have some information
Fresh and new?
So when you disagree
With any he,
Just take a look about and try and see
If what he thinks
Can really be.

Chorus sings doxology in parts. Curtain.

The whole universe is a contest between what we call Life and Death, that is, motion and rest. Every THING will eventually come to rest and other things be evolved. Given eternity and it is easily conceivable that a world will die and be resolved into its elements, what then is so objectionable in the thought of a FINAL death to the individual whose life is but a flash as compared with all time? You cannot logically think the persistence of personality.

THE IDIOT WHO THOUGHT

A PRESENT DAY TRAGEDY

BY VON LUDWIG

Once upon a time there was an idiot who had a few brains and in an unlucky moment he started to think, which is a very idiotic thing to do, as every one knows. The way to live peacefully is not to think, but just to grab everything that you want that is grabable, eat well, sleep well, work a little, but do not, on any account, think. It is bad; it is conducive to thoughts; and thoughts worry; and worry is indigestion; and indigestion is bad humour; and then peace is gone. Peace is the only thing that is worth anything and you cannot have it if you have thoughts.

Now this idiot was, of course, married,--a great many idiots are. His wife was a very wise lady idiot: she was undoubtedly nice because all the idiots she was idiot enough to entertain said she was a charming hostess. Well, the idiot and his wife retired to rest one night as usual; the wife to read the latest novel and the idiot to stare at the wall paper until sleep overcame him. As he stared at the wall paper he wondered at its ugliness, and he wondered why people who design wall papers make wondrous geometrical vines bearing fretwork tarts and lobster claws which worry one’s sight, instead of soothing, real things. And these musings led to other musings and he closed his eyes and looked inwardly for a minute and was horrified to discover that he himself was very much after the style of the wall paper design;--in that he was distorted by conventionality. And here he started to think hard, and the more he thought the more he was horrified. Finally, he sat up in bed and said suddenly to his wife:

“Do you know, Spot,” (her pet name was Spot), “I have been thinking--”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” responded Spot. “Go to sleep, if you don’t take care you will have ideas.”

But the idiot was not to be put off that way this time; the warning was too late, he had commenced to have ideas and very unpleasant ideas, too. One horrible idea that had forced its unpleasant presence into his brain was that his whole system of life had been and was wrong. He thought of his marriage,--how he had married the girl of his choice on $750 a year, and spent $300 on his wedding trip. That was a wrong to the girl and to himself, for when they got back they had to finish furnishing on the instalment plan. He thought how he had lived now at the rate of $2,500 a year on a salary of $1,500; he thought of his cigars, of his good clothes, of his children going to a good school; he thought of his $700 piano on the instalment plan, of his wife’s afternoon teas, of his two servants, of his rent $360 a year, of his debts, how they grew; and the more he thought the more he concluded that these things were all wrong, because he could not afford them. He thought of his salary--$4.10 per day--and wondered how he had ever expected to manage to keep four children, himself and wife and two servants on it. Then he thought of his notes floating about and how he had to juggle them every month and rob Peter to pay Paul. And it looked wrong.

Of course he was only an idiot to let these things worry him. But he explained all his thoughts to his wife, and the poor woman began to think and have ideas, too. It was a cruel blow to her,--she had never had an idea in her life, but had lived at peace, and now peace was gone. She agreed with her idiot husband that it was all wrong, and like a good, brave, dutiful and thoughtful woman agreed to help him to right it all as far as possible or further.

So these two poor idiots began to right things. They cancelled the lease of their house, took the children from the private school and sent them to a 50-cent-a-month school, the idiot stopped smoking cigars and took to a clay pipe and _tabac catholique_, they moved into six rooms at $12 per month, sold most of their furniture, gave up the instalment piano, never kept a drop of anything in the house, and never received any friends.

Rumour then said the idiot had got squeezed in stocks, and the rumour got to his employer’s ears. The fact of the terrible reduction in the expenses of the idiot seemed to substantiate the rumour, and so he was discharged.

Debts that would have waited indefinitely during the idiot’s apparent prosperity now began to press him, suits in law piled up costs against him, and he walked the streets without employment, and thought on and on and on. His friends said he had lost his position because he had used money that did not belong to him; his enemies said he was a thief.

His wife became prematurely old, slovenly and hopeless; the children ragged and tough; the idiot himself struck odd jobs now and again, but being unable any longer to hold up his head over a clean collar and shirt, on account of his thoughts, he never recovered his lost faith in himself. He drove a grocery wagon for two years at $9.50 per week and then died,--his wife said of a broken heart. The wife soon followed the idiot, and now his children are stablemen, cooks, waitresses and things like that.

* * * * *

_Moral_:--Don’t be an idiot and think, just saw wood and keep up with the procession.

The Game is worth while to the wise, the fool alone crieth out that it is not worth the candle.

THE BALLAD OF PARLIAMENT HILL

He did not wear a uniform,
(We haven’t come to that)
But he wore a tired expression,
Crowned by last season’s hat;
And the general air of him bespoke
Existence dull and flat.

He walked among men of his kind
In a suit of shabby grey,
And with that hat upon his head,
One couldn’t call him gay;
For I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
So sadly at the Hill,
Upon that little mount we call
The “Bread and Butter Mill”;
Where sham genteel and broken sport
Swallow the bitter pill.

Ink stains were on his fingers,
A desk hump on his back;
He seemed to be quite mastered,
And all ambition lack.
And one could see at once he was
A Departmental Hack.

I looked at him and wondered
“What mystery here lurks?
“Why does he look so tired,
“And move with nervous jerks?”
When a voice behind me murmured low,
“_He’s in the Public Works_.”

Great Cæsar’s Ghost and Holy Smoke,
What tricks had he done then,
To bring him unto such a pass,
And land him in that Pen;
Where Regulation and Routine
Suck the soul out of men.

What blow had blind fate struck him,
What had his fortune been?
To fashion him into a cog
Of the State’s grim machine
Which grinds and grinds exceeding small,
But not so very clean.

It’s fine to walk with Hope ahead,
It’s great to work for LOVE;
But Hell to turn a daily crank
For some one up above,
And know that every turn you make
Gives some one else a shove.

It’s good to be methodical,
And right to be exact;
But flat, stale and unprofitable,
To line up to an Act,
And forced at every turn and move
To register the fact.

And so I left the Shabby Clerk
His tiresome row to hoe,
To sign the book when, he went in,
And when he out would go;
Making himself a laughing stock
To some-- who do not know.

Much wisdom often giveth much pain, but want of wisdom is death. To know thyself is the foundation of wisdom.

* * * * *

It has been said by those of old time, “Blessed are the meek,” but verily I say unto you, cussed are the meek, for they inherit nothing and perpetuate their kind for ever and ever.

* * * * *

The more thou art to thyself the less thou art dependent on others. Much dependence on others maketh thy moves complicated. One move involves another so no move may be considered in itself.

THE OLE SHIP

A good ole ship was Serviss,
An’ she bore a good ole crew,
Who certainly knew their business,
An’ were sailors through an’ through.
A’ course it may be said
That some went on the spree,
An’ some waz rather toughish,
But sech will always be
On sech a ship as Serviss,
Which took a power o’ hands
To manage her ole cranky ways
An’ take her chief’s commands.
Course Serviss wer’n’t no man o’ war;
But just a good ole tub,
Slow, and comfortable, an’ sure;
A ship as you could dub
A utilitarian craft;
Not puttin’ on much style,
Good fer what intended,
Carryin’ things mercantile.
We had good average times, we had,
With pay the whole year round;
Orficers not too crusty
An’ in grub an’ grog well found;
An’ we’d a been so ’til this day
If we’d had enough sense
To know when we waz well off,
But we waz somewhat dense.
An’ bites like a lot of suckers
At a scheme of some smart guys
To petition our ole capting
To start an’ reorganize--
To give us uniforms to wear
An’ drill us like marines,
An’ polish us an’ make us smart
Like a lot o’ bally machines.
An’ our ole capting he agrees
That we needs reorganization,
An’ I bets he smiles to hisself
As he sets in contemplation.
The fust thing ole capting orders
Is a general inspection,
An’ he stops our grog an’ pay
Fer the most ornary deflection.
An’ when he gets through with us,
I tell ye, s’elp me bob,
There waz forty-seven sailor men
A lookin’ fer a job;
An’ the rest of us was busy
A polishin’ Serviss up,
An’ never gettin’ a bit o’ rest
Except to sleep an’ sup.
An’ a slob what objected,
Or attempted to resist,
He got a good rope’s ending
An’ had irons on his wrist.
So don’t go fer to ask o’ me
What I thinks o’ reorganization;
Cause I’ve been through the game
An’ know it beats tarnation.

REGRET 1909

Now that the Summer time has came, and Winter dark has went,
We’ll stay indoors from nine to five, do penance and repent,
That we so rashly took the veil and swore to serve the King,
When we could have broken stones or done some other easy thing;
We could have braved the briny, strange countries to explore,
Or Christianized the Heathen without suffering any more
Than we do here in our strict cage, pent up by rule and rote,
To eat the bread of routine, like any ass or goat.
What tho’ we truly strug and strive, to promptly do the task we’re
given,
We have to sign the book at five, so might as well have never
striven.

The Wise cultivate the power of adaptation, the fool standeth against circumstances and is carried away.

A TALE OF RUSSIA

Sloberino Pullovitch sat in his sumptuous office. He sat, because he had been out the night before and did not know yet how it had ended. Every time he moved, four secretaries jumped to listen to his commands. Every time he snored, the four secretaries rang bells, and seven messengers burst into the room, lined up and bowed, awaiting orders. Outside of these doings, all was quiet for several hours. Then Pullovitch spoke. He said, “Hoot mon.” It will be noticed that Pullovitch spoke with a Scotch accent; but he was not Scotch. He was a pure Russian; but his mother had been frightened by a Scotch Terrier before he was born--so Pullovitch was born with a Scotch plaid pattern on the soles of his feet, and spoke Scotch when he was half-cocked. It ought to be explained that Sloberino Pullovitch enjoyed a very lucrative position in the Russian government, and was big Indian, high up in political circles.

Pullovitch finally recovered consciousness about four p.m., and immediately there were doings. There were always doings when he recovered from a jag. “Send for Spitoonski,” he roared, and immediately the four secretaries and seven messengers got out of harm’s way.

Spitoonski was the chief cook and bottle washer of Pullovitch. He did for Pullovitch what Pullovitch did not care to do for himself. He told the Pullovitch lies and did the squirming about, and what is known in Russian Political Circles as “the dirty.”

It can be easily imagined that Spitoonski was not liked, but feared; and that every poor government clerk trembled when he came within the visual orbit of his little black pig-like eyes. He was of low origin, and had sunk lower. He would do anything for money but work, and was the willing tool of Pullovitch. He never smiled. He believed it was not dignified to smile. He made every effort he could to appear dignified, which was difficult, considering he was only the height of six pennyworth of copper, had a crooked neck and one shoulder higher than the other. Occasionally Spitoonski would allow his face to wrinkle up in a beautiful snarl. When he did this, he thought he was smiling, and checked it immediately, which was a very welcome relief to the on-looker; for it was very unsightly.

Immediately upon being notified, Spitoonski crawled into the presence of his Chief, smiling. “Cover up your teeth and listen to me, viper,” said Pullovitch.

Spitoonski bowed, and accepted the compliment.

“Among the rubbish we have employed under us,” continued Pullovitch, “we have one Slopft, who never does anything but chatter to himself, eat, and sleep. He will soon be fit for a padded room; but before he gets any more crazy, do thou prepare a solemn ukase and have him made Chief Investigator of Pot Holes at steen pieces of silver per month. His brother keeps a swell gambling house, and has much influence; so we must do something.”

Spitoonski listened patiently, and then ventured to protest: “Your highness,” said he, “if you will allow me to humbly make a remark, I would say that if this thing is done your noble person will be besieged by every Tom, Dick and Harry in your beautiful and well ordered department. They will make you feel like a singed horse in Fly Time. You know them.”

“Shut up and do my bidding. I did not ask for advice. Get out, skiddaddle, vamose, scoot, mizzle, fly, or I’ll straighten your crooked neck,” said Pullovitch, frothing at the mouth. And Spitoonski thanked him kindly, and withdrew.

The morning following the _Daily Dung Heap_ made the whole community wise to the fact that the eminent citizen, Mr. P. Q. R. S. Slopft, had been made Chief Investigator of Pot Holes.

Immediately there were doings in the Pullovitch Department. Every one employed therein, from the Deputy down to the Window Cleaner, prepared to pull such wires as they commanded to the end of having immediate increase or promotion, or both; and for seven days and seven nights the excitement was intense. Letters, telegrams and petitions rained like hail upon Pullovitch; but as Pullovitch had his personality submerged in strong drink, the strain was only on the paper basket. Among the importunates was one De Bum, a cunning rascal who had aided and abetted a certain Buttinsky in an election, and he spake with the said Buttinsky, saying:

“Go thou, Buttinsky, and fill Pullovitch up to the neck, and when he is right have me installed as a First Class Clerk. And do it quick, see?”

And Buttinsky was afraid lest De Bum should open his mouth; so he loaded Pullovitch as he was bid, and De Bum became in name and Salary, a First Class Clerk.

Now, these things being done, other happenings followed as a matter of natural consequence. The respectable ones in the Department of Pullovitch, who were not many by this time, murmured among themselves, and said: “If we remain in the service of Pullovitch we will lose our good name, and be classed with such as Slopft and De Bum. Let us, therefore, resign before it is too late.”

So every one who had any respect for himself resigned, and left the Department of Pullovitch, and it became absolutely corrupt.

Then other Departments became as that of Pullovitch, till corruption crept even to the Throne. And the enemies of Russia, who saw these things, waited and waited till she was rotten at the heart. Then they rose up and slew her.

Corruption creeps in softly and easily; but is only eradicated through much bloodshed and strife.

IF AND BUT

If a man only knew all there was to know
Of a fox and his cunning ways;
If he knew all the turns of his cunning brain
And could beat all the tricks he plays.
If he had all the brutal force of an ox,
And the tireless strength of the moose;
If he could look as meek as a lamb,
And as silly as any goose.
If his eyes were as keen as an eagle’s,
And he could look as sage as an owl;
If he were as fierce as a lion,
And could terrify with his growl;
If he was as stubborn as a pig,
And as patient as a mule;
If he was as ruthless as a tiger cat,
And had the assurance of a fool;
If he were quick in danger, slow in wrath,
And as coy as a country maid--
Why, then I really do believe
He could make a success in TRADE.
BUT, as I’m not any or all these things,
And have no great love of pelf,
I sit here tight in my Government job
Quite satisfied with myself;
Happy if I can finance my way
From one fifteenth to another,
And scribble my rhyme any old time
And ambition’s promptings smother.

LUCKY JIM

He hasn’t got no sweetheart or no wife,
Or anything like that, to bother life.
He don’t keep no house, nor entertain,
Nor waste his time in other pleasures vain.
And so I sing
This little thing:
“Oh, Lucky Jim,
How I envy him!”

His business is to see that others do the work,
And you can bet when he’s about no one dares to shirk;
But Jim he takes things soft, and doesn’t give a damn;
He lives in beautiful and undisturbed calm.
And so I sing
This little thing:
“Oh, Lucky Jim,
How I envy him!”

His office is quite cozy, and very cheap in rent;
But Jim doesn’t stay there to any great extent.
He’ll wander in with dignity about the hour of noon,
Looks about, takes lunch, and wanders out quite soon.
And so I sing
This little thing:
“Oh, Lucky Jim,
How I envy him!”

For all this work Jim gets several thousand dollars,
And the Lord only knows how much more he collars.
They say that Jim is slow but sure, and I’m free to declare
That’s Jim’s as slow, but not so sure, as any polar bear.
And so I sing
This little thing:
“Oh, Lucky Jim,
How I envy him!”

Why girls don’t up and marry Jim I really can’t make out;
For he’s the easiest mark in town, without any doubt.
But Jim is wary of the sex that makes us toe the line;
He’s not a bit domestic, and for love he doesn’t pine.
And so I sing
This little thing:
“Oh, Lucky Jim,
How I envy him!”

SING A SONG O’ SIXPENCE

Sing a Song of Service,
The Civil one, I mean,
Men and women working
In the government machine.
If you think it’s easy,
Come and have a try;
But I for one may tell you
That it really isn’t pie.

When the House is open,
And members start to spout,
The Service starts a-digging facts
To help the members out.
With musty books and papers,
We struggle all the day,
Making figures fit the facts,
Or around the other way.

The Party saves the country,
The Churches save the soul,
The Service saves the Minister
From getting in the hole;
Each one saving something
In their little way,
And for all this saving
The Country has to PAY.

And to him that taketh away thy goods, see that thou getteth his note--if he hath a good endorser.

* * * * *

Energy is thy ammunition; waste it not in folly; store it in thyself until thou findest a fit object on which to exert it. The Game is not like a horse-race wherein judges declare the weight a racer shall carry.

A DELUSION

If you’re sick and tired of life
And the wear of business strife,
And decide to take the veil,
To a Minister you tell,
Whom you know very well,
Your long and sad, sad tale.
When he grabs you by the hand
And says in manner bland:
“You can certainly count on me
When we have a vacancee,
As sure as sure can be;
You’ll get the tip
On the strict Q.T.”
If to yourself you say,
As you go your hopeful way:
“I certainly get a Government job
At a decent salaree.”
What a singularly deluded jay
You certainly will be.

If you’re up to all the tricks
Of the game of politics,
And know a few M.P.’s;
You would naturally think
That as easy as a wink
You’d get nearly what you please;
But you’d be singularly lacking
In the necessary backing
If this was all you had,
And you looked for an appointment
You would suffer disappointment
In a manner very sad.
You see it’s just this way:
You can say just what you may,
But Political Pull is a very funny thing.
It’s as strange as strange can be.
If you’re doubtful of the fact,
Just go against the Act
To get a Civil Service sit and see.

Conventionality counteth not high in the game, but it counteth.

TO MADGE

THE SOCIAL NOTES SAY MADGE WILL MARRY

Grind the organ, toot the flute;
Push the trombone in an’ oot;
Tickle the strings of your mandolin;
Howl yer joy an’ crack the grin;
Salute the Stars, the Sun, an’ Moon--
Our own Madge will marry soon.

Clang the cymbals, twang the harp;
Blow the bazoo loud and sharp;
Finger the strings of the wailing cello;
Make welkin ring with joyous bellow;
Ring out wild bells your merry tune--
Our own Madge will marry soon.

Pipe the playful flageolet;
Blast the ear with the gay cornet;
Blow the tuba, strike the lyre;
Light the heavens with red fire;
Make merry with the big bassoon--
Our own Madge will marry soon.

Scrape the gut of the violin;
Loud Hosannah’s sing with vim;
Beat the merry Zilophone;
Keep records on the gramophone;
Shake the foot in the Rigadoon--
Our own Madge will marry soon.

The possession of wealth only makes some people look ridiculous who otherwise would occasion no comment.

* * * * *

Every man hath a burden with which he hath laden himself. See that thou knowest thy strength before thou take on thy burden.

THE SUFFRAGETTES

“Phat shud we do wid thim if they sthart their tantrums here?” sez he.

“Who is thim?” sez oi, widout lookin’ up to see who waz addressin’ me.

“The Suff-Rage-Etts,” sez he.

“Oh, it’s yerself,” sez oi, turnin’ an’ foindin’ the dear ould lad besoide me.

“Yiss, ’tis me,” sez Silver Tongue, a smoile breakin’ over his gran’ ould face.

“Tell me, phat will we be afther doin’ wid thim Suff-Rage-Etts whin they brake out here?” asks he.

“Oi know phat we won’t do,” sez oi.

“Phat’s that?” sez the preemeer. Oi niver call him “Sir”; ’tis a disfigurement entoirely.

“Phat’s that,” sez he agin, “that we won’t do?” sez he.

“We won’t do phat we shud do,” sez oi. “Punish thim,” sez oi.

“Whoy man, punishin’ thim is no use at all, at all. They loike it. Shure didn’t they punish thim in London?”

“They did not,” sez oi.

“Man, man,” sez he; “ye anney me. Didn’t they put thim in jail?”

“They did,” sez oi; “but that’s no punishment.”

“Well, phat do ye call punishment?” sez the ould King, wid an expectant grin.

“Infantile methods,” sez oi. “Phat they do to bad childer.”

“An’ plaze ye, phat’s that?” sez he.

“Spank thim,” sez oi; “savin’ yer prisince. Wan spank fer the furst offinse; foive fer the sicond, an’ twinty-foive fer the third.”

Well, begorrah, ye shud hev seen the ould lad laff. He thrun up his hans an’ his oyes to hiven, an’ laffed till he was weepin’.

“Glory be,” sez he; “but ye are a joker. Bad scran to ye, if we perpetrated such an’ outrage the whole wirld wud laff at us.”

“Not a whit,” sez oi. “The wirld wud laff, true fer ye, but not at ye; at the Suff-Rage-Etts; an’ they niver cud stan’ bein’ laffed at.”

“Suppose now,” sez oi; “yer departmint of the interior afther makin’ a bit av a rumble, as it do sometimes, shud desoid that the noise it med waz just as nice a noise as phat ye made wid yer vocal chords; an’ accordin’ it wint on stroike an’ rayfused to do its offis, declarin’ it waz a musical box--what wud become av ye whin ye culdent hear yerself spake fer yer loud internal rumblin’, an’ no digistin’ goin’ on the whoile? Shure ye’d be dead in a week, an’ ye’d take strong medicine to korrec yer rumblin’ and prideful innards.”

“Well, ’tis spankin’ is the medicin I perscroibe fer the disease of the Suff-Rage-Ett; an’ they must git it befure they get healthy agin. Oi moind me frind Casey, who wint wan toime to a Dochther about his woife, who cut up the very Divil wid phat she called High Stroikes. Wan Sundah she clawed the shirt buzzum roight off him, so he culdent go to mass. Well, oim tellin’ ye wan day Casey consults a dochther. The dochther was a woize guy. He looked Lizzie over. That waz her name, an’ she waz a great, good looker, an’ only about twinty years ould. An’ he sez to Casey, sez he, whin he got him alone:

“Ile give ye a perscripthion fer her,” sez he.

“Yiss,” sez Casey.

“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “’tis very simple.”

“Yiss,” sez Casey; all attention.

“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “give her a wet towel,” sez he.

“How’s that?” sez Casey. “A wet towel?”

“Yes; bate her wid it till she’s a noice pink,” sez he.

“Howley murdher,” sez Casey, “yer laffin’ at me.”

“Oi am not,” sez the dochther. “Troy it,” sez he.

“Well, how much is that?” sez Casey.

“Foive dallars,” sez the dochther.

Casey jumped a yard.

“Now, look here,” sez he; “a joke’s a joke; but a wet towel perscription fer that money is no joke. Tell ye phat oi’ll do wid ye. Ile troy it, an’ if it does the thrick an’ cures her, ile come an’ pay ye, an’ Lizzie will do yer laundry fer a month to boot,” sez oi.

“Done,” sez the dochther.

That dochther got paid.

“An’ that’s phat oi think av thim Suff-Rage-Etts,” sez oi, turnin’ to enjoy the ould lad’s smoile. As oi looked, he faded away into the atmosphere, an oi knew another plisant drame waz over.

It may be that thou hast few moves to make and it may happen that thou hast many, whether few or many let thy moves be made with due deliberation and after careful consideration of the rules of Duty and Honor.

LE TRAVEAU PUBLIQUES

I’m work on de Traveau Publique,
I mek tirty dollar a weeque;
Dat’s much better salaire,
I can get anywhere,
Altho’ I’m good man wid de pique.

My name’s Athanase Brouillette,
I’m in de Blue Book, you bet;
Where I’m call Architec
Dat’s good name, I expec,
Altho’ I doant built something yet.

When I came on Ottawa,
I’m de most poor you never saw;
Now I live like de best,
Look pretty good when I’m drest,
And pass on Sparks street wid eclat.

It is to laugh to know de way
I get my job an’ ver nice pay,
I tell you de facs,
An’ behine my backs
Don’t go an’ give it away.

Laflamme’s have ma job before me,
But he’s go on de very much spree;
When she’s drink herself dead,
I arrive in he’s stead,
In de maniere which you shall see--

Mrs. Laflamme doan’t like any
To be veuve widout one red penny,
So she make bargain wid me
Dat I make marry wid she,
An’ get de job of Laflamme, you comprenez?

I like dis bargain very well,
But when I go myself for sell
I doant make foolishness,
Just for politesse,
So I say, “Wait a minute, ma belle;

De ver first ting you mus’ do,
Before we make marry we two,
Work de pull, put me in
An’ I swear by Gin Flinn,
Madam Brouillette, I make you.”

So now I am very tack-tick,
I work on de Traveau Publique;
An’ feue Madam Laflamme,
She makes de grande damme,
On de tirty dollar a weeque.

CIVILIZATION

There was a certain Heathen who knew not how benighted he was.

He knew naught of Honesty, of Virtue, of Charity, nor knew he of Modern Civilization and the benefits thereof.

And the Heathen was contented in his ignorance. He was satisfied with Enough and of the Standard Oil Company and its methods he wot not--at least, if he wotted, it is not so reported of him.

Now unto this Heathen came a Modern Missionary, girt with Sword, with Commercialism and Militarism in his coat pockets, with a Colt’s revolver on his hip, and a bottle of Champagny Water in his grip, and he lifted up his voice and spake unto the Heathen, saying:

“Harken, Behold, likewise lo, poor benighted Heathen. You are a Good Thing, and you know it not; but I even I, the forerunner and jumper of Peace and Goodwill, know it. I come to do you good. You need a whole lot of saving and as the Prophet of Civilization, I come to do the job. I bring you Peace, Virtue, and Honesty, and a lot of other things that are handy to have in the house. Your Gods I will take away from you. They will make nice bric-a-brac.” And immediately, that is to say, as soon as the Heathen wasn’t looking, he smote him a great smote with the sword, so that he died at Peace, took his wife to do chores about the house and annexed his property.

Blessed are the meek.