Chapter III (7)

His is a pitiful solution of life at its best, for, though he has acquired a numbness in place of what was once a keen pain, it is directly contrary to the plan of the human mind to await in hopeless stolidity the "certain alms" of death.

* * * * *

One of the most important of the world's industries carried on at night is the making of the great morning daily newspaper. The average reader who unfolds his paper above his coffee cup in the morning rarely reflects that it represents the labor of half a hundred men, a great number of whom bend their lagging steps homeward only when the newsboy has begun to wake the morning echoes with his familiar cry.

When night comes the editorial day-force is ready for home; the Associated Press wire is rattling in its messages from all parts of the world; the telegraph editor is busy putting "heads" on the type-written copy of the telegraph operator, and the night editor has rolled up his sleeves, laid his club handy, and breathes a silent prayer for help to the Goddess of Invective as he begins to wade through his pile of missives from correspondents. The State wires are opened, and the messenger boys are beginning to arrive with specials.

The city editor and his force are in, and are busy writing out the local news from the notes they have taken during the day.

The phone rings, a reporter seizes his hat and is off to get the item--perhaps an affray--someone run over by a wagon--a fire-a hold-up, or burglary--something that the good citizens must not miss as they eat their hash and muffins at breakfast.

The editorial room at night sees many strange characters and scenes. People come up on all kinds of curious missions.

A citizen stumbles up the stairs and nearly falls into the room. The force simply glances at him and keeps on working. His hair is frowzled; his coat is buttoned in the wrong buttonholes; he wears no collar; and in his blinking eyes, a roguish twinkle strives to overcome the effects of loss of sleep. He is a well-known citizien, and the force marvels slightly at his unusual condition. He staggers over to the telegraph operator and clutches the railing around his desk.

"Shay," he says in a bibulous voice, "wantscher to telgraph startlin' news to ze outside world. Cable 'm to Europe 'n spread glad tidings to all shivilized countries. Get shome bull'tins out at onesh."

The telegraph operator does not look up, and the gentleman tacks with difficulty and steers against the railroad editor.

"Whatsher doin'?" he says.

"Railroads," says that gentleman shortly.

"Zat's ze sing. Gotter bigesht railroad item ever saw. Give you two columns cause tremendoush 'citement railroad shircles."

The railroad editor writes calmly on, and the visitor gives him a reproachful look and bears down upon the city editor.

"Shay, friend," he says, "gozzer bigges scoop 'n city news world ever heard. No ozzer paper 'n town knows it."

"What is it?" says the city editor, without turning his head.

"Appalin' sensation 'n Firs' Ward. Shend four, five reporters my house at onesh. I'm goin' back now. Had _twins_ my housh when lef' home. Goin' back to shee 'f any more 'rived. Come back 'n let you know if find any. Sho long, gen'lemen. Keep two columns on front page open 'till get back."

Later on three or four young gentlemen drop in. They speak low, and are courteous and conciliatory. They are well-dressed, carry canes and seem to have been out enjoying themselves. One or two of them have torn coats and disarranged ties. One has a handkerchief bound over his eye. They confer deferentially with the city editor, and certain words and phrases, half-caught, tell the tale of their mission: "Unfortunate affair--police--best families--publicity--not seriously hurt--upper circles too much wine--keep out names--heated argument--very sorry--friends again."

Comes the hot lunch man with his basket filled with weirnerwurst and mustard, ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, cold chicken. The staff is too busy, and he lugs his basket upstairs where the printers are at work.

A boy brings in a special telegram. The night editor opens and reads it, and then springs to his feet. He grasps a handful of his hair and kicks his chair ten feet away. "---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----" he yells. "Listen to this."

It is a special by wire from a country correspondent. This is what it says: "Spring has opened here. The birds are singing merrily in the trees and the peach trees are in full bloom. The weather has moderated considerably and the farmers are hopeful. The fruit crop will be assured unless we should have a cold snap sufficient to injure the buds."

"---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----" remarks the night editor again, and then, his vocabulary failing to express his feelings, he bites his cigar in two and sits down again.

A man in a seedy frock coat and a big walking cane saunters in and draws a chair close to the night editor's desk.

"When I was with Lee in the Valley of Virginia--" he begins.

"I am sorry you are not with him now," says the night editor.

The visitor sighs, borrows a cigar and a match, and drifts out to see if he can get the ear of someone of a more indulgent temper.

Between 1 and 2 o'clock the city editor and his assistants are through their work, the railroad man turns in "30" and they troop away, leaving the night editor to remain until the last.

In the composing room the printers have been working away since 7 o'clock on their keyboards like so many Paderewskis. They quit about 3:30 a.m. As the night editor leaves, another army has begun its march. These are the people who rise at 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning. The mailing clerks are preparing the papers for the out-of-town mails; the newsboys are crowding around for their papers, and abroad in the land are audible the first faint sounds of the coming day.

Wheels are rattling over the dark streets. The milk man is abroad, and the butcher's cart is making its rounds. Policemen relax their vigilance, and around the coffee stands is gathered quite a crowd of night workers who drop in for something hot before going home.

It is five hours yet before my lady arouses in her boudoir, and hundreds of her slaves are astir in her service. When she seats herself at ten at the breakfast table arrayed in becoming morning toilet, she never thinks of her loyal vassals that have been toiling during the night to prepare her dainty breakfast. Miles away the milkman and his assistants rise at 2 o'clock to procure the milk for her tea; the baker many hours earlier to furnish her toast and rolls, and the newspaper she so idly glances at represents twenty-four hours' continuous labor of the brainiest, most intelligent, courtly, learned and fascinating set of men in the world.

The night editor stops, perhaps, to eat a light lunch at a stand, and chat a few minutes with the night workers he meets there. As he wends his way homeward, he meets a citizen who has for once for some reason arisen at what seems to him an unholy hour of the morning.

"Good morning," says the citizen, "what in the world are you doing up so early?"

"Oh," says the night editor, "we newspaper men have to rise real early in order to get the paper out by breakfast time."

"To be sure, to be sure," says the citizen. "I never thought of that!"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, March 29, 1896.)

Newspaper Poets

The journalist-poet seems to be a hybrid born of the present day when rapidity and feverish haste are the necessary conditions to success. There is hardly a newspaper of the first class in the land that does not include a jingler in its staff.

A journalist is one thing, and a poet should be another. A combination of the two--or rather a man who tries to do the work of both--is very nearly a union of opposites.

A journalist is a recorder of transient impressions; he seizes whatever is worthy of note from the swiftly-moving stream of current events, and stamping his data with the seal of his own originality--if he possesses any--he flings his paper damp from the press at the heads of the public and is off pursuing fresh quarry. He is a machine--but of admirable efficiency--that threshes the chaff from the million happenings of the day, and delivers the wheat to those who would flounder helplessly among the piled sheaves if left to themselves.

The poet should be of different mold. He should not be vexed with the task of winnowing, but, with the golden grains laid before him by his more active brother of the winged feet, he should be allowed to sit apart and view life in its entirety with calmer, larger, and unobstructed vision. A poet-journalist may rise to be a journalist of renown, but he will never be a great poet. The muse is too shy to appear daily at the bidding of an ink-grimed copy boy. In glancing over the daily papers, we occasionally find a verse of merit, that, though evidently scribbled during the daily grind that must come, whether inspiration impels or not, yet has some touch of the true fire. Indeed, many gems that will long be remembered have thus been dashed off in a few minutes, but these are exceptions.

Some paper mentioned recently that Frank Stanton wrote his exposition ode at his desk amid the confusion of a newspaper office in two hours, fanning himself with one hand and writing with the other. The ode was said to have been a good one, and much commendation was bestowed upon the writer. Now, this is unjust to Mr. Stanton's fame, for he can write poetry, and the people will persist in praising those daily jingles of his in the Atlanta Constitution. No one seems to suggest that he could have written a much better ode by taking a day or two over it, and not overheating himself and having to waste so much vital energy in fanning.

* * * * *

The idea intended to be advanced is that it is more than likely that newspaper versifiers as a rule do not claim to be poets, and would rather be known as journalists who sometimes drop into rhyming skits as a relaxation and for diversity.

The great public, though, must dub anything poetry that rhymes, and often spoil a good journalist's reputation by insisting on his being passed on to posterity as a poor poet.

A good paragraph on a timely subject often gains a spiciness by being turned in rhyme--especially in the form of parody--but our newspaper poets have not yet learned the fact that an article uninteresting in the form of prose will not gain in merit when written even in the most faultlessly metred verse. Somebody has described poetry as lines of equal length, with rhymes at the end and sense in the middle. The daily column which so many newspaper versifiers now turn out is a mistake, if it is poetic fame they are seeking. The "demnition grind" as the wheel turns will soon exhaust all the water in the Pierian spring, as the grist itself bears witness.

This is said in reference to those who are really ambitious of winning poetic laurels. Those who attach nothing more than ephemeral importance to their topical skits need no criticism, for they will incur no disappointment.

Some of the more serious newspaper rhymesters evidently are making attempts more ambitious than the time occupied in their preparation warrants, and the hasty work and lack of finish and pruning plainly visible in their efforts are to be deplored.

If the truth were known, inspiration has played a small part in the production of the most famous poems of the world.

It is the patient toil, the unremitting and laborious cutting away of inferior parts; the accurate balance and the careful polish that develops the diamond from the rough stone to the perfect gem.

One poem a month from some of our prolific writers might claim our admiration for thirty days, at least, but three in a day have a tendency to force us to save up a portion of our appreciation for the three more we will have dished up to us in the morning.

Our Southern poets especially are guilty of over-production. Those among them most generally accepted as representative voices among our writers of verse are occupying positions in which they are doing better work in other than poetic lines. A few of them have talent that would bring them fame if allowed space, time and scope for full development and use.

Mr. Will T. Hale, whose poems appear in the _Memphis Commercial-Appeal_, shows a clear and praiseworthy conception of the situation when he says:

"I dare say that Tennessee poets, including among the
many, Walter Malone, Howard McGee, R. M. Fields, Leland
Rankin, Mrs. Hilliard, Mrs. Boyle, Mrs. Gilchrist, Mrs.
Barrow and Mr. Lamb, have written jingles which they never
called poetry, never expected to be taken as anything more
than ephemeral things to be glanced at and forgotten;
written in rhyme because as easily written as a prose
paragraph. I, an humble versifier, a toiler in
newspaperdom, like my confreres throughout the State,
arrogating nothing to myself, but pleased if my writings
are copied and complimented beyond their deserts--I have
done so. I shall continue to do so. Why should it be
insisted that I want to cram it down one's throat as
poetry? Let me jinglify if I want to."

Mr. Hale realizes the transient nature of such verse as the journalist must needs write to fill space, although he has written in this way some gems that study could scarcely improve upon.

* * * * *

It is doubtful if Mr. Frank Stanton, who has struck some high and abiding chords upon his lyre, could be, or would care to be, remembered by the jingles he turns out daily for his newspaper. Yet, if the popular impression is correct, Mr. Stanton aspires to poetic proficiency and fame.

One poem on which he would spend days of labor would do much more toward gaining him reputation than the wonderful number of rhymes that he turns out within that space of time.

A short time ago he dashed off two or three verses on a Midway dancer, called something like "Papinta," that had a rhythm and a lilt and swinging grace to it that were fascinating and truly admirable. The poem was delicate, airy and sprite-like, and one could almost see the form of the dancer and hear the castanets and guitars while reading the musical lines.

But the amount of verse he writes daily will not permit of such a high average, and the moral of it all is that, while he is succeeding as a journalist and an interesting writer upon the day's topics, his future as a poet is not being benefited by his overproduction of poetry at present.

* * * * *

The late Eugene Field might in time have become a poet of considerable ability, but there is little question that his newspaper labors were too onerous to allow of a thorough development of his poetic powers. The verses he wrote have always been popular because they were simple and musical, and addressed themselves to an almost universal sympathy for children, and his poems, charming and lovable as they were, stopped short of being great. It was the subject and the sentiment, rather than the literary proficiency of his poetical work, that made him so widely known. A poem to be great and long-remembered must be erected in the same way that a house is built. The foundation, the superstructure, the architectural proportions, the ornament and finish must be the result of care and labor, or else it abideth not.

Judge Albion W. Tourgee, whose opinions on matters literary deserve respect, however it be concerning his political proclivities, advises poetic as well as other literary aspirants to always work in a room with an open fire--not for the sake of the fire, but in order that he may burn five sheets for every one he sends to the printer. W. S. Porter.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, November 24, 1895.)

Part Three: Newspaper Poetry

Topical Verse

(Dramatis Personae: One singer, one baritone horn, one bass drum.)

There was a man in our town,
And he was very lazy;
He made his wife do everything,
Till she was almost crazy.
Although he was a Christian man,
He made her come upstairs
And wake him up to say "Amen!"
When she had said his prayers.
One night before he went to sleep
He made her kneel and pray
And when she finished, wake him up;
Then this good man did say:
"Oh, Lord, please answer my wife's prayer."
And then to sleep he fell.
The Lord did, and the man awoke
To find himself in ----.
_Baritone horns_ "Ta-ta-rum."
_Bass Drums_ "Boom."

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

Cape Jessamines

"Cape jessamines! Remove them from my sight!
I can not bear that odor, cloying sweet,
That hangs about them like a heavy sigh.
They bring back to my memory haunting days
Of deep regret, and open all my wounds again.
Fair, dream-like flower, that in this Southern town
Within the dark green copses of thy birth
Hangeth faint and heavy with thine own sweet breath,
To me ye are a mockery, and your odor foul.
Come, sit thee down, Rinaldo, I will tell thee all.
Knewest thou fair Rosamond, the Houston belle,
Who years ago, like some fair Lorelei of old
Upon the hearts of all our gallants set her feet?
I loved her madly and I swore to win
Her from the suing courtiers in her train.
Alas! Rinaldo--this sudden faintness--quick--some wine!
Ah! thanks, it gives me strength to tell the tale.
For years I have not been myself. Since one
Sad night that in my mem'ry burns white-hot
Like some sad bark that washes, derelict
Within the trough of sullen alien tides,
I've drifted down the mournful muttering seas;
But at the smell of jessamines, my brain
Quick strikes those aching chords of old,
And all the latest agony revives.
It grasps me now--more wine, Rinaldo--thanks;
I'm better now. 'Twas on one summer's night
I stood with Rosamond to count the stars.
With downcast eyes and softly heaving breast,
She pledged a kiss for every star that fell.
My pretty, sweet, shy dove. Methinks they fell
Too seldom till, anon, some frolic boys
Sent up a sky rocket, and when it burst
Upon her lips I pressed full seventeen.
But--peace! I wander from my theme.
At last my love o'erpowered, and I spake
In thrilling tones, and wooed her there.
What clogs my heart? More wine, Rinaldo, quick!
Oh, then she fastened on me those dark orbs,
In them illimitable sadness, and such store
Of pity that her face angelic seemed.
More wine, Rinaldo--thanks. I'm better now.
The while the garden there was heavy with
The odor of cape jessamines, and pinned
Upon her breast a cluster of them lay.
And in her hair some snowy buds were twined;
Almost oppressive was the odor of the flower.
And that is why the smell of jessamines
Unto my heart such bitter thoughts recalls.
Rinaldo, quick! A glass of wine! My brain
Is reeling! Another glass! Is there no more?
Well, then, I'll cease. I married Rosamond
And since then I can't stand those blooming
Blarsted cape jessamine flowers. See?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

The Cricket

When the moonlight falls from the star-strewn sky;
Comes the tune of the mockingbird;
When the morning dawns and the roses sigh,
Then the lark's sweet voice is heard.
When all things smile
And the hours beguile,
Then the hearts of the singers are stirred.

When the dull, cold nigh makes the heart sink low;
And the death watch ticks in the wall,
And the soul lies crouched like a harried foe,
Comes the cricket's merry call.
In the hour of fear,
With his note of cheer,
Rings his sprightly madrigal.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.)

My Broncho

Yoho! Away o'er the mesquite sward,
With stirruped foot and a slackened rein;
With drumming hoofs, the hills toward.
And our track the boundless grassy plain;
Light in the saddle and ready hand;
Ride in the teeth of the wind and sand,
Wind, and sand, and rain.
Knees pressed tight on the saddle flap
Where the lasso dangles from its string
Over the rifle scabbard strap,
And the canteen and suaderos swing;
The wind sings hollow in my ear,
Nor sail nor wheel could follow near,
Sail, nor wheel, nor wing.

On dusty roads and streets there prowl
Bent riders perched on noiseless wheels;
Misshapen things with mannish scowl;
Strange crafts with unknown bows and keels;
Queer fish enmeshed in Folly's net;
Scare human, flesh, or fowl--scarce yet
Red herring, flesh, or fowl.

Yoho! O'er the hills and far away,
My broncho spurns the gravel slope;
This is the ride for a man alway;
The valleys at gallop, the hills at a lope;
Who would exchange for the senseless wheel
The life and strength that the horsemen feel?
Life, and strength, and hope.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

The Modern Venus

The golden apple Paris gave
To the most beautiful,
To the fairest Aphrodite fell,
Although she had no pull.

She did not need to plead her cause,
Nor canvass, sue or beg;
She did not run her rivals down,
Nor pull her best friend's leg.

She stood in beauteous youthfulness,
Incarnate rose of love;
When Paris held the apple forth
She did not scrouge or shove.

Alas! our modern Venuses
Far different methods use
To gain the palm of loveliness
Whenever one we choose.

Towns, churches and societies
Now offer prizes rare
To one among the pretty girls
Who is adjudged most fair.

Our modern Venus hustles forth
And campaigns all the town,
And begs men to buy votes for her;
Smith, Johnson, Jones and Brown.

'Twas not thus Venus Victrix gained
The gift of Priam's son.
By beauty, not by begging, was
The golden apple won.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)

Celestial Sounds

With three men on the bases,
And one to tie the score,
The batter rubs sand on his hands,
The runners play off more.

He hits a home run o'er the fence,
The air is full of cheers;
The sharp crack of the ball and bat
Is music of the spheres.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

The Snow

'Tis thirty miles, you say? Ah, well,
Come, mount! I am no hot-house flower.
I love the cold and the north wind's power;
Rioting, buffeting, rushing pellmell.
Did you think that the colonel's daughter
Was afraid to ride in a little cold
Back to the fort? Why, Travers, you ought to
Do guard duty till you're gray and old.

Come, mount--Ah, this is life again;
Like a mustang in a hunter's pen,
So many months I have fretted sore
For a gallop on Firefly's back once more.
Going to snow?--Well, what do I care?
I told you, Travers, I am not afraid.
There are few things that I would not dare;
You can go back if you'd rather have stayed.

There, now, I was but jesting.
No need for that flush resting
On your cheek at what I said.
Why did they send you to meet me--Oh,
You begged the task as a favor!
There is about your words a savor
Of something that would hardly go
Unrebuked if your colonel heard you.

As I am the colonel's daughter,
You must know that as fire and water
Are things that must be kept asunder;
So I from a common private;
Lest the great big world should wonder;
I must not for a moment connive at
Your treading its dictates under.

Your hand from my bridle rein, sir!
What is it you say?--the snow?
I take no alarm from your answer;
Just a big white flake or so.
Ride for my life?--Why, Travers,
Are you frightened, man? Would you have us
Racing for a stray snowflake?
Ah, you will hat it--off, then;
Though I positively can not take
Alarm, though you tell me so often.

* * * * *

It's no use, Travers, draw rein;
Our wonderful ride has been in vain;
It was glorious though, for a while.
I'm so cold, and the horrid snow
Grows deeper with every mile,
And my heart grows faint, and every blow
Of the icy wind is death,
As it catches my breath
And bears my soul out to the snow.
No, no, I will not ride on.
My strength and my will are gone;
Where is our course, can you tell me?
Backward or forward, or where?
You can not? Then it were well we
Stopped here--for, see, in the air
Comes the snow in eddying waves;
What a pure nice fall for our graves.
What, Travers, your coat?--No, keep it;
I said no! Do I have to repeat it?
Do you forget that you are a private?
And I--Oh, God, and what am I,
To lie--but come; let's arrive at
Some understanding why
I always flout you and scorn you.
I'll speak to the point, and I warn you
I will speak my heart's truth ere I die.
I am so sleepy and cold;
Is this the maiden bold
Who a few hours ago spoke so brave,
And claimed such a deal of courage?
So dauntless and firm (and save
In one thing) quite up to her age.

I'm freezing, Travers, help me down;
Hark! was not that the sound
Of church bells? Travers, come quick
I'm afraid of this horrible whiteness around.
Look up, Travers, into my eyes;
Do you see anything in them to prize?
The drifts are rising fast around us,
Death has come at last and found us.
I am the colonel's daughter, and you
Are only--my Jack and the man I love
And always have, the long years through.
Come, Jack! At last my head finds rest;
Draw me closer upon your breast.
Has it grown dark? I can not see,
But I can feel your dear, strong arm.
I am not cold now; it must be
The snow was a dream, and we
Are at the barracks. Do not keep
Me waiting longer; I must sleep.
--W. S. P.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, February 23, 1896.)

Her Choice

The trump had sounded, and on pinions white
Ascended they who in the grave had lain;
And seraph bands in floods of golden light
Guided before the pure and heavenly train.

And on, past comet and past lurid star
They winged their way unto the throne of grace;
The burning world behind them glowed far,
As low in worship, bowed each angel face.

There was among the chosen of the earth
A woman beautiful and young and fair;
So sweet and chaste, and breathing love and worth,
She stood the loveliest of the angels there.

And then from out the band about the throne,
With eager eyes and outstretched hands, there came
The forms of two. Each once had been her own,
And she on earth of each had borne the name.

(Oh, heaven being love, why should not love be thine,
And heart to heart strayed souls again unite,
And wife to husband there for aye entwine
Their spirit tendrils where is no blight?)

And each had been her husband; and each spoke
Her name and claimed her with fond eyes
And beckoning hands, till from her dream she woke
And gazed. Then spake a Voice kind-toned and wise:

"Choose you between them who your mate shall be;
For heaven were not heaven if it were to lose
The other half of self, the ecstasy
Of loving and of being loved--so choose."

The woman raised her down-cast eyes, and o'er
The gathered host of spirits swept her gaze.
Twice had her heart gone out in love before;
Twice had she felt its warm, eternal rays.

Wild, sweet and tender to her memory came
Her first love's recollections, like the start
Of mighty breakers. Then the steady flame
Uprising from her second smote her heart.

With pleading eyes, the two stayed on her choice,
Each thinking one must win and one must lose.
And then she spake, uplifting her sweet voice,
And said in tender tones: "And must I choose?"

"Yea, verily," the Voice replied. "Be free
To follow where your heart points out the way.
For love, once kindled, fills eternity;
'Tis heaven, not earth, that lights his brightest ray."

And then the woman, with fond beaming eye,
Spake up and said: "These two are both N. G.
They made me tired. I think I'll try
That nice blond angel by that apple tree."
--W. S. P.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, January 12, 1896.)

"Little Things, but Ain't They Whizzers?"

The following song was written for the benefit of any theatrical or musical entertainment that desires to use it in Houston. Any company rendering it outside the city is liable to a fine of $1,000,000, as it has been composed solely for the pleasure of Houston audiences, which it is sure to please. The person singing the song, if a gent, will dress in loud check trousers, tan shoes, and high white hat, advancing to the footlights, smiling, and carrying a large cane. If sung by a lady, the costume is the same, with smaller checks, and parasol instead of cane. The following lines are to be spoken: "Ladies and Gentlemen: You must excuse my hoarseness tonight, as I was up late last night rocking the baby to sleep. (_Laughter._) I love babies. (_Great laughter._) When they get molasses on their fingers and use your shirt front for a piano, it makes a man think marriage is a success, now doesn't it? (_Howls of laughter from the family circle._) Last night I came home late from the lodge (_applause_); and after I took off my shoes and slipped into the room and commenced rocking the cradle, my wife woke up and said, 'What are you doing, Charlie?' 'I'm getting the baby quiet,' said I. 'Come to bed, you fool,' says she, 'the baby has been in bed here with me for two hours.' (_Prolonged yells of laughter._) Babies are little things, but are very important institutions. That reminds me of a song." (_Looks at orchestra, which strikes up at once._)

(_Sings_):
As we wander down life's pathway
Plucking roses as we go,
Often do we prick our finger
With the little thorns that grow,
Little drops make up the ocean,
Little chips fill up the pot;
Little drinks make great big jaglets,
Little wives can make home hot.

Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Little bees have biggest stings;
Little girls are sometimes Tartars--
Look out for the little things.
(_Bass horn--"Ta-ra-rum."_)

(_Spoken_)--"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is not always the biggest things that are the most valuable. I remember a few nights ago I was in a poker game. It was not in this city, of course, for since Charlie Helm was elected marshal there is no gambling in Hooston (_can also be pronounced Howston_). (_Vociferous cheering in gallery._) I will tell you about it:

(_Sings_):
Once while I was playing poker,
I hid four kings in my shoe;
And I said, when someone raised me,
"I won't do a thing to you."
Then I shoved in all my money,
And I reached out for the pot--
But a fellow shouted, "Drop it!
I've four aces, what you got?"

Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Little one spots downed the kings,
And my hand it was not in it
When he showed the little things.

(_Deafening applause from the audience; two men fall out of private boxes overcome with laughter, and every man in the audience claps his hands for fear it will be thought he does not understand the game. The singer will please smile indulgently, and when the noise has subsided, continue_)--

I engaged board once in Hooston (_or Howston_),
At a house not far from here;
They were fashionable people,
And the grub was scarce and dear.
I turned into bed quite early,
But I jumped out with a roar,
And I scratched myself two hours
Then slept upon the floor.

Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Never felt such bites and stings!
When you go to bed in Howston,
Look out for the little things.

(_Plaster falls from the opera-house ceiling, and the audience stand up in their chairs and wave their handkerchiefs. The singer will here do a few steps of a clog dance, and exit r. Whistles, yells, and calls and screams from dress circle. Gallery totters. Enter singer, smiling and bowing, wearing another coat and hat--Sings:_)

I have got a girl in Hooston,
And she rides upon a bike;
You should see her when she spins to
Harrisburg upon the pike.
She wears bloomers, though she don't weigh
More than eighty pounds or so;
Now, I wonder how she does it,
When I see her move 'em so.

Little things--but ain't they whizzers!
Pair of bloomers hung on strings;
Wonder they don't break to pieces,
Such hard work for little things.

(_The audience goes wild with delight, gentlemen throw their hats at the ceiling, ladies shriek with delight, and the gallery resolves itself into a Republican convention, while the police pound with their clubs on the wall and cry "Encore!"_)

_Curtain_.

(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)

Last Fall of the Alamo

"I am--
Excuse me, I was--the Alamo.
Ye who have tears to shed,
Shed.
Shades of Crockett, Bowie and the rest
Who in my sacred blood-stained walls were slain!
Shades of the fifty or sixty solitary survivors,
Each of whom alone escaped;
And shades of the dozen or so daughters,
Sisters, cousins and aunts of the Alamo,
Protest!
Against this foul indignity.
Ain't there enough jobs in the city
That need whitewashing
Without jumping on me?
Did I stand off 5,000 Mexicans in '36
To be kalsomined and wall-papered
And fixed up with dados and pink mottoes
In '96?
Why don't you put bloomers on me at once,
And call me
The New Alamo?--
Tamaleville!
You make me tired.
I can stand a good deal yet,
So don't have any more chrysanthemum shows
In me.
If you do
I'll fall on you.
Sabe?"

(_Houston Daily Post_, Monday morning, April 13, 1896.)

End of Project Gutenberg's O. Henry Encore, by William Sydney Porter