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

Just then the gentleman seated alongside spoke to him, and the poor fellow lapsed into silence.

I knew then that the dreadful ping-pong had gotten in its work, and that he was on his way to a sanitarium.

In Jacksonville I dropped into a restaurant with a friend, a Wall Street man off for a rest.

Presently the waiter came up.

"What'll you have to-day, sah?" asked the waiter. "We've got some nice lamb wid green peas."

"Yes," said the Wall Street operator, absent-mindedly, "let me have a little lamb with greenbacks."

You see its hard for those chaps to divorce themselves from their business.

After a while I noticed an old tortoise-shell tabby sitting on one of the tables.

It was back a little, but in full view of the patrons.

I wondered why none of the attendants chased the beast away, and my curiosity grew apace until I mentioned it to my companion.

So we hazarded many a guess.

He said she was a standing ad of the catsup.

I declared her duty was to keep tab on the waiters.

After we had exhausted all the old chestnuts, and strained our relations almost to the breaking point by manufacturing some atrocious new jokes, we decided to call the waiter to settle the matter.

He bent down and said mysteriously:

"You see, sah, we's got stewed rabbit on de bill ob fare to-day, and de govenor, sah, he say as how de customers like to hab de cat in evidence on dese days."

When we left the cat was still there.

I like the refreshing honesty of that restaurant man, don't you?

My wife and I had quite a spirited debate recently.

It concerned our youngest, who had been getting into trouble again, throwing stones at a neighbor's cat, or doing some such boyish misdemeanor, and his mother expressed her opinion that he was surely a chip of the old block.

This was not the first time I had heard her say that.

And, the worst of it was, I recognized its truth.

Nevertheless, being a man, and the head of the family, I thought I ought to protest.

"I suppose you believe the lad inherits all his good qualities from you, and his evil propensities from me?" I remarked, loftily.

"Certainly, I have good authority for it," she replied, not disturbed in the least by my haughty demeanor.

You see, she has known me a long time.

"Indeed," I said, "where do you get your authority?"

"Oh! from the Bible – you know it says that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children."

I rather guess she had me there.

All housewives dislike the good man to bring company home with him unexpectedly.

I know this from sad experience.

And, consequently, I always aim to let my better half know beforehand, so that she may prepare certain dishes that she delights to set before company, but which are strangers to our ordinary everyday bill of fare.

Even the best of intentions are liable to go astray.

And on this occasion I certainly overstepped the mark.

So I have taken a vow to abstain from slang hereafter.

This is what happened:

I left two gentlemen in the parlor, and wended my way to the realm where our meals are usually prepared.

My wife met me in the dining-room, and her face told me she was not happy.

"Surely you haven't brought any one home with you?" she said.

"Why, yes, my dear. You remember, of course, I told you this morning I would."

"Of course, not. You told me you'd bring home a couple of lobsters for dinner."

"Well, that's them in the parlor."

I finally compromised matters by taking a party of four to a neighboring restaurant, and that lobster episode cost me just ten dollars.

I had an embarassing moment the other day.

Le'me tell you how it was.

Some business took me to a certain quarter over in Newark, to see a man about a matter of importance.

He was out, but expected in shortly.

So I said I would wait, for it meant nearly half a day wasted if I had my trip for nothing.

The old lady gave me a chair in the kitchen, for they were good, honest German folks, you know.

I soon became interested watching a young girl who was busily engaged kneading bread.

Casual observation induced me to believe she might be about twelve years of age.

After some time, I broke the silence by remarking:

"Don't you go to school?"

"No; I stopped school some time ago," she replied, smiling.

"I should think that a girl of your age would want to get as much education as possible before taking the responsibility attending household duties," I said.

"Yes, maybe."

"But why don't you go to school, then?"

"Well," she stammered, "because my husband thinks I had better stay at home."

About that time something occurring outside the window attracted my attention.

I don't believe I've ever felt so cheap since I was a boy and used to join the other fellows in a genuine old country serenade when a wedding took place.

Did I tell you about it?

Well, this is what happened:

We heard that there was to be a wedding over at old Squire Joskins' – a niece of his had come home to be married to some fellow or other.

Little we cared.

A wedding was all the same to us, if we could only indulge in a downright rollicking shivaree.

So a lot of us got together – I guess there was a dozen.

We had fishhorns and cowbells and tin pans galore.

Well, the racket we put up was enough to wake up the dead.

An hour went by, and not even a light showed.

This made us mad, for you see it's customary after a time to beg off from the serenade by calling the boys in and giving a spread.

We did it some more.

Another hour passed.

There was a lot of tired arms and ringing ears in that gang – say, we could hardly talk above a whisper.

Yet, with true American grit, we were determined to keep the ball rolling until we dropped dead or they gave in.

I think it must have been near the end of the third watch that I saw a head with a nightcap on it stuck out of a second-story window.

Immediately we all quit pounding and waited to hear the glad summons.

And this is what old Squire Joskins said:

"Don't stop if you're havin' a good time, boys. You ain't disturbin' nobody. The young folks that was married here this evenin' are both deaf and dumb."

Then the window was lowered and deep silence immediately began to reign.

We went home.

If any one tells you we are losing our fine sense of humor, don't you believe it.

To my mind as the years go on, human nature is taking more and more interest in whatever pertains to the funny side of life.

The growth of vaudeville proves it.

At the same time I must say some people go to extremes, like a certain individual I happened to run across one night on the Bowery.

I chanced to be passing a tough joint near Grand Street when they were ejecting a foreigner who bore all the signs of extremely rough usage, nevertheless was laughing immoderately.

"What is the joke?" I asked, holding him up.

"Why," said he, "a man came up to me in the bar just now, gave me a fearful punch on the nose, and said, 'Take that, you blooming Norwegian,'" and he fell to laughing again as though his sides would split.

I was interested, and said:

"Just so, but I don't see anything so funny about that."

"You don't, eh? That's queer," the man answered; "but then he hit me a crack in the eyes, and afterward knocked out one of my teeth, saying, 'And take that, too, you blooming Norwegian.'"

"But still I can't see anything funny," I protested.

"Ho! ho! ho!" the other yelled, "I made a fool of him, for you see, mister, the joke is that I'm a Swede."

They make it as easy as possible these days for those who want to become citizens.

Ever been on the scene when a lot of these fellows line up to be naturalized?

My friend, Clerk Donovan, down at City Hall, through whose hands the applications go, says it's as good as a circus.

One red-faced son of the Emerald Isle, whose carroty hair looked like a danger signal, stood in front of Clerk Donovan the other day, hoping to squeeze in.

It was necessary, before application could be granted, that he should show some familiarity with the style of government in this country.

Evidently Pat had not been properly coached, and hoped to pull through by natural assurance.

"Have you read the Declaration of Independence?" asked Clerk Donovan.

"No, sir."

"Have you read the Constitution of the United States?"

"I hov not."

"Well, then," cried Clerk Donovan, in an exasperated tone, "have you read the history of the United States?"

"No, sir."

"No? Well, what in thunder have you read?"

"Oi have red hair on me head, your honor," said the fellow, triumphantly.

He thought he had scored his point.

While I was dramatic editor on a metropolitan paper I used to mingle with the actors a good deal.

That's how I took to my present calling.

A fellow came to a manager I knew, one day, and wanted a berth.

He had been a high roller in his day, I guess, but had of late been on his uppers.

The manager looked over his list, and finally said:

"Well, that's the best I can do for you. You've been idle all season so far. Now, will you remain idle all the rest of the year, or take this small part?"

The actor considered a bit, and then made up his mind.

"I'll take it," he said. "In this case a small role is better than a whole loaf."

While I was attending the theatre in my official capacity as a critic, wishing to obtain the various opinions of those patrons whose views should be valuable, I remember tackling a bald-headed man with whom I had scraped an acquaintance.

"Do you think vaudeville should be reformed?" I asked.

He grinned at me diabolically, and replied:

"No, but I'm of the positive opinion that some of these soubrettes they've been springing on us lately might be reformed all right."

Now, while dramatic editors may possibly know something of music, they don't claim to be high art critics.

The editor expects it, however.

He sent me to report a musicale once.

I dished it up to perfection I thought, with the assistance of a friend, a Bohemian who conducted an orchestra in a Broadway theatre.

Judge of my surprise when the editor had me on the carpet the following day.

I knew his digestion was bad, and that he meant to trip me up on some mere trifle.

So I was on my guard.

"See here," he said, "did you do this write-up of the concert last night?"

I confessed that it was my job.

He frowned and rapped the paper.

"I see you speak of the audience 'drinking in the marvelous strains of the orchestra.' That is a hackneyed phrase, I know, but tell me, how in the name of Heaven can any one drink in music?"

"Well," I suggested, "one way I suppose it might be done would be with a Rubinstein."

I should have been bounced, I know, but it was my first offense, and the great editor let me down easy.

Awowch! I've got it sure!

It's worse than being run over by a team of wild horses.

Where it comes from no fellow can discover, and once you've got it, look out, for it sticks closer than a porous plaster.

That's the grippe.

Ever have it – then see here if this don't just describe your feelings to a dot. All keep quiet, please, while I tell how it throws a fellow worse than he ever went down in his football college days.

The little ballad is called "Please Bring the Ice;" or, "The Lay of the Last Lameback."

 
When your cerebellum's reeling,
And you have a creepy feeling,
And the pains are o'er you stealing
Like you'd stepped upon a tack;
When your neck is nearly breaking,
And your every bone is aching,
And a billion imps are making
Footprints up your cringing back;
When your head is madly jumping,
And your love of life is slumping,
And you're bumping and you're thumping
From your topknot to your feet;
When with fever you are burning
And the throbbings, oft returning
To the start, bring on a yearning
For a bucketful of ice;
When you thrash the bed and swear, too,
That there's nothing to compare to
All the achings you are heir to
That are anything but nice;
When you hurt from head to toe, sir,
And you draw the ice pan closer,
Then it is that you should know, sir,
That it's got you on the hip;
And for all your frantic wailing
You will have to keep on ailing —
For you've got the grand prevailing
Malady – and that's the grip!
It's the grip,
grip,
grip,
and it's got you on the hip!
You are home when it goes calling,
And you can't give it the slip;
You can howl, and kick and holler,
But you bet your bottom dollar,
That your pleading will be wasted
On the
grip,
grip,
grip!
 

My butcher has evidently grown weary of hearing complaints regarding the high prices of meat.

And he is also suspicious of any one who begins to talk of the grinding monopoly controlling the market.

Why, it was only the other morning he closed up a sour-looking man so suddenly that I fancy the fellow has not up to this time got over wondering what hit him.

"It's got so now," he began to say, "that the infernal beef trust – "

"You won't find any beef trust at this shop, I'm telling you right now – my terms are strictly cash," was what the cruel purveyor of loins and steaks tossed at him.

And there was my old friend, the grocery man, getting into hot water again when I entered.

He is used to it, being parboiled every day.

When I saw the same young matron who had ordered "condemned milk" and those other astonishing things the other day, I pricked up my ears, under the belief that something rich, rare and racy might happen.

It did.

"I've come to complain of that flour you sent me," she was saying, with fire in her eye.

"What was the matter with it?" asked the grocer, meekly.

"It was tough. I made a pie with it, and it was as much as my husband could do to cut it," was what the dear young thing said in all candor.

And I suppose that grocer promised to remedy matters by sending up some "tender" flour.

While I loitered in the grocer's who should come in but Dr. Instantaneous, as gay and chipper as though he had never killed a man in his thirty years of deadly practice. He's a crank on the liquor question, and to stave him off, I said:

"Terrible thing, that case of Sweitzer, the brewer."

"The brewer – yes, I've heard his name – what happened to him?" he asked, innocently.

"Dead."

"Why, it must have been sudden."

"Very."

"How did he die?"

"Too much absorbed in his business."

"What!"

"Fell into one of his beer vats and was drowned."

Then the medical man smiled gently, but I knew he would want to moralize on the story and I let fly again.

"Notice that tall gentleman over yonder?" I said, mysteriously.

"The one looking at those truffles?"

"Yes. What do you think of his looks?"

"A very homely individual."

"Wouldn't take him for a heart-smasher?"

"I guess not."

"Well, he's turned more girls' heads, I suppose, than any other man in New York."