The Wit and Humor of America Volume X Part 14

HEZEKIAH BEDOTT'S OPINION

BY FRANCES M. WHICHER

He was a wonderful hand to moralize, husband was, 'specially after he begun to enjoy poor health. He made an observation once when he was in one of his poor turns, that I never shall forget the longest day I live.

He says to me one winter evenin' as we was a settin' by the fire,--I was a knittin' (I was always a wonderful great knitter) and he was a smokin'

(he was a master hand to smoke, though the doctor used to tell him he'd be better off to let tobacker alone; when he was well he used to take his pipe and smoke a spell after he'd got the ch.o.r.es done up, and when he wa'n't well, used to smoke the biggest part of the time). Well, he took his pipe out of his mouth and turned toward me, and I knowed something was comin', for he had a pertikkeler way of lookin' round when he was gwine to say anything oncommon. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly" (my name was Prissilly naterally, but he ginerally called me "Silly," cause 'twas handier, you know). Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly," and he looked pretty sollem, I tell you--he had a sollem countenance naterally--and after he got to be deacon 'twas more so, but since he'd lost his health he looked sollemer than ever, and certainly you wouldent wonder at it if you knowed how much he underwent. He was troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin' weakness in the spine of his back, besides the pleurissy in the side, and having the ager a considerable part of the time, and bein' broke of his rest o'

nights 'cause he was so put to 't for breath when he laid down. Why it's an onaccountable fact that when that man died he hadent seen a well day in fifteen year, though when he was married and for five or six years after I shouldent desire to see a ruggeder man that he was. But the time I'm speakin' of he'd been out o' health nigh upon ten year, and O dear sakes! how he had altered since the first time I ever see him! That was to a quiltin' to Squire Smith's a spell afore Sally was married. I'd no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married to Sam Pendergra.s.s.

She'd ben keepin' company with Mose Hewlitt, for better'n a year, and everybody said _that_ was a settled thing, and lo and behold! all of a sudding she up and took Sam Pendergra.s.s. Well, that was the first time I ever see my husband, and if anybody'd a told me then that I should ever marry him, I should a said--but lawful sakes! I most forgot, I was gwine to tell you what he said to me that evenin', and when a body begins to tell a thing I believe in finis.h.i.+n' on't some time or other. Some folks have a way of talkin' round and round and round forevermore, and never come to the pint. Now there's Miss Jinkins, she that was Poll Bingham afore she was married, she is the tejusest individooal to tell a story that ever I see in all my born days. But I was a gwine to tell you what husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly"; says I, "What?" I dident say, "What, Hezekier?" for I dident like his name. The first time I ever heard it I near killed myself a laffin. "Hezekier Bedott," says I, "well, I would give up if I had sich a name," but then you know I had no more idee o' marryin' the feller than you had this minnit o' marryin'

the governor. I s'pose you think it's curus we should a named our oldest son Hezekiah. Well, we done it to please father and mother Bedott; it's father Bedott's name, and he and mother Bedott both used to think that names had ought to go down from gineration to gineration. But we always called him Kier, you know. Speakin' o' Kier, he is a blessin', ain't he?

and I ain't the only one that thinks so, I guess. Now don't you never tell n.o.body that I said so, but between you and me I rather guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks she is a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott she is a _leetle_ out of her reckonin'. But I was going to tell what husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly"; I says, says I, "What?" If I dident say "what" when he said "Silly" he'd a kept on saying "Silly,"

from time to eternity. He always did, because you know, he wanted me to pay pertikkeler attention, and I ginerally did; no woman was ever more attentive to her husband than what I was. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly." Says I, "What?" though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say, dident know but what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldent wish his worst enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the time; but that can't be called grumblin'--think it can? Why I've seen him in sitivation when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin'; but _he_ dident. He and me went once in the dead of winter in a one-hoss shay out to Boonville to see a sister o' hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them are flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot, onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a sittin' there, husband was took with a dretful crik in his back. Now _that_ was what I call a _perd.i.c.kerment_, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband dident.

He only said, says he, "Consarn it." How did we get out, did you ask?

Why we might a benn sittin' there to this day fur as _I_ know, if there hadent a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team, and they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation of hisen. Says he to me, says he, "Silly" (I could see by the light o' the fire, there dident happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgitful, but I know we wa'n't apt to burn candles exceptin' when we had company)--I could see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommon solemnized. Says he to me, says he. "Silly." I says to him, says I, "What?" He says to me, "_We're all poor critters!_"

WHAT LACK WE YET?

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

When Was.h.i.+ngton was president He was a mortal icicle; He never on a railroad went, And never rode a bicycle.

He read by no electric lamp, Ne'er heard about the Yellowstone; He never licked a postage stamp, And never saw a telephone.

His trousers ended at his knees; By wire he could not s.n.a.t.c.h dispatch; He filled his lamp with whale-oil grease, And never had a match to scratch.

But in these days it's come to pa.s.s, All work is with such das.h.i.+ng done, We've all these things, but then, alas-- We seem to have no Was.h.i.+ngton!

JACOB

BY PHOEBE CARY

He dwelt among "Apartments let,"

About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try.

A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife--and O!

The difference to me!

TO BARY JADE

BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS

The bood is beabig brighdly, love; The sdars are s.h.i.+dig too; While I ab gazig dreabily, Add thigkig, love, of you.

You caddot, oh! you caddot kdow, By darlig, how I biss you-- (Oh, whadt a fearful cold I've got!-- Ck-_tish_-u! Ck-ck-_tish_-u!)

I'b sittig id the arbor, love, Where you sat by by side, Whed od that calb, autubdal dight You said you'd be by bride.

Oh! for wud bobedt to caress Add tederly to kiss you; Budt do! we're beddy biles apart-- (Ho-_rash_-o! Ck-ck-_tish_-u!)

This charbig evedig brigs to bide The tibe whed first we bet: It seebs budt odly yesterday; I thigk I see you yet.

Oh! tell be, ab I sdill your owd?

By hopes--oh, do dot dash theb!

(Codfoud by cold, 'tis gettig worse-- _Ck-tish-u!_ Ch-ck-_thrash_-eb!)

Good-by, by darlig Bary Jade!

The bid-dight hour is dear; Add it is hardly wise, by love, For be to ligger here.

The heavy dews are fallig fast: A fod good-dight I wish you.

(Ho-_rash_-o!--there it is agaid-- Ck-_thrash_-ub! Ck-ck-_tish_-u!)

HIS GRANDMOTHER'S WAY

BY FRANK L. STANTON

Tell you, gran'mother's a queer one, sh.o.r.e-- Makes your heart go pitty-pat!

If the wind just happens to open a door, She'll say there's "a sign" in that!

An' if no one ain't in a rockin'-chair An' it rocks itself, she'll say: "Oh, dear!

Oh, dear! Oh, my!

I'm afeared 'at somebody is goin' to die!"

An' she makes me cry-- She makes me cry!

Once wuz a owl 'at happened to light On our tall chimney-top, An' screamed an' screamed in the dead o' night, An' nuthin' could make it stop!

An' gran'ma--she uncovered her head An' almos' frightened me out of the bed; "Oh, dear; Oh, my!

I'm certain 'at some one is goin' to die!"

An' she made me cry-- She made me cry!

Just let a cow lean over the gate An' bellow, an' gran'ma--she Will say her prayers, if it's soon or late, An' shake her finger at me!

An' then, an' then you'll hear her say: "It's a sign w'en the cattle act that way!

Oh, dear! Oh, my!

I'm certain 'at somebody's goin' to die!"

Oh, she makes me cry-- She makes me cry!

Skeeriest person you ever seen!