The Wit and Humor of America Volume I Part 27

AN ODYSSEY OF K'S

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

I've traveled up and down this land And crossed it in a hundred ways, But somehow can not understand These towns with names chock-full of K's.

For instance, once it fell to me To pack my grip and quickly go-- I thought at first to Kankakee But then remembered Kokomo.

"Oh, Kankakee or Kokomo,"

I sighed, "just which I do not know."

Then to the ticket man I went-- He was a snappy man, and bald, Behind an iron railing pent-- And I confessed that I was stalled.

"A much K'd town is booked for me,"

I said. "I'm due to-morrow, so I wonder if it's Kankakee Or if it can be Kokomo."

"There's quite a difference," growled he, "'Twixt Kokomo and Kankakee."

He spun a yard of tickets out-- The folded kind that makes a strip And leaves the pa.s.senger in doubt When the conductor takes a clip.

He flipped the tickets out, I say, And asked: "Now, which one shall it be?

I'll sell you tickets either way-- To Kokomo or Kankakee."

And still I really did not know-- I thought it might be Kokomo.

At any rate, I took a chance; He struck his stamp-machine a blow And I, a toy of circ.u.mstance, Was ticketed for Kokomo.

Upon the train I wondered still If all was right as it should be.

Some mystic warning seemed to fill My mind with thoughts of Kankakee, The car-wheels clicked it out: "Now, he Had better be for Kankakee!"

Until at last it grew so loud, At some big town I clambered out And elbowed madly through the crowd, Determined on the other route.

The ticket-agent saw my haste; "Where do you wish to go?" cried he.

I yelled: "I have no time to waste-- Please fix me up for Kankakee!"

Again the wheels, now fast, now slow, Clicked: "Ought to go to Kokomo!"

Well, anyhow, I did not heed The message that they sent to me.

I went, and landed wrong indeed-- Went all the way to Kankakee.

Then, in a rush, I doubled back-- Went wrong again, I'd have you know.

There was no call for me, alack!

Within the town of Kokomo.

And then I learned, confound the luck, I should have gone to _Keokuk_!

THE DEACON'S TROUT

BY HENRY WARD BEECHER

He was a curious trout. I believe he knew Sunday just as well as Deacon Marble did. At any rate, the deacon thought the trout meant to aggravate him. The deacon, you know, is a little waggish. He often tells about that trout. Sez he, "One Sunday morning, just as I got along by the willows, I heard an awful splash, and not ten feet from sh.o.r.e I saw the trout, as long as my arm, just curving over like a bow, and going down with something for breakfast. Gracious! says I, and I almost jumped out of the wagon. But my wife Polly, says she, 'What on airth are you thinkin' of, Deacon? It's Sabbath day, and you're goin' to meetin'! It's a pretty business for a deacon!' That sort o' cooled me off. But I do say that, for about a minute, I wished I wasn't a deacon. But 't wouldn't made any difference, for I came down next day to mill on purpose, and I came down once or twice more, and nothin' was to be seen, tho' I tried him with the most temptin' things. Wal, next Sunday I came along ag'in, and, to save my life I couldn't keep off worldly and wanderin' thoughts. I tried to be sayin' my catechism, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the pond as we came up to the willows. I'd got along in the catechism, as smooth as the road, to the Fourth Commandment, and was sayin' it out loud for Polly, and jist as I was sayin: '_What is required in the Fourth Commandment?_' I heard a splash, and there was the trout, and, afore I could think, I said: 'Gracious, Polly, I must have that trout.' She almost riz right up, 'I knew you wa'n't sayin'

your catechism hearty. Is this the way you answer the question about keepin' the Lord's day? I'm ashamed, Deacon Marble,' says she. 'You'd better change your road, and go to meetin' on the road over the hill. If I was a deacon, I wouldn't let a fish's tail whisk the whole catechism out of my head'; and I had to go to meetin' on the hill road all the rest of the summer."

ENOUGH[2]

BY TOM Ma.s.sON

I shot a rocket in the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where Until next day, with rage profound, The man it fell on came around.

In less time than it takes to tell, He showed me where that rocket fell; And now I do not greatly care To shoot more rockets in the air.

[Footnote 2: By permission of Life Publis.h.i.+ng Company.]

THE FIGHTING RACE

BY JOSEPH I.C. CLARKE

"Read out the names!" and Burke sat back, And Kelly drooped his head, While Shea--they call him Scholar Jack-- Went down the list of the dead.

Officers, seamen, gunners, marines, The crews of the gig and yawl, The bearded man and the lad in his teens, Carpenters, coal-pa.s.sers--all.

Then knocking the ashes from out his pipe, Said Burke, in an off-hand way, "We're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe!

Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry for Spain!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

"Wherever there's Kellys there's trouble," said Burke.

"Wherever fighting's the game, Or a spice of danger in grown man's work,"

Said Kelly, "you'll find my name."

"And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad, "When it's touch and go for life?"

Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, be dad, Since I charged to drum and fife Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen Stopped a Rebel ball on its way.

There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green-- Kelly and Burke and Shea-- And the dead didn't brag." "Well, here's to the flag!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

"I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the place,"

Said Burke, "that we'd die by right, In the cradle of our soldier race, After one good stand-up fight.

My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill, And fighting was not his trade; But his rusty pike's in the cabin still, With Hessian blood on the blade."

"Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were great When the word was 'Clear the way!'

We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight-- Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here's to the pike and the sword and the like!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy, Said "We were at Ramillies.

We left our bones at Fontenoy, And up in the Pyrenees, Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain, Cremona, Lille, and Ghent, We're all over Austria, France, and Spain, Wherever they pitched a tent.

We've died for England from Waterloo To Egypt and Dargai; And still there's enough for a corps or crew, Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here is to good honest fighting blood!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

"Oh, the fighting races don't die out, If they seldom die in bed, For love is first in their hearts, no doubt,"

Said Burke. Then Kelly said: "When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands, The angel with the sword, And the battle-dead from a hundred lands Are ranged in one big horde, Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits, Will stretch tree deep that day, From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates-- Kelly and Burke and Shea."