The Wit and Humor of America Volume III Part 17

"Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did you suppose? A finale? Something like this:

"If you want to know who we are, Just ask the Evening Star, As he smiles on high In the deep blue sky, With his tralala-la-la-la.

We are maidens sweet With tripping feet, And the Googoo eyes Of the Skippity-hi's, And the smile of the fair Gazoo; And you'll find our names 'Mongst the wondrous dames Of the Whos Who-hoo-hoo-hoo.

"Get that sung with spirit by sixty-five ladies with blonde wigs and gold slippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a troop of Russian Cavalry, and you've got your venture launched."

"Where can you find people like that?" asked the Bibliomaniac.

"New York's full of 'em," replied the Idiot.

"I don't mean the people to act that sort of thing--but where would you lay your scene?" explained the Bibliomaniac.

"Oh, any old place in the Pacific Ocean," said the Idiot. "Make your own geography--everybody else does. There's a million islands out there of one kind or another, and as defenseless as a two weeks' old infant. If you want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make one up for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of that sort. After you've got your chorus going, introduce your villain, who should be a man with a deep ba.s.s voice and a piratical past. He's the chap who rules the roost and is going to marry the heroine to-morrow.

That will make a bully song:

"I'm a pirate bold With a heart so cold That it turns the biggest joys to solemn sorrow; And the hero-ine, With her eyes so fine, I am going to-marry--to-morrow.

CHORUS:

"He is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow The maid with a heart full of sorrow; For her we are sorry For she weds to-morry-- She is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow.

"Gee!" added the Idiot enthusiastically. "Can't you almost hear that already?"

"I am sorry to say," said Mr. Brief, "that I can. You ought to call your heroine Drivelina."

"Splendid," cried the Idiot. "Drivelina goes. Well, then on comes Drivelina and this beast of a Pirate grabs her by the hand and makes love to her as if he thought wooing was a game of snap the whip. She sings a soprano solo of protest and the Pirate summons his hirelings to cast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell when, boom! an American wars.h.i.+p appears on the horizon. The crew under the leaders.h.i.+p of a man with a squeaky tenor voice named Lieutenant Somebody or other comes ash.o.r.e, puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag while his crew sings the following:

"We are Jackies, Jackies, Jackies, And we smoke the best tobaccys You can find from Zanzibar to Honeyloo.

And we fight for Uncle Sammy, Yes indeed we do, for damme You can bet your life that that's the thing to do--doodle-do!

You can bet your life that that's the thing to doodle--doodle--doodle--doodle-do.

"Eh! What?" demanded the Idiot.

"Well--what yourself?" asked the Lawyer. "This is your job. What next?"

"Well--the Pirate gets lively, tries to a.s.sa.s.sinate the Lieutenant, who kills half the natives with his sword and is about to slay the Pirate when he discovers that he is his long lost father," said the Idiot. "The heroine then sings a pathetic love song about her Baboon Baby, in a green light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys banging cocoa-nut sh.e.l.ls together. This drowsy lullaby puts the Lieutenant and his forces to sleep and the curtain falls on their capture by the Pirate and his followers, with the chorus singing:

"Hooray for the Pirate bold, With his pockets full of gold, He's going to marry to-morrow.

To-morrow he'll marry, Yes, by the Lord Harry, He's go-ing--to-marry--to-mor-row!

And that's a thing to doodle-doodle-doo.

"There," said the Idiot, after a pause. "How is that for a first act?"

"It's about as lucid as most of them," said the Poet, "but after all you have got a story there, and you said you didn't need one."

"I said you didn't need one to start with," corrected the Idiot. "And I've proved it. I didn't have that story in mind when I started. That's where the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn't even have to think of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped right out of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina had been written on his heart for centuries. Then the t.i.tle--Isle of Piccolo--that's a dandy and I give you my word of honor I'd never even thought of a t.i.tle for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash from the blue; and as for the c.o.o.n song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there's a chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner and Reginald De Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the lilt of it:

"My Bab-boon--ba-habee, My Bab-boon--ba-habee-- I love you dee-her-lee Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee.

My Baboon--ba-ha-bee, My Baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--Ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee.

"And all those pink satin monkeys b.u.mping their cocoanut sh.e.l.ls together in the green moonlight--"

"Well, after the first act, what?" asked the Bibliomaniac.

"The usual intermission," said the Idiot. "You don't have to write that.

The audience generally knows what to do."

"But your second act?" asked the Poet.

"Oh, come off," said the Idiot rising. "We were to do this thing in collaboration. So far I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leave the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to do a little collabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to do--collect the royalties?"

"I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thing to do in a comic opera."

"Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my full share of it."

"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced in the right place might stand a chance of a run."

"Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some penetration. How long a run?"

"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.

"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot with a smile.

"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac severely.

"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr.

Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the Superintendent."

WAMSLEY'S AUTOMATIC PASTOR

BY FRANK CRANE

"Yes, sir," said the short, chunky man, as he leaned back against the gorgeous upholstery of his seat in the smoking compartment of the sleeping-car; "yes, sir, I knew you was a preacher the minute I laid eyes on you. You don't wear your collar b.u.t.toned behind, nor a black thingumbob over your s.h.i.+rt front, nor Presbyterian whiskers, nor a little gold cross on a black string watch chain; them's the usual marks, I know, and you hain't got any of 'em. But I knew you just the same. You can't fool J.P. Wamsley. You see, there's a peculiar air about a man that's accustomed to handle any particular line of goods. You can tell 'em all, if you'll just notice,--any of 'em,--white-goods counter, lawyer, doctor, travelin' man, politician, railroad,--every one of 'em's got his sign out, and it don't take a Sherlock Holmes to read it, neither. It's the same way with them gospel goods. You'll excuse me, but when I saw you come in here and light a cigar, with an air of I-will-now-give-you-a-correct-imitation-of-a-human-being, I says to myself, 'There's one of my gospel friends.' Murder will out, as the feller says.

"Experience, did you say? I must have had considerable experience? Well, I guess yes! Didn't you never hear of my invention, Wamsley's Automatic Pastor, Self-feedin' Preacher and Lightning Caller? Say, that was the hottest scheme ever. I'll tell you about it.

"You see, it's this way. I'm not a church member myself--believe in it, you know, and all that sort of thing,--I'm for religion strong, and when it comes to payin' I'm right there with the goods. My wife is a member, and a good one; in fact, she's so blame good that we average up pretty well.

"Well, one day they elected me to the board of trustees at the church; because I was the heaviest payer, I suppose. I kicked some, not bein'

anxious to pose as a pious individual, owin' to certain brethren in the town who had a little confidential information on J.P. and might be inclined to get funny. But they insisted, allowin' that me bein' the most prominent and successful merchant in the town, and similar rot, I ought to line up and help out the cause, and so on; so finally I give in.

"I went to two or three of their meetin's--and say, honest, they were the fiercest things ever."

The minister smiled knowingly.