The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) by Marshall P. Wilder (best books under 200 pages txt) 📗
- Author: Marshall P. Wilder
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"I shouldn't think that would be necessary," sneered the Bibliomaniac. "If it was as bad as all that why didn't it put you to sleep?"
"It did," said the Idiot. "But the music kept waking us up again. There was no escape from it except that of actual physical flight."
"Well—about this collaboration of ours," suggested the Poet. "What do you think we should do first?"
"Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did you suppose? A finale? Something like this:
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.
[Pg 507]
"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 bass 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:
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.
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.
[Pg 508]
"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 warship appears on the horizon. The crew under the leadership of a man with a squeaky tenor voice named Lieutenant Somebody or other comes ashore, puts Drivelina under the protection of the American flag while his crew sings the following:
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 assassinate 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 shells together. This drowsy lullaby puts the Lieutenant and his forces to sleep and the[Pg 509] curtain falls on their capture by the Pirate and his followers, with the chorus singing:
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 title—Isle of Piccolo—that's a dandy and I give you my word of honor I'd never even thought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash from the blue; and as for the coon 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—
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.
[Pg 510]
"And all those pink satin monkeys bumping their cocoanut shells 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."[Pg 511]
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 buttoned behind, nor a black thingumbob over your shirt 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.[Pg 512]
"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.
"You're on, I see. Ain't those official meetin's of a church the limit? Gee! Once I went—a cold winter night—waded through snow knee-deep to a giraffe—and sat there two hours, while they discussed whether they'd fix the pastor's back fence or not—price six dollars! I didn't say anything, bein' sort o' new, you know, but I made up my mind that next time I'd turn loose on 'em, if it was the last thing I did.
"I says to my wife when I got home, 'Em,' says I, 'if gittin' religion gives a man softenin' of the brain, like I see it workin' on them men there to-night, I'm afraid I ain't on prayin' ground and intercedin' terms, as the feller says. The men in that bunch to-night was worth over eight hundred thousand dollars, and they took eleven dollars and a half's worth o' my time chewin' the rag over fixin' the parson's fence. I'm goin' to bed,' I[Pg 513] says, 'and if I shouldn't wake up in the mornin', if you should miss petty in the mornin', you may know his vital powers was exhausted by the hilarious proceedin's of this evenin'.'
"But I must get along to my story, about my automatic pastor. One day the preacher resigned,—life probably hectored out of him by a lot o' cheap skates whose notion of holdin' office in church consisted in cuttin' down expenses and findin' fault with the preacher because he didn't draw in sinners enough to fill the pews and pay their bills for 'em.
"When it come to selectin' a committee to get a new pastor, I butted right in. I had an idea, so—me to the front, leadin' trumps and bangin' my cards down hard on the table. Excuse my gay and festive reference to playin'-cards, but what I mean is, that I thought the fullness of time had arrived and was a-hollerin' for J.P. Wamsley.
"Well, sir, it was right then and there I invented my automatic pastor, continuous revolving hand-shaker and circular jolly-hander.
"I brung it before the official brethren one night and explained its modus operandi. I had a wax figger made by the same firm that supplies me with the manikins for my show-windows. And it was a peach, if I do say it myself. Tall, handsome figger, benevolent face, elegant smile that won't come off, as the feller says, Chauncey Depew spinnage in front of each ear. It was a sure lu-lu.
"'Now,' I says to 'em, 'gentlemen, speakin' o' pastors, I got one here I want to
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