From Cornfield Philosophy, by C. D. Strode, Illustrated, Chicago: The Blakely Printing Co., 1902; pp. 107-134.
109
THE ORDER OF HOO-HOO.
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I wish to discuss with you the origin and work of the Hoo-Hoo, and if you are eligible to membership and are not a member of that great order, to point out to you that it is your undoubted duty to join. And not only is it your duty, but you will find it to your pleasure and profit also.
You can never tell how much good such things will do you, but you should not enter into the connection in the sordid spirit of seeing how much profit you may make out of it. A good many people can only look on the sordid side of things. I remember when my Uncle john traded his saw mill for a grocery store and moved into town and joined the church to get the church trade. He deliberated a long time as to whether or not it would pay. He figured it out finally that it would. He figured it would cost him so much to belong to church and that the church trade would be worth so much; the result showed a handsome profit and he joined.
He waited six months but did not get the trade. The members of the church gave him the glad hand and all 110 that, but they did not trade with him. At the end of six months he gave it up and complained bitterly to me about it. I was very young at the time, being but little past nine years of age, but my uncle had great confidence in me and used to come to me with his troubles and took my advice:
“Marier,” he said bitterly, meaning his wife, “Marier has been ding-ding-in’ at me fer twenty years to jine the church! Jine the church! and now I’ve jined and wha’t it amount to? I knew how it’d be. But no! nothin’ would do but I must jine the church. I knew it wouldn’t pay.”
I reasoned with him and told him to wait and give it a fair trial. But he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t pay the rent and things.
You must not think of joining the Hoo-Hoo order in that spirit. It will pay you, of course, but you must not think about that part of it. I didn’t. I joined down in Buffalo. I got in there when the boys were holding a concatenation and they were anxious that I should join. I held off until they became anxious and then borrowed $10 of one of them and joined. That’s the spirit in which to join, and that’s what it costs you. Just go in free and hearty and you will get your reward.
It was only a week after I joined that I was going up in an elevator at Cincinnati when I saw a man wearing a Hoo-Hoo button. I introduced myself, gave him the grip and wound up by getting a $100 advertising contract from him. That is the proper spirit in which to enter the Hoo-Hoo. Don’t think of what it is going to cost you nor whether it will pay. Just join and then work it for all it is worth.
Nor would I have you join entirely from a sense of duty. Doing things from a sense of duty is all right and I believe in it, but a thing that depends entirely on having 111 people join it because it is their duty to do so will not flourish. Other inducements must be offered. Still it is always a pleasure when you are doing a thing to know it is your duty to do it. It is rare that doing your duty is as much fun as it is when you are promoting the interest of Hoo-Hoo, either by joining or helping others to join. I know it was a great comfort to me during my initiation, when, in the intervals of the joyous hilarity, my mind would revert to the fact that not only was I having a lot of fun, but was also doing my plain and bounden duty.
So I say we do not ask you to join our noble order merely because it is your duty. We can beat that. It is the same thing about subscribing to this book. It is undoubtedly your duty to do so, but I would feel deeply humiliated if I had no stronger ground for asking your subscription. Still it is an added pleasure to you, as you promptly and gladly pay your subscription for the keen enjoyment and great benefit you derive from its perusal, to know that you are at the same time doing that which you ought to do and of which your conscience will heartily approve.
It is not always so. A man will spend his money for cigars and beer and things of that kind, which, while they may bring a sort of sneaking pleasure, are consumed amid the bitter upbraidings of his conscience.
Or he may do things which, while they bring him profit, such as weighing his hand with a few paltry pounds of nails or selling No. 4 boards for No. 3, do not add to his pleasure and certainly are no part of his duty. But in subscribing to this book or joining the Hoo-Hoo, pleasure, profit and duty go hand in hand.
But before joining the Hoo-Hoo you may want to know something further about it and that is why I am writing this. I thought maybe you’d want to know more 112 about the order and I thought I’d take time enough to write and tell you about it.
There are people who object to the order because of a certain amount of frivolity connected with it. Some people take their pleasures very solemnly; and I think a great deal of such people. I respect and admire them so much that if I were to put it down here on paper you might think I am foolish and impulsive, while I am not, but in this matter I cannot agree with them.
It is my observation that there is in the minds of most men a measure of fantastic devilment which will find vent somehow and some way, at some time or other. The gravest and most dignified of men must have a time and place where they may kick up their heels; and it is my sincere conviction that secret societies were organized partly to fill that want. I belong to half a dozen and they are all alike, the Hoo-Hoo about the same as the balance.
I believe that a good deal of the impression that the Hoo-Hoo are particularly devilish arises from the fantastic nomenclature of the officers: the Snark, the Bojum, the Jabberwock, etc., are to the uninitiated suggestive of a good many things; but it is to their credit — which same I may say without violating any of my obligations — that they have never yet taken human life. Most of the readers of this book and most of the members of the Order of Hoo-Hoo know that the names of the officers of Hoo-Hoo were mostly taken from the works of Lewis Carroll. Mr. Carroll’s serious work was filling a chair in a university, and his work time was occupied in delivering dry and learned lectures on abstruse subjects. During his leisure hours he relieved himself by writing verses like this:
113“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white,
And yet you incessantly stand on your head,
Do you think at your age it is right?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure my brain,
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none
Why I do it again and again.”
“You are old,” saith the youth, “and your jaws are too
weak
For anything tougher than suet,
Yet you finished the goose and the bones and the beak;
Pray, how on earth did you do it?
“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law
And argued each case with my wife,
And the muscular strength which it lent to my jaw
Has lasted the rest of my life.”
I know that the grave and serious gentlemen who object to Hoo-Hoo because it has a measure of nonsense for ornamental trimming, will be shocked that a dignified professor should waste his time over such utter nonsense; but the nonsense of Lewis Carroll will live when all the schools of the present day have crumbled into dust. A good many people don’t know not only how enjoyable, but how respectable a little nonsense is.
It seems to me that the product which the lumbermen handle takes a certain cheerfulness from its surroundings. It grows up in the forest with the birds and the sunshine; and the chipmunks run about and the busy, brown bees flit to and fro and up and down; 114 and at night the moon comes out and shines all over everything and makes some trees look like ghosts; and the owl comes out and says, “Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!” and that is the Spirit of the Forest calling to her children. And the Snark is there and the Jabberwock, the Gurdon, the Bojum — they are all there, only you can’t seem them unless you are a Hoo-Hoo.
But when you’re a Hoo-Hoo! Oh my! When you’re a Hoo-Hoo you can
Hear the jabberwocky jabber, see the Scrivenoter pale,
And the Arcanoper hanging from a tree limb by his tail,
And hear the Gryphon grumble and hear the Gurdon
growl,
And the Bojum wash his face and dry it on a towel.
Oh my! It’s fine to be a Hoo-Hoo. All the people of the forest are Hoo-Hoos — the squirrels, the deer, the bears, the foxes — these are all Hoo-Hoos and have been for ages. La! yes, and after you become a Hoo-Hoo you can understand what they say. Yes, you can! It’s fine to be a Hoo-Hoo.
And the Great Spirit of the Forest talks through the owl and says, “Hoo-Hoo! Hoo-Hoo!” which means they must all gather and initiate somebody, and then hold a “session on the roof.”
The Indians belonged to the order, and then the trappers came and they joined and could understand all the languages of the forest.
Then came the woodmen and began cutting down the forests and hauling them away to be made into lumbar and staves and shingles and lath and dimension stock, to be scattered far and wide and handled by men who knew nothing of the great Order of Hoo-Hoo, nor the obligations 115 it entails; and the Spirit of the Forest grieved. For many days it grieved and all the people of the forest were sad. All those who could make a doleful sound of any kind made it, and those who could not kept still.
And then a great meeting was called and for many nights one owl called to the next: “Hoo-Hoo! Hoo-Hoo!” until the news had traveled to the uttermost parts of the forests; and all the people came. The Snark, the Bojum, the Jabberwock, the Gurdon, the Scrivenoter, the Arcanoper and all the Supreme Nine were there. The members of the Supreme Nine, you understand, have the power to become invisible to all such as have not joined the Order of the Spirit of the Forest, and none but members have ever seen them. But this night they cast all disguise aside and came boldly forth, and it is thought that was the night Lewis Carroll got a glimpse of them.
Be that as it may, a great council was held and the Spirit of the Forest presided in person. And finally, after many speeches and much bitter opposition, it was moved and seconded and carried that the Order of the Spirit of the Forest, the great Hoo-Hoo, should be extended beyond the limits of the forest and made to include all those who make the lumber, or sell it, or who haul it to market, or write of it in newspapers, or make the machinery to do the work. There was much discussion over the admission of the last-named class and an amendment to strike them out only lacked a few votes to carry. But the Jabberwock pointed out, in a speech of great eloquence, that wherever the lumbermen were, the machinery men would be apt to butt in, and as they were a nice lot of fellows they were admitted.
And the grand council had lasted all through the night and did not adjourn until the ninth hour of the ninth day of the ninth month of the year.
[116]
THE NIGHT OF THE BIG WIND.
117And it is on record how the Spirit of the Forest appeared to a newspaper man, in its materialized form of a great black cat, and revealed its will and gave him instructions.
* * *
This is the legend of Hoo-Hoo.
It was the night of the big wind.
A man was lost in the woods.
The wind tore and shrieked through the forest, the lightning gleamed flash on flash, and the thunder rolled and crashed ’till the poor, bewildered man thought the end of the world had come, and had it not been for a bottle of bitters which he happened to have in his pocket, he would have given up altogether. Even at that his condition was frightful to behold — if there had been anyone there to behold it.
But there was none there.
And there being none there he was alone. Alone save for the crashing, shrieking, warring elements and the twisting, writhing, groaning forest.
And the bottle of bitters.
The man did not like to drink alone, but there was no help for it. So he drank alone.
Then a great tree was torn up by the roots and hurled across his path. The fury of the tempest was redoubled; there was such an incessant flashing of lightning that the whole forest was illuminated and there came such a tremendous crash of thunder that the man recoiled and would have fallen had he not been afraid of breaking his bottle.
The fury of the storm was hushed and the forest became dark, save for a luminous, unearthly glow surrounding the fallen tree. And there, perched upon the truck, with fire issuing from its nostrils, with its back 118 arched and its tail curled, was a great black cat, glaring at the man.
“Mortal,” said the cat, “who art thou and what dost thou here?
The man buried his face in his hands and shuddered.
“I’ve got ’em again,” he said; but presently he looked again, and the cat was still there.
“Be not afraid, mortal,” said the cat in soft, purring accents. “I am the great Hoo-Hoo, the guardian spirit of the forest and all who live and labor therein. Are thou not a lumberman?”
“I art,” faltered the man.
And art thou lost?”
“No,” said the man, proudly, “you cannot lose a lumberman. I am here. But my home is lost.”
“Is there anything remaining in the bottle?”
“There is.”
“Wilt thou share it with me?”
“I wilt,” said the man.
And he wilted.
“Now,” said the cat, wiping his whiskers, “if you don’t mind, ‘ill uncurl my tail and quit shooting fire through my nose. It’s wearing work and is only a bluff anyhow.”
“Certainly,” said the man, “make yourself comfortable.”
“But I am not certain that thou art a lumberman,” said the cat. “I have stilled the raging tempest for thee and I design to lead thee safely through the forest, but I would put thee to the test. What is the rule on common oak?”
“Commons are three inches and over wide,” said the man; “eight to sixteen feet long. Three, four and five inch pieces are clear one face. Pieces six inches and up wide must work 75 per cent clear. Bright sap is no ——”
119Here there was a most terrifying flash of lightning and a peal of thunder that shook the earth. The cat leaped back upon the log, curled its tail and fire streamed from its nostrils.
“Mortal!” it shrieked. “Thou hast deceived me. I never knew a lumberman who could repeat an inspection rule. Miserable man, thou art a lumber journalist!”
The man groveled in the dirt.
“Spare me,” he shrieked, “or I will break the bottle!”
“Don’t do anything rash,” said the cat, shutting off the fireworks. “You seem a pretty decent kind and you can’t help it, because you are unfortunate. Wilt share with me again?”
“I wilt,” said the man; and again he wilted.
“Now,” said the cat, “I am glad I met you. Do you know that for thousands off years I have guarded these forests and have protected the men who have come and gone, converting my treasures to the use of man, and my authority has never been recognized? It is so. My spirit pervades the forest and enters into the heart of every man who has to do with forest products. I have made my children the broadest, most liberal, most charitable of all the children of the earth. But I would have them brought closer together. I would have them united in a grand order, recognizing the Hoo-Hoo, the Great Black Cat, as its head and patron. I would have them banded together, that my teachings may be instilled into their hearts. That they may learn to love one another as I love them. That they may help the weak and distressed among my children; that they may know one another whenever and wherever they meet; that they may help one another against the world, the flesh and the devil.”
They had some further talk and the very next day Bolling Arthur Johnson organized the Order of Hoo-Hoo, the order of the Spirit of the Forest.
120
WANTED — A PARTNER WITH CAPITAL.
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“Yes,” said the old Arkansas saw mill man, as he crossed his legs and took a chew of my smoking tobacco, “prices is low and they’re going to be low, I reckon, fer another seven years. Yes, that right. I’ve been in the business fer nineteen years an’ I never seed it fail. Run long eight years of low prices, then jist when all the saw mill men bust up or starve to death, lumber goes up fer ’bout a year. Bein’ up a new crop of fools spring up an’ go into the business, or the ol’ crop borrors some money some’rs. Then they all start to cutting agin an’ down she goes, an’ history shows it takes ’bout eight years to starve ’em out agin.”
“How did you survive so long?” I asked.
“Fust eight years I busted. Then, lumber goin’ up, I got a pardner with capital, an’ as he had considerable capital we run clean through the eight years an’ busted in the ninth. Would a made a right smart chunk of money last year, but we sold to a no account skunk who 121 beat’n us outen all of it. An’ we busted right plumb in the good times.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Lookin’ fer a pardner with capital. That’s the saw mill mans best holts. I’m getting a little ol’ now, an’ ’f I kin git a few more pardners with capital they’ll run me through an’ I’ll get a livin’ long as I need one. So ’f you see anybody as wants to put some money in a shore thing send ’em to me, an ’if I make a ketch I’ll make it all right with you.
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I do not believe there is another city in the world which has among its citizens such a number of blind, unreasoning, fanatical adherents as has Chicago. Such a spirit is not usual in so large a city. It is often found in smaller cities and towns and the reason for its existence in so virulent a form in Chicago is probably due to the fact that Chicago, because of its tremendously rapid growth, is more like an overgrown town than anything else.
Whatever the cause, there is no doubt but the spirits exists, and there are in this city thousands of citizens who, when the interests of Chicago are at stake, will neglect 122 their own business and their own families, spend their money freely and work night and day at the highest tension for any length of time. The history of Chicago proves that, and among all there devoted adherents there is none more devoted than Mr. John Bryson.
I call him Bryson, because that is not his name. Should I call him by his real name, too many readers would recognize him. And Mr. Bryson is a modest man, caring little for notoriety nor the applause of the fickle multitude which exalts a man one day and the next casts him down and puts its foot on his neck.
He is a trusted employe in a large, wholesale house, occupying a very responsible position, which he has filled for a number of years with a fidelity and ability which has rendered him indispensable. His employers would as soon think of conducting their business without a set of books as without John Bryson. He is one of the most regular and methodical of men, but he has his enthusiasms, the greatest and strongest of which is his enthusiasm or Chicago.
He has no great amount of money to lavish upon the object of his enthusiasm and affection, for in his anxiety to bring her population above that of New York he has begotten a numerous progeny of sturdy sons and handsome daughters, all of whom have to be clothed and educated in a manner befitting the great city in which they were born; so, although Mr. Bryson receives a handsome salary it is only sufficient to keep things going. Were he possessed of millions, however, the whole of his fortune would be at the disposal of his beloved city and would be thrown into the breach at any time to save her credit and reputation.
Not having any great amount of spare cash he tries to make amends in ways which are not expensive. He 123 is a member of the Civic Federation and takes positive delight in sacrificing his political convictions in the interest of his beloved city. He is so fond of doing this that he is like the tree which was so straight it leaned the other way; and the candidate of the party to which he claims to belong must, if the office sought has to do with the city, have a record absolutely stainless to secure the support of Mr. Bryson; and even then it is given grudgingly and with the assurance that the least deviation from the straight line of duty, as marked out by the Civic Federation, will bring upon him Mr. Bryson’s strongest indication.
He is also a member of the Two Million Club, but this affords but little vent for his enthusiasm, as there is little the faithful band can do except to yearn and pray for more population, rail at the unfairness and incompetency of the census ennumerators and do their full duty as Mr. Bryson has done along lines indicated in a previous paragraph.
Such was and is Mr. John Bryson and the foregoing outline of his character is given that the reader may understand with what enthusiasm he received the suggestion of celebrating “Chicago Day,” the anniversary of the great fire, and the determination with which he entered upon that celebration. If the celebration did not prove a success, a great, glittering, gorgeous success, it would not be the fault of Mr. John Bryson.
He had been a young man, just married, at the time of the great fire, and he and his bride had fled through the streets in scanty attire on that memorable night. The rolling smoke, the flying embers and the leaping flames had chased them, but they had found safety on the lake front, and had lived in a tent, on food contributed by 124 the charitably inclined, until more suitable quarters could be secured.
He has lived in Chicago ever since. He has seen her rise from the ashes like a giant refreshed by sleep. His children have grown with her growth, have been educated in her schools, and two of them lie buried in her beautiful cemeteries. He has gloried in her success, and would have suffered in her reverses if she had ever had any.
He is proud of her parks, her boulevards, her schools, her libraries, her tall buildings, her rushing, roaring traffic; and there isn’t a doubt but he is proud of her wickedness and sin.
“Talk about the Bowery!” he says, scornfully, “or any of your tough places in London, Paris or New York! Why, I tell you the levee district in Chicago is the wickedest place in the world! A man’s life isn’t safe there after dark! It’s the toughest place in the world, sir! Nothing like it anywhere!”
And the fact that he has never been in London, Paris or New York does not affect his positiveness in the least.
So you will understand that when the morning of Chicago Day came, Mr. Bryson was ready for the celebration. His house was a dream of bunting, flags and mottoes, far surpassing, in that respect, any house on his street; and Mr. Bryson was on the lake front at the corner of Michigan avenue and Van Buren street as early as nine o’clock, to take part in the parade. He did not belong to any regular organization which was to parade in regalia, but he had done the best he could, and was arrayed in a new fall suit and overcoat and wore a white “plug” hat. His breast was decorated with several badges he had bought of street fakirs and he carried a 125 red, white and blue cane, plentifully decorated with ribbons, in one hand, and a small flag in the other. Altogether Mr. Bryson was as wholesome, clean and, withal, as good looking a middle-aged man as you would see in the whole length of the parade.
The parade was slow in getting started, as such parades always are, and it was not until noon that Mr. Bryson’s division got under way. Meanwhile, meeting several of his friends, old Chicago boys like himself, they had several drinks together of a beverage calculated to add fuel to the flames of their enthusiasm. You see time was hanging rather heavily upon their hands and as they were expecting to get started every minute they would take a parting drink together. Then they wouldn’t get started and would have to take another parting drink. So they had quite a number of parting drinks, and Mr. Bryson finally got started in a condition of enthusiasm bordering on frenzy.
He started off with a cheer and cheered and shouted on every conceivable pretext, with the result that before he had gone half the distance he was as hoarse as a raven. This was a source of great annoyance to him, but he saved himself for three or four blocks until he should reach the reviewing stand, where some very eminent men were reviewing the procession. With one of those men, a very eminent man indeed, Mr. Bryson was acquainted, and he planned to catch his eye, wave his flag and shout “Hurrah for Chicago.” He had it all planned out, but when the time came he could only emit a hoarse whisper, and he stopped in disgust at the very first word. Thereafter he was forced to content himself with waving his flag and he finished marching about four o’clock, rather disgusted with himself.
126He had eaten nothing all day, his throat was sore and he was very, very tired. He started home, but happened to remember that the cars would be very much crowded at that time, so he stepped into a saloon to drink a glass of beer and rest himself until such time as the crowd should have dispersed.
I would not have the reader understand that Mr. Bryson is what is known as a “drinking man.” An occasional glass of beer or schnapps is his usual limit. He is a strictly temperate man, but when he stepped into the saloon to rest and drink a glass of beer in a deliberate manner, he was not doing anything unusual or for which his conscience reproached him.
At the bar, however, he met three other gentlemen who had evidently been in the parade also, for they were dressed somewhat as Mr. Bryson was and were equally hoarse and red of face. They had been further ahead in the parade, however, and had been of duty long enough to have taken several drinks, and when Mr. Bryson appeared they hailed him as a friend and brother and invited him to join them in a drink. As they all took whisky Mr. Bryson did the same.
Then the conversation became general and turned upon the wonderful demonstration, and the glories of Chicago. Mr. Bryson found the three gentlemen congenial spirits and presently invited them to have a drink on him. This they did and with each drink their enthusiasm mounted and their unanimity increased.
Then another gentleman proposed another drink. Mr. Bryson demurred at this a little, and murmured something about going home. At the mention of home two of the gentlemen showed signs of uneasiness and looked at their watches. The third gentleman, however, acted 127 with all the abandon of a man whose family is out of town.
“Oh, no!” he said, “you don’t want to go home middle afternoon, do you? Wife’ll know your drunk if do. Better schtay down town ’n see balance of shelebrayshen. Thash good sense. No boys (shaking his head sagely) lesh take ’nother drink.”
Thus the voice of prudence was stilled in Mr. Bryson’s breast, and after the next drink it gave him no further trouble.
You see Mr. Bryson had eaten nothing all day, so that the three stiff drinks, taken in connection with what had gone before had made him feel quite light and joyful; and when, after still another drink, which another gentleman insisted on buying because he hadn’t bought anything as yet, and the subject turned to the honor of his country taken in connection with the honor of his city, Mr. Bryson started to sing “My Country, ’tis of thee,” in which the others attempted to join, but all being so hoarse the result was so comical that they all had to have another drink.
Becoming tired of standing, Mr. Bryson suggested that they take seats at a little table, which they did. Being comfortably seated Mr. Bryson insisted upon buying a bottle of wine in which to drink prosperity to Chicago. Nothing was too good, he said, nothing at all; and while the waiter was serving the wine his feelings almost overcame him.
“I tell you boys,” he said, laying a hand affectionately upon the arm of each of his neighbors, and beaming tenderly across the table at the gentleman opposite, “I was born in Chicago and have lived here all my life. I’ve seen her rise like a Sphenix from the ashes. I’ve seen her grow from a pile of ruinsh to the greatest 128 town on earth. I’ve worked and slaved for her, boys, and I love her like my own child. I’d fight for her, and — yes, hang me, boys — I’d die for her.” And he straightened up in his chair and two big tears rolled down his cheeks.
When the wine was served the gentleman to the right of Mr. Bryson insisted on making a speech in which he extolled Chicago, the other two gentlemen and Mr. Bryson — especially Mr. Bryson — including them all with himself in a sort of beatific combination of brains, energy, wealth and civic pride, which had made Chicago what it is.
When it came to drinking the toast, “Chicago — long may she prosper.” Mr. Bryson attempted to rise to drink with the rest, but the gentleman on his right pushed him gently back and he remained seated while the others drank, the gentleman on the right evidently meaning to pay the graceful compliment that Mr. Bryson personified Chicago.
When they had resumed their seats Mr. Bryson arose, and with voice husky with emotion, thanked them for the great honor they had done him, and in a few well-chosen words accepted the responsibility of his position and promised to be true to the great trust they bestowed upon him.
* * *
Mr. Bryson has no very clear conception as to what occurred after the incidents related above. He recollects that everything became very hazy and uncertain except the faces of his new-found friends and that finally the uncertainty affected everything except their eyes, which he remembered, were very red and bloodshot.
Then he remembers being at supper in a little private room somewhere down town. The food probably sobered 129 him somewhat, for he remembers he had a very fine beef-steak, but couldn’t eat much of it, and that he had for a companion and guest an elderly gentleman with bushy gray beard and eyebrows, who wore a grand army button. Though brief, this interval was very clear, and he remembers distinctly that the man was a total stranger to him, and he has no idea as to whence he came or where he went.
After supper he ordered brandy and soda and the rest of the evening was lost to him save for occasional flashes upon disconnected pictures, which haunted him for weeks after, as the pictures of the great masters haunt one.
One he remembers was some gloomy room, where there seemed but one light. Everything seemed dark save for the faces about him — kindly, smiling faces, and a policeman’s star shone out and someone said: “The old gent’s a brick.”
Another thing he remembers is that he stood on a bridge with a gentleman who wore a long overcoat and a derby hat, that they were arm in arm and were singing “I have stood on the bridge at midnight.”
That was about all Mr. Bryson remembers until he found himself sitting on his own stoop. He had no knowledge of how he got there, but there he was. He recognized the house by the decorations, although it seemed a month since he put them up, and by it being the third house from the corner. He walked up to the corner twice and counted back and got it right both times, only he had always thought the house was on the other side of the street.
Having decided it was his house he sat down on a step to consider what to do about it. It was his house because there were the flags he had nailed up that morning. Then 130 it occurred to him to go inside and he chuckled to think what a fool he had been not to think of that before.
Then he remembered he should have a dime. He had spent all his money but that, but he knew he had a dime somewhere. He couldn’t find it, but he found his latch key while fumbling in his pockets and climbed the steps to the front door. But the doorknob and the keyhole were gone. Yes sir, he hunted all over that door, but there wasn’t a sign of a knob or keyhole. There was the number all right, and the flags, but the most diligent search failed to reveal the keyhole. And Mr. Bryson sat down again to consider the matter.
Just then a man came along the street and at sight of Mr. Bryson hesitated, turned back and said:
“Is that you, Bryson?”
Mr. Bryson straightened up and replied with dignity, but with an inflection of doubt:
“I — I think sho.”
“Why don’t you go in the house?”
Mr. Bryson pondered a while and then shook his head gravely and replied:
“Can’t, Thompkinsh.”
“Why?”
“Z’aint no keyhole; number’sh orri, key’sh orri; keyhole — hic — growed up.”
The man laughed.
“I’ll let you in, Bryson,” he said, “but what’ll your wife say?”
Mr. Bryson had started to rise, but at the mention of his wife’s name, he sat down again heavily.
“Thash so, Thompkinsh,” he said, “I — I forgosh her.”
“Never mind,” said Thompkins, “I think she is not at home. I’ll let you in and she’ll never know the difference. 131 It’s only eleven o’clock. You fell early in the fight, Bryson.”
Mr. Bryson seized Thompkins’ hand.
“Yoush bes’ frien’ I gosh, Thompkinsh,” he said. “If washn born St. Louis — be orri. Been shelebra — shelebrayin, Thompkinsh. Been paintin’ town. You ain’, ha, ha! If I’z born St. Louis wouldn’t shele — wouldn’t shelebray nezzer.”
By this time Thompkins had pushed him through the doorway and closed the door.
When Mrs. Bryson and his two daughters returned from the theater an hour later they found four gas jets burning on the first floor — one in the parlor, one in the library, one in the kitchen and one in the bathroom. Mr. Bryson had evidently begun disrobing as soon as he got into the house, for a portion of his apparel was found in each room.
Following the sound of deep and stertorious breathing they located Mr. Bryson in his bedroom on the second floor, the gas burning at its highest. He had pulled the covers well up under his chin, so well up, in fact, that his feet were uncovered and there, with the gaslight shining full upon his beaming face, he was sleeping the sleep of the just. The intensity of his wife’s gaze disturbed him somewhat, and he turned his face to the wall.
“I’m orri, Mary,” he said, “been — been bed shince eight ’clock.”
* * *
And the next day Mr. Bryson had a very bad headache.
132
THE SAW MILL MAN’S DREAM.
_______________
A saw mill man had a dream
one night
Several years ago,
When every saw mill man in
the land
Was weighted down with
woe,
And it was a very pleasant
dream,
Of things as they ought to
be,
And the saw mill man came
in one day
And told the dream to me.
He dreamt that night of his
debts, he said,
As he’d often dreamed before,
Only that night they’d all been paid
And bothered him no more;
And he could buy logs so very cheap
It made him smile to see.
“The very best logs that ever I saw,
Or ever will saw,” said he.
He dreamt he sat on a hardwood throne,
In garments rich and rare,
133
And buyers came a-trooping in,
Buyers from everywhere.
And that they doffed their hats to him
And humbly pressed their claim
To any kind of stock he had,
At any price he’d name.
They’d let him make the grade, they said,
They’d pay for the lumbar green.
But he dreamt he treated them coldly,
He dreamt that he acted mean;
When he thought of the years that had gone before,
When he nearly starved to death,
He raised his prices every day,
Whilst the buyers held their breath.
Then he dreamt that in a sneering way
He took their proffered gold,
And gave them a little mill run stock,
None of it ten days old.
But all of it went for ones and twos,
All went shipping dry —
And he dreamt that when he was hungry
A nigger brought him pie.
He sent his boys to the colleges,
His girls to a boarding school,
He bought a grand piano,
And a grand piano stool.
He dreamt he lived on the best there was,
And smoked three-for-a-half.
It tickled him so that you must know,
He woke up with a laugh.
134
But as he told that splendid dream
He wept in sheer despair.
I did what I could to cheer him up
And lighten his load of care;
I let him smoke my pipe that day —
’Twas all that I could do.
“I’ll give you an ad, some day,” he said;
“If ever that dream comes true.”
* * * * *
This winter that man came in again,
Dressed in the height of style;
A diamond glistened in his shirt,
He wore a brand new tile,
But he shook my hand in the same old way
And said: “Strode, howdy do!
I just dropped in to give you that ad,
Because that dream’s come true.”
