fan is a mournful man, and he fills my soul with sorrow;
he watched the play with a frown today, and he'll scowl at the game
tomorrow. He ambles in when the games begin, a soul by the gods
forgotten; and he eyes the play in his morbid way, and he yells out
"punk!" and "rotten!" No player yet, be he colt or vet, won praise from
this critic gloomy; he'll sit and scowl like a poisoned owl, and his eyes
are red and rheumy; and his blood is thin and his heart is tin, and his
head is stuffed with cotton; and he merely sits, throwing frequent fits,
and he calls out "punk!" and "rotten!" He casts a pall on the bleachers
all, and he breaks the hearts of players; he gives the dumps to his nibs
the umps, who would spread him out in layers; he queers the game and
he chills the frame of the man on the bases trottin', with his fish-like
eyes and his mournful sighs, and his cries of "punk!" and "rotten!"
[Illustration: The Gloomy Fan]
THE PURIST
"William Henry," said the parent, and his voice was sad and stern, "I
detest the slang you're using; will you never, never learn that correct
use of our language is a thing to be desired? All your common
bughouse phrases make the shrinking highbrow tired. There is nothing
more delightful than a pure and careful speech, and the man who
weighs his phrases always stacks up as a peach, while the guy who
shoots his larynx in a careless slipshod way looms up as a selling plater,
people brand him for a jay. In my youth my father soaked me if I
entered his shebang handing out a line of language that he recognized
as slang. He would take me to the cellar, down among the mice and rats,
and with nice long sticks of stovewood he'd play solos on my slats.
Thus I gained a deep devotion for our language undented, and it drives
me nearly batty when I hear my only child springing wads of hard
boiled language such as dips and yegg-men use, and I want a
reformation or I'll stroke you with my shoes. Using slang is just a habit,
just a cheap and dopey trick; if you hump yourself and try to, you can
shake it pretty quick. Watch my curves and imitate them, weigh your
words before they're sprung, and in age you'll bless the habit that you
formed when you were young."
QUALIFICATIONS
I went around to Thompson's store and asked him if he'd give me
work--for Thompson, in the Daily Roar, was advertising for a clerk. He
looked me over long and well, and then enquired: "What can you do?
Do you in anything excel? If you've strong points, just name a few."
His manner dashed my sunny smile, I seemed to feel my courage fall; I
had to ponder for a while my strongest features to recall.
"Well, I a motor boat can sail, and I a 4-horse team can tool; and I can
tell a funny tale and play a splendid game of pool. I'm good at going
into debt and counting chicks before they hatch, and I can roll a
cigarette or referee a wrestling match.
"There was a time," the merchant said, "when qualities like those were
fine; alas, those good old days are dead! The mixer's fallen out of line!
The business houses turn him down, and customers no longer sigh for
one to show them through the town, and open pints of Extra Dry! The
salesman of these modern days must study things he wants to sell,
instead of haunting Great White Ways and painting cities wildly well.
He must be sober as a judge, he must be genial and polite, from virtue's
path he'll never budge, he'll keep his record snowy white. Into the
world of commerce go and mark the ways of business men; forget the
list of things you know and then come here and try again."
In his remarks there was no bile; with sympathy he gently laughed, and
dropped me, with a kindly smile, adown the elevator shaft.
THE POMPOUS MAN
I do not like the pompous man; I do not wish him for a friend; he's built
on such a gorgeous plan, that he can only condescend; and when he
bows his neck is sprained; he walks as though he owned the earth--as
though his vest and shirt contained all that there is of Sterling Worth.
With sacred joy I see him tread, upon a stray banana rind, and slide a
furlong on his head and leave a trail of smoke behind.
INEFFICIENT MEN
King Alfred, in a rude disguise, was resting in the
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