sort of useIf to saw filing she'd apply it,
But singing! She has no excuse.
Why will she try it?
And so it goes. Most people pant
To do the things they're most unfit for —
To preach – to paint – we know they can't —
And what they can don't care a bit for.
Perhaps we, too, our callings miss,
But tell us so and we'll deny it.
We still will fool with that or this,
Why will we try it?
Good deal of truth there, you'll admit.
But speaking of Coney Island, many's the happy hour I've spent on its historic sands. And perhaps I've done my share at amusing the thousands who throng there on a hot holiday.
Yes, I was the Mikado of the seaside.
That was in the days when I never dreamed I should be standing before so brilliant an audience as I see before me tonight, in such a magnificent theatre, and under the auspices of such a generous-hearted proprietor – that means another fifty per! No, no, it was in the dear, dead days, when the world was young. It makes me weep to think how we fleeced – I mean entertained – those Coney Islanders. We gave a little show on the sands, and we had with us one jolly old actor who only once attempted playing in the legitimate. I was curious about that "once."
When in a confiding mood I confessed that I had heard of his aspirations, he chuckled and admitted that years back, growing disgruntled with amusing people he had boldly essayed the role of Hamlet.
"Well," I remarked, encouragingly, "I suppose the audience called you to come out before the curtain?"
"Called me," he said, soberly, "why, they just dared me!"
Then there was Signor Tossi, the wonderful diver, who for a stipend plunged from an elevated platform into a tank of water.
"See here," I said to him boldly one day, "the danger about this drop isn't much – how have you got the nerve to call it a leap for life?"
"Why, don't I make my living by it? See?"
I guess he was right, don't you?
You can just believe a Coney Island audience doesn't fancy being held up or swindled. But they put up with a good deal of it just the same.
Nor do they have any patience with delays.
Things must hustle right along down there to be popular.
Once this same actor tried to give a scene from Othello, where the filmy handkerchief plays such a part as evidence of Desdemona's amours.
You remember Iago sets up the game on his friend and talks about
"Trifles light as air
Are, to the jealous mind,
Confirmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ."
Othello demands the handkerchief be produced, and repeats this several times in order to make it more effective.
The audience, or some of them at least, failed to appreciate this repetition, and grew decidedly restless.
At last, when for the third time Othello called for the handkerchief, somebody yelled out.
"Wipe yer nose on yer slaive, ye naygur, and let the play prosade."
Of course you all know that of late years a certain class of women have taken to enjoying man's attire.
Personally I don't like it.
There are some who do.
When I mentioned my prejudice to Bob Corwin only the other day he fairly jumped on me.
"Disapprove of it!" he said, "Great Scott, no! I wouldn't have it different for the world. Why, it was as good as a circus this morning to watch and listen to my wife when her collar button rolled under the dresser."
It was this same good little wife of Bob's who made something of a mistake a while back.
They had a pretty maid at their house, and perhaps Bob, quite naturally, let his eyes follow her a few times in an absent-minded way.
Men frequently do that, you know – don't mean anything wrong at all, and just simply – well, look.
Of course his better half noticed it.
Now, she was no more jealous than the majority of her sex, but somehow she foolishly began to suspect that he was in the habit of kissing the girl in the kitchen and was determined to catch him in the act.
One Saturday night she saw him pass quietly into the kitchen.
The hired girl was out, and the kitchen dark.
The jealous wife took a few matches in her hand, and, hastily placing a shawl over her head, as the hired girl often did, entered the back door.
Immediately she was seized and kissed and embraced in an ardent manner.
With heart almost bursting, the wife prepared to administer a terrible rebuke to the faithless spouse.
Tearing herself away from his fond embrace, she struck a match and stood face to face with Patrick, the hired man.
My colored barber takes an affectionate interest in my personal appearance.
No doubt he knows how much depends on my presenting a handsome front while on the stage.
"Youh hair 'pears to be fallin' out, boss," he remarked, yesterday, while trimming my locks, "I reckons I kin save it.'"
"All right," I said, promptly, "save it if you want to. I've got no use for it."
Perhaps he makes sofa cushions for the trade.
"I hear your name was proposed as a member of the Bon Ton Colored Artists' Club. Did you get in?" I asked him later on.
"Not dat time, boss. You see, dey white-balled me," he said.
Adolphus has a streak of humor in him.
He is particularly sensitive to the comic-paper jokes connected with a darky's love for chickens and watermelons.
As the years roll on those chestnuts never seem to die.
The barber grew so touchy that he hated the sight of fowls, and even refused to eat eggs.
One day his next door neighbor in Jersey City looked over the wall dividing their places.
"Seem to be busy, Adolphus – what you doing?"
"Jest plantin' some of my seeds, dat's all," remarked Adolphus.
"H'm, thought it looked like you was planting one of my hens."
"Dat's all right, Mr. Johnsing – de seed am inside," said Adolphus.
Adolphus was telling me recently about the poor success a book agent had with his wife.
He
