Thursday, December 31, 2020
Wednesday, December 30, 2020
New Story added to pages: 'The Girl in Pink'
https://whowasjoecone.blogspot.com/p/stories-girl-in-pink.html
Tuesday, December 29, 2020
Added to 'The Sputta Comedies' page
THE
SPUTTA COMEDIES
By Joe Cone.
Sputta Shows
His Skill As A Dry-Land Fisherman.
“What in the world
are you rummaging in that closet for, Stephen Sputta?” queried his wife,
espying a pair of prostrate legs protruding from the storage room door.
“Huntin’ for my
fishin’ tackle? he replied, sneezing, and vainly trying to dodge an avalanche
of falling boxes and bundles.
Alas! As an artful
dodger he was a failure. Two or three of the pieces clipped him on his bald
pate, and he was nearly buried in the boxslide. He backed out, red and furious.
“It’s a wonder you
wouldn’t pile stuff up as high as a mountain!” he roared, rubbing his cranium. “I
s’pose you would only the ceiling interfered. Perhaps, now the damage is done,
you can tell me where my fishpole is?”
“Why, it isn’t in
there at all,” she said, chuckling behind her handerchief, “it’s behind your
roll-top desk. No,” she continued, interrupting one of his shots, “you put it
there yourself.”
“I wasn’t after that
alone,” he blurted, “I wanted the box of tackle also.”
“That is in the lower
drawer of your desk. You are not going trouting, are you, Stephen?” she asked,
sweetly. “You know it is closed season on trout, besides the puddle in the back
yard is frozen over.”
“Trout fishin’, no!
Drat it all, don’t you s’pose I know when it’s time to go fishin’? You don’t
need to tell me. I just want to get the stuff out and put it in order, that’s
all. Kinder want to get my hand in, so to speak. What’s the point of having stuff
if you don’t look it over once in a while and enjoy it?” and Sputta’s
enthusiasm outbalancing his injuries, he rushed about and soon had his rod,
tackle and various sundries, so to speak, all over the place.
“There, said he,”
switching his $2.98 rod, “ain’t that a peach
of a whip? That’ll bend up double, Maria, and won’t break. Just listen to this
reel! Zing-g! Ain’t that music to the ear? Gee, many a time I’ve heard that
sing in woodlands deep! Ah, Maria, little you know about the joys and blessings
of nature! And, say, I can cast some, too. Believe me, I can land a fly 50 feet
away, inside of a six inch circle. That’s going some for a fellow who don’t get
out but once a year.”
All the while Sputta
was delivering his gay monologue he was putting his gear together. He placed
the reel in the butt, strung in his line and attached thereto a large white
fly.
“Get onto this!” he
exclaimed, and giving his wrist a dexterous turn, he landed the fly on top of a
sofa pillow.
“You’d better be
careful, Stephen Sputta, this isn’t any woodland deep,” warned his wife, moving
her chair as far away as the wall would allow.
“Just see pussy
there, curled up on the sofa,” chuckled Sputta, with boyish glee, “We’ll
suppose he’s a black stump, with a trout just underneath. I can land this fly
just an inch this side of him.”
“Don’t you hook that
cat!” cried Mrs. Sputta, in alarm.
“Who’s goin’ to hook
him? Don’t I know my bus’ness?” demanded Sputta, making the case. The fly
sailed across the room and landed lightly on pussy’s back.
“There,” laughed
Sputta, “within an inch of the mark the first time. Ain’t that some castin’?”
Pussy felt a
trembling on his fur and looked up.
“Take it away, Stephen,
take it away!” exclaimed Mrs. Sputta, “He’ll think it’s a miller and try to eat
it!”
“Huh, you can’t fool
a cat like that,” answered Sputta, giving the rod a twitch.
But the hook didn’t
return to the angler as he had anticipated; instead it turned slightly and prodded
the wondering cat in the region of the spine. Evidently pussy thought another
cat had given him a dig, and with a hiss he went into the air. When he
descended to the floor two or three sofa pillows followed him, and there was a
general mix-up. For an instant cat, sofa pillows and fishline were in a tangle,
with poor Sputta not knowing whether to reel in or pay out. Finally the cat
freed himself and bolted for the kitchen. The skilled angler, thinking the hook
might still be imbedded in the cat’s back, hurried forward, and jamming the end
of his rod against the door casing, broke about six inches off the tip.
“Drab the cat,
anyway!” he exclaimed, looking at the broken rod sorrowfully.
“Now I hope you’re
satisfied!” snapped Mrs. Sputta, tiptoeing to the kitchen in search of pussy.
“Satisfied?” echoed
Sputta, “I hope the ding-dang cat’s satisfied, making such a fuss over a little
pin prick! Now it will cost me a dollar to get my rod fixed again.”
“Well, that’s getting
out of your trip pretty cheap, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Sputta, returning with
pussy in her arms.
“Cheap, trip, what do
you mean?”
“Why, the last time
you went fishing it cost you $6, and you didn’t get anything, either,” she
replied, sweetly.
axb
(undated)
Tuesday, December 22, 2020
Added to the page 'Short Pieces'.
THE
PRETTY LADY
By
Joe Cone
The
pretty lady came to board at the next house. She seemed a long distance
away, however, from the fact that we weren’t on speaking terms with our next
door neighbors. I never could understand why we
didn’t speak to the Olivers, or why they didn’t speak to us. I had never dared
question my parents because they frowned so when the name Oliver was mentioned. But
I was only 12 years old and wasn’t supposed to know things.
Uncle
Jack created consternation in our household by one of his blunt remarks. It was
about the pretty lady. He was sitting on the porch. After the pretty lady
passed he turned to my mother and said: “Thank heaven, at least there is a
handsome woman in town!” To say the least this was not very complimentary to
my mother and my two aunts, for they were considered extremely good looking. I
had often thought that if I had been a young man when my mother was a girl I
should certainly have worshipped at her feet. And next to her came her two
sisters, my aunts. They were still in their twenties, and were beautiful to
look upon. So, with them, I felt that Uncle Jack’s remark about the pretty lady
was unjust and cruel.
Uncle
Jack was a bachelor, and was down from the city. He hardly seemed to know what
to do with himself until the pretty lady came. After that he appeared to take
new interest in country life.
(undated)
Thursday, December 17, 2020
Wednesday, December 16, 2020
Added to the 'Short Pieces' page:
FOOLING
THE SPARROWS:
Several years ago
when I left the stress and confinement of the big city I purchased a run down
country place – perhaps a small farm. I think I purchased this particular place
for two reasons – because it was run down, and I might have the pleasure of
building it up again, and because it was possessed by a scraggly old orchard.
At once I could imagine bluebirds flitting through the old trees. We took the
place in May. Instead of doing what I should have done at first, perhaps, fixing
up the trellises and the like for the gentle madam, I built 12 cages for the
bluebirds and hung them from the orchard branches. They came, 12 pairs of them,
and we had a most delightful blue and green summer. Those bright flashes of
blue we will never forget.
Early fall came and
the bluebirds with their young disappeared. Then
came the pirates, the idlers, the noisy good for nothing, the English sparrows.
They took possession and looked forward to a prosperous and snug winter. “Never
mind,” we argued, “when our friends the bluebirds appear next spring they will
put the usurpers to rout.” Spring came and so came the bluebirds, but the
foreigners refused to be routed. We tried the “Shooing” process, and in fact
about everything except actual murder, in our efforts to assist the bluebirds
to regain their rightful property. It was a hopeless task. Possession appears
to be about 10 points of the law with the English sparrow. We tried blocking
the doorways of the cages for a time, but while that hindered the sparrow, it
didn’t help the bluebird. And the sparrow was always the closest by to make a
dash when the barrier should be removed.
During a heavy blow
one of the cages came down. I removed the bottom, emptied it of its contents,
repainted it on the outside, and putting on a stronger wire, hung it up again.
In this instance a pair of bluebirds got there first! They went in, looked
around and appeared to be satisfied. The same rule of possession appears to be
true of the bluebird. They stayed. The
battle lasted for days, but the sparrows finally withdrew. This gave me the key
to the situation. Now, every fall, I take the cages down, house them for the
winter, clean them and freshen them with a coat of paint and put them out at
the first sign of bluebirds in the spring. Not in every case do the bluebirds
get there first, but a large percentage of them do and we still have the joy of
seeing them dash across the lawn and hear their refreshing melodies in the morning.
If anyone tells you
that birds are loth to enter a painted cage you must not believe them entirely.
I was brought up in that belief. We have scores of cages of various kinds on
our place and every one of them is painted. Usually they have green sides with
red roofs; some have white sides with green roofs. None of our cage living
birds appear to be hesitant to enter a painted house.
(undated)
Added to 'Short Pieces' page:
GOVERNMENT
PROPERTY? SURE!
Jim belonged to a
detachment which had been brought from the city to guard a certain bridge
somewhere in ---------. And Jim was some sentry. In less than two days he was
in the guard house for leaving his post and becoming engaged in a fist battle
with a fellow private. Inasmuch as Jim had emerged victorious it was quite
natural that the sergeant should inflict upon him the heavier punishment. For a
long time the prisoner asserted that he was simply carrying out his general orders.
The officer found out that a pretty girl was at the bottom of the affair and
was puzzled to know what she had to do with Jim’s general orders. Under a
threat of severer punishment Jim was induced to speak.
“General order number
one, sir,” said Jim.
The sergeant nodded.
“It tells me to guard
all government property in view, sir, does it not?”
The officer was
forced to acknowledge the truth of the statement.
“Well, sir, this guy
here was bothering Miss ----- against her will. She had a date with me when my
time was up.”
“Well, how does that
clear you?” snapped the sergeant.
“General order number
one, sir; she’s the post-master’s daughter!”
Tuesday, December 15, 2020
Monday, December 14, 2020
Sunday, December 13, 2020
Boiler Pott, Poet (His Monthly Grind)
Boiler Pott, The Poet.
(His Monthly
Grind.)
January.
In
January doth he write
About the summer maiden’s form;
Midst
winter’s howling snap and bite
It helps to keep him snug and war.
February.
When
February comes in view
A quatrain doth he get in line;
He’s
sure to make a plunk or two
By drooling o’er the valentine.
March.
March
winds blow him not ill, betimes
He sallies forth into the street
Where
Tessie trips, whereon he rhymes
On what he sees above two feet.
April.
Soft
April showers inspire him, too,
Refresh him in his hour of need;
Who
would not now spring verses new
Would be an “April Fool” indeed.
May.
May
flowers and Maybaskets lend
Their aid to gentle Boiler Pott;
A
bunch of May verse doth he send
Which he May sell and May-be not.
June.
Then
comes the month of roses, June!
Its brides and sweet girl graduates;
He
twangs his lyrics in perfect tune,
And hits some of the “higher rates.”
July.
July
of course gives him a cue,
The “Fourth” is always good for that;
He
writes a comic verse or two
On “Where are Johnny’s fingers at?”
August.
August
brings out the bathing rig,
And likewise rouses Potts’s pen;
Although
the subject is not “big”
It holds the gaze of countless men.
September.
September
a hard month would be
Were it not for the proud return
Of
Gladys Flirter from the sea –
Shore with a string of hearts to burn.
October.
He
likes the glad October days,
Though “melancholy” may they be;
He
sells a few autumnal lays,
Besides some “Bob White” poetry.
November.
November
– turkeys roosting high,
Cranberry sauce and wish-bone fun;
At
goodly checks he winks his eye
For turkey verses he has done.
December.
December
comes; these are the times
When Boiler Pott his stocking fills;
He
rakes enough from Christmas rhymes
To meet his many yearly bills.
-----------------------------
JOE CONE.
(Undated)
'The Clam Peddler' Revised
THE CLAM PEDDLER
He comes to the door three times a week,
The clam peddler, clad in overalls,
Jumper and long hip rubber boots,
Which, in fair weather, are rolled at the knees.
His form is bent from stooping in the mud,
His hands and face are weather cracked
From long exposure to wind and sun and rain,
And yet he has a kindly face
Beneath the grayish stubble and the spots
Of clam mud sometimes clinging there.
He cries out, “Clams! Steamers, opened, long or round!”
At the back door, and his voice is clear
And pleasing, and suggests humor and good cheer,
But that is only Yankee bluff – he’s after trade.
His eyes – they tell the story all too well.
He’s hopeless, hard, passé, a work machine,
A fool of fate who goes at every tide
And paws over the reeking mud for clams.
His back aches, he swears and thinks hard thoughts,
But whacks and holds on until his basket’s full,
Then pulls his wracked body together and goes
And peddles them from door to door.
He has no vision. The only things he sees
Are mudflats, clams, nickels and dimes,
And then the village inn and – void.
He idles, carouses when the tide is high,
And when it’s low he slouches to the flats again.
But what of the clam peddler, after all?
He’s a human being; he works and eats and drinks
Like thousands of men in every walk of life,
And he’s as happy and as successful as they,
And brings as much good to humankind.
So why turn him from the door with a snarl?
If you don’t want to buy “Clams! Steamers, opened, long
or round,”
The least you can do is wish him well.
JOE
CONE.
Friday, December 11, 2020
The Smell O' Spring
The Smell O’ Spring.
The robin is a pirate bird,
The
title fits him well;
While he gets all my garden
fruit
I
do not get a smell.
Down in my swamp skunk cabbage
grows,
More
rank than I can tell;
The robin does not care for that
So
I get all the smell.
Joe Cone.
(Undated)
Thursday, December 10, 2020
Tuesday, December 8, 2020
Saturday, December 5, 2020
Uncle Henry's Bath (revised)
UNCLE HENRY’S BATH
I.
When Uncle Henry come to stay – an’ Uncle Henry did –
There come a change to our house which nearly raised the
lid.
‘Cuz Uncle Henry’d lived alone for years up in the brush
An’ wasn’t used to our kind of hustle an’ of rush.
It made him nervous as could be, our careless life an’
gay,
An' ’lowed we’d have to answer for our sins at Jedgment
day;
‘Cuz Uncle Henry wouldn’t laugh, life was a solemn
thing,
The world was rotten to the core – the devil on the
wing!
II.
Our Uncle Henry’s notions they were funny as could be;
He was the queerest specimen our village ever see.
His speech, his manners an’ his dress belonged to years
agone,
An’ so he moped around all day unhappy an’ forlorn.
When Sunday come he wished to take a “good, ol’
fashioned scrub,”
But he warn’t used to nickel work, an’ didn’t like our
tub;
Nor would he use his bedroom with its rugs an’
fillergree –
“I’m ‘fraid I’ll git it all mussed up with suds an’ sech,”
says he.
III.
“I’ll take a wash-tub to the barn, an’ take my scrub out
there
Where I kin sozzle all I want, an’ splash around fur
fair;”
An’ so he took his tub an’ pail of water steamin’ hot,
An’ Uncle Henry an’ his bath was for a time forgot.
Bimeby we heard a wild war-hoop, a clatter an’ a splash,
The barn door swung an’ Uncle Hen made one tremenjus
dash!
He waved his arms, an’ looked jest like a wild “September
Morn,”
An’ dove with all the speed he had into our field of
corn!
IV.
A hornets nest had tumbled from the rafters overhead,
An’ they had stung him fore an’ aft, an’ drove him from
the shed.
At first he tried to duck beneath the water where he
stood;
Alas! It wasn’t deep enough – the hornets found him good.
There warn’t no time for Sunday duds, not e’en a pair of
pants,
So Uncle Henry took to flight – it was his only chance!
Down through the wavin’ corn he went, naught on except
his mind,
The wide world spread in front of him – the hornets
close behind!
V.
Some ladies goin’ home from church heard his despairin’
yelp,
An’ stopped, good people that they were, to see if they
could help.
When Uncle Henry saw their heads above the tasselled
tops
He give a louder yell an’ flew without no waits or
stops.
We sent the women folks away, an’ got an overcoat,
An’ started out for Uncle Hen, who’d left for parts
remote.
There was a trail of hornets from the barn out to the
corn
Which give us the direction poor ol’ Uncle Hen had gone.
VI.
We hunted all around the corn, an’ through the Lima
beans,
We looked behind the rows of peas, an’ down amongst the
greens;
We searched behind the chicken coops, an’ down an unused
well,
But where he’d burrowed in his pain no mortal soul could
tell.
We hollered, coaxed an’ whistled, an’ assured him all
was right,
But Uncle Henry for the time seemed swallered out of
sight.
He was afraid to show himself, or answer to our call,
But by an’ by we saw his head above the garden wall.
VII.
He’d gone beyond the garden patch, an’ like a frightened
buck,
Had scaled the vine-clad wall an’ here he’d run right
into luck:
He’d found a barrel, minus heads, an’ with sardonic
glee,
Was usin’ it as best he could to hide his misery.
We wrapped him in the overcoat, an’ led him back once
more,
Not to the barn; Oh, no, becuz he scorned the very door.
An’ now, when Uncle Henry takes his “good, ol’ fashioned
scrub,”
He takes it in the bathroom in our white enameled tub!
(revised
from Aug. 12, 1914 version)