Saturday, January 16, 2021
Tuesday, January 12, 2021
Monday, January 11, 2021
Sunday, January 10, 2021
Saturday, January 9, 2021
Thursday, January 7, 2021
Wednesday, January 6, 2021
Tuesday, January 5, 2021
'When Jim Come Home From College' updated with undated, typed verion:
WHEN JIM CAME HOME FROM COLLEGE
When Jim come
home frum college, wall, I allus hate tur say
So very much
consarnin’ thet air mortifyin’ day,
But somehow in
the evenin’ when a neighbor straggles in,
I ruther like
tur rezzerrect thet sarcumstance ag’in.
He hadn’ b’en
home fur three hull years, becuz, his letters said,
He’d ruther save
the money fur his college work instead.
An’ Til an’ I
wuz proud uv him, an’ worked an’ scrimped each day
Tur eddicate our
Jimmy in the mos’ prerficient way.
When Jim come
home frum college ‘twuz a day uv ginral joy,
Fur Gungawamp
hed allus loved thet harum-scarum boy,
An’ off an’ on
the “Hawkeye,” an’ the “Gungawamp Gazette”
Hed proffersied
thet James Bellew would be a scholar yet.
An’ frien’s
dropped in, in meetin’ clothes, an’ made excuse tur stay
When Jim come
home frum college on thet long remembered day.
Wall, I druv tew
the station fur the local mornin’ train,
An’ waited fur
her whistle with a sort uv happy pain
A-swellin’ in my
bosom, ‘cuz like a durn’d ol’ fool,
I wuz proud uv
my investmunt which I’d made off thire tur school.
An’ I joked the
station marster, an’ I cut a wing or tew,
When I heerd the
local whistle an’ she swung roun’ into view.
Wall, a cussed
dood alighted, but I didn’t stop fur him,
I jogged erlong
down further lookin’ everywhere fur Jim;
An’ when the
train departed I wuz feelin’ purty blue
When thet idjut
with the glasses said, “Bah jove, ol’ boy, how do!
It’s me,
Guv’nor, Joimes, doncher know, aw yaas, aw yaas, aw yaas,”
An’ ef I hedn’t
hollered he’d be’n “awin’” yet, I guess.
I looked him
over, head tur foot, an’ eyed him threw an’ threw,
An’' when I’d
foun’ my voice I says, “By thunder, is this yew?”
“Aw yaas,” said
Jim, but I, says I, “Git in the waggin there,
I’ll drive down
threw the ‘Willers,’ not down the street, I swear!”
An’ so we rode
in silunce ‘cept when Jim said “Bah Jove,”
Ez Mandy Mullenjay
scorched by, awheel fur “Cedar Grove;”
But I warn’t
much affected tho, till Til thire at the gate
Wuz waitin’,
like an’ angel, fur thet doodish reprerbate.
An’ when I saw
her countenance go down like snow in May
I felt like
thrashin’ Jim Bellew an’ turnin’ him away.
But mother, wall
she ain’t like me, she kissed him with a sigh,
An’ thought thet
she could civilize him mebbie by an’ by.
The neighbors
they wuz sorry, an’ they kind uv slunk away,
An’ the gran’
reception fizzled on thet long remembered day.
Yaas, they lef’ us all arlone with Jim,
our college graduate –
Where is he now? Wall. re’ly, I allus kind
uv hate
Tur speak uv it; yew see, it teches me so
in here,
An’ we ain’t seen him, hev we ma, fur
somethin’ like a year?
But then, he’s welcome jest the same, ez
welcome ez kin be,
Altho’ he’s now prezzerdunt uv thet
Unerversity;
Prezzerdunt? Yaas sir-ee! Fooled us good?
Waal I should say,
When Jim come home frum college on thet
long remembered day!
Monday, January 4, 2021
The Dude (Prize Poem)
THE DUDE.
(Prize
Poem.)
’Twas
springtime in the quaint old town, tho’ somewhat raw and bleak,
And
stormy winds still beat the panes with dismal howl and shriek;
And
from the Northward mountain peaks the snow came melting down,
Swelling
the river to a race, which madly passed the town.
A
youth warm-clad in fashion’s garb alighted from the stage; –
An invalid he looked to be, of
wealthy parentage,
Who sought to find a boarding
place within the town remote,
Where to restore his broken
health in forest, field and boat.
The village folk were good of
heart and kindly as a rule,
But looked on fashion as a
thing to scoff and ridicule;
So when the natty college
youth at front doors did appear,
He met the same forbidding
words, “No dudes are wanted here.”
* * * * * *
The day grew faint, the rain
still beat, and high above the town
A dam gave way, and in the
swirl huge wreckage floated down;
And through the dusk someone
discerned a cabin drifting by,
On which a child lay
helplessly with hands stretched toward the sky.
An eager crowd rushed to the
bank, no boat was near at hand,
When lo, a stranger from the
rear with lightning movements shed
His outer clothes and plunged
the stream with naught of fear or dread.
With rapid strokes he reached
the babe the while the people cheered;
A score of hands were reaching
down when he the dark shore neared.
And when they drew him up the
bank, beneath the lantern rude,
A cry of great surprise went up
– it was the college dude!
Strong, loving hands bore him
away, and by his side for weeks
Kind hearts held watch, till
come again the health-glow lit his cheeks.
And when he greets the fair
old town, where he sojourns each year,
They wring his hand and nobly
say, “Such dudes are wanted here.”
(undated)
Saturday, January 2, 2021
New Story added: 'Chewitt Knew a Good Dog'
Joe
Cone
Cambridge,
Mass.
C H E W I T T K N E W
A G O O D D O G .
By Joe
Cone, Author of “The Waybackers.”
“I say we are not
going to have a strange dog in our kitchen. Just look at the dirt he has
tracked in! When will you ever have any common sense about animals?” and Mrs.
Chewitt gathered up her skirts and made for the back door for the purpose of
opening it. The dog, by natural instinct, shrank closer to his defender.
“But he’s all right,”
protested Mr. Chewitt; “he’s a good dog. He followed me all the way from the
car track; stuck to me like a brother, as it were, and I’m not going to send
him away hungry. Good doggie, good doggie, ain’t you, old fellow?” and Chewitt
stroked the head of his new-found friend sympathetically.
“He’s a great, nasty,
ugly-looking brute, and I don’t want him in the house, and what’s more I’m not
going to have him. I have the cleaning up to do,” persisted Mrs. Chewitt,
decidedly.
“Just a moment, dear,
and I’ll let him out; poor old fellow, he’s hungry and I shall give him a bite
to eat, won’t I, old chap? Course I will, good doggie,” and Chewitt started for
the pantry, the dog following closely.
“Don’t let him in
there!” shrieked Mrs. Chewitt, and the dog, frightened by her shrill voice,
darted ahead of Chewitt through the door.
“Well,” said Mrs.
Chewitt, sweeping majestically into the dining room, “when you have done with
feeding stray curs and have gotten the kitchen hoed out I will proceed to put
your dinner on the table.”
“But he’s not a cur,
Julia,” protested Chewitt, turning in the door and calling after her. “If you
knew anything about dogs you could easily see that. He’s blooded stock; simon
pure Irish setter, handsome and intelligent. O, I know dogs from A. to Z. I
tell you he’s all right.”
Chewitt was about to
say something additional when a crash came from behind him, and as he turned to
see what the matter was the blooded stock shot past him with a pound of
porterhouse steak grasped firmly between his jars. Seeing no other outlet from
the kitchen the dog headed for the dining room. Mrs. Chewitt caught a glimpse
of dangling, red meat, backed by two fierce looking eyes, and letting out a
shriek she fled to her bedroom and slammed the door.
The dog circled the
dining room several times, then met Chewitt who was coming with an uplifted
broom, face to face at the threshold.
“Charge! Charge!” he
commanded.
The blooded stock
failed to obey orders, but sailed between his benefactor’s legs into the
kitchen.
“Charge I tell you!”
roared Chewitt, striking at the dog and hitting the gas range between the eyes.
Towser again took to
the dining room, upsetting Mrs. Chewitt’s pet fern. A loud crash resounded
throughout the flat, followed by shrieks from the bedroom, growls from the
bloodied stock and curses from the one who had taken him in.
“Let him out! Let him
out!” screamed Mrs. Chewitt from behind her locked door.
“Not until he gives
up that piece of meat, dod gast him!” shouted her husband, now armed with a
rolling pin in one hand and a stove poker in the other.
Stealthily he entered
the dining room. Towser was crouched under the table. Chewitt tiptoed around
behind him with uplifted pin. It was close quarters in which to make a
bulls-eye. The pan descended, but not on the blooded stock. It simply took a
chunk out of the gingerbread work that decorated the middle leg of the table.
With a growl and a mad scramble the dog once more sought to kitchen.
“Let him out, I say!”
Again commanded Mrs. Chewitt. “Let him have the meat! He’s a good dog, and you
wanted to feed him!” this sarcastically.
It seemed the only
wise course to pursue and after a moment’s debate with himself Chewitt sidled
through the kitchen and opened the back door. He didn’t have to tell Towser
that the door was ajar. He was an intelligent dog and knew what to do when the
opportunity offered. A streak of blooded stock shot into the night, followed by
a half-filled coal scuttle.
A moment later Mrs.
Chewitt appeared. After coldly surveying the wreckage she surveyed her husband.
“He was a stranger
and I took him in,” said Chewitt, meekly.
“Yes, and he took
your dinner; that’s the only satisfactory thing to me about it,” snapped his
wife. “Now you can eat vegetables and pie for dinner. It serves you just
right.”
“I didn’t care for
meat tonight, anyway,” returned Chewitt, sulkily.
“O, no, of course
not; but if I had had none something would have dropped. I suppose you would
have given it to Fido, anyway, wouldn’t you?”
Chewitt didn’t deem a
reply necessary and went out after the coal scuttle.
(undated)
Friday, January 1, 2021
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)