Happiness and laughter are
two of the most beautiful
things in the world, for they
are of the few that are purely
unselfish. Laughter is not
for yourself, but for others.
When people are happy they
present a cheerful spirit,
which finds its reflection
in every one they meet, for
happiness is as contagious
as a yawn. Of all the emotions,
laughter is the most versatile,
for it plays equally well
the role of either parent
or child to happiness.
Then can we say too much
in praise of the men who
make us laugh? God never
gave a man a greater gift
than the power to make others
laugh, unless it is the
privilege of laughing himself.
We honor, revere, admire
our great soldiers, statesmen,
and men of letters, but
we love the man who makes
us laugh.
No other man to-day enjoys
to such an extent the close
personal affection, individual
yet national, that is given
to Mr. Samuel L. Clemens.
He is ours, he is one of
us, we have a personal pride
in him-dear "Mark Twain,"
the beloved child of the
American nation. And it
was through our laughter
that he won our love.
He is the exponent of the
typically American style
of fun-making, the humorous
story. I asked Mr. Clemens
one day if he could remember
the first money he ever
earned. With his inimitable
drawl he said:
"Yes, Marsh, it was
at school. All boys had
the habit of going to school
in those days, and they
hadn't any more respect
for the desks than they
had for the teachers. There
was a rule in our school
that any boy marring his
desk, either with pencil
or knife, would be chastised
publicly before the whole
school, or pay a fine of
five dollars. Besides the
rule, there was a ruler;
I knew it because I had
felt it; it was a darned
hard one, too. One day I
had to tell my father that
I had broken the rule, and
had to pay a fine or take
a public whipping; and he
said:
"'Sam, it would be
too bad to have the name
of Clemens disgraced before
the whole school, so I'll
pay the fine. But I don't
want you to lose anything,
so come upstairs.'
"I went upstairs with
father, and he was for-giving
me. I came downstairs with
the feeling in one hand
and the five dollars in
the other, and decided that
as I'd been punished once,
and got used to it, I wouldn't
mind taking the other licking
at school. So I did, and
I kept the five dollars.
That was the first money
I ever earned."
The humorous story as expounded
by Mark Twain, Artemus Ward,
and Robert J. Burdette,
is purely American. Artemus
Ward could get laughs out
of nothing, by mixing the
absurd and the unexpected,
and then backing the combination
with a solemn face and earnest
manner. For instance, he
was fond of such incongruous
statements as: "I once
knew a man in New Zealand
who hadn't a tooth in his
head," here he would
pause for some time, look
reminiscent, and continue:
"and yet he could beat
a base-drum better than
any man I ever knew."
Robert J. Burdette, who
wrote columns of capital
humor for The Burlington
Hawkeye and told stories
superbly, on his first visit
to New York was spirited
to a notable club, where
he told stories leisurely
until half the hearers ached
with laughter, and the other
half were threatened with
apoplexy. Everyone present
declared it the red-letter
night of the club, and members
who had missed it came around
and demanded the stories
at secondhand. Some efforts
were made to oblige them,
but without avail, for the
tellers had twisted their
recollections of the stories
into jokes, and they didn't
sound right, so a committee
hunted the town for Burdette
to help them out of their
difficulty.
Humor is the kindliest method
of laugh-making. Wit and satire
are ancient, but humor, it has been
claimed, belongs to modern times.
A certain type of story, having
a sudden and terse conclusion to
a direct statement, has been labeled
purely American. For instance: "Willie
Jones loaded and fired a cannon
yesterday. The funeral will be to-morrow."
But the truth is, it is older than
America; it is very venerable. If
you will turn to the twelfth verse
of the sixteenth chapter of II.
Chronicles, you will read:
"And Asa in the thirty-ninth
year of his reign was diseased
in his feet, until his disease
was exceeding great; yet in his
disease he sought not the Lord,
but turned to the physicians-and
Asa slept with his fathers."
Bill Nye was a sturdy and persistent
humorist of so good a sort that
he never could help being humorous,
yet there was never a sting in
his jokes. Gentle raillery was
the severest thing he ever attempted,
and even this he did with so genial
a smile and so merry an eye, that
a word of his friendly chaffing
was worth more than any amount
of formal praise.
Few of the great world's great
despatches contained so much wisdom
in so few words as Nye's historic
wire from Washington:
"My friends and money gave
out at 3 A.M."
Eugene Field, the lover of little
children, and the self-confessed
bibliomaniac, gives us still another
sort of laugh-the tender, indulgent
sort. Nothing could be finer than
the gentle reminiscence of "Long
Ago," a picture of the lost
kingdom of boyhood, which for
all its lightness holds a pathos
that clutches one in the throat.
And yet this writer of delicate
and subtle humor, this master
of tender verse, had a keen and
nimble wit. An ambitious poet
once sent him a poem to read entitled
"Why do I live?" and
Field immediately wrote back:
"Because you sent your poem
by mail."
Laughter is one of the best medicines
in the world, and though some
people would make you force it
down with a spoon, there is no
doubt that it is a splendid tonic
and awakens the appetite for happiness.
Colonel Ingersoll wrote on his
photograph which adorns my home:
"To the man who knows that
mirth is medicine and laughter
lengthens life."
Abraham Lincoln, that divinely
tender man, believed that fun
was an intellectual impetus, for
he read Artemus Ward to his Cabinet
before reading his famous emancipation
proclamation, and laying down
his book marked the place to resume.
Joel Chandler Harris, whose delightful
stories of negro life hold such
a high place in American literature,
told me a story of an old negro
who claimed that a sense of humor
was necessary to happiness in
married life. He said:
"I met a poor old darkey
one day, pushing a wheelbarrow
loaded with cooking utensils and
household effects. Seeing me looking
curiously at him, he shook his
head and said:
"'I cain't stand her no
longer, boss, I jes' nash'ully
cain't stand her no longer.'
"'Well, you see, suh, she
ain't got no idee o' fun-she won't
take a joke nohow. The other night
I went home, an' I been takin' a
little jes' to waam ma heart-das
all, jes to waam ma heart-an' I
got to de fence, an' tried to climb
it. I got on de top, an' thar I
stays; I couldn't git one way or
t'other. Then a gem'en comes along,
an' I says, "Would you min'
givin' me a push?" He says,
"Which way you want to go?"
I says, "Either way-don't make
no dif'unce, jes' so I git off de
fence, for hit's pow'ful oncom'fable
up yer." So he give me a push,
an' sont me over to'ard ma side,
an' I went home. Then I want sum'in
t' eat, an' my ol' 'ooman she wouldn'
git it fo' me, an' so, jes' fo'
a joke, das all-jes' a joke, I hit
'er awn de haid. But would you believe
it, she couldn't take a joke. She
tu'n aroun', an' sir, she sail inter
me sum'in' scan'lous! I didn' do
nothin', 'cause I feelin' kind o'weak
jes' then-an' so I made up ma min'
I wasn' goin' to stay with her.
Dis mawnin' she gone out washin',
an' I jes' move right out. Hit's
no use tryin' to live with a 'ooman
who cain't take a joke!'"
From the poems of Thomas Bailey
Aldrich to George Ade's Fables
in Slang is a far cry, but one
is as typical a style of humor
as the other. Ade's is the more
distinctly original, for he not
only created the style, but another
language. The aptness of its turns,
and the marvelous way in which
he hit the bull's-eye of human
foibles and weaknesses lifted
him into instantaneous popularity.
A famous bon mot of George Ade's
which has been quoted threadbare,
but which serves excellently to
illustrate his native wit, is
his remark about a suit of clothes
which the tailor assured him he
could never wear out. He said
when he put them on he didn't
dare to.
From the laughter-makers pure
and simple, we come to those who,
while acknowledging the cloud,
yet see the silver lining-the
exponents of the smile through
tears.
The best of these, Frank L. Stanton,
has beautifully said:
"This world that we're a-livin'
in
Is mighty hard to beat;
With every rose you get a thorn,
But ain't the roses sweet?"
He does not deny the thorns,
but calls attention to the sweetness
of the roses-a gospel of compensation
that speaks to the heart of all;
kind words of cheer to the weary
traveler.
Such a philosopher was the kind-hearted
and sympathetic Irish boy who,
walking along with the parish
priest, met a weary organ-grinder,
who asked how far it was to the
next town. The boy answered, "Four
miles." The priest remonstrated:
"Why, Mike, how can you
deceive him so? You know it is
eight."
"Well, your riverence,"
said the good-natured fellow,
"I saw how tired he was,
and I wanted to kape his courage
up. If I'd told him the truth,
he'd have been down-hearted intirely!"
This is really a jolly old world,
and people are very apt to find
just what they are looking for.
If they are looking for happiness,
the best way to find it is to
try to give it to others. If a
man goes around with a face as
long as a wet day, perfectly certain
that he is going to be kicked,
he is seldom disappointed.
A typical exponent of the tenderly
human, the tearfully humorous, is
James Whitcomb Riley-a name to conjure
with. Only mention it to anyone,
and note the spark of interest,
the smiling sigh, the air of gentle
retrospection into which he will
fall. There is a poem for each and
every one, that commends itself
for some special reason, and holds
such power of memory or sentiment
as sends it straight into the heart,
to remain there treasured and unforgotten.
In these volumes are selections
from the pen of all whom I have
mentioned, as well as many more,
including a number by the clever
women humorists, of whom America
is justly proud.
It is with pride and pleasure
that I acknowledge the honor done
me in being asked to introduce
this company of fun-makers-such
a goodly number that space permits
the mention of but a few. But
we cannot have too much or even
enough of anything so good or
so necessary as the literature
that makes us laugh. In that regard
we are like a little friend of
Mr. Riley's.
The Hoosier poet, as everyone
knows, is the devoted friend,
companion, and singer of children.
He has a habit of taking them
on wild orgies where they are
turned loose in a candy store
and told to do their worst. This
particular young lady had been
allowed to choose all the sorts
of candy she liked until her mouth,
both arms, and her pockets were
full. Just as they got to the
door to go out, she hung back,
and when Mr. Riley stooped over
asking her what was the matter,
she whispered:
"Don't you think it smells
like ice cream?"
Poems, stories, humorous articles,
fables, and fairy tales are offered
for your choice, with subjects
as diverse as the styles; but
however the laugh is gained, in
whatever fashion the jest is delivered,
the laugh-maker is a public benefactor,
for laughter is the salt of life,
and keeps the whole dish sweet.
Merrily yours,
Marshall P. Wilder.
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