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HUMOUR OF THE NORTH



SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY

LAWRENCE J. BURPEE



TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
LIMITED


_Entered at
Stationers' Hall_
1912




INTRODUCTORY NOTE


Some day an enterprising editor may find time to glean from the whole
field of Canadian literature a representative collection of wit and
humour. It would include the productions of such acknowledged humorists
as Thomas Chandler Haliburton and George Thomas Lanigan, as well as
specimens of characteristic humour from writers who are better
remembered by their more serious work. It would also include a great
deal of genuine wit and humour, largely anonymous, in such Canadian
periodicals as _Grip_, _Punch in Canada_, the _Grumbler_, the _Free
Lance_, and _Diogenes_; and characteristic passages from the speeches
of such brilliant and witty debaters as Thomas D'Arcy McGee, Joseph
Howe, and Nicholas Flood Davin. The present little collection obviously
makes no such ambitious claim. It embraces, however, what are believed
to be representative examples of the work of some of our better-known
writers, many of which will no doubt be quite familiar to Canadian
readers, but perhaps none the less welcome on that account.

For permission to reproduce these selections the Editor is indebted to
the authors or their representatives, and in the case of the late Dr.
Drummond he is also indebted to the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons,
New York. The selection from Joseph Howe's work is taken from his
_Poems and Essays_; Haliburton's sketches are taken from _The Old
Judge_; those of Dr. Drummond from _The Habitant_, _Johnnie Courteau_,
and _The Voyageur_; that of Mrs. Cotes from her _Social Departure_;
McCarroll's poem from _Madeleine_; Lanigan's Fables from the little
volume published under that title; and DeMille's selection from _The
Dodge Club_. Lanigan's humorous verse was never brought together in
book form.

Ottawa,
_August, 1910_.




CONTENTS


                                                         PAGE

JOSEPH HOWE (1804-1873):
  The Blue Nose                                             1
  To Mary                                                   3
  A Toast (To Haliburton)                                   5

THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON (1796-1865):
  Sheepskins and Politics                                   8
  The Doctor                                               11
  Mother Hunt's Chickens                                   15
  The Deacon's Bargain                                     19

WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND (1854-1907):
  The Corduroy Road                                        22
  Dominique                                                30
  How Bateese came Home                                    34

MRS. EVERARD COTES (1862-):
  The Japanese Reporter                                    46

JAMES McCARROLL (1814-1890):
  The Gray Linnet                                          59

GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN (1845-1886):
  The Ahkoond of Swat                                      61
  The Amateur Orlando                                      64
  The Plumber's Revenge                                    71
  The Merchant of Venice                                   77
  The Unfortunate Elephant                                 78
  The Coroner and the Banana Peel                          79
  The Rhinoceros and the Dromedary                         80
  The Hen and the Tailor                                   82
  The Glow-worm and the Famished Nightingale               83
  The Centipede and the Barbaric Yak                       85
  The Honest Newsboy                                       87
  The Villager and the Snake                               88
  The Ostrich and the Hen                                  90

JAMES DEMILLE (1836-1880):
  The Senator's Laundry                                    91




HUMOUR OF THE NORTH




THE BLUE NOSE


    Let the Student of Nature in rapture descant,
      On the Heaven's cerulean hue;
    Let the Lover indulge in poetical rant,
      When the eyes of his Mistress are blue.

    But fill high your glasses--fill, fill to the brim,
      I've a different toast to propose:
    While such eyes, and such skies, still are beaming for him,
      Here's a health to the jolly Blue Nose.

    Let the Frenchman delight in his vine-covered vales,
      Let the Greek toast his old classic ground;
    Here's the land where the bracing Northwester prevails,
      And where jolly Blue Noses abound.

    Long--long may it flourish, to all of us dear,
      Loved and honoured by hearts that are true;
    But, should ever a foe chance his nose to show here
      He shall find all our Noses true Blue.




TO MARY


    Oh! blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you,
      Nor suppose that my thoughts from the Preacher were straying,
    Tho' I stole a few glances--believe me 'tis true--
      They were sweet illustrations of what he was saying.

    For, when he observed that Perfection was not
      To be found upon Earth--for a moment I bent
    A look upon you--and could swear on the spot
      That perfection in Beauty was not what he meant.

    And when, with emotion, the worthy Divine
      On the doctrine of loving our neighbours insisted,
    I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine,
      I could love every soul of them while I existed.

    And Mary, I'm sure 'twas the fault of those eyes--
      'Twas the lustre of them to the error gave birth--
    That, while he spoke of Angels that dwelt in the Skies,
      I was gazing with rapture at one upon Earth.




A TOAST


    Here's a health to thee, Tom: a bright bumper we drain
      To the friends that our bosoms hold dear,
    As the bottle goes round, and again and again
      We whisper, "We wish _he_ were here."

    Here's a health to thee, Tom: may the mists of this earth
      Never shadow the light of that soul
    Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth
      To illumine the depths of the Bowl.

    With a world full of beauty and fun for a theme,
      And a glass of good wine to inspire,
    E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam
      That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

    Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood,
      Our pleasures are tasteless and dim,
    For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude
      Make us feel we're but happy with him.

    Like the Triumph of old where the _absent one_ threw
      A cloud o'er the glorious scene,
    Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you,
      And think of the nights that have been.

    When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight
      Fled away with the rapturous hours,
    And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night,
      Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.

    When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn,
      Shedding lustre and life where it fell,
    As the sunlight, in which the tall mountain tops burn,
      Paints each bud in the lowliest dell.

    When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed
      With humour and deviltry shone,
    And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed,
      Had mirth in its every tone.

    Then a health to thee, Tom: ev'ry bumper we drain
      But renders thy image more dear,
    As the bottle goes round, and again and again,
      We wish, from our hearts, you were here.




SHEEPSKINS AND POLITICS


You know Uncle Tim; he was small, very small--not in stature, for he
was a six-footer, but small in mind and small in heart; his soul was no
bigger than a flea's. "Zeb, my boy," says he to me one day, "always be
neuter in elections. You can't get nothing by them but ill-will. Dear,
dear! I wish I had never voted. I never did but oncest, and, dear,
dear! I wish I had let that alone. There was an army doctor oncest,
Zeb, lived right opposite to me to Digby: dear, dear! he was a good
friend to me. He was very fond of wether mutton; and, when he killed a
sheep, he used to say to me, 'Friend Tim, I will give you the skin if
you will accept it.' Dear, dear! what a lot of them he gave me, first
and last! Well, oncest the doctor's son, Lawyer Williams, offered for
the town, and so did my brother-in-law, Phin Tucker; and, dear, dear! I
was in a proper fix. Well, the doctor axed me to vote for his son, and
I just up and told him I would, only my relation was candidating also;
but ginn him my hand and promise I would be neuter. Well, I told
brother-in-law the same, that I'd vote for him with pleasure, only my
old friend, the doctor's son, was offering too; and, therefore, gave
him my word also, I'd be neuter. And, oh, dear, dear! neuter I would
have remained too, if it hadn't a-been for them two electioneering
generals--devils, I might say--Lory Scott and Terry Todd. Dear, dear!
somehow or 'nother, they got hold of the story of the sheepskins, and
they gave me no peace day or night. 'What,' says they, 'are you going
to sell your country for a sheepskin?' The day of the election they
seized on me, one by one arm, and the other by the other, and lugged me
off to the poll, whether I would or no.

"'Who do you vote for?' said the sheriff.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' shouted Terry, in one
ear.

"'Would you sell your country for a sheepskin?' bellowed Lory, in the
other ear.

"I was so frightened, I hardly knew what I did; but they tell me I
voted for brother Phin! Dear, dear! the doctor never gave me a
sheepskin while he lived after that. Dear, dear!--that was an ugly vote
for me!"




THE DOCTOR


Old Dr. Green (you knowed him, in course--everybody knowed him) lived
on Digby Neck. He was reckoned a skilful man, and was known to be a
regular rotated doctor; but he drank like a fish (and it's actilly
astonishing how many country doctors have taken to drink), and, of
course, he warn't always a very safe man in cases where a cool head and
a steady hand was needed (though folks did say he knowed a plaguey
sight more, even when he was drunk, than one-half of them do when they
are sober). Well, one day old Jim Reid, who was a pot-companion of his,
sent him a note to come into town immediately, without the loss of one
moment of time, and bring his amputating instruments with him, for
there was a most shocking accident had happened to his house. So in
come the doctor as hard as he could drive, looking as sorry, all the
time, as if he didn't live by misfortunes and accidents, the old
hypocrite!

"My dear friend," said he solemnly, to Reid, and a-taking of him by the
hand, and giving it a doleful shake--"My dear friend, what is the
matter?--who is hurt? And what the devil is to pay now? How thankful we
all ought to be that the accident hasn't occurred to one whom we all
respect so much as you!"

And then he unpacked his instruments, off with his coat, and up with
his sleeves; and, with one hand, pulls a hair out of his head, and,
with the other, takes his knife and cuts it in two, to prove the edge
was all right. Then he began to whistle while he examined his saw, for
nothing puts these chaps in such good humour as cutting and slashing
away at legs and arms--operating, as they call it--and, when all was
ready, says he--

"Reid," says he, a-tapping him on the shoulder, "where is the patient?"

Well, Reid opened the door of another room, and there was a black boy
a-holding of a duck on the table that had broke his leg!

"There is a case for amputation, doctor!" said he; "but, first of all,
take a glass of brandy and water to steady your nerves. He knows you,"
says he; "hear him how he calls out Quack, quack! after you, as if he
was afraid to let you perform on him."

Well, the doctor entered into the joke as good-natured as possible,
laughed like anything, whipped down the grog, whipped off the leg, and
whipped up the knives and saws in no time.

"You must stay to dine, doctor," said Reid (for the joke was only
intended to get him into town to drink along with him); and he stayed
to dine, and stayed to sup, and, being awful drunk, stayed to bed, too.

Well, every time Reid saw him arter that in town, he asked him to come
in and see his patient, which meant to come in and drink; and so he did
as long as the cask of rael, particular Jamaikey lasted.

Some time after that the old fellow sent in a bill for operating,
making a wooden leg, medical attendance, and advice, per order, for
twenty-five pounds; and, what's more, when Reid wouldn't pay it, the
doctor sued him for it to court, and gained his cause. Fact, I assure
you.




MOTHER HUNT'S CHICKENS


Five years ago, come next summer, the old lady made a trip to Halifax,
in one of our Digby coasters, to see sister Susannah, that is married
in that city to Ted Fowler, the upholsterer, and took a whole lot of
little notions with her to market to bear expenses; for she is a saving
kind of body, is mother, and likes to make two ends meet at the close
of the year. Among the rest, was the world and all of eggs, for she was
a grand hand in a poultry-yard. Some she stowed away in boxes, and some
in baskets, and some in tubs, so that no one accident could lose them
all for her. Well, under the berths in the cabin were large drawers for
bedding; and she rotated that out, and packed them full of eggs in
wool, as snug as you please, and off they started on their voyage.
Well, they had nothing but calms, and light airs, or head winds, and
were ever so long in getting to town; and, when they anchored, she got
her duds together, and began to collect her eggs all ready for landing.
The first drawer she opened, out hopped ever so many chickens on the
cabin floor, skipping and hopping about, a-chirping, "Chick, chick,
chick!" like anything!

"Well, if that don't beat all!" said mother, and she looked the very
picture of doleful dumps. "I hope there is no more of them a-coming
into the world that way, without being sent for!" and she opened a
second, and out came a second flock, with a "Chick, chick, chick!" and
another, and another, till she pulled them all out. The cabin floor was
chockful of them; for the heat and confined bilge air had hatched all
the eggs that were in the close and hot drawers.

Oh, the captain, and passengers, and sailors, they roared with
laughter! Mother was awful mad, for nothing makes one so angry as
accidents that set folks off a tee-hee-ing that way. If anybody had
been to blame but herself, wouldn't they have caught it, that's all?
for scolding is a great relief to a woman; but as there warn't, there
was nothing left but to cry: and scolding and crying are two
safety-valves that have saved many a heart from busting.

Well, the loss was not great, though she liked to take care of her
coppers, too; it was the vexation that worried her. But the worst was
to come yet. When she returned home, the boys to Digby got hold of the
story; and, wherever she went, they called out after her "Chick, chick,
chick!" I skinned about half-a-dozen of the little imps of mischief for
it, but it only made them worse; for they hid in porches, and behind
doors, and gates, and fences, as seen her a-coming, and roared out,
"Chick, chick, chick!" and nearly bothered her to death. So she give up
going out any more, and never leaves home now. It's my opinion, her
rheumatism is nothing but the effect of want of exercise, and all comes
from that cursed "Chick, chick, chick!"




THE DEACON'S BARGAIN


Old Deacon Bruce of Aylesford, last Monday week, bought a sleigh of his
fellow-deacon, Squire Burns, for five pounds. On his way home with it,
who should he meet but Zeek Morse, a-trudging along through the snow
a-foot.

"Friend Zeek," says the old Christian, "won't you get in and ride?
Here's room for you and welcome."

"Don't care if I do," said Zeek, "seeing that sitting is as cheap as
walking, if you don't pay for it." So he hops in, and away they go.

Well, Zeek was mightily taken with the sleigh.

"Deacon," says he, "how shall you and me trade for it? It's just the
article I want, for I am a-going down to Bridgetown next week to be
married; and it will suit me to a notch to fetch Mrs. Morse, my wife,
home in. What will you take for