Will Rossiter's Original Talkalogues by American Jokers

HAPPENINGS IN KEROSENELAMPVILLE

Did you see me this morning? My cousin Silas was with me! He’s a good fellow, Silas is! Deacon of the church in Kerosenelampville! Ever been there? If you haven’t you’ve missed a lot—of trouble. I took Silas up to our club one afternoon and when he saw Billy Smith and Chris Lane playing chess he ventured to interrupt the game.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but the object of both of you is to git them wooden things from where they are over to where they ain’t?”

“That partly expresses it,” replied Chris.

“An’ you’ve got to be continually on the lookout fer surprises an’ difficulties?”

“Constantly.”

“And if you ain’t mighty careful you’re going to lose some on ’em?”

“Yes.”

“An’ then there’s that other game I see some of you dress up odd for, an’ play with long sticks an’ a little ball.”

“You mean golf?”

“That’s what I mean. Is that game amusin’?”

“It’s interesting, and the exercise is beneficial.”

“Well, I reckon it’s a mighty good joke.”

“To what do you refer?”

“The way I’ve been havin’ fun without knowing anything about it. If you young gentlemen want to reely enjoy yourselves, you come over to my farm an’ git me to let you drive pigs. You’ll git all the walkin’ you want, an’ the way you have to watch for surprises, an’ slip about so’s not to lose ’em, would tickle you nearly to death.”

One day an artist ambulated into Kerosenelampville, and Silas asked him:

“How much’ll you charge to paint my house with me a-standin’ in the door?”

The artist said fifty dollars, and Silas told him to go ahead with the work.

In due course the painting was finished. But, alas! the careless artist clean forgot to paint my cousin on the picture.

“I like it,” said Silas; “but where’s me, lad—where’s me?”

The error he had made flashed across the artist, but he tried to pass it off with a joke. “O,” he said, “you’ve gone inside to get my fifty dollars.”

“O, have I?” said Silas; “p’r’aps I’ll be coomin’ out soon, and if I dew I’ll pay you; in t’ meantime we’ll hang it up and wait.”

Just as I had entered a barber’s shop to-day and was hanging my top-piece on a nail, a 290-pounder rushed in and said to the only other man in the place—a fellow with his coat and vest off and an apron tied around his waist:

“I want my hair cut, and no talk.”

“The——” began the man in the apron.

“No talk, I tell you!” shouted the heavy man. “Just a plain hair-cut. I’ve read all the papers and don’t want any news. Start away now.”

The man in the apron obeyed.

When he had finished, the man who knew everything rose from his chair and surveyed himself in the glass.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “It’s really true, then? You barbers can’t do your work properly unless you talk.”

“I don’t know,” said the man in the apron, quietly. “You must ask the barber. He’ll be in presently. I’m the glazier from next door.”

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