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THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT

Some folks are of an artistic nature; some folks are satisfied if things are useful, while others like to have them ornamental as well. A lady friend of ours, up in New Hampshire, belongs to this latter class. She likes to see things about the house look neat and pretty.

One of the things that grated on her artistic sense was the bath tub; it held water all right, and it was clean enough; but it was a plain, unpainted tin affair and she shuddered every time she looked at it. Every time she took a bath she shuddered twice.

One evening while reading The Ladies' Home Journal, she came across the heading – "How to Enamel a Tin Bath Tub." "Ah ha! At last!" She read the article; then she read it again; it was simple enough; she could do it; she knew she could. And she also knew that if it was done, she would have to do it; for Hubbie didn't have the Artistic Temperament worth a cent. He wouldn't have cared if the bath tub was made of old rubber boots; he didn't use it much anyway.

So the next morning she took the clipping from the paper down to the paint store, bought a can of enamel, a bottle of varnish and a paint brush, and after dinner went after that bath tub. First she scrubbed it thoroughly; then she dried it; and then she put on the white enamel; a good job too. But as she stood back and looked at it, it did not quite fill the bill; it was rather thin; the tin showed through in spots. Well, if one coat was good, two coats ought to be better; so she went back and put on another coat. It was a great improvement; wonderful, in fact; a third coat would make it look like the finest marble; so on went a third coat.

The next thing, according to the printed directions, was the coat of varnish. Now the man that wrote those directions probably took it for granted that any one using them would know enough to let one coat dry before putting on another; so he did not mention that fact in his directions. And so now, according to directions, our lady friend, not content with putting on three coats of enamel, all at one sitting, proceeded to put on the coat of varnish.

The directions then were to fill the bath tub with cold water and let it set for twenty-four hours.

As this was on a Wednesday, and of course there could be no use for the tub before Saturday, she let the water set until that time, in order to let the paint get "set" good and firm.

Saturday night she went in and let the water out and after admiring the white and gleaming tub for awhile she proceeded to take her bath. Usually, on account of her hatred for the old tin tub, she made this ceremony as short as possible; but to-night, sitting there in this beautiful white tub, she lingered; she could almost close her eyes and imagine herself Cleopatra reclining in her alabaster bath, waited on by slaves; she reached up and got a bottle of perfume from a shelf over her head and perfumed the waters. And she decided that in addition to the regular Saturday night performance she should hereafter play a Wednesday matinée.

But all good things come to an end; and finally she decided to arise; with a sigh she placed her hands on the side of the tub and lifted; with a scream she took her hands off the side of the tub and settled back, and felt. She discovered that this "good thing" had "come to an end" in more ways than one; and that as far as she was able to discover "the end" and "the good thing" were liable to remain together indefinitely; for she had settled into that mess of paint, enamel and varnish, until she and that bath tub had formed an attachment that nothing short of a doctor or a plumber could separate.

For purely personal reasons she did not want to call for either the doctor or the plumber. And much less did she want to explain her predicament to her husband. She always had been in the habit of facing her troubles bravely; but here was a situation where this rule was hard to follow. Another rule she had always tried to follow was to put her troubles behind her; but, although she was now following this rule, somehow it brought no relief.

Meanwhile, while she sat there thinking all these things over, the paint was setting harder than ever; ditto the lady. Something must be done; and she had got to do it herself. So she began a sort of rocking movement; back and forth, side to side, she twisted and writhed. She realized, more than ever, how much she had become attached to that old tin bath tub; she realized how it was going to pain her to break away from it; sometimes she doubted as to whether she could go away and leave it; she wondered if she would have to go through life wearing that darned old tin bath tub.

But she kept weaving back and forth and from side to side and little by little, inch by inch, she could feel something giving way; she was not sure, yet, whether it was the tub, the paint or herself; but something was giving way. And at last, with one agonizing jerk, she broke away and arose to her feet. And then she turned and looked down into the tub to see what had happened; and what she saw there brought a sigh of relief to her lips; for she discovered that she was still intact; and the tub was all there; what had given way was the paint; and gleaming up at her from the bottom of the bath tub, like a full moon through the clouds, was a bright and shining circle of the tin, free from all encumbrance in the shape of paint or varnish.

As I say, she gave a sigh of relief; but almost instantly this sigh of relief was followed by a gasp of dismay. If the paint was gone from the tub, where was it?

Again she discovered that, although her troubles were all behind her, they were still with her. Frantically grasping soap, scrubbing brush and towel she tried to erase the foul stain from her character. But after five minutes' frantic labor she discovered that her trouble was too deep seated for soap and water.

She tried toilet water; witch hazel; bay rum; listerine; any and everything in reach; and the villain still pursued her. Every moment was getting precious now; Hubbie was about due to come home, and if Hubbie ever found out about this – well – life would be one grand sweet laugh to him "from thence henceonward forever." Hastily wrapping her bathrobe about her she went to the telephone and called up the paint store, and in frantic tones asked the paint man what she could use to remove paint from anything. The paint man asked what the paint was on. She said it was on her fingers; and it was – some of it. The man told her to use spirits of turpentine. And she did.

When the lady recovered consciousness – but what's the use; this was told to me in confidence anyway, and I promised not to say a word about it. So I won't.

We were calling on some German friends of ours in Minneapolis. Their daughter's husband had just purchased an automobile and the old folks were all fussed up over it. It was all they could think or talk about. Finally Mother asked me which I considered the best make of car.

"Well," I said, "it is rather a peculiar thing, but our best American cars all seem to have names beginning with the letter P. There is the Pierce Arrow, the Peerless and the Packard – "

"Ja," said Mother eagerly, "and the Puick."

Oh You Pinkie!

"Miss Pink Bump, of Hickory Grove, is visiting at the home of George Flemming." —Milledgville (Ill.) Free Press.

The "Bobbie" Richardsons had just moved from Kansas City to Kalamazoo. They had brought their old colored cook with them, but had had to secure a "local talent" nurse-maid for the two little girls. On the afternoon of their second day in their new home two ladies dropped in to pay their respects to their new neighbors. Mrs. Bobbie hurriedly sent the new nurse-maid upstairs to prepare little Alice and Mary for inspection and went in to receive her visitors.

Everything was progressing finely, when all at once a clear, shrill little voice came floating down the stairway —

"I don't care! company or no company, I will not be washed in spit."

(Wanted: A Nurse-maid. Baptist preferred.)

Tom McRae is the leading lawyer of Prescott, Ark. Before the War the McRaes were large slaveowners; and to this day if one of the colored people gets into any trouble he immediately comes to "Mars' Tom" to help him out. One day last summer the village barber, a big, sporty kind of a young colored chap, came in to Tom's office and said,

"Mars' Tom, I reckons as how I'll have to have you get me a devose frum dat wife of mine."

"A divorce? What are you talking about? If you ever get a divorce from Caroline you will starve to death. You have got one of the best wives in this town."

"No, suh, no, suh, Mars' Tom. Youall don't know dat woman. Dat woman is de mos' 'stravigant woman in the whole State of Arkansas. Mo'nin', noon an' night dat woman is pesterin' me fo' money. Dollar hyar – fo' bits dere – two bits fo' dis and a dime fo' that. I don' dare go home no mo'. No, suh, de only thing that is goin' do me no good is a devose."

"Well, I am astonished," said Tom. "I never dreamed Caroline was that kind of a woman. What does she do with all this money?"

"God knows, Mars' Tom. I hain't never give her none yet."

We were playing in New York. Preceding us on the bill were the Martin Brothers, playing for twenty-two minutes on Xylophones. After the show a friend of ours from Hartford, Conn., joined us at lunch. We were discussing the show and finally he said,

"Will, do you know I could live a long time, and be perfectly happy, if I never heard one of those picket-fence soloists again."

My wife was drinking a glass of iced tea; he kept glancing at it and finally he said,

"Do you know, I can understand anybody drinking that stuff at home; or if somebody had given it to you. But the idea of anybody buying it! and paying for it."

 
Solomon and David were merry kings of old,
About whose pleasant fancies full many a tale is told.
But when old age o'ertook them, with its many, many qualms,
King Solomon wrote the Proverbs and King David wrote the Psalms.
 

In a restaurant window on Thirteenth Street, St. Louis:

"Small Steak, 20 cents. Extra Small Steak, 25 cents."

In a bakery window in Omaha:

"Homemade pize fifteen cents."

"Married: At East Walpole, Mass., Jan. 27th, 1912, Robert P. Bass, Governor of New Hampshire, and Miss Edith Harlan Bird."

(The members of the New Hampshire Fish and Game League will now arise and sing: "What Shall the Harvest Be.")

The hardest luck story I have run across lately was a fellow playing a moving picture house in Salt Lake City who had a check come to him by mail. The check was for twenty-five dollars; and the only man in town who could identify him was a man he owed thirty dollars.

I see there is an act playing in Vaudeville this year by the name of Doolittle & Steel. Make your own jokes.

HOW MIKE DONLIN SHRUNK

The management of the Majestic Theater in Chicago always have a small sign at the side of the stage announcing the headline act for the following week. Upon this particular occasion this sign announced the coming of Mabel Hite and Mike Donlin.

There was a chap sitting down in front with his girl, who wanted her to think that he knew everybody and everything in Vaudeville. You know, one of those people who call all actors and actresses by their first names, and can tell you (incorrectly) all about their private affairs.

Finally it came time for Melville & Higgins to appear; and in order for you to appreciate this incident, I will mention that Mr. Higgins is built on the same general principle as a string bean; he has been known to conceal himself behind an umbrella.

Now when it is time for this act to come on, all the lights in the house are thrown out, and a spot light is thrown on the stage over near the entrance from which they are to come on. It so happened on this occasion that the light just covered the sign announcing "Mabel Hite & Mike Donlin" but did not light up the words "Next Week."

The Bureau of Mis-information down in front, with his lady-love, had just started to look at his program when the lights went out, so that he had been unable to make out who came next. Now he looked up and saw that sign for the first time – "Mabel Hite & Mike Donlin."

"Why, I thought they were here next week," he said. "Now you will see something good."

Just then Melville & Higgins walked out on the stage. The chap down in front started to applaud, then his jaw dropped, and he gasped out,

"My God, how Mike has fallen away."

The manager of a small Moving Picture and Vaudeville Theater in Lincoln, Nebraska, was watching the opening show of the week. A Horizontal Bar came on, two men, one a straight acrobat, the other a clown. As soon as the act was over the manager went back and fired the clown.

"Fired?" said the clown in amazement; "what for?"

"Because you can't do nothin'; you missed every trick you went after; t'other feller is all right; he can work."

Joe Keaton, "the Man With the Table, a Wife and Three Kids," was in three hotel fires inside of fourteen months. But he always managed to get his little family out safe. In addition to doing that, he always managed to save something; and that something was the same every time. When they had all got down the fire escapes, and had reached a place of safety, Joe would find clutched tightly in his hand —a cake of soap.

One night Ezra Kendal left his wife at the elevator in the Union Hotel in Chicago, saying that he would be right up in a few minutes. Two hours later he came up to the room.

"Where have you been all this time, Ezra?" asked his wife.

"I met a couple of Interlocutors downstairs, and I have been doing End Man to them," said Ezra.

Fred Niblo and his wife (Josephine Cohan) were playing at Proctor's 23d Street Theater in New York. Fred always wore a Prince Albert coat in his act. On this day he had considerable trouble in getting his necktie to suit him. Finally he got arranged, slipped on the Prince Albert, buttoned it, took one final look into the glass, and started for the door.

"Where are you going, dear?" asked Mrs. N. in that wifely tone that always makes a man shrink.

"Why, I am going out to do my act," said Fred. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," said Mrs. N., "only I thought perhaps you would want to put some trousers on."

A NIGHT IN BOHEMIA

When George W. Day got married he took awful chances. Well, of course, we all do, for that matter; but George took more than usual, for he married into a Scotch Presbyterian family, and anybody knows that Actors and Scotch Presbyterians were not originally created for Affinities. But George, in addition to being an Actor, is a Musician, an Artist and a Corking Good Fellow, and the wife's folks, after taking him on probation for ten or fifteen years, finally decided that they would accept him into the family.

Up to two or three years ago, Mother-in-law was the only one of the family who had visited Mr. and Mrs. George in their New York home; the rest of the family had continued to reside in Peaceful Valley, or wherever it was, and hope for the best for that poor erring daughter who had fallen victim to the wiles of "a Actor." But finally Mr. and Mrs. George and Mother-in-law had persuaded Mother-in-law's two sisters and one of the sister's husbands to come down to New York and visit the Days.

Uncle Abinidab was a tall, ministerial appearing man, "ninety years of age, and whiskers down to here"; he dressed in a black pair of trousers, a black Prince Albert coat, black tie, and a black slouch hat.

The two aunts wore the black silk dresses that their father had brought from India sixty years ago. Mother-in-law was also dressed in black.

George worked in as many "neutral tints" on his own wardrobe as he could, trying to "tone down" to fit the occasion. The ice box was used for the sole purpose of storing food; George's cigars, pipes and tobacco were locked up in an old trunk in the storeroom. The family Bible was hunted up, dusted, and placed in a conspicuous position on the centertable in the front room. George carefully censored his drawings which were stuck up on the walls all over the house; and any lady who did not have on a Buffalo overcoat and rubber boots was placed out in the trunk with the pipes.

The week that followed was "one round of gayety" for the folks. George walked off over five pounds showing them the Brooklyn bridge, Central Park, Grant's tomb, Fifth Avenue, Fleischman's bread line, Macy's store, the post-office, Tammany Hall, and every church in the city.

It took them the first five days to play this route. And then on Friday night Mother-in-law horrified George by informing the others that on the next day she and George would show them Coney Island. By going out early in the morning, and in the evenings, and rehearsing his day's route in advance, George had managed so far to conduct his little Company around the city without running them into any "High Life." But he knew that if that crowd ever struck Coney Island on a good busy afternoon, his hopes of becoming a favorite son-in-law were gone.

But Mother insisted, so the next morning he took Deacon Abinidab and the three "sisters in black" and started for Coney Island. Although I have examined him closely on this point, he does not seem to have any very clear idea yet as to where they went that day, or what they did. All he can say is that "it was awful." They insisted on Hot Dogs, Pop Corn, Peanut Brittle, Dreamland, Luna Park, and all the rest; they went through the Old Mill, and they made George come down the "Bump the Bumps," "Shoot the Shoots" and such other exhilarating devices as they did not dare to tackle themselves.

They had supper in Henderson's, watching the Vaudeville show on the stage as they ate. They watched the fireworks, and it was ten o'clock before George could get them started toward home. When he got them on the train, homeward bound, he heaved a sigh of mighty relief, but afterwards regretted wasting a sigh of that sort in that way.

Arriving in New York, they were wending their way up Broadway, near Twenty-ninth Street; Uncle Abinidab had been sort of hanging back for a block or two, looking here and there in a searching kind of way, and finally he took George's arm and said confidentially: "George, laddie, do ye ken a place where we can get a wee nippie?" George didn't know whether the inquiry was on the level, or whether it was a sort of "feeler" to find out how he stood on the temperance question. But he decided to "play safety" so he stated promptly that he did not know of such a place in New York City.

But Mother! Ah ha! That mother-in-law, that since Creation's dawn has been abused and vilified, that mother-in-law, that through all those years George had feared and dreaded; that mother-in-law, at whose approach he had hidden his pipe and tobacco; that mother-in-law that he had never approached without a clove and a stage fright. Now, it was she who spoke up like Horatio at the Bridge and said:

"I know a place."

George was stunned; speechless; if the statue of Horace Greeley just passed, had spoken those words, he couldn't have been more surprised. He looked at her in amazement and asked her what "place" she knew. "Right down this street here," she said; "come on."

And if you guessed a thousand years, you never would guess where that blessed old lady steered those innocent Presbyterians. Into "Bohemia," one of the swiftest, all-night restaurants and dance halls in New York City. Neither Mr. or Mrs. George has ever had the courage to this day to ask how on earth Mother came to even know of the existence of such a place, much less of its locality.

Down Twenty-ninth Street they marched; Mother in the lead, the two sisters next, then Uncle Abinidab "with whiskers down to here," and last, and making himself the "least," he could, with his two hundred and seventy pounds, came George, wondering what the finish would be. The Orchestra, one of those Austrian Table-Dote-with-Red-Wine Affairs, consisting of half a dozen crazy fiddlers and a girl beating one of those woven wire mattress pianos with a couple of sticks, was whooping it up for all they were worth; the loud shrill voices of the women and the hoarse voices of the men, the shouts of the waiters and the clatter of dishes made a very babel of sound.

And then the Presbyterian convention walked in.

The crowd gave one look – and every sound stopped. The Orchestra died away in a discordant wail; the guests stopped, with glasses raised half way to their lips; the waiters stood as if petrified. Old Bohemia had seen many strange sights in its career; but no stranger cavalcade had ever marched in through its portals than this "Peaceful Valley Quartette." The three aged women, dressed in all the simplicity of their village home; Uncle Abinidab, tall, austere and with the snow-white whiskers, and behind them, a big, smooth-faced, broad-shouldered young chap that looked like a Plain Clothes Man in charge.

Four pale, anemic, shifty-eyed young fellows who were seated at a table near the door, took one look at George, reached under their chairs for their hats, and faded away through the door into the night. Mother, with a happy smile, piloted her little brood over to an empty table, and with a graceful gesture, motioned them to be seated. Then, with expectant faces, they all looked at George. Every eye in the place was still focussed on them. The silence and air of expectation which pervaded the room was so tense that everybody jumped when George mustered up courage at last to stammer,

"Er-er-what'll you have?"

The silence grew still more tense as everybody leaned forward to hear the answer. Uncle Abinidab glanced at the sisters nervously, then cleared his throat and said:

"Er-er-hem; I think I'll take a wee drop of whiskey."

There was a deep sigh of relief went up from the whole room, a sigh which swelled to an almost articulate cry of joy as Mother-in-law chimed in, "I think I will too."

The two sisters voted with the majority and George made it unanimous.

Every person in the room, guests, musicians and waiters, as if they could not really believe it yet, watched the drinks brought, and disposed of. Then Mother arose and majestically and calmly led her little flock to the door and out on to the street again. As the parade turned on to Broadway, George looked back, and every doorway and window in Bohemia was crowded with faces. And as the cavalcade passed from sight the Orchestra struck up their wild discordant clamor, the voices and the laughter broke out again, and Bohemia became herself again.

 
One day in June three sweet country Maids
Decided at home no more they'd reside.
So all three together sat out on a tramp
And the tramp died.
 

I asked the old Gate Tender at a park in Columbus, Ohio, what time the electric cars left for the city.

"Quarter past – half past – quarter of and 'at,'" he replied.

Gene Ellsworth (Ellsworth & Burt) was playing the part of Dunston Kirk in the play of Hazel Kirk. At the end of the last act Dunston, who is supposed to be blind, strikes down the villain with his cane. On this occasion, just as 'Gene had his cane raised to strike him, a horseshoe fell from the flies above, struck the villain square on the top of the head, and knocked him cold. 'Gene saw the climax of his scene going, but quick as a flash raised his hand on high and said solemnly,

"Struck down by the hand of an outraged Providence."

James J. Corbett was indulging in one of his semi-annual attacks of acting, and it came along to a place where the villain was to say —

"Then die, you dog," and shoot Jim, who fell, wounded, to the floor.

Upon this occasion the villain spoke the line, pulled the trigger, and Jim fell. But the gun did not go off. Instantly Jim raised himself on his elbow and said in agonized tones —

"My God; shot with an air gun."

Mrs. Filson (Filson & Errol) had lost a ring in the Pullman car; after quite a search the porter found it and brought it to her.

"My Goodness, Lady," he said, "but you certainly is mighty lucky; there was some acters in this cyar las' night, an' ef one of them had found it —good-by ring."