Friday Funny: Oh! you naughty man!

Somehow over a year has slipped by since my last post. Since today is Friday, and I still have many post cards from my collection that I have not yet shared, here's a slightly risqué one from 1907.

 

It depicts an man and a woman seated on a bench in the park. The caption records their conversation:

What are you thinking about Tommy?
Same as you.
Oh! you naughty man!

The way they are looking at one another, it is easy to guess what their thoughts may be.

The back bears the address

Miss Marion Corelli
228 ½ Wash St
Portland
    Ore

and is postmarked 25 May 1908 from Astoria, about 95 miles away on the Oregon coast.

The message is signed with the initials "GWG" and reads

How are you feeling
today little lady,
Can't say when I will
be back to the city,
soon I hope.

With some cursory research, I have been unable to identify either Miss Marion Corelli or GWG. A Marion Correlli appears in Portland city directories in the early 1900s, with the intriguing occupation of palmist, but the address is not on Wash or Washington street, so the identification is uncertain.

Friday Funny: A Strange Christmas Party

Recently, while browsing around at the British Newspaper Archive, I stumbled across a charming tongue-in-cheek article about a Christmas party, with the surprising facet of apparently being a thinly-veiled protest against a recently-passed muzzle law. Although it is long, as a dog lover I enjoyed the copious details and imaginative anthropomorphism. At first I intended to simply amuse myself for a few minutes with reading the article, but something about it has stuck with me, and I have at length decided to share it in this blog post, despite its length. (My fingers will become muscle-bound with the typing!)

A St. Bernard dog
Image by b1-foto from Pixabay

A STRANGE CHRISTMAS PARTY.

BY AN IMAGINATIVE DOGMATIST.

A curious incident happened at the office of this paper one day last week. A large St. Bernard dog, waving his beautiful bushy tail in the air, walked quietly into the front office, and deliberately mounted on his hind legs, putting his front paws on the top of the desk. In this position the magnificent fellow’s head touched the brass rail, and the sudden apparition of a large shaggy face so startled the good gentlemen working at the desk, that, with a wonderful unanimity, they struck a bee-line for safety. “A bear from the menagerie,” thought our cashier, as he doubled up under the counter; an office boy, who had climbed to the top of a pile of newspapers, opined it was a lion broken loose from the same establishment—said boy’s zoological information being hazy. Meanwhile the St. Bernard, with his eyes smiling kindly (and dogs can smile, you know!) got impatient, and uttered a series of muffled barks, which made the accountant barricade his fortress behind the stove with an office stool. While the panic was in full force, I happened to enter the office, and, recognizing the dog as an old friend, cried out, “Hullo, old chap!” At once he bounded towards me, and before I could pat his back, or pass the time of day with him, he with some dignity dropped a package at my feet, and walked slowly out and down the street. Astonished, I picked up what he had dropped from his mouth, against the advice of the clerical staff, who had emerged from their retirement, and now suggested the parcel was an infernal machine—or an unpaid bill. It certainly was mysterious upon examination. The outside wrapping was a piece of old newspaper, so disposed that the headline, “Essex County Chronicle,” stood out bold and clear as the address. This was loosely and clumsily tied over a hard, heavy substance with long silky hair, which subsequently proved to have come from a collie’s tail. Eager now to solve the mystery, I tore open the wrapping and came upon a curved piece of earthenware, which had evidently formed part of a platter, and on the back of which was scrawled a message that, after a lot of trouble, we deciphered as follows:--

The gentleman who kindly attended a meeting held by the canine race to protest against the pestilential muzzle is warmly invited to join them at a Xmas party to be held at—

But I am not going to give my doggy friends away by telling you of their retreat. The epistle was signed “Hugo,” who, as chairman of the committee of management, was no doubt asked, “Will Hugo and invite him?”

 

(I will interrupt here to admit that it took me several readings to realize that “Will Hugo and invite him?” is a pun on “Will you go and invite him?” and I mention it here for the benefit of other modern readers whose abilities are similarly sluggish.)

I took the broken platter to the editor and told him the simple story. Once having satisfied himself that Christmas festivities had not produced cerebral congestion, he said, “Go by all means, and write us something about the party.”

So I went. Following the instructions on my invitation, I presently found myself in a dark and sloppy yard, with all the buildings shut up and gloomy. “No festivities here,” I muttered, as I withdrew one foot from a slimy puddle, “I must have mistaken the place.” Just then, I heard a door open up aloft (not “a loft,” friend printer; let us not wound tender susceptibilities); and I could see the wavy outline of Hugo. “Hist!” he called out in an undertone (once again I could understand that mysterious dog-language!) “Come up these steps.” With some difficulty I climbed up a steep ladder, and shook him heartily by the paw. Drawing a heavy curtain aside, he led me into a warm and well-lighted room, where I was welcomed with a multitude of happy barks and tail-waggings from the assembled canines. It was a hearty spontaneous greeting, quite free from effete conventionalities, as I recognised when a large black retriever licked my face in the exuberance of his feelings and a crowd of smaller dogs spoilt the symmetry of my pants with their forepaws. A French poodle caught hold of my right hand and hung on with his teeth con amore; with the other hand I restrained a spaniel and a terrier from pulling off my coattails. Ah! it was a cheerful welcome, and very jolly—when one got over the first shock. A number of puppies—curly black balls of retrievers and pert little rough-coated terriers—curved their tiny backbones at my presence and uttered barks of defiance, which were at once sternly checked by their angry parents. At last I was able to retreat to a friendly corner and survey the scene.

The room—I again refrain from saying the loft—had apparently been used to stack hay in, for there were little wisps here and there on the uneven floor, and in the cobwebs which were spun from the rafters above.

 

(I interrupt again to declare that I have no idea why the idea of a loft might be offensive, and plead that if anyone can enlighten me, please do!)

Not much of the roof could you see; for the walls and cross-beams were hung with a curious collection of rugs, shawls, coats, and table cloths, white and patterned. The lighting was also peculiar. In one corner glimmered a horn stable lantern; here and there dips were stuck in their own grease, and these dips, I noticed, were all scored with teeth-marks; a bedroom candlestick stood on a box; while from the centre beam hung a large brass drawing-room lamp. About thirty ladies and gentlemen were present, all most smartly got up in their cleanest and best fur. Several black and brown retrievers with white shirt fronts strutted about with that conscious full-chestedness that is sometimes noticeable in the ballrooms of other orders of animals. As for the plum-pudding dog, by nature so very Christmasy, he quite took the shine out of several lady pugs and the black poodle, whose curls had been most artistically treated.

(I looked it up: a plum-pudding dog is another name for a Dalmatian.)

They all sat or reclined in characteristic groups. Here was a lady fox terrier talking about sporting prospects to a beautiful setter, her two little pups peering out from over her haunches with sharp, black eyes full of astonishment. A group of young sirs were lolling and sniffing about near the door, casting doggish eyes at the girls the other end, whose coquettish barks and the smart [illegible] of whose caudal appendages were invitations sufficient to warrant a walk in that direction, had they but the courage. A couple of Great Danes were conversing in sonorous tones with a diminutive Dachshund, who had pronounced views on art. Near several dogs who were [discussing?] with much animation the price of Spratt’s biscuits and the relative merits of their flavours, reclined an immense Newfoundland, looking up adoringly into the eyes of his sweetheart, just as Hamlet glanced into Ophelia’s face during the acting of his play before the King. Watching the couple were a group of matrons who spoke in cautious voices. “A great pity,” I heard one whisper, “she might have had young so-and-so, who is in charge of his master’s yard, and has a kennel all to himself, with no limit as to perquisites. And yet she throws herself away upon that lanky fellow there, who hasn’t a bone to sharpen his teeth upon, and sleeps on a sack in a cart!” She looked disparagingly at the Newfoundland, and scratched her head with a hind leg in a contemptuous manner. With a suspicion that I had heard something of the sort before in human society, I hastened to meet Hugo, whom I saw approaching with stately tread.

“Yes, I’ll tell you all about it with pleasure,” he remarked, as we sat down, I on a box and he on his haunches. “We all bring what we can lay our teeth upon in the matter of decoration. Rather an odd assortment to deal with, but I flatter myself they are hung with some taste,” and he cocked his head on one side with a look of conscious merit. “You see, we always have an annual gathering of this sort—a social tea, we call it, and by the way, I see you people have imitated us in that way lately. Helps to unite the community? Well (doubtfully), not much, I think. It brings the youngsters together—let’s ’em flirt, you know, under proper guidance. But the women get so jealous. Ever since my mother died—you’ll pardon this tear—”

“Take my handkerchief,” I asked sympathetically. But he did it with his left paw.

“She used to see to the catering, you know, but when she succumbed to circumstances—was killed because she bit off a child’s finger in play—it was agreed that the ladies should share the expenses and bring what each could. You never saw such jealousy! Perfectly disgraceful! Notice the smug smile on that lady retriever’s upper jaw? Not the one who is picking her teeth with a herring bone. The other. Yes, that one. Well, she brought that leg of mutton there—the best joint of the evening. Such pride, my dear fellow! Quite astonishing. I am afraid to ask the name of her butcher. It would be too personal and might lead to painful exposures. Then that black-nosed pug on the right. Her share was a bag of chicken bones and a lot of beautiful gravy all in a jelly. That’s why she looked at the ceiling so much. It’s her way of showing her ineffable conceit. But I see the time is come for our tea. Pardon me”—and he trotted off.

We all sat down together, and were as jolly a Christmas party as you could wish. It is true that a sharp-nosed terrier upset the things by jumping up in haste and running to a corner. She apologised, however, and said she thought a rat ran across and she could not withstand the temptation. There was a little difference of opinion between the Pug and Great Dane, and I heard the former mutter something about the invasion of poor Germans to live on the fat of the land. To my surprise, also, an Irish terrier showed a glistening set of teeth at me and said I had reported his speech at the meeting of protest in a manner that was ridiculous. But everything was settled amicably. I squatted cross-legged on the floor so as to be on an equality with my four-footed friends. It was a trifle awkward and productive of cramp in the knee-joints, but I said nothing. First of all Hugo handed round a bone each, the size varying with the size of the recipient. I was rather alarmed at the idea of gnawing a bone, but Hugo passed me a package of buns, which I understood had been borrowed by a confectioner’s dog. How they spread themselves luxuriously on the floor and held the bones in their front paws while they worked away with their teeth! And the puppies, who had the tender chicken-bones! Presently, when that course was finished, a miscellaneous collection of crusts and pickings was distributed, and then came the chief joint—the leg of mutton. How their eyes glistened, how their great red tongues licked their mouths in anticipation. As dogs despise knives, Hugo decided, after some hesitation, to let each one worry the joint while he counted ten, the turn to go by priority of breed and station. I was surprised to learn that they had a strict code of precedence and caste distinctions as minute as you ever heard of. The joint was soon gone. It was wonderful to see the way they tore off the flesh while Hugo gravely counted ten. As an instance of the loving generosity of the race, it may be mentioned that a poor old collie, whose teeth were almost gone, was unanimously awarded a large strip of meat torn off by Hugo, to be eaten at leisure! The pot of gravy was eagerly lapped up, and the only other liquid refreshment was water, all the gentlemen carrying little round tins of the liquid in their teeth to the ladies. Before this was done I produced a flask of good old Scotch, and obtained Hugo’s permission to flavour—just flavour, you know, the water with it. He said they were strictly temperate as a rule—but this was Christmas time—he had no great objection, and so on. The spirits had a great effect upon the bow-wows. Their eyes sparkled, their ears cocked up, and the conversation at once became more general and more animated. When the dancing was announced, loud barks of approval were heard on all sides, and all the young fellows secured the best partners.

While they were promenading the room on their hind legs, Hugo came to me with an air of perplexity which wrinkled up his broad forehead. “We’re in a fix,” he said, “a dog of our acquaintance who has great musical tastes, tastes of no mean order, indeed, has not turned up. The fact is,” he continued, with some hesitation, “he—he travels about the country and turns an organ while his master beats the drum. It appears he is much hurt at being asked to bring his instrument. It wounded his dignity. A dog of delicate sensibilities. Very delicate, indeed.”

“If that’s the trouble, friend Hugo,” I replied, “say no more! I play a little on the piccolo myself, and brought it with me in case it should be of use,”

So while I played they danced, oh! so comically! They had a polka and then a waltz, dancing the latter on all fours, the partners revolving round each other with delightful gravity. Fired by the excitement, added to certain libations from the tin pannikin, Mickey, the Irish terrier, volunteered a real Irish jig, which he gave amid immense enthusiasm. Not to be outdone, a young Collie followed with a Scotch reel, after which refreshments were served (sweets for the ladies) and biscuits, scraps, &c.

Hugo remarked that it was getting late and they must indulge in a final howl and take their leave. First of all, however, he thanked me for coming round, and said some very handsome things about the way I had supported their fight for liberty from the obnoxious muzzle. [Applause.] Thank God, he said, they had thrown off the yoke, they had rid them of the muzzles for ever.

A sudden thought came into my mind. “Is it possible, ladies and gentlemen,” I cried, “that you know not the news?”

“What news?” growled the Danes, and all perked up their heads in alarm.

“Why, don’t you know that the Board of Agriculture has issued an order requiring all dogs to be muzzled in public places? That order, alas! applies to nearly all England, and will commence with the new year!”

Never saw I such happiness changed to suddenly to dismay and gloom. All sorts of wild schemes were proposed, and one bold deerhound suggested that they should march in a body through the land and devastate the towns en route.

At last Hugo stilled the confusion with a deep chest note, and said:

“Alas! my children, there is no help for it. You must submit. Now go home quietly. This is a sorry ending to our Christmas party. Good bye.”

Obedient to the word of command, they all slunk home, a sorrowful set of dogs, with their tails between their legs and their heads hanging down. Who will relieve them of this dreadful incubus?

A sorry ending to a Christmas party, indeed. Not all Christmas tales have a happy ending. I shall think with pity of these poor Victorian dogs, and delight in the freedom to walk my dog, muzzle-free, through the town.

Citation:

"A Strange Christmas Party," Essex Newsman, 31 Dec 1889, p. 3, col. 7-8; digital images, British Newspaper Archive (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk : accessed 6 Dec 2020), Image © THE BRITISH LIBRARY BOARD. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Friday Funny: A quiet, grave time

I was recently looking through my small collection of antique post cards, and came across this gem. It is a comic post card depicting a man smoking a pipe and pouring himself a drink while sitting atop the headstone which presumably belonged to his wife. The stone reads:

JANE ANN

DEAR WIFE

OF

JOHN HENPECK

and the caption reads “A quiet, grave time, at last!” At the top, someone has penned in the initials J.W.

On the reverse is a one cent stamp, with a post mark dated 1 Aug 1908 at 9 a.m. in Vancouver, Washington. The card is addressed to Mr. P. Gusted (or perhaps it is Lusted?), Portland, Oregon, and appears to have the memo that it is in care of “W. V. tel. Co.” The correspondence reads,

Hello Nephew,

Will be over Sun. morning if everything is Ho-K.

and it is signed either “your Uncy. Geo.” or “your Uncy. Leo.”

A quick Ancestry search through Portland city directories revealed no P. Gusted or P. Lusted, although there were others of both those surnames. I was reluctant to attempt more in-depth research, so I can currently shed no light on the recipient of this card. The sender is even more mysterious, as he signed only his first name. As for the initials “J. W.” on the front of the card—well, I have no idea what those mean.

Friday Funny: Straw Hats

A straw boater such as might have been worn on the streets of Omaha.

Attribution: Elf [GFDL (www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons

It seems that fashion was important municipal business in 1913. I ran across this article on the Chronicling America website. It is from page 12 of the 13 Sept 1913 edition of the Omaha Daily Bee. Aren’t you glad that city government took such an interest in personal style?

Days of the Straw Hat Are Numbered by Mayor’s Order

Because of the long, hot, dry season, Mayor James C. Dahlman will permit straw hats on the streets to September 15, but thereafter the mayor positively declares he will put a gatling gun in the hands of a policeman and destroy all straw lids. The mayor issued the following proclamation today:

Now that the long hot, dry summer of 1913 is a thing of the past, I feel justified in fixing a definite date for sending straw hats to the cellar. I therefore name September 15 as the last day that straw hats will be allowed to appear on our streets. A gatling gun will be placed at Nineteenth and Farnam streets in the hands of the best gunner on the police force, with instructions to pick them off wherever discovered. So. Mr. Strawhat, you have fair warning.

I certainly hope that this was a joke! You can read the article in its original newspaper form here.