Life — February 19, 1885 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

> LIFE: HOW WE DO IT.—No. 3. BY G. WASHINGTON CABLE. OssAWATOMIE SWAMP, La., December 25th. AM very glad indeed to have the opportunity afforded me to communicate my ideas through the valuable columns of Lire, The fact is that I am between two stools—I can- not go back to New Orleans, and I can’t live in a Northern climate, for my two creoles, a male and female, can ‘t survive your cold, arctic winters. I cannot go back to New Orleans because I am in- formed, on very credible au- thority, that the citizens of that city have in preparation a rather too lively reception for me. 1 do not care for their extraordinary effusiveness ; a disorganized egg or two I do not mind, but tar and feathers are, it seems to me, entirely unnecessary in demonstrating their friendly feeling. So, you see, I am living here at Ossawatomie Swamp. I have my two creoles carefully housed in separate log cabins. I can “study” them at my leisure. I have peep holes through which I can watch them, and at intervals make them jump about by means of a long pole, which I use. They are very tame, and, although the male insists upon smoking cigarettes, it costs me little, as I buy him tobacco by the bale, and mingle it judiciously with cornstalks. I occasionally have some difficulty with the female, who is of a curious, melancholic disposition. I have given her a greased pole up which she climbs, and sometimes gazes at me with the whites of her eyes, in a mortifying manner, from the chimney pot. These are my creoles! Real, New Orleans creoles, which I, myself, have discovered and described ad nauseam in the pages of the Century. Thus I live, their keeper, at Ossawatomie Swamp, Louisi- ana. Once ina mad vein, I undertook per contract to fill six- teen numbers of the Century with a story of a severe New Orleans doctor. introduced an American, one Italian, an Irish woman, and every other nationality under heaven, besides the creole. | But it was of no use ; people skipped the chapters where my creole with his cigarette was absent. They said they lacked “local tone.” In my next novel I shall give them enough “local tone,” I think. I shall throw in a copy of the Century to my male creole and watch him cut up. How he will dance! “Odeah,” he will say, “ I nevah attacked sucha lotta stuff ; O le me getta hol of yeh, Mistah Cable !” But you see | don’t care at all, for my creoles are not in a position, exactly, to deny their existence. I can run on in To show that I cared not for creoles only, | 105 my remarkable dialect, I have appropriated to them, to any extent, and if the Century will publish it for real literature, and pay me well for it, whose business is it, pray ? But did you ever hear acreole song? If not, my new combination lecture takes place next week in your city. My friend, Mark Twain, will imitate the creole nasal twang to - perfection. He will sing for you, and dance for you also, just as the creoles usually do at home, in New Orleans. Twain is a genius in matters of this sort. His imitation creole banjo and clog performance entitled “ Afo de wah,” is immense. Tickets, 25 cents. Yours, affectionately, G. WASHINGTON CABLE. P. S.—I should like to sell out my creoles to some kindly young author who would treat them well. Though they each carry a concealed razor, they are generally harmless and docile enough. I think of going out of the show business, and into the lecture, song and dance varieties. 1 shall there- fore sell them at a sacrifice. GW. C. “MUSIC OF THE FUTURE"—Promissory notes. PROFITS OF SARDINE FISHERIES—Net, of course. LATEST WORK BY A CELEBRATED BLUE STOCKING— “It is never too late to mend—One's Hose.” A JERSEYMAN has been arrested for stealing a dictionary. He should be promptly and honorably discharged. A Jerseyman with sufficient respect for the dictionary to steal a | copy even, should be encouraged, not punished for the act. | SAINTE VALLENTYNE, HYS DAYE. OE forthe, my vyrse, with lightsome Art, Nor hede ye wintry Ayre, Untill you fynde my young Sweteharte, A.tender wyrde too beare ; Ask if she hath forgot, forsoothe, Ye wyrds she spoke so fayre, & if she chuse, with ivorie toothe, Ye Gumm, and bangs her Hayre. Goe like a Byrde, with fond intente, Too seek my bloo-eyed Nell, & trye too win her swete Consente Too teeche me how too spel ; & say, if she forgyve ye fault, T still will press my sute, & brave ye Buldog’s rude assault & ye parentel Bute ; Then say, if still her eyes of Bloo With luve’s swete Lustre shyne, I aske to be he Subjicke true, & eke her Vallentyne. | | } Jj. A. Macon, | comicbooks.com