Immediately asked, "Why is Douglas like the earth?"

We tried, but couldn't guess.

"Because he was _flattened out at the polls_!" said Mr. Riggles.

"A famous politician, formerly," said the Superintendent. "His

grandfather was a _seize-Hessian-ist_ in the Revolutionary War. By the

way, I hear the _freeze-oil_ doctrines don't go down at New Bedford."

The next Inmate looked as if he might have been a sailor formerly.

"Ask him what his calling was," said the Superintendent.

"Followed the sea," he replied to the question put by one of us. "Went

as mate in a fishing-schooner."

"Why did you give it up?"

"Because I didn't like working for _two mast-ers_," he replied.

Presently we came upon a group of elderly persons, gathered about a

Venerable gentleman with flowing locks, who was propounding questions

to a row of Inmates.

"Can any Inmate give me a motto for M. Berger?" he said.

Nobody responded for two or three minutes. At last one old man, whom I

at once recognized as a Graduate of our University (Anno 1800) held up

his hand.

"Rem _a cue_ tetigit."

"Go to the head of the class, Josselyn," said the venerable patriarch.

The successful Inmate did as he was told, but in a very rough way,

pushing against two or three of the Class.

"How is this?" said the Patriarch.

"You told me to go up _jostlin'_," he replied.

The old gentlemen who had been shoved about enjoyed the pun too much

to be angry.

Presently the Patriarch asked again:

"Why was M. Berger authorized to go to the dances given to the

Prince?"

The Class had to give up this, and he answered it himself:

"Because every one of his carroms was a _tick-it_ to the ball."

"Who collects the money to defray the expenses of the last campaign in

Italy?" asked the Patriarch.

Here again the Class failed.

"The war-cloud's rolling _Dun_," he answered.

"And what is mulled wine made with?"

Three or four voices exclaimed at once:

"_Sizzle-y_ Madeira!"

Here a servant entered, and said, "Luncheon-time." The old gentlemen,

who have excellent appetites, dispersed at once, one of them politely

asking us if we would not stop and have a bit of bread and a little

mite of cheese.

"There is one thing I have forgotten to show you," said the

Superintendent, "the cell for the confinement of violent and

unmanageable Punsters."

We were very curious to see it, particularly with reference to the

alleged absence of every object upon which a play of words could

possibly be made.

The Superintendent led us up some dark stairs to a corridor, then

along a narrow passage, then down a broad flight of steps into another

passageway, and opened a large door which looked out on the main

entrance.

"We have not seen the cell for the confinement of 'violent and

unmanageable' Punsters," we both exclaimed.

"This is the _sell_!" he exclaimed, pointing to the outside prospect.

My friend, the Director, looked me in the face so good-naturedly that

I had to laugh.

"We like to humor the Inmates," he said. "It has a bad effect, we

find, on their health and spirits to disappoint them of their little

pleasantries. Some of the jests to which we have listened are not new

to me, though I dare say you may not have heard them often before. The

same thing happens in general society, with this additional

disadvantage, that there is no punishment provided for 'violent and

unmanageable' Punsters, as in our Institution."

We made our bow to the Superintendent and walked to the place where

our carriage was waiting for us. On our way, an exceedingly decrepit

old man moved slowly toward us, with a perfectly blank look on his

face, but still appearing as if he wished to speak.

"Look!" said the Director--"that is our Centenarian."

The ancient man crawled toward us, cocked one eye, with which he

seemed to see a little, up at us, and said:

"Sarvant, young Gentlemen. Why is a--a--a--like a--a--a--? Give it up?

Because it's a--a--a--a--."

He smiled a pleasant smile, as if it were all plain enough.

"One hundred and seven last Christmas," said the Director. "Of late

years he puts his whole Conundrums in blank--but they please him just

as well."

We took our departure, much gratified and instructed by our visit,

hoping to have some future opportunity of inspecting the Records of

this excellent Charity and making extracts for the benefit of our

Readers.

THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY

By Mark Twain (1835-1910)

[From _The Saturday Press_, Nov. 18, 1865. Republished in _The

Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other Sketches_

(1867), by Mark Twain, all of whose works are published by Harper &

Brothers.]

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from

the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and

inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to

do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that

_Leonidas W_. Smiley is a myth; and that my friend never knew such a

personage; and that he only conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler

about him, it would remind him of his infamous _Jim Smiley_, and he

would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating

reminiscence of him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to

me. If that was the design, it succeeded.

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the

dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel's, and I

noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of

winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He

roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a friend had commissioned

me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood

named _Leonidas W_. Smiley--_Rev. Leonidas W._ Smiley, a young

minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of

Angel's Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about

this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to

him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his

chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which

follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never

changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned his

initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of

enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a

vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly

that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or

funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter,

and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in _finesse_.

I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.

"Rev. Leonidas W. H'm, Reverend Le--well, there was a feller here once

by the name of _Jim_ Smiley, in the winter of '49--or may be it was

the spring of '50--I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what

makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big

flume warn't finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he

was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up

you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if

he couldn't he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other man would

suit _him_--any way just so's he got a bet, _he_ was satisfied. But

still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He

was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no

solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and

take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a

horse-race, you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end

of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a

cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on