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may possibly have noticed that Time passes on. — It is a kind of way Time has.

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I became a man. I haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist - but I have always been more or less mixed up with art. I have an uncle who takes photographs - and I have a servant who—takes anything he can get his hands on. When I was in Rome - Rome in New York State, I mean a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said "No." I saw through the designing man. My model once in his hands - he would have flooded the market with my busts and I couldn't stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course and wherever I should go I should meet the educated classes with my bust, taking it home to their families. This would be more than my modesty could stand and I should have to return home where my creditors are.

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although I failed

It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as an actor. The play was "The Ruins of Pompeii." -I played the ruins. It was not a very successful performance - but it was better than the "Burning Mountain." He was not good. He was a bad Vesuvius.

The remembrance often makes me ask "Where are the boys of my youth?" I assure you this is not a conundrum. Some are amongst you here- some in America some are in jail.

Hence arises a most touching question

girls of my youth ?" Some are married to be.

"Where are the

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some would like

Oh, my Maria! Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy because I am.

Some people are not happy. I have noticed that.

A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I said, "Why these weeps?" He said he had a mortgage on his farm-and wanted to borrow $200. I lent him the money—and he went away. Some time afterward he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me forever. I ventured to remind him of the $200 he borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him—so told him I would throw off $100. He brightened -shook my hand — and said, -"Old friend- I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality I'll throw off the other hundred."

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I like Music. I can't sing. As a singist I am not a success. I am saddest when I sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder even than I am.

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I met a man in Oregon who hadn't any teeth — not a tooth in his head- yet that man could play on the bass drum better than any man I ever met. He kept a hotel. They have queer hotels in Oregon. I remember one where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow - I had nightmares of course. In the morning the landlord said, "How do you feel old hoss-hay?" - I told him I felt my oats. As a manager I was always rather more successful than as

an actor.

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Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a splendid skeleton. He didn't weigh anything scarcely and I said to myself - the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous cu

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riosity. It is a long voyage-as you know from New York to Melbourne- and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He had never been on the ocean before—and he said it agreed with him — I thought so! I never saw a man eat so much in my life. Beef, mutton, pork - he swallowed them all like a shark-and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs. The result was that, when we reached Melbourne, this infamous skeleton weighed sixtyfour pounds more than I did!

I thought I was ruined - but I wasn't. I took him on to California - another very long sea voyage- and when I got him to San Francisco I exhibited him as a fat man.

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This story hasn't anything to do with my entertainment, I know but one of the principal features of my entertainment is that it contains so many things that don't have anything to do with it.


By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, authorized publishers of this author's work


Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Because he don't live, you see;

Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three year

That you haven't heard folks tell

How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks

The night of the "Prairie Belle"?

He weren't no saint, - them engineers
Is all pretty much alike,

One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here, in Pike;

A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,

But he never flunked, and he never lied,
I reckon he never knowed how.

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And this was all the religion he had, —
To treat his engine well;

Never be passed on the river;

To mind the pilot's bell;

And if ever the "Prairie Belle" took fire,

A thousand times he swore,

He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last,

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The "Movastar was a better boat,

But the "Belle" she wouldn't be passed.

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And so she come tearin' along that night – The oldest craft on the line

With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she cleared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out,

Over all the infernal roar,

"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat

Jim Bludso's voice was heard,

And they all had trust in his cussedness,

And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,—

And Bludso's ghost went up alone

In the smoke of the "Prairie Belle."

He weren't no saint,

but at jedgment

I'd run my chance with Jim,

'Longside of some pious gentlemen

That wouldn't shake hands with him.
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,

And he went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain't agoing to be too hard
On a man that died for men.


From "The Boy Orator of Zepata City" in "The Exiles and Other Stories." Copyrighted, 1894, Harper and Brothers. Reprinted with permission


Abe Barrow had been closely associated with the early history of Zepata; he had killed in his day several of the Zepata citizens. His fight with Thompson had been a fair fight as those said who remembered it - and Thompson

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