File:Walt Mason - his book (1916) (14784600605).jpg

Identifier: waltmasonhisbook00maso (find matches)
Title: Walt Mason : his book
Year: 1916 (1910s)
Authors: Mason, Walt, 1862-1939
Subjects:
Publisher: New York : Barse & Hopkins
Contributing Library: Scott - York University Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: Ontario Council of University Libraries and Member Libraries

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The VenerableExcuse (82) Walt Mason YOU SAY your grandmas dead, mylad, and you, bowed down with woe,to see her laid beneath the mold be-lieve you ought to go; and so you ask ahalf day oflf, and you may have that same;alas, that grannies always die when theresa baseball game! Last spring, if I remem-ber right, three grandmas died for you, andyou bewailed the passing, then, of souls sowarm and true; and then another grandmadied—a tall and stately dame; the day theyburied her there was a fourteen-inninggame. And when the balmy breeze of Juneamong the willows sighed, another grand-ma closed her eyes and crossed the GreatDivide; they laid her gently to her rest be-side the churchyard wall, the day welammed the stuffing from the Rubes fromMinnepaul. Go forth, my son, and mournyour dead, and shed the scalding tear, andlay a simple wreath upon your eighteenthgrandmas bier; while you perform thissolemn task Ill to the grandstand go, andwatch our pennant-winning team makesoupbones of the foe.
Text Appearing After Image:
o Walt Mason THE OTHER night I took a walk,and called on Jinx, across the block.The home of Jinx was full of boysand girls and forty kinds of noise. DadJinx was good, and kind, and straight; helet the children go their gait; he neverspoke a sentence cross, he never showed thathe was boss, and so his home, as neighborsknow, was like the Ringling wild beastshow. We tried to talk about the crops;the children raised their fiendish yawps;they hunted up a Thomas cat, and placedit in my stovepipe hat; they jarred me witha carpet tack, and poured ice water downmy back; my long coat tails they set afire,and this aroused my slumbring ire. I rose,majestic in my wrath, and through thosechildren mowed a path, I smote them sore-ly, hip and thigh, and piled them in thewoodshed nigh; I threw their father in thewell, and fired his cottage, with a yell.Some rigid moralists, I hear, have said mycourse was too severe, but their rebukescan not affright—my conscience tells me Iwas right. The SmartChildre

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