10 Punch, Brothers, Punch.pdf

Mark Twainf Punch, Brothers, Punch

PUNCH, BROTHERS,

PUNCH

Mark Twain

Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see

if he can discover anything harmful in them?

Conductor, when you receive a fare,

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,

A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,

A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

CHORUS

Punch, brothers! punch with care!

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago,

and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession

of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and

when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had

eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day

before--thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my

den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it

to say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare." I fought hard for

an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, "A blue trip slip for

an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and

so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined--I could see

that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently

discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle.

When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good;

those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on

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Mark Twainf Punch, Brothers, Punch

harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the

afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner;

suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and

rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at

midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon

the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of the

passenjare." By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and

was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--"Punch! oh, punch!

punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went

forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr.------,

to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at me, but

asked no questions. We started. Mr.------ talked, talked, talked as is

his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile,

Mr.------ said "Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard

and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!"

Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch brothers, punch with care!

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"

My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, they said:

"I do not think I get your drift, Mark. Then does not seem to be any

relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet--maybe it

was the way you said the words--I never heard anything that sounded so

pathetic. What is--"

But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless,

heartbreaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for

a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the

presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during the

other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr.------ laid his hand on my

shoulder and shouted:

"Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we are at

the Tower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never

got a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look at

it! look at it! Feast your eye on it! You have traveled; you have seen

boaster landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion.

What do you say to this?"

I sighed wearily; and murmured:

"A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent

fare, punch in the presence of the passenjare."

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Mark Twainf Punch, Brothers, Punch

Rev. Mr. ------ stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently, and

looked long at me; then he said:

"Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those are

about the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anything

in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them. Punch in

the--how is it they go?"

I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines.

My friend's face lighted with interest. He said:

"Why, what a captivating jingle it is! It is almost music. It flows

along so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them over

just once more, and then I'll have them, sure."

I said them over. Then Mr. ------ said them. He made one little

mistake, which I corrected. The next time and the next he got them

right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That

torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest

and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I

did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward.

Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent talk of

many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously,

jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend's

hand at parting, I said:

"Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't said

a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!"

The Rev. Mr.------ turned a lack-luster eye upon me, drew a deep sigh,

and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:

"Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the

passenjare!"

A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow!

he has got it, now."

I did not see Mr.------ for two or three days after that. Then, on

Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly into a

seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to my

face and said:

"Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless

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Mark Twainf Punch, Brothers, Punch

rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after

hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the torments

of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, and

took the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valued

old friend who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon.

I took my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse. But

I never got beyond the opening paragraph; for then the train started and

the car-wheels began their 'clack, clack-clack-clack-clack! clack-clack!

--clack-clack-clack!' and right away those odious rhymes fitted

themselves to that accompaniment. For an hour I sat there and set a

syllable of those rhymes to every separate and distinct clack the

car-wheels made. Why, I was as fagged out, then, as if I had been

chopping wood all day. My skull was splitting with headache. It seemed

to me that I must go mad if I sat there any longer; so I undressed and

went to bed. I stretched myself out in my berth, and--well, you know

what the result was. The thing went right along, just the same.

'Clack-clack clack, a blue trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for an eight

cent fare; clack-clack-clack, a buff trip slip, clack clack-clack, for a

six-cent fare, and so on, and so on, and so on punch in the presence of

the passenjare!' Sleep? Not a single wink! I was almost a lunatic when

I got to Boston. Don't ask me about the funeral. I did the best I

could, but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and

woven in and out with 'Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the

presence of the passenjare.' And the most distressing thing was that my

delivery dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing rhymes, and

I could actually catch absent-minded people nodding time to the swing of

it with their stupid heads. And, Mark, you may believe it or not, but

before I got through the entire assemblage were placidly bobbing their

heads in solemn unison, mourners, undertaker, and all. The moment I had

finished, I fled to the anteroom in a state bordering on frenzy. Of

course it would be my luck to find a sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of

the deceased there, who had arrived from Springfield too late to get into

the church. She began to sob, and said:

"'Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn't see him before he died!'

"'Yes!' I said, 'he is gone, he is gone, he is gone--oh, will this

suffering never cease!'

"'You loved him, then! Oh, you too loved him!'

"'Loved him! Loved who?'

"'Why, my poor George! my poor nephew!'

"'Oh--him! Yes--oh, yes, yes. Certainly--certainly. Punch--punch--oh,

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Mark Twainf Punch, Brothers, Punch

this misery will kill me!'

"'Bless you! bless you, sir, for these sweet words! I, too, suffer in

this dear loss. Were you present during his last moments?'

"'Yes. I--whose last moments?'

"'His. The dear departed's.'

"'Yes! Oh, yes--yes--yes! I suppose so, I think so, I don't know! Oh,

certainly--I was there I was there!'

"'Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege! And his last words

--oh, tell me, tell me his last words! What did he say?'

"'He said--he said--oh, my head, my head, my head! He said--he said--he

never said anything but Punch, punch, punch in the presence of the

passenjare! Oh, leave me, madam! In the name of all that is generous,

leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair!--a buff trip slip for a

six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare--endu--rance can no

fur--ther go!--PUNCH in the presence of the passenjare!"

My friend's hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and then he

said impressively:

"Mark, you do not say anything. You do not offer me any hope. But, ah

me, it is just as well--it is just as well. You could not do me any

good. The time has long gone by when words could comfort me. Something

tells me that my tongue is doomed to wag forever to the jigger of that

remorseless jingle. There--there it is coming on me again: a blue trip

slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a--"

Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank into a peaceful trance

and forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite.

How did I finally save him from an asylum? I took him to a neighboring

university and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymes

into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students. How is it with

them, now? The result is too sad to tell. Why did I write this article?

It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose. It was to warn you, reader,

if you should came across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them--avoid

them as you would a pestilence.

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