University of Virginia Library

On receiving my long-promised file of The Pioneer, accompanied
by your affecting entreaty to “Come over into Macedonia
and help us,” deeply impressed with the importance of
the crisis, I rushed about this village as wildly as a fowl decapitated,
but with purpose more intent.

Hastily collecting our Improvisatori, including “the
Squire,” “his Reverence,” and the funny “Scheherazade,”
I besought them in the name of humanity, and by the memory
of Miller, to tell me quickly their choicest anecdotes,
their raciest puns, and newest conundrums, that I might
collate them for your benefit, and San Diego assume its proper
literary position at (not under) your editorial table. My
success was encouraging, and I herewith present you a choice
selection of the anecdotes accumulated, which have at least the
merit claimed by the late Ben Jonson for an original piece of
blank verse; for “Poetry or not poetry, they're true by

Heavens.” In the course of my researches, I collected many
quite new and particularly shocking sayings of blasphemous
little children; but I shall not tell you these, for with all due
deference to the taste of those who have rendered this style
of literature fashionable of late, I cannot refrain from expressing
the opinion that the subject has been rather “inserted
in the earth;” and if that wicked old Clark, of the
Knickerbocker, don't roast hereafter for starting it, we're going
to have a much easier time in the next world than my
knowledge of the Scriptures gives reason to believe. “De
gustibus non est disputandum,” as the old lady remarked
with an affectionate simper, when she kissed her cow. Here
are the stories—mira.

In 1849, “Jacks & Woodruff” kept on Clay street, just
above Kearney, one of the largest jewelry establishments in
San Francisco. Jacks (who, by the way, is one of the funniest
men that ever lived), being well-known and universally
popular, in order to let new arrivals among his home acquaintances
know that he was round, had his name, Pulaski
Jacks, painted in big capitals on a sheet of tin, and nailed
up beside the door. One day a tall, yellow-haired, sun-burned
Pike, in the butternut-colored hat, coat and so forths “of
the period,” entered and accosted Woodruff, who was behind
the counter, with, “Say, stranger, I want to take a look of
them new-fangled things of yourn.” “What things, sir?”
“Why them Pulaski Jacks!” “Why that,” said Woodruff,
laughing, “is my partner's name. Jacks & Woodruff; name's
Pulaski—Pulaski Jacks—see?” “No!” said Pike, “is it!”

Well, looks like; darned if I knowed it though; I swar I
didn't know as they was boot-jacks or jack-asses; ho! ho!”
And taking another good long look at the object of his curiosity,
he travelled. Jacks took that tin thing down.—Suggestive,
this is, of a story told us not long since by Maj. E.
of the army, which we are not aware ever appeared before in
print; “least-ways,” we never saw it. A solemn-looking fellow,
with a certain air of dry humor about the corners of his
rather sanctimonious mouth, stepped quietly one day, into
the tailoring establishment of “Call & Tuttle,” Boston, Mass.,
and quietly remarked to the clerk in attendance, “I want to
tuttle.” “What do you mean, sir?” inquired the astonished
official. “Well,” rejoined he, “I want to tuttle—noticed your
invitation over the door, so I called, and now I should like to
tuttle!” He was ordered to leave the establishment, which he
did, with a look of angry wonder, grumbling, sotto voce, that it
seemed devilish hard he couldn't be allowed to tuttle after an
express invitation.—And this again reminds us of a facetious
performance of the late J. P. Squibob, who, “once on a time,”
while walking down Pennsylvania Avenue, was sorely mystified
by a modest little sign, standing in the window of a neat
little shop on the left-hand side as you go down. The sign
bore, in gayly painted letters, the legend, “Washington Ladies'
Depository.” Flattening his nose against the window, Squibob
descried two ladies, whom he describes as of exceeding
beauty, neatly dressed and busily engaged in sewing, behind
a little counter. The fore-ground was filled with lace caps,
babies' stockings, compresses for the waist, capes, collars and
other articles of still life. Hat in hand, Squibob reverently
entered, and with intense politeness, addressed one of the
ladies as follows: “Madam, I perceive by your sign that this
is the depository for Washington ladies; I am going to the
North for a few days, and should be pleased to leave my
wife in your charge—But I don't know, if by your rules you
could receive her, as she is a Baltimore woman!” “One of
the ladies,” says Squibob, “a pretty little girl in a blue dress,
sewing on a thing that looked like a pillow-case with armholes,
turned very red, and holding down her head, made the
remark `te he!' But the elder of the twain, after making
as if she would laugh, but by a strong-minded effort holding
in, replied, `Sir, you have made a mistake; this is the place
where the society of Washington ladies deposit their work,
to be sold for the benefit of the distressed natives of the
Island of Fernando de Noronha,' or words to that effect.”
Gravely did the wicked Squibob bow, all solemnly begged
her pardon, and putting on his hat, walked off, followed by a
sound from that depository, as of an autumual brook, gurgling
and babbling gayly over its pebbly bed in a New England
forest.

My stock is my no means exhausted, but “Demasiado de
una cosa buena es demasiado,” as Don Juan remarked when
he took twenty-four Brandreth's pills and his wife earnestly
solicited him to swallow the box. Next month, Deo volente,
you shall hear from me again; till then adieu.