 | Artemus Ward, his book ; with many comic
illustrations |  |
ON “FORTS.”
Every man has got a Fort. It's sum men's fort
to do one thing, and sum other men's fort to do
another, while there is numeris shiftliss critters goin
round loose whose fort is not to do nothin.
Shakspeer rote good plase, but he wouldn't hav
succeeded as a Washington correspondent of a New
York daily paper. He lackt the rekesit fancy and
imagginashun.
That's so!
Old George Washington's Fort was to not hev
eny public man of the present day resemble him to
eny alarmin extent. Whare bowts can George's
ekal be fownd? I ask, & boldly anser no whares,
or eny whare else.
Old man Townsin's Fort was to mark Sassyperiller.
“Goy to the world! anuther life saived!”
(Cotashun from Townsin's advertisemunt.)
Cyrus Field's Fort is to lay a sub-machine tellegraf
under the boundin billers of the Oshun, and
then hev it Bust.
Spaldin's Fort is to maik Prepared Gloo, which
mends everything. Wonder ef it will mend a sinner's
wickid waze. (Impromptoo goak.)
Zoary's Fort is to be a femaile circus feller.
My Fort is the grate moral show bizniss & ritin
choice famerly literatoor for the noospapers. That's
what's the matter with me.
&c., &c., &c. So I mite go on to a indefnit extent.
Twict I've endeverd to do things which thay
wasn't my Fort. The fust time was when I undertuk
to lick a owdashus cuss who cut a hole in my
tent & krawld threw. Sez I, “my jentle Sir go
out or I shall fall onto you putty hevy.” Sez he,
“Wade in, Old wax figgers,” whareupon I went for
him, but he cawt me powerful on the hed & knockt
me threw the tent into a cow pastur. He pursood
the attack & flung me into a mud puddle. As I
aroze & rung out my drencht garmints I koncluded
Seen 2nd: It is rarely seldum that I seek consolation
in the Flowin Bole. But in a sertin town in
Injianny in the Faul of 18——, my orgin grinder
got sick with the fever & died. I never felt so
ashamed in my life, & I thowt I'd hist in a few swallers
of suthin strengthin. Konsequents was I histid
in so much I dident zackly know whare bowts I
was. I turnd my livin wild beests of Pray loose
into the streets and spilt all my wax wurks. I then
Bet I cood play hoss. So I hitched myself to a
Kanawl bote, there bein two other hosses hitcht on
also, one behind and anuther ahead of me. The
driver hollerd for us to git up, and we did. But the
hosses bein onused to sich a arrangemunt begun to
kick & squeal and rair up. Konsequents was I was
kickt vilently in the stummuck & back, and presuntly
I fownd myself in the Kanawl with the other
hosses, kickin & yellin like a tribe of Cusscaroorus
savvijis. I was rescood, & as I was bein carrid to
the tavern on a hemlock Bored I sed in a feeble
voise, “Boys, playin hoss isn't my Fort.”
Morul—Never don't do nothin which isn't your
Fort, for ef you do you'll find yourself splashin
round in the Kanawl, figgeratively speakin.
| Artemus Ward, his book ; with many comic
illustrations | |