"You have a phiz on yer," said the Watermelon with rare candor, "that would make a mangy pup unhappy."
"I suppose you think yer Venus," sneered James, a remark that he flattered himself was rather "classy."
The Watermelon sighed as one would over the ignorance of a child. "No," said he, "hardly."
"Don't let that bloomin' modesty of yers keep yer from tellin' the truth," adjured James.
The Watermelon waved the possibility aside with airy grace. "With all due modesty, James," said he, "I can't claim to be a woman."
"Not with that hay on yer mug," agreed Mike, casting a sleepy eye upward from where he lay in lazy content in the long, sweet grasses under the butternut tree.
"When I was a kid, I took a prize in a beauty show," announced James, with pardonable pride.
"Swiped it?" asked the Watermelon.
"Dog show?" inquired Mike drowsily, listening to the pleasing drone of a bee in a near-by clump of daisies.
James sat up and ran his fingers with musing regret through the coarse stubble on cheeks and chin. "I was three, I remember, a cute little cuss. My hair was yellow and ma curled it—you know how—all fuzzy—and I had a little white dress on. It was a county fair. I got the first prize for the best lookin' kid and was mugged for the papers. If I was shaved now and had on some glad rags, I'd be a lady killer, all right, all right."
"'Longside of me," said the Watermelon, "you'd look like a blear-eyed son of a toad."
"You! Why, you'd make a balky horse run, you would."
"When me hair's cut, I'm a bloomin' Adonis, not Venus;" and the Watermelon drew languidly at an old brown pipe, warm and comfortable in the pleasant shade, where soft breezes wandered fitfully by, laden with the odors of the fields in June.
James was skeptical. "Did y' ever take a prize in a beauty show?" he demanded, still musing upon those bygone honors.
"No," admitted the Watermelon. "My old man was a parson, and parsons' kids never have any chance. Besides, I wouldn't care to. Too much like the finest bull in a county fair, or the best laying hen."
"Huh," sneered James. "My folks was of the bon-ton."
"The bon-tons never broke any records in the beauty line," replied the Watermelon. "And the bon-tonnier they are, the uglier."
"Beauty," said James with charming naiveté, "runs in my family."
"It went so fast in the beginning then, yer family never had a chance to catch up," returned the Watermelon. "We'll have a beauty show, just us two."
Inspired by the thought, he sat up to explain, and Mike opened his eyes long enough to look each over with slow scornful derision and a mocking grunt.
James fondled the short stiff hair on his cheeks and chin and waited for developments.
The Watermelon went on. "We will meet this afternoon, here, see? Shaved and with decent duds on. And Mike can pick the winner."
"Mike! He can't tell a sick cat from a well one."
"That's all right. He knows enough to tell the best lookin' one between you and me. A blind mug could do that."
"But—"
"We haven't any one else, you mutt. We can't have too much publicity in this show. I dislike publicity any way, at any time, and especially when I have on clothes, borrowed, as you might say, for the occasion. If the gang was here, we could take a vote, but seein' that they ain't, we got to do with what we got."
"I ain't goin' to get in no trouble wid this here burg," declared Mike. "I want a quiet Sunday, some place where I can throw me feet for a bite of grub and not run no fear of the dog's taking one first. See? Besides, it's a decent, law-abidin' burg, God-fearin' and pious; too small to be made unhappy. You want to take somethin' yer own size."
"Aw, who's goin' to hurt the jerkwater town?" demanded the Watermelon with indignation.
"The cost of livin' is goin' up so these days, it's gettin' hard even to batter a handout," groaned Mike, whose idea of true beauty consisted of a full stomach and a shady place to sleep on a long quiet Sunday afternoon. "I ain't goin' to get every place soured on me. If the public gets any more stingy, I'll have to give up de turf for a livin', that's all. To throw a gag will be harder den hod-carryin'."
"We ain't goin' to hurt the burg none," said James.
He rose languidly and stretched. "You be here this afternoon, Mike, about three, see, or I'll knock yer block off. It's a nice quiet hangout and far enough from the village to be safe. I'm goin' to get a shave and borrow some duds from the bloomin' hostelry up yonder to do honor to de occasion." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and slipped it into his pocket. "If you don't get the clothes and de shave, Watermillion, you'll be counted down and out, see?"
"Sure," agreed the Watermelon.
He lay at length on the ground beneath the butternut tree and James paused a moment to run his eye critically over him,
1019639374
"I suppose you think yer Venus," sneered James, a remark that he flattered himself was rather "classy."
The Watermelon sighed as one would over the ignorance of a child. "No," said he, "hardly."
"Don't let that bloomin' modesty of yers keep yer from tellin' the truth," adjured James.
The Watermelon waved the possibility aside with airy grace. "With all due modesty, James," said he, "I can't claim to be a woman."
"Not with that hay on yer mug," agreed Mike, casting a sleepy eye upward from where he lay in lazy content in the long, sweet grasses under the butternut tree.
"When I was a kid, I took a prize in a beauty show," announced James, with pardonable pride.
"Swiped it?" asked the Watermelon.
"Dog show?" inquired Mike drowsily, listening to the pleasing drone of a bee in a near-by clump of daisies.
James sat up and ran his fingers with musing regret through the coarse stubble on cheeks and chin. "I was three, I remember, a cute little cuss. My hair was yellow and ma curled it—you know how—all fuzzy—and I had a little white dress on. It was a county fair. I got the first prize for the best lookin' kid and was mugged for the papers. If I was shaved now and had on some glad rags, I'd be a lady killer, all right, all right."
"'Longside of me," said the Watermelon, "you'd look like a blear-eyed son of a toad."
"You! Why, you'd make a balky horse run, you would."
"When me hair's cut, I'm a bloomin' Adonis, not Venus;" and the Watermelon drew languidly at an old brown pipe, warm and comfortable in the pleasant shade, where soft breezes wandered fitfully by, laden with the odors of the fields in June.
James was skeptical. "Did y' ever take a prize in a beauty show?" he demanded, still musing upon those bygone honors.
"No," admitted the Watermelon. "My old man was a parson, and parsons' kids never have any chance. Besides, I wouldn't care to. Too much like the finest bull in a county fair, or the best laying hen."
"Huh," sneered James. "My folks was of the bon-ton."
"The bon-tons never broke any records in the beauty line," replied the Watermelon. "And the bon-tonnier they are, the uglier."
"Beauty," said James with charming naiveté, "runs in my family."
"It went so fast in the beginning then, yer family never had a chance to catch up," returned the Watermelon. "We'll have a beauty show, just us two."
Inspired by the thought, he sat up to explain, and Mike opened his eyes long enough to look each over with slow scornful derision and a mocking grunt.
James fondled the short stiff hair on his cheeks and chin and waited for developments.
The Watermelon went on. "We will meet this afternoon, here, see? Shaved and with decent duds on. And Mike can pick the winner."
"Mike! He can't tell a sick cat from a well one."
"That's all right. He knows enough to tell the best lookin' one between you and me. A blind mug could do that."
"But—"
"We haven't any one else, you mutt. We can't have too much publicity in this show. I dislike publicity any way, at any time, and especially when I have on clothes, borrowed, as you might say, for the occasion. If the gang was here, we could take a vote, but seein' that they ain't, we got to do with what we got."
"I ain't goin' to get in no trouble wid this here burg," declared Mike. "I want a quiet Sunday, some place where I can throw me feet for a bite of grub and not run no fear of the dog's taking one first. See? Besides, it's a decent, law-abidin' burg, God-fearin' and pious; too small to be made unhappy. You want to take somethin' yer own size."
"Aw, who's goin' to hurt the jerkwater town?" demanded the Watermelon with indignation.
"The cost of livin' is goin' up so these days, it's gettin' hard even to batter a handout," groaned Mike, whose idea of true beauty consisted of a full stomach and a shady place to sleep on a long quiet Sunday afternoon. "I ain't goin' to get every place soured on me. If the public gets any more stingy, I'll have to give up de turf for a livin', that's all. To throw a gag will be harder den hod-carryin'."
"We ain't goin' to hurt the burg none," said James.
He rose languidly and stretched. "You be here this afternoon, Mike, about three, see, or I'll knock yer block off. It's a nice quiet hangout and far enough from the village to be safe. I'm goin' to get a shave and borrow some duds from the bloomin' hostelry up yonder to do honor to de occasion." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and slipped it into his pocket. "If you don't get the clothes and de shave, Watermillion, you'll be counted down and out, see?"
"Sure," agreed the Watermelon.
He lay at length on the ground beneath the butternut tree and James paused a moment to run his eye critically over him,
He Comes Up Smiling (Illustrated)
"You have a phiz on yer," said the Watermelon with rare candor, "that would make a mangy pup unhappy."
"I suppose you think yer Venus," sneered James, a remark that he flattered himself was rather "classy."
The Watermelon sighed as one would over the ignorance of a child. "No," said he, "hardly."
"Don't let that bloomin' modesty of yers keep yer from tellin' the truth," adjured James.
The Watermelon waved the possibility aside with airy grace. "With all due modesty, James," said he, "I can't claim to be a woman."
"Not with that hay on yer mug," agreed Mike, casting a sleepy eye upward from where he lay in lazy content in the long, sweet grasses under the butternut tree.
"When I was a kid, I took a prize in a beauty show," announced James, with pardonable pride.
"Swiped it?" asked the Watermelon.
"Dog show?" inquired Mike drowsily, listening to the pleasing drone of a bee in a near-by clump of daisies.
James sat up and ran his fingers with musing regret through the coarse stubble on cheeks and chin. "I was three, I remember, a cute little cuss. My hair was yellow and ma curled it—you know how—all fuzzy—and I had a little white dress on. It was a county fair. I got the first prize for the best lookin' kid and was mugged for the papers. If I was shaved now and had on some glad rags, I'd be a lady killer, all right, all right."
"'Longside of me," said the Watermelon, "you'd look like a blear-eyed son of a toad."
"You! Why, you'd make a balky horse run, you would."
"When me hair's cut, I'm a bloomin' Adonis, not Venus;" and the Watermelon drew languidly at an old brown pipe, warm and comfortable in the pleasant shade, where soft breezes wandered fitfully by, laden with the odors of the fields in June.
James was skeptical. "Did y' ever take a prize in a beauty show?" he demanded, still musing upon those bygone honors.
"No," admitted the Watermelon. "My old man was a parson, and parsons' kids never have any chance. Besides, I wouldn't care to. Too much like the finest bull in a county fair, or the best laying hen."
"Huh," sneered James. "My folks was of the bon-ton."
"The bon-tons never broke any records in the beauty line," replied the Watermelon. "And the bon-tonnier they are, the uglier."
"Beauty," said James with charming naiveté, "runs in my family."
"It went so fast in the beginning then, yer family never had a chance to catch up," returned the Watermelon. "We'll have a beauty show, just us two."
Inspired by the thought, he sat up to explain, and Mike opened his eyes long enough to look each over with slow scornful derision and a mocking grunt.
James fondled the short stiff hair on his cheeks and chin and waited for developments.
The Watermelon went on. "We will meet this afternoon, here, see? Shaved and with decent duds on. And Mike can pick the winner."
"Mike! He can't tell a sick cat from a well one."
"That's all right. He knows enough to tell the best lookin' one between you and me. A blind mug could do that."
"But—"
"We haven't any one else, you mutt. We can't have too much publicity in this show. I dislike publicity any way, at any time, and especially when I have on clothes, borrowed, as you might say, for the occasion. If the gang was here, we could take a vote, but seein' that they ain't, we got to do with what we got."
"I ain't goin' to get in no trouble wid this here burg," declared Mike. "I want a quiet Sunday, some place where I can throw me feet for a bite of grub and not run no fear of the dog's taking one first. See? Besides, it's a decent, law-abidin' burg, God-fearin' and pious; too small to be made unhappy. You want to take somethin' yer own size."
"Aw, who's goin' to hurt the jerkwater town?" demanded the Watermelon with indignation.
"The cost of livin' is goin' up so these days, it's gettin' hard even to batter a handout," groaned Mike, whose idea of true beauty consisted of a full stomach and a shady place to sleep on a long quiet Sunday afternoon. "I ain't goin' to get every place soured on me. If the public gets any more stingy, I'll have to give up de turf for a livin', that's all. To throw a gag will be harder den hod-carryin'."
"We ain't goin' to hurt the burg none," said James.
He rose languidly and stretched. "You be here this afternoon, Mike, about three, see, or I'll knock yer block off. It's a nice quiet hangout and far enough from the village to be safe. I'm goin' to get a shave and borrow some duds from the bloomin' hostelry up yonder to do honor to de occasion." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and slipped it into his pocket. "If you don't get the clothes and de shave, Watermillion, you'll be counted down and out, see?"
"Sure," agreed the Watermelon.
He lay at length on the ground beneath the butternut tree and James paused a moment to run his eye critically over him,
"I suppose you think yer Venus," sneered James, a remark that he flattered himself was rather "classy."
The Watermelon sighed as one would over the ignorance of a child. "No," said he, "hardly."
"Don't let that bloomin' modesty of yers keep yer from tellin' the truth," adjured James.
The Watermelon waved the possibility aside with airy grace. "With all due modesty, James," said he, "I can't claim to be a woman."
"Not with that hay on yer mug," agreed Mike, casting a sleepy eye upward from where he lay in lazy content in the long, sweet grasses under the butternut tree.
"When I was a kid, I took a prize in a beauty show," announced James, with pardonable pride.
"Swiped it?" asked the Watermelon.
"Dog show?" inquired Mike drowsily, listening to the pleasing drone of a bee in a near-by clump of daisies.
James sat up and ran his fingers with musing regret through the coarse stubble on cheeks and chin. "I was three, I remember, a cute little cuss. My hair was yellow and ma curled it—you know how—all fuzzy—and I had a little white dress on. It was a county fair. I got the first prize for the best lookin' kid and was mugged for the papers. If I was shaved now and had on some glad rags, I'd be a lady killer, all right, all right."
"'Longside of me," said the Watermelon, "you'd look like a blear-eyed son of a toad."
"You! Why, you'd make a balky horse run, you would."
"When me hair's cut, I'm a bloomin' Adonis, not Venus;" and the Watermelon drew languidly at an old brown pipe, warm and comfortable in the pleasant shade, where soft breezes wandered fitfully by, laden with the odors of the fields in June.
James was skeptical. "Did y' ever take a prize in a beauty show?" he demanded, still musing upon those bygone honors.
"No," admitted the Watermelon. "My old man was a parson, and parsons' kids never have any chance. Besides, I wouldn't care to. Too much like the finest bull in a county fair, or the best laying hen."
"Huh," sneered James. "My folks was of the bon-ton."
"The bon-tons never broke any records in the beauty line," replied the Watermelon. "And the bon-tonnier they are, the uglier."
"Beauty," said James with charming naiveté, "runs in my family."
"It went so fast in the beginning then, yer family never had a chance to catch up," returned the Watermelon. "We'll have a beauty show, just us two."
Inspired by the thought, he sat up to explain, and Mike opened his eyes long enough to look each over with slow scornful derision and a mocking grunt.
James fondled the short stiff hair on his cheeks and chin and waited for developments.
The Watermelon went on. "We will meet this afternoon, here, see? Shaved and with decent duds on. And Mike can pick the winner."
"Mike! He can't tell a sick cat from a well one."
"That's all right. He knows enough to tell the best lookin' one between you and me. A blind mug could do that."
"But—"
"We haven't any one else, you mutt. We can't have too much publicity in this show. I dislike publicity any way, at any time, and especially when I have on clothes, borrowed, as you might say, for the occasion. If the gang was here, we could take a vote, but seein' that they ain't, we got to do with what we got."
"I ain't goin' to get in no trouble wid this here burg," declared Mike. "I want a quiet Sunday, some place where I can throw me feet for a bite of grub and not run no fear of the dog's taking one first. See? Besides, it's a decent, law-abidin' burg, God-fearin' and pious; too small to be made unhappy. You want to take somethin' yer own size."
"Aw, who's goin' to hurt the jerkwater town?" demanded the Watermelon with indignation.
"The cost of livin' is goin' up so these days, it's gettin' hard even to batter a handout," groaned Mike, whose idea of true beauty consisted of a full stomach and a shady place to sleep on a long quiet Sunday afternoon. "I ain't goin' to get every place soured on me. If the public gets any more stingy, I'll have to give up de turf for a livin', that's all. To throw a gag will be harder den hod-carryin'."
"We ain't goin' to hurt the burg none," said James.
He rose languidly and stretched. "You be here this afternoon, Mike, about three, see, or I'll knock yer block off. It's a nice quiet hangout and far enough from the village to be safe. I'm goin' to get a shave and borrow some duds from the bloomin' hostelry up yonder to do honor to de occasion." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and slipped it into his pocket. "If you don't get the clothes and de shave, Watermillion, you'll be counted down and out, see?"
"Sure," agreed the Watermelon.
He lay at length on the ground beneath the butternut tree and James paused a moment to run his eye critically over him,
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He Comes Up Smiling (Illustrated)
He Comes Up Smiling (Illustrated)
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940149191833 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Lost Leaf Publications |
| Publication date: | 03/14/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 475 KB |
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