# History of Oregon Literature/Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30
Oregon Humor in the 70's
It iz true that enny kind ov a laff iz better than none,—but give me the laff that looks out of a man's eyes fust, to see if the coast is clear, then steels down into the dimple ov his cheek, and rides in an eddy thare awhile, then waltzes a spell, at the korners ov his mouth, like a thing ov life, then busts its bonds of buty, and fills the air for a moment with a shower of silvery tongued sparks,— then steels back, with a smile, to its lair, in the harte, tew watch agin for its prey,—this is the kind of laff that I luv, and aint afrade ov. josh billings.
Most of such humor as existed in Oregon prior to the 70's was apparently imported or enjoyed currency by word of mouth without getting into print. It was about that time that a native, indigenous humor got started and began to be published to some extent. Earlier examples were earnestly sought, because it was believed that what the pioneers laughed at would tell much about them. Unless they brought their jokes across the plains with them or got along with the boiler-plate ones printed in the papers of the 50's and 60's or secured outlets in practical jokes that called for more action than words in registering their points, the conclusion must be formed that the first settlers carved out an empire with seriousness rather than with a great deal of wit and fun. Not much locally invented humor could be discovered in the old files of the Oregon Spectator and the total quantity of what appeared original could not be found elsewhere in any significant quantity during the first quarter of a century of frontier development.
The 70's, however, were comparatively a rather bright decade. Was this because the children of the first emigrants were then coming into full maturity? Or was it simply cheerfulness by contagion, a distant ​
sharing of that emphasized funny spell in the nation, a far frontier influence of the mirthful celebrities of that period?
The first Oregon Wards, Nasbys and Nyes relied considerably on dialect and bad spelling for humor- ous effects, following the custom of that day. "To the Mune", along this line, is definitely remindful of the verses of Josiah Allen's Wife. The best they had was of a creditable satirical nature, shown in this chapter by "The Willamette Bridge" and "Susan Sophiar Sofronia Spriggs Writeth". 1 To THE MUNE From the Democratic Era, May 26, 1871 On June 2, the poem was reprinted in the New Northwest, with this note: "The above choice morsel of literature, it is hardly neces- sary to state, is stolen from the Democratic Era. We don't know who that paper hooked it from.—Ed. New Northwest." How bewtiful is this 'ere night! How bright the stars du shine! And all natur sleeps in trankliness! But this 'ere self of mine. Our dog has quit a-barkin' now At fellers a passin' bi; Hese gazin' at the far-oph mune With kalm and plasid i. Wen vuin the, thow pail-faced thing, A hangin' in the skize, Upwerd on wild untrameled wing My thauts cuts dust and flize. O cud I kwit this klod of kla, And sore above the kroud ​,
I'd bathe my sole in heggstacy In yonder fleasy klowd. Out poits' hiborn soles Must mix with vulger kru! Wudn't tha druther fli awa And hyde from mortel vu! Ah, yes! had I a pare of wings To go to yonder mune, I gues ide jest as lif sta thar From now until next June. And thar, a rovin' up and down, Threw perley flours ide go, Or listen to the tinklin rills Wat from the mountain flo. "Note.—The supposition is that the writer has got up among the 'klowds' and can't get down again."
2
Our Shultz Letter
From the Weekly Mercury, June 24, 1871
Bush's Paster,
June 23, 1871.
Editor Mercury:—Here I am yet living on strawberries. They got remarkable scarce down on the praree so I cum up here and find them plentier. Then this is a plesenter place and certain little reminicences cluster about the locality which make a feller kinder domesticated. But it don't be- come me to talk of life's pleasures while I am skulking around with this infernal peace of iron cleavin to my leg like a raw hide to a feller's back. Speaking of raw hides re- minds me of that letter in the Statesman referring to somebody Clark calls the "pawnbroker". Now Mr. Editor I never rit that letter. Clark rit it himself because he has an old grudge at the gentleman he calls pawnbroker, the particulars of which is not necessary to relate. But I am su ​r-
prised that Clark should try to get even on him by making me say what he don't dare to say himself. I'm goin to take up none of his quarrels, 'taint no use for as fast as he gets out of one he's into another and it would keep a feller all the time in a brile. Besides I've lost all interest in him, he's so all fired unreliable that I've throwed off on him and if he didn't belong to my party I'd put a head on him like a pizened pup's.
Schultz Proposes to Leave
Now Mr. Editor I dont know as I shall write you again. Strawberries are getting scarce and I'm tired being out of business. I'd a left several days ago only I thought I'd get a show to nip some of them Salem chaps that's been frisking around through the brush after me. 'taint likely that any of 'em's got a red so I won't wait any longer. I ain't a going to get into Bill Watkinds' clutches agin you bet your life. He's no business man and I don't like a feller that don't under- stand how to make money without workin for it. Watkinds knows how to get work out of a feller when he gets him into the darned prison but he ain't smart enough to make money by lettin a feller go. That's why I say he aint fit for the place he's holdin. He ought to be removed and some feller appointed that knows the ropes. Aint going to tell where I'le take up next because my numerous friends would be inquirin after my wellfare till it would become a darned bore. Friends is a bore anyway, specially such as Sam Clark and the tew specimens of hog pluck arristocracy that take him to their buzum because he puffs them in his paper. I'm disgusted with 'em and don't mean to associate with 'em any more if I can help it. SHULTZ. p.s. It's no use for nobody to come to this paster after strawberries. There a'int none here to speak of now. I state for the benefit of persons that have been in the habit of cumming here for strawberries, etc. ​
OREGON HUMOR IN THE 70's 499 3 Susan Sophiar Sofronia Spriggs Writeth From the New Northwest, July 28, 1871 Miss Duniwa, I heerd that you was a printin a paper an that you want the wimmin to vot, and to be jest like the men, a holdin offis and makin speeches an sich. Now I want to know if that's so. If it is you're to be pited. Now, I've heerd that you was a intelligint woman and could tech schule, but I should think noboddy would want their girls to go to schule to a woman to tech them sich stuf. Now, I Beleve in womern Rites. I think evry Girl has a Right to have a man to Pervide for her, an every woman has a Rite to take care of her childern and hous, but if they go round a votin and speechin I think they better put on the Pante- loons to Onct. How would you fele goin up to the Poles with a lot of men? I had to stop Riting a minnit to take my youngun and Lelindy Fely—that's my darter—she's got more edication than me, and she says: "Law, mother! you ortn't to write so to Miss Duniwa—she'l think you're 'pertinent'." Well now I said to Lelindy Fely: "Somebody ort to Rite 'pertinent' to her, an you needn't stand up for her, for fust thing you know you'l be wantin to be gettin on stumps to make speeches before the men." Sum wimmin an't satisfied with anything, they think they ortn't to have to milk and make butter to sell when they're married, and have babys; and if they have to chop wood they think its orful. I wonder if they think they ort to be kep in a Band Boxj and they think they ought to be equal with the men, an have property an all sich. Now, Lelindy Fely thinks its no wus to go with men to the Poles than to go to picnics an sich, but I know better; and she thinks wimmin could man- age just as well as men—much she knows about it—and she thinks wimmin should be edicated as well as men, cos she says they'd be more intelligint, and have smarter chil- ern. But Lelindy Fely, she's sort o' stuck up cos she's bee ​n
to schule moren me, and she's bin a reading the Laws of Life and the Revolution and sich stuff, and I'm afeared she'l be wantin to vote or print a paper or some sich thing. I'd like to know how a woman as has younguns can go to the Poles; but Lelindy Fely she thinks they can go to the Poles as well as to meetin; she says the younguns don't hin- der them from doin what they plese, and it won't hinder 'em from voting—but I wasn't raised to vote. People think they're arful smart now-a-days wanting women to be doc- tors and sich. Why, there's a woman out here that manages a farm, kepes hired hands, and they say she's rich. I'd think she'd want a man to manage it for her. Ah! me, what's the world a comin to now, Miss Duniwa. Don't you think you better be mindin your younguns and looking after your old man than to be a printin a paper. I am an old woman and have seen a heap of the world, an I hate to see wimmin git out of their sphere—now don't be fended, cos I mean it for your good. SUSAN SOPHIAR SOFRONIA SPRIGGS. 4 The Willamette Bridge From the West Shore, January, 1887 By Stephen Maybelle In reprinting the poem the West Shore ran the following note about it: "More than 16 years ago, Stephen Maybelle, then a young and untutored bard of some native genius, who resided in East Port- land, ventured the prediction, that, among the early achievements of the progressive spirit of enterprise, a bridge would be constructed across the Willamette river at Portland. This theme he duly cele- brated in verse, and it has passed into the permanent literature of the vaporous land of Webfoot. Once upon a time when suddenly seized with the glow and fervor of poetic inspiration, Mr. Maybelle dashed off a poem, many lines in length, in which the prediction was breathed (in fact, it was repeated at the close of each stanza) that the romantic Willamette would be spanned by a bridge, and that we should all see it yet. ​
". . . What once only existed in the dreams of the young bard's imagination, and took the shape and form of impassioned song, has now become, after the lapse of years, a palpable reality. In all truth the doggerel, which, by common courtesy may be dignified by the appellation of 'poetry', was indited in a serio-comic style, and reads much more like a satire than a sincere prediction; nevertheless, the poet has, thoughtlessly or otherwise, written himself down a gen- uine prophet. After encountering almost numberless impediments,... the project of constructing a bridge is now, virtually, an accom- plished fact. ..." Stephen Maybelle, whom Minnie Myrtle Miller called the labor- er-poet in her verses to him previously quoted, was a painter by trade. "The Willamette Bridge" was first printed as a pamphlet. He brought the manuscript to George H. Himes and talked about getting it printed but said he had no money. Mr. Himes said that was all right and arranged for the poet to paint a sign for his shop in exchange. He does not remember the exact date but others refer to its first publication as having been in 1870, confirmed by the state- ment "more than 16 years ago" made by the West Shore in 1887. Stephen Maybelle married the daughter of a woman who conducted one of the well-known dance halls of that time. He later moved to San Francisco and was connected with labor agitations in that city. Behind the pines had sunk the sun, And darkness hung o'er Oregon, When on the banks o' Willamette A youth was seen to set and set, And set and sing unto the moon A wild, yet sweet, pathetic tune— "They're going to build, I feel it, yet, A bridge across the Willamette." The flat boat drifted slowly o'er And reached, at last, the other shore; The captain—brave, courageous soul— Fished her to land with fishing pole. When hark! from o'er the waves a strain— That youth! that voice! that wild refrain— "They're going to build, I feel it, yet, A bridge across the Willamette." Dark grew the night, the south wind blew, ​
Down came the Oregonian dew; Down mountain sides the torrents pour'd, The streamlets rose, the rivers roared— Still sung the youth, with webbed toes, 'Neath umberell, in rubber clothes— "They're going to build, I feel it, yet, A bridge across the Willamette." A Modoc chief, in pure Chinook, Cried, "Klahowyah, tumtum, mamook; Huju tyee yah muckamuck, Nowitka nika teka cumtux; All the same white man, nika klonas, Gum stick mamook, skookum hyas;" But silent grew his savage tongue, For high above his war whoops rung— "They're going to build, I feel it, yet, A bridge across the Willamette." A citizen from Yarmany, Who heard him from the brewery, Sang out, "Young fellow, shtop dot shouet! Dot pridge, you bet, vas pout blayed ouet; Some dings I know I dold you soons, Dem land agents vas d— shmart coons, Dot eye vas in my pridge, you bet! Dot pridge agross dot Willamette!" So winter rains and summer flowers Passed on, with sad and pleasant hours; Yet still sat on the river bank, A man, bald-headed, lean and lank, Grown old, still singing the same tune— "'Tis coming, coming, coming soon! They're going to build, I feel it, yet, A bridge across the Willamette." Years pass'd there came a traveler roun' To visit our East Portland town; ​
As on the river bank he stood He saw a sight that froze his blood— Right there, beneath the glowing sun There sat a glowing skeleton, Which turned its hideous, fleshless head, And grinned most horribly, and said: "They're going to build, I feel it, yet, A bridge across the Willamette." And the traveler came to see, And stood upon the granite quay, Gazing long and silently Upon the river rushing by. A monster bridge now spanned the stream, And murmering, as in a dream— "They've built a bridge, that's it, you bet, A bridge across the Willamette."
My First Love
By Gabe Mack
From the Oregon Literary Vidette, Salem, Volume I, Number 2, March, 1879, and written especially for that paper. It's all very well, for poets to tell, By way of their song adorning, Of milk-maids who rouse, to manipulate cows At five o'clock in the morning; And of mooney young mowers, who bundle outdoors, The charms of their straw beds scorning, Before break of day, to make love and hay At five o'clock in the morning.
If early rising be pardonable under any circumstances, it is only when one is living in the country, and the fresh morning air woos you from a bed of slumber. Ah! the dear, delightful country, it was there I first met my first love, of whom you have so often heard me speak. Yes, she was a milk-maid, too, and of all the times, I can never forget that time. The month was June, and the trees were in blos- som, and the birds were in the trees—and with stones, bows and arrows, and old shotguns, the boys generally made it ​
tropical for the birds in them parts; the larks sang early in the morning, and the dairy-maid sung sweetly as she deftly made "Brindle" "hist" and render "tit for tat" until she kicked over the milk pail, and then the pretty milk-maid sung out, "You dratted old crittur!" The lambs gambolled and frisked about the meadows, and occasionally we had one for dinner; but it wasn't the "little lamb that Mary had."
No objection was made to my staying as late as I pleased, provided I assisted in sticking beans, hoeing onions, and made myself generally useful. Sometimes I stayed rather late. The clock would strike eleven, and then my affinity would rise, saying she guessed she'd have to set the bread to rise. Whereupon I assured her that a little after eleven she could leaven the whole lump, and made her sit down again.
One night I rather "crowded the mourners." The clock struck one before it occurred to me that it was time to go. But next morning I made amends by sending her some or- iginal lines of my own composing, beginning— Will you come to the bower I have shingled for you? I've bought a prize pancake of gum to chew, Darling Maria—hoop-te-doo-der-doo. Once upon a time I dropped in by accident to spend the evening, and hinted that I would willingly be kissed for my mother, if my country's welfare demanded it. "Go to , young man," she said, for she was modest as well as classical.
"Nay, I would rather come twice, love," I made answer. And still I besought the coveted kiss, urging it upon her as a duty she owed to society, a duty to the government, a duty to—
"What in thunder do you take me for?" she asked.
"For better or for worse, my dear little tater-blossom. Come to these arms!" I cried, and at that moment her father, who had been standing conveniently near a partition door, entered with an iron poker in his hand and asked me if I was waiting for anything in part ​icular.
The old galoot ought to have known better, and ought to have laid his hand upon our heads and said, "This is my son, in whom I am well pleased," "Bless you, my children", etc., etc.; but nobody expected him to be flourishing that ridiculous thing about his cranium and go to calling nick-names. People should never be too familiar, even with old acquaintances; and by way of showing a proper con- tempt for the old chap's behavior, I came away without closing the door or saying good-evening, and never called
CHAPTER 31
Old and New Columnists
   Portland Item: The "Morning Oregonian has a larger subscription list than any other daily published m the city of Portland"; and "the Daily Times has the largest circulation of any daily paper in the city." Glad to know that they are both doing better than each other.
   orange jacobs. 1862.
   Motto for Bridegroom: Veni! vidi! vici!——I've been! and gone! and done it!
   h. r. kincaid, 1865.
No attempt has been made here to give a complete survey of Oregon newspaper volumns and columnists. Eleven have been selected as representative of this form of writing in the state from 1862 to the present. Very definitely, of course, they belong and deserve emphasis in a study of regional literature, since they are local literature in the smallest published unit that can be found and, where they stimulate creative interest in the community and accept contributions from those who live in it, they come as near as anything we have today to being folk literature.
They are neighborly, naive, humorous and philosophic in their regular characteristics, and often use rhyme, sometimes satire, frequently in palatable doses the propaganda of reform, and the pun remains in them a respectable ingredient. Their technique does not hold to the Who, When, Where, Why, What and How of journalism. By being personal, informal, subjective, and loose in unity, their whole form is relaxed. Although run in newspapers and paid for out of newspaper budgets, and having the reciprocal function of winning and holding subscribers, they are literature rather than journalism, and papers that feature them are to that extent literary papers. Their development in Oregon has been extensive, original and influential. Enough of them are buried in old newspaper files in