The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1883-07-26
The Youmorist.

"You are the youmorist, are you
not?" queried a long-billed pelican ad-
dressing a thoughtful, mental athlete
on the Milwaukee & st. Paul Road the
other day.
"Yes, sir" said the sorrowful man
brushing away tear. II am an you
morist. l am not very much so, but
still l can see that l am drifting that
way. And yet 1 was once joyous and
happy as you are. Only a few years
ago before was exposed to this mala-
dy, was as blithe as speckled year
ling and rocked not of aught-nor any
thing else, either. Now my whole life
is blasted. | do not dare to eat pie OF
preserves, and no one tells funny stories
when | am near. They regard me as
a professional, and when get in sight
the scrub nine close up and wait fol
me TO entertain the crowd and waddle
around the ring"
"What do you mean by that?n mur
INJURED the purple-nosed Interrogation
point.
'Mean? Why | mean that whether
I'm drawing a salary or not, I'm ex.
pected to be the life of the party
don't want to be the life of the party.
want to let some one else be the life OF
the party. l want to get up the repu
tation of being as cross as a bear with a
sore head. | want people to watch
their children for fear I'll swallow
them. Iwant to take my low-cut eve
ming dress smile and put it in the bu
reau drawer, and tell the world I've got
a cancer in my stomach and the heaves
and hypochondria, and a malignant case
of leprosy."
''Do you mean to say that you do not
feel facetious all the time, and that
you get weary of being an youmorist?"
Yes, hungry interlocutor. Yes. low
browed student, yes. l am not always
tickled. Did you ever have large,
angry, and abnormally protuberant boil
somewhere on your person where it
seemed to be in the way? Did you ever
have such boil as travelling compan
ion and then get introduced to people
as an youmorist? You have not? Well,
then, you do not know all there is OF
suffering in this sorrow-streaked world.
When wealthy people die why don't
they endow cast-iron castle with a
draw-bridge to it and call it the you
morist' retreat?
"But how di0 you come to git to be
an youmorist?"
"Well, l don't know. l blame my
parents some. They might have pre-
vented it if they taken it in time, but
they didn't. They let it run on till it
got established and now it's no use to
60 to the Hot Springs or to the noun
tains, or have an operation performed.
You let man get the name of being an
youmorist and he doesn't dare to regis
ter at the hotels and he has to travel
anonym ously and mark his clothes with
his wifes name or the public will lynch
him if he doesn't say something you
morous.
''Where is your boy tonight" con-
tinued the gloomy humorist ''Do you
know where he is? Is he at home un-
der your watchful eye or is he away
somewhere mailing the handles on his
first little joke? Parent, beware. Teach
your boy to beware. Watch him night
and day, or all at once, when he is be-
yond your jurisdiction, he will grow
pale. He will have far-away look in
his eye and the bright, rosy lad will
have become the flat-chested, joyless
yOumOrlSt.
'1t's hard to speak unkindly of our
parents, but mingled with my own re-
morse L shall always murmur to myself
and ask over and over why did not my
parents rescue me while they could?
Why did they allow my chubby little
feet to waddle down to the dangerous
ground on which the sad-eyed youmor-
ist must forever standp
Parent, do not forget what l have
said to-day. Whether your child be a
son or daughter. it matters not. Dis.
courage the first sign of approaching
humor. 1t is easier to bust the backbone
of the first little, tender jokelet that
sticks its head through the virgin soil
than it is to allow the Shiny folds OF
your sons youmorous lecture to be
wrapped about you and to bring youl
gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. y
Bill Nye