Mark Twain humor

Mark Twain in his early days was editor of a Missouri newspaper. A superstitious subscriber wrote him, saying that he had found a spider in his paper, and asked whether that was a sign of good or bad luck. The humorist wrote this answer and printed it: "Old Subscriber: Finding a spider in your paper was neither good nor bad luck for you. The spider was merely looking over our paper to see which merchant is not advertising, so that he can go to that store, spin his web across the door, and live a life of undisturbed peace ever afterwards."

Mark Twain discusses Satan

Of course, Satan has some kind of a case, it goes without saying. It may be a poor one, but that is nothing; that can be said about anyone of us. We may not pay him reverence for that would be indiscreet; but we can at least respect his talents.

A person who has for untold centuries maintained the imposing position of spiritual head of four fifths of the human race, and political head of the whole of it, must be granted the possession of executive abilities of the loftiest order.

I would like to see him. I would rather see him and shake him by the tail than any other member of the European Concert.

Epitaph placed on his daughter's tomb

 Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here.
 Warm southern wind, Blow softly here.

Green sod above, Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night.

 (Mark Twain, adapted from Robert Richardson)

THE LADIES

(Mark Twain's response to the toast)

I have in mind a poem which is familiar to you all, familiar to everybody. And what an inspiration that was (and how instantly the present toast recalls the verses to all our minds) when the most noble, the most gracious, the purest and sweetest of all poets, says: "Woman! 0 Woman!-er-er     Worn-"

 However, you remember the lines; and you remem­ber how feelingly, how daintily, how almost impercep­tibly the verses raise up before you, feature by feature, the ideal of a true and perfect woman; and how, as you contemplate the finished marvel, your homage grows into worship of the intellect that could create so fair a thing out of mere breath, mere words. And you I call to mind now, as I speak, how the poet, with stern fidelity to the history of all humanity, delivers this beautiful child of his heart and his brain over to the trials and sorrows that must come to all, sooner or later, that abide in the earth, and how the pathetic story culminates in that apostrophe-so wild, so regretful, so full of mournful retrospection. The lines run thus: "Alas!-alas!-a-alas!

-Alas! .Alas!"

 -and so On. I do not remember the rest; but, taken altogether, it seems to me that poem is the noblest tribute to woman that human genius has ever brought forth. I feel that if I were to talk hours, I could not do my great theme completer or more graceful justice than I have now done in simply quoting the poet's matchless words.

The phases of the womanly nature are infinite in their variety. Take any type of woman, and you shall find in it something to respect, something to admire, something to love. And you shall find the whole joining you, heart and hand. Who was more patriotic than Joan of Arc? Who was braver? Who has given us a grander instance of self-sacrificing devotion? Ah! you remember, you remember well, what a throb of pain, what a great tidal wave of grief swept over us all when Joan of Arc fell at Waterloo. Who does not sorrow for the loss of Sappho, the sweet singer of Israel? Who among us does not miss the gentle piety of Lucretia Borgia? Who can join in the heartless libel that says woman is extravagant in dress, when he can look back and call to mind our simple and lowly mother Eve arrayed in her modification of the Highland costume? Sir, women have been soldiers, women have been paint­ers, women have been poets. So long as language lives, the name of Cleopatra wi11live. And, not because she conquered George III, but because she wrote those divine lines:

"Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

                     For God hath made them so."

EPITAPH

Epitaph placed on the tomb of his wife by Mark Twain.

Warm summer sun,

Shine kindly here.

Warm southern wind

Blow softly here.

Green sod above

   Lie light, lie light.

Good-night, dear heart,

   Good-night, good-night.