The Call of the Wild
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Dooley, “I see me frind Tiddy Rosenfelt has been doin’ a little lithry criticism, an’ th’ hospitals are full iv mangled authors. Th’ next time wan iv thim nature authors goes out into th’ woods lookin’ f’r his prey he’ll go on crutches.”
“What’s it about?” asked Mr. Hennessy.
“’Twas this way,” said Mr. Dooley. “I have it fr’m Hogan, me lithry adviser. He keeps me posted on what’s goin’ on in lithrachoor, an’ I do th’ same f’r him on crime. I’ve always got a little something that’s excitin’ comin’ to me, but this time he’s made good. It seems, ye see, that a good manny iv th’ la-ads that write th’ books have been lavin’ th’ route iv th’ throlley line an’ takin’ to th’ woods. They quit Myrtle an’ Clarence an’ th’ wrong done to Oscar Lumlovitch be th’ brutal foreman iv lard tank nine, an’ wint to wurruk on th’ onhappy love affairs iv Carrie Boo, th’ deer, an’ th’ throubles in th’ domestic relations iv th’ pan fish an’ th’ skate. F’r th’ last year th’ on’y books that Hogan has told me about have been wrote about animiles. I’ve always thought iv th’ beasts iv th’ forest prowlin’ around an’ takin’ a leg off a man that’d been sint to Colorado f’r his lungs. But these boys tell me they’re diff’rent in their home life. They fall in love, get marrid an’ divoorced, bring up fam’lies, an’ are supported or devoured be thim, as th’ case may be, accumylate money, dodge taxes, dhrink to excess, an’ in ivry way act like human bein’s. I wudden’t be surprised to know that a bear had a tillyphone in his room, an’ that th’ gopher complained iv his gas bills.
“Ivry time I go up into th’ park to see me old frind th’ illyphant I wondher what dhreams ar-re goin’ on behind that nose iv his that he uses akelly as a garden hose, a derrick, or a knife an’ fork. Is he recallin’ th’ happy days at Barnum’s befure brutal man sunk an ice pick into him an’ dhrove him to th’ park? Is there some wan still there that he thinks iv? Is she alive, is she dead, does she iver dhream iv him as she ates her hay an’ rubs her back agin th’ bars iv her gilded cage? There’s th’ hippypotamus. He don’t look to be full iv sintiment, but ye never can tell. Manny an achin’ heart beats behind a cold an’ sloppy exteeryor. Somewhere in sunny Africa a loving fam’ly may be waitin’ fr him. Th’ wallow at th’ riverside is there, with th’ slime an’ ooze arranged be tinder paws. But he will not return. They will meet, but they will miss him, there will be wan vacant lair.
“Well, sir, just as I’d got to th’ frame iv mind whin I’m thinkin’ iv askin’ that gloomy lookin’ allygator in th’ park up to spind an avenin’ with me, along comes Tiddy Rosenfelt an’ says there’s nawthin’ in it. It’s hard on th’ boys. They ar-re doin’ th’ best they can. Ye can’t expect an author to lave his comfortable flat an’ go three or four thousand miles to larn whether th’ hero iv his little love story murdhers his uncle be bitin’ him abaft th’ ear or be fellin’ him with a half Nelson an’ hammer-lock. Why should he? Who wud feed th’ goold fish while he was gone?
“No, sir, he does just right. Instead iv venturin’ into th’ wilds an’ p’raps bein’ et up be wan iv his fav’rite charackters, he calls f’r some tea an’ toast, jabs his pen into th’ inkwell, an’ writes: ‘Vichtry was not long in th’ grasp iv th’ whale. Befure he cud return to his burrow Tusky Bicuspid had seized him be th’ tail an’ dashed his brains out agin a rock. With a leap in th’ air th’ bold wolf put to rout a covey iv muskrats, those evil sojers iv fortune that ar-re seen hoverin’ over ivry animile battlefield. Wan blow iv his paw broke th’ back iv th’ buffalo. With another he crushed a monsthrous sage hen, at wanst th’ most threacherous an’ th’ hardiest iv th’ beasts iv th’ wild. Paralyzed be th’ boldness iv th’ wolf, th’ camel an’ th’ auk fled fr’m th’ scene iv havoc, as is their wont. All that remained iv his inimies now was th’ cow, which defied him fr’m the branches iv a pine tree an’ pelted him with th’ monsthrous fruit iv this cillybrated viggytable. Now, it is well known that however aven they may be in a boording house, th’ wolf is no match f’r a cow in a tree. But this was no ordhinary wolf. As he heerd th’ low cry iv’ his mate he was indowed with th’ strength iv a thousand piany movers. With a gesture iv impatience he shed his coat, f’r it was Spring, childher, an’ he shud’ve been more careful; he shed his coat, swiftly climbed th’ tree an’ boldly advanced on th’ foe. His inimy give th’ low growl iv his hated thribe. How manny a time have I heerd it in Englewood an’ shuddered with fear. But th’ dauntless Tusky answered back with his battle song, th’ long chirp iv th’ wild wolf, his wife accompanyin’ him fr’m th’ foot iv th’ tree on a sheep bone. With wan spring th’ inthrepid wolf sprang at his inimy. She thried to sink her venomous fangs into his wish-bone, but with incredulous swiftness, he back-heeled an’ upper-cut her, swung left to body an’ right to point iv jaw, an’ with wan last grimace iv defiance th’ gr-reat bulk iv th’ monsther fell tin thousand feet into th’ roarin’ torrent an’ took th’ count. Tusky heerd th’ soft love-note iv his mate. She was eatin’ th’ whale. He hastily descinded. An’ so peace come to th’ jungle.’
“That sounds all right to me. I like to see th’ best man or th’ best animile win. An’ I want to see him win good. It wudden’t help me story to tell about Tusky goin’ home with wan ear gone an’ his eye blacked, an’ tellin’ his wife that he’d just about managed to put wan over that stopped another wolf. That’s what usually happens up this way, an’ it ain’t very good readin’. When I want to tell a story that’ll inthrest me frinds I give it to thim good. Whin I describe me fav’rite hero, Dock Haggerty, I tell about him throwin’ wan man out iv th’ window an’ usin’ another as a club to bate th’ remainin’ twelve into submission. But if I had to swear to it, an’ wasn’t on good terms with th’ Judge, I wudden’t say that I iver see Dock Haggerty lick more than wan man—at a time. At a time, mind ye. He might take care iv a procession iv Johnsons. But he’d be in throuble with a couple iv mimbers iv th’ Ethical Culture Society that came to him at th’ same moment. ‘If iver more thin wan comes at wanst,’ says th’ Dock, ‘I’m licked,’ he says.
“But that ain’t what I tell late at night, an’ it ain’t what I want to read. Ye bet it ain’t. If I wint over to a book store an’ blew in me good thirty-nine cints f’r a dollar-an’-a-half book, I’d want some kind iv a hero that I never see around these corners. Th’ best day I iver knew Jawn L. Sullivan had a little something on me. I won’t say it was much, but now that we’re both retired, I’ll say that I’m glad I niver challenged him. But I wudden’t look at a book, an’ I wudden’t annyway, but I wudden’t let Hogan tell me about a hero that cudden’t wear an overcoat an’ rubber boots, have wan arm done up in a sling, an’ something th’ matther with th’ other, blue spectatacles on his eyes, a plug hat on his head, th’ aujeence throwin’ bricks at him, an’ th’ referee usin’ a cross-cut saw on his neck, an’ thin make two hundher an’ fifty Jawn L. Sullivans establish th’ new record f’r th’ leap through th’ window. Whin I want a hero, I want a good wan. I don’t care whether ’tis a wolf, a sojer, or a Prisident. It all comes to th’ same thing—whether ’tis Hogan’s frind, th’ Wolf that he’s been talkin’ about f’r a year, or that other old frind iv his that he used to talk about—what d’ye call him?—ah, where’s me mind goin’?—Ivanhoe.
“But Tiddy Rosenfelt don’t feel that way about it. He’s called down thim nature writers just th’ same way he’d call me down if I wint befure th’ fifth grade at th’ Brothers’ school an’ told thim what I thought wud inthrest thim about Dock Haggerty. What does he say? I’ll tell ye. ‘I do not wish to be harsh,’ says he, ‘but if I wanted to charackterize these here nature writers, I wud use a much shorter an’ uglier wurrud thin liar, if I cud think iv wan, which I cannot. Ye take, f’r example, What’s-his-name. Has this man iver been outside iv an aviary? I doubt it. Here he has a guinea pig killin’ a moose be bitin’ it in th’ ear. Now it is notoryous to anny lover iv th’ wilds, anny man with a fondness f’r these monarchs iv forests, that no moose can be kilt be a wound in th’ ear. I have shot a thousand in th’ ear with no bad effects beyond makin’ thim hard iv hearin’.
“‘Here is a book befure me be wan iv these alleged nature writers. This is a man whose name is a household wurrud in Conneticut. His books are used in th’ schools. An’ what does this man, who got his knowledge iv wild beasts apparently fr’m mis-treatin’ hens f’r th’ pip, say; what is his message to th’ little babblin’ childher iv Conneticut? It is thim that I’ve got to think iv. Instead iv tellin’ thim th’ blessed truth, instead iv leadin’ thim up be thurly Christyan teachings to an undherstandin’ iv what is right an’ what is ideel in life, he poisons their innocent minds with th’ malicious, premeditated falsehood—I can’t think iv an uglier or shorter wurrud that wud go with premeditated—that th’ wolf kills th’ grizzly bear be sinkin’ its hidyous fangs into th’ gapin’ throat iv its prey. How can honest citizens an’ good women be brought up on such infamyous docthrine? Supposin’ a bear shud attack Conneticut an’ th’ bells shud ring f’r th’ citizens to arise, an’ these little darlings shud follow this false prophet an’ run out in their nighties an’ thry to leap at his throat. Wudden’t the bear be surprised? Wudden’t the little infants be surprised? Ye bet they wud. I want these here darlings to know th’ blessed truth, th’ softenin’ an’ beautiful truth that th’ on’y way f’r a wolf to kill a bear is to disembowel him. There is no other way. Th’ wolf springs at his prey, an’ with wan terrific lunch pries him open. No wolf cud kill a bear th’ way Willum J. Long iv Stamford has described. A bear has th’ sthrongest throat iv anny crather in th’ wurruld, barrin’ Bryan. Why, I wud hate to have to sthrangle a bear. I did wanst, but I had writer’s cramp f’r months aftherward.’
“An’ that settles it. Fr’m now on ye can get anny wan iv these here nature writers be callin’ up four iliven eight B, Buena Park. Th’ wild animiles can go back to their daily life iv doin’ th’ best they can an’ th’ worst they can, which is th’ same thing with thim, manin’ get what ye want to eat an’ go to sleep with ye’er clothes on. But some wan ought to bring out a new nature story. I’ve thought iv chapter twinty-eight: ‘With wan blow iv his pen he laid low, but not much lower, Orpheus L. Jubb, th’ well-known minichure painter who has taken up nature study. With another he disembowelled th’ Riv’rend Doctor Aleck Guff, who retired fr’m th’ Universalist Church because he cud not subscribe to their heejous docthrines about th’ future life, an’ wrote his cillybrated book on wild animiles iv th’ West fr’m a Brooklyn car window. It took on’y a moment f’r him to inflict a mortal wound on Seton-Thompson’s kodak. An’ Tiddy Rosenfelt stood alone in th’ primeval forest. Suddenly there was a sound in th’ bushes. He loaded his pen, an’ thin give a gasp iv relief, f’r down th’ glade come his thrusted ally, John Burroughs, leadin’ captive th’ pair iv wild white mice that had so long preyed on th’ counthry.’
“An’ there ye ar-re, Hinnissy. In me heart I’m glad these neefaryous plots iv Willum J. Long an’ others have been defeated. Th’ man that tells ye’er blessed childher that th’ way a wild goat kills an owl is be pretendin’ to be an alarum clock, is an undesirable citizen. He ought to be put in an aquaryum. But take it day in an’ day out an’ Willum J. Long won’t give anny information to ye’er son Packy that’ll deceive him much. Th’ number iv carryboo, deers, hippypotamuses, allygators, an’ muskoxes that come down th’ Ar-rchey Road in th’ coorse iv a year wudden’t make anny wan buy a bow an’ arrow. It don’t make near as much diff’rence to us how they live as it does to thim how we live. They’re goin’ an’ we’re comin’, an’ they ought to investygate an’ find out th’ reason why. I suppose they don’t have to go to school to larn how to bite something that they dislike so much they want to eat it. If I had to bring up a flock iv wild childher in Ar-rchey Road, I wudden’t much care what they larned about th’ thrue habits iv th’ elk or th’ chambok, but I’d teach thim what I cud iv th’ habits, the lairs, an’ th’ bite iv th’ polisman on th’ beat.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hennessy, “Tiddy Rosenfelt is right. A fellow that writes books f’r childher ought to write th’ truth.”
“Th’ little preciouses wudden’t read thim,” said Mr. Dooley. “Annyhow, th’ truth is a tough boss in lithrachoor. He don’t pay aven boord wages, an’ if ye go to wurruk f’r him ye want to have a job on th’ side.”