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The Devil's Dictionary-Part31_Ambrose Bierce(1842-1914)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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The illustriousstatesman, Champ Clark, once lived about a mile



from the village of Jebigue, in Missouri. One day he rode into town

on a favorite mule, and, hitching the beast on the sunny side of a



street, in front of a saloon, he went inside in his character of

teetotaler, to apprise the barkeeper that wine is a mocker. It was a



dreadfully hot day. Pretty soon a neighbor came in and seeing Clark,

said:



"Champ, it is not right to leave that mule out there in the sun.

He'll roast, sure! -- he was smoking as I passed him."



"O, he's all right," said Clark, lightly; "he's an inveterate

smoker."



The neighbor took a lemonade, but shook his head and repeated that

it was not right.



He was a conspirator. There had been a fire the night before: a

stable just around the corner had burned and a number of horses had



put on their mortality" target="_blank" title="n.致命性；死亡率">mortality" target="_blank" title="n.不死，不朽，永生，来生">immortality" target="_blank" title="n.致命性；死亡率">mortality, among them a young colt, which was roasted

to a rich nut-brown. Some of the boys had turned Mr. Clark's mule



loose and substituted the mortal part of the colt. Presently another

man entered the saloon.



"For mercy's sake!" he said, taking it with sugar, "do remove that

mule, barkeeper: it smells."



"Yes," interposed Clark, "that animal has the best nose in

Missouri. But if he doesn't mind, you shouldn't."



In the course of human events Mr. Clark went out, and there,

apparently, lay the incinerated and shrunken remains of his charger.



The boys idd not have any fun out of Mr. Clarke, who looked at the

body and, with the non-committal expression to which he owes so much



of his political preferment, went away. But walking home late that

night he saw his mule standing silent and solemn by the wayside in the



misty moonlight. Mentioning the name of Helen Blazes with uncommon

emphasis, Mr. Clark took the back track as hard as ever he could hook



it, and passed the night in town.

General H.H. Wotherspoon, president of the Army War College, has a



pet rib-nosed baboon, an animal of uncommonintelligence but

imperfectly beautiful. Returning to his apartment one evening, the



General was surprised and pained to find Adam (for so the creature is

named, the general being a Darwinian) sitting up for him and wearing



his master's best uniform coat, epaulettes and all.

"You confounded remote ancestor!" thundered the great strategist,



"what do you mean by being out of bed after naps? -- and with my coat

on!"



Adam rose and with a reproachful look got down on all fours in the

manner of his kind and, scuffling across the room to a table, returned



with a visiting-card: General Barry had called and, judging by an

empty champagne bottle and several cigar-stumps, had been hospitably



entertained while waiting. The general apologized to his faithful

progenitor and retired. The next day he met General Barry, who said:



"Spoon, old man, when leaving you last evening I forgot to ask you

about those excellent cigars. Where did you get them?"



General Wotherspoon did not deign to reply, but walked away.

"Pardon me, please," said Barry, moving after him; "I was joking



of course. Why, I knew it was not you before I had been in the room

fifteen minutes."



SUCCESS, n. The one unpardonable sin against one's fellows. In

literature, and particularly in poetry, the elements of success are



exceedingly simple, and are admirably set forth in the following lines

by the reverend Father Gassalasca Jape, entitled, for some mysterious



reason, "John A. Joyce."

The bard who would prosper must carry a book,






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