“But you weren’t born in all those places,” he said.
“Well, I’ve offered you three places. Take your choice. They’re all at
the same price.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“I shall be nineteen in June,” I said.
“Why, there’s such a discrepancy between your age and your looks,” he
said.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I said, “I was born discrepantly.”
Then we got to talking about my brother Samuel, and he told me my
explanations were confusing.
“I suppose he is dead,” I said. “Some said that he was dead and some
said that he wasn’t.”
“Did you bury him without knowing whether he was dead or not?” asked the
reporter.
“There was a mystery,” said I. “We were twins, and one day when we were
two weeks old–that is, he was one week old, and I was one week old–we
got mixed up in the bath-tub, and one of us drowned. We never could tell
which. One of us had a strawberry birthmark on the back of his hand.
There it is on my hand. This is the one that was drowned. There’s no
doubt about it.
“Where’s the mystery?” he said.
“Why, don’t you see how stupid it was to bury the wrong twin?”
I answered. I didn’t explain it any more because he said the explanation
confused him. To me it is perfectly plain.
But, to get back to Fulton. I’m going along like an old man I used to
know who used to start to tell a story about his grandfather. He had an
awfully retentive memory, and he never finished the story, because he
switched off into something else. He used to tell about how his
grandfather one day went into a pasture, where there was a ram. The old
man dropped a silver dime in the grass, and stooped over to pick it up.
The ram was observing him, and took the old man’s action as an
invitation.
Just as he was going to finish about the ram this friend of mine would
recall that his grandfather had a niece who had a glass eye. She used to
loan that glass eye to another lady friend, who used it when she received
company. The eye didn’t fit the friend’s face, and it was loose. And
whenever she winked it would turn aver.
Then he got on the subject of accidents, and he would tell a story about
how he believed accidents never happened.
“There was an Irishman coming down a ladder with a hod of bricks,” he
said, “and a Dutchman was standing on the ground below. The Irishman
fell on the Dutchman and killed him. Accident? Never! If the Dutchman
hadn’t been there the Irishman would have been killed. Why didn’t the
Irishman fall on a dog which was next, to the Dutchman? Because the dog
would have seen him coming.”
Then he’d get off from the Dutchman to an uncle named Reginald Wilson.
Reginald went into a carpet factory one day, and got twisted into the
machinery’s belt. He went excursioning around the factory until he was
properly distributed and was woven into sixty-nine yards of the best
three-ply carpet. His wife bought the carpet, and then she erected a
monument to his memory. It read:
Sacred to the memory
of
sixty-nine yards of the best three-ply carpet
containing the mortal remainders of
REGINALD WILSON
Go thou and do likewise
And so an he would ramble about telling the story of his grandfather
until we never were told whether he found the ten-cent piece or whether
something else happened.
FULTON DAY, JAMESTOWN
ADDRESS DELIVERED SEPTEMBER 23, 1907
Lieutenant-Governor Ellyson, of Virginia, in introducing Mr.
Clemens, said:
“The people have come here to bring a tribute of affectionate
recollection for the man who has contributed so much to the
progress of the world and the happiness of mankind.” As Mr.
Clemens came down to the platform the applause became louder
and louder, until Mr. Clemens held out his hand for silence.
It was a great triumph, and it was almost a minute after the
applause ceased before Mr. Clemens could speak. He attempted
it once, and when the audience noticed his emotion, it cheered