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About this Episode
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Transcript
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Who cares?
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That's why we support the Durban Marshall credit card bill.
See?
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This bill would cut the vital resources they need.
While increasing Megastore profits.
They deserve it.
Don't they?
Tell Congress, stop the Durban Marshall money grab for corporate megastores paid for
by the Electronic Payments Coalition.
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Max and Maurice, a juvenile history in seven tricks by William Bush.
How often we read or hear a voice we almost stand in fear of.
For example, take these stories of two youths, Max and Maurice, who, instead of early turning
their young minds to useful learning, often leared with horrid features at their lessons
and their teachers.
Look now at the empty head.
Z is for mischief, always ready.
Teasing creatures, climbing fences, stealing apples, pears and quenches is, of course, a
deal more pleasant and far easier for the present than to sit in schools or churches fixed
like roosters on their perches.
But oh dear, oh dear, oh deary, when the income sad and dreary is a dreadful thing to
tell that on Max and Maurice fell, all they did, this book rehearses both in pictures
and in verses.
Trick first.
To most people who have leisure, raising poultry gives us pleasure.
First, because the eggs they lay us, for the care we take, repay us.
Secondly, that now and then, we can dine on roasted hen.
Thirdly, of the hens and goose's feathers, men make various uses.
Some folks like to rest their heads in the night on feather beds.
One of these was widow tibits, whom the cut you see exhibits.
Hens were hers in number three.
And a cock of majesty, Max and Maurice took of you, fell to thinking what to do.
One, two, three.
As soon as said, they have sliced a loaf of bread, cut each piece again in four, each
a finger thick.
No more.
These two two cross threads they tie.
Make a letter X they lie in the widow's yard, with care stretched by those two rascals
there.
Scared the cock had seen the sight, when he up in crew with might, cock, a doodle, doodle
do, tack, tack, tack, the trio flew.
Cock and hens, like fowls unfed, gobbled each a piece of bread.
But they found, on taking thought, each of them was badly caught.
Every way they pull and twitch, this strange cat's cradle, two on hitch, up into the air
they fly.
Gemini, oh Gemini, on a tree behold them dangling, in the agony of strangling, and their
necks grow long and longer, and their groans grow strong and stronger.
Each lays quickly, one egg more, then they cross to the other shore.
Widow tibets in her chamber, by these death-cries, waked from slumber, rushes out with bowed
full-thought.
Heavens, what sight her vision caught?
From her eyes the tears are streaming, oh, my dears, my toil, my dreaming aw, life's
fairest hope, says she hangs upon that apple tree.
Heart sick, you may well suppose, for the carving knife she goes.
That's the bodies from the bow, hanging cold and lifeless now, and in silence bathed
in tears, through her house door disappears.
This was the bad boy's first trick, but the second follows quick.
Trick second.
When the worthy Widow tibets, whom the cut below exhibits, had recovered, on the morrow,
from the dreadful shock of sorrow, she, as soon as grief would let her think, began
to think, toward better, just to take the dead, the dear ones, who in life were walking
here once, and in a still noon-day hour, them well-roasted to devour.
True, it did seem almost wicked, when they lay so bare and naked, picked and cinched
before the blaze, they that once in happier days, in the yard or garden ground, all day
long went scratching round, ah, frow tibets wept anew, and poor spits was with her, too.
Max and Maurice smelled the saver, climbed the roof, cried each gun-shaver, through
the chimney now with pleasure, they behold the tempting treasure, headless, in the pan
they're lying, hissing, browning, steaming, frying.
At that moment, down the cellar, dreaming not what soon befell her, Widow tibets went
for sauerkraut, which she would often devour, with exceeding great desire, warmed a little
at the fire.
Up there on the roof, meanwhile, they are doing things in style, Max already with forethought,
a long fishing line has brought.
Schnuptiwap, there goes, oh, chimney, one hand dangling up the chimney.
Schnuptiwap, a second bird, Schnuptiwap, up comes the third.
Presto, number four they haul, Schnuptiwap, we have them all.
Spits looks on, we must allow, but he barks.
But the rogues are down instant her from the roof, and off they can't her.
Ha, I guess there'll be a humming, here's the Widow tibets coming.
Rooted, stood she to the spot, when the pan her vision caught.
Gone was every blessed bird, horrid spits was her first word, oh you spits, you monster
you, let me beat you black and blue.
And the heavy ladle thwack comes down on poor spits's back, loud he yells with agony,
for he feels his conscience free.
Max and Maurice dinner over in a hedge snored undercover, and of that great hen feast
now, each has but a leg to show.
This was now the second trick, but the third will follow quick.
Trick third, through the town and country round, was one Mr. Buck renowned, Sunday coats
and weekday sack coats, bobtails, swallowtails, and frock coats, gators, breaches, hunting jackets,
waste coats with commodities pockets, and other things too long to mention, claimed Mr.
Taylor Buck's attention.
Or if anything wanted doing in the way of darning, sewing, piecing, patching, if a button
needed to be fixed or put on, anything of any kind, anywhere, before or behind, Mr.
Buck could do the same, for it was his life's great aim.
Therefore all the population held him high in estimation.
Max and Maurice tried to invent ways to plague this worthy gent, right before the sartores
dwelling, ran a swift stream, roaring, swelling.
This swift stream, a bridge did span, and the road across it ran.
Max and Maurice not could all them.
Took a saw, when no one saw them, ritzy ratsy riddle riddle, sawed a gap across the middle.
And this feat was finished well, suddenly was heard a yell.
Hello there, come out you buck, Taylor, Taylor, muck muck muck.
Buck could hear all sorts of jeering, jibes, and jokes in silence hearing, but this insult
roused such anger nature couldn't stand it longer, wild with fury up he started with
his yardstick out he darted, for once more that frightful jeer muck muck muck rang loud
and clear.
On the bridge one leap he makes crash, beneath his weight it breaks.
Once more rings the cry muck muck in, head foremost, plumps poor buck.
While the scared boys were scadadling, down the brook two geese came paddling.
On the legs of these two geese with a death clutch, buck did seize, and with both geese
well in hand, flutters out upon dry land.
For the rest he did not find things exactly to his mind.
Soon it proved poor buck had brought a dreadful belly ache from the water.
Noble Mrs. Buck, she rises fully equal to the crisis, with a hot flat iron she draws
the cold out famously.
Soon it was in the mouths of men all through the town, buck's up again.
This was the bad boys third trick.
But the fourth will follow quick.
Trick fourth.
And old saw runs somewhat so.
Man must learn while here below.
Not alone the ABC raises man indignity.
Not alone in reading, writing, reason finds a work inviting.
Not alone to solve the double rule of three, shall man take trouble.
But must hear with pleasure, sages teach the wisdom of the ages.
Access to affordable credit helps me pay my employees, but I don't really need it.
Infliction is killing me.
Who cares?
Big retailers and making record profits.
That's why we support the Durban Marshall credit card bill.
Banks and credit unions help small businesses make payroll.
This bill would cut the vital resources they need.
While increasing Megastore profits, they deserve it, don't they?
Tell Congress, stop the Durban Marshall money grab for corporate megastores paid for
by the Electronic Payments Coalition.
This wisdom, an example to the world, was master lampal.
For this cause, to Max and Maurice, this man was the chief of horrors.
For a boy who loves bad tricks, wisdom's friendship never seeks.
With the clerical profession, smoking always was a passion.
And this habit without question, while it helps promote digestion, is a comfort.
No one can well regrudge a good old man.
In the days, vexations close, and he sits to seek, repose, Max and Maurice, flinty-hearted,
on another trick have started, thinking how they may attack a poor old man through his
tobacco.
Once, when Sunday morning breaking, Pius Hart's two gladness waking poured its light, where
in the temple, at his organ, sat air-lampal.
These bad boys, for mischief ready, stole into the good man's study, where his darling
Misham stands, this Max holds in both his hands, while young Maurice, scape-grace-born,
times, and gets the powder-horned, and with speed, the wicked soul pours the powder in
the bowl, hush, and quick, now right about, for already church is out.
Lampal closes the church door, glad to seek his home once more, all his service well
got through, take his keys, and music too, and his way, delighted, when's homeward, to
his silent friends, full of gratitude, he there lights his pipe, and takes his chair.
Ah, he says, no joy is found, like contentment on earth's round.
His whizz, bam, the pipe is burst, almost shattered into dust.
Coffee pot and water jug, snuff box, ink stand, tumbler, mug, table, stove, and easy chair,
all are flying through the air, in a lightning powder-flash, with a most tremendous crash.
And the smoke-cloud lifts and clears, lampal on his back appears, God be praised, still
breathing there, only somewhat worse, for where?
Knows, hands, eyebrows, once like yours, now are black as any moors, burned the last thin
spear of hair, and his pate is holy bear, who shall now the children guide, lead their
steps to wisdom's side, who shall now, for Master Lampal, lead the service in the temple,
now that his old pipe is out, shattered, smashed, gone up the spout, time will heal the rest,
once more, but the pipes best days are over.
This was the bad boy's fourth trick, but the fifth will follow quick, trick fifth.
If in village, or in town, you've an uncle settled down, always treat him courteously,
uncle will be pleased, thereby, in the morning, morning to you, any errand I can do you?
Fetch whatever he may need, pipe to smoke, and news to read, or should some confounded
thing prick his back, or bite, or sting, nephew then will be nearby, ready to his help,
to fly, or a pinch of snuff, maybe.
That's him sneezing violently, prosit, uncle, good health to you, God be praised, much
good may it do you, or he comes home late, for chance, pull his boots off then at once,
fetch his slippers, and his cap, and warm gown his limbs to wrap.
Be your constant care, good boy, what shall give your uncle joy?
Max and Maurice, need I mention, had not any such intention.
See now how they tried their wits, these bad boys on Uncle Fritz.
What kind of a bird, a maybug, was they knew, I dare say, in the trees they may be found,
flying, crawling, wriggling round.
Max and Maurice, great pains taking, from a tree these bugs are shaking.
In their cornucopia papers, they collect these pinching creepers, soon they are deposited,
in the foot of Uncle's bed.
With his peeked night cap on, Uncle Fritz to bed has gone, tucks the clothes in, shuts
his eyes, and in sweetest slumber lies, crits, crats, come the charters, single file from
their night quarters, and the captain boldly goes straight at Uncle Fritz's nose,
Bach, he cries, what have we hear, seizing that grim, grinning deer, Uncle wild with
Fritz, up springeth, and the bedclothes from him flingeth.
Ohch, he seizes two more scape graces from his shin and nape, crawling, flying, two and
row, round the buzzing rascals go, wild with fury, Uncle Fritz stamps and slashes them
to bits.
Oh, be joyful, all gone by is the maybug's deviltry.
Uncle Fritz, his eyes can close, once again in sweet repose.
This was the bad boy's fifth trick, but the sixth will follow quick.
Trick 6th Easter days have come again, when the pious baker men bake all sorts of sugar
things, plum cakes, ginger cakes, and rings, max and marise feel an ache in their sweet tooth
for some cake.
But the baker thoughtfully locks his shop and takes his key.
Who would steal, then, this must do, wriggle down the chimney-flue, ratchet?
There come the boys by chimney, black as ravens, down the chimney.
Puff into a chest they drop, full of flour up to the top, out they crawl from undercover
just as white as chalk all over.
But the crack-knows precious treasure on a shelf they spy with pleasure.
Next, the chair breaks, down they go, swap into a trow of dough.
All enveloped, now in dough, see them, monuments of woe.
In the baker comes and snickers, when he sees the sugar-lickers, one, two, three.
The brats behold, into two good brats are rolled.
There's the oven all red hot, shove them in as quick as thought.
Rough, out with them from the heat, they are brown and good to eat.
Now you think they've paid the debt, no, my friend, they're living yet.
Nusper, nesper, like two mice, through their roofs, they nod in a trice.
And the baker cries, you bet there's the rascals living yet.
This was the boy's sixth trick, but the last will follow quick.
Max and Maurice, I grow sick when I think on your last trick.
Why must these two scallow eggs cut those gashes in the bags?
See the farmer on his back carries corn off in a sack.
Scares has he begun to travel, when the corn runs out like gravel.
All at once he stops and cries.
When it, I see where it lies, ha, with what delighted eyes, Max and Maurice, he aspires.
Rabs, he opens wide, his sack, shoves the rogues in, Huckabuck.
It grows warm with Max and Maurice, for to mill, the farmer, hurries.
Master miller, hello, man, grind me that as quick as you can.
In with them, each wretched flapper headlong goes into the hopper.
As the farmer turns his back, he hears the mill go creaky, cracky.
Here you see the bits, post-mortem, just as fate was pleased to sort them.
Master millers ducks with speed, gobbled up the coarse grained feed.
One conclusion.
In the village, not a word, not a sign of grief was heard.
Widow-tippets, speaking low, said, I thought it would be so.
None but self, Critebuck, to blame, mischief is not life's true aim.
Then said gravely, teacher-lampel, there again is an example.
To be sure, bad thing for youth, said the baker, a sweet tooth.
Even uncle says, good folks, see what comes of stupid jokes.
But the honest farmer, guy, what concern is that to I?
Through the place in short, there went one wide murmur of content.
God be praised, the town is free, from this great rest-gality.
End of Max and Maurice, a juvenile history in seven tricks.
