Atchoo! Sneezes from a Hilarious Vaudevillian

I've known the poor fellow to have the delirium tremens, and see all manner of goblins.

Did you ever run across a ghost, any of you?

Not the nicest experience in the world.

Perhaps you'd like to hear of an exciting adventure in that line that once befell me.

I was out West at the time, traveling on horseback, and pulled up at a tavern when night came on.

There I learned to my chagrin that as a crowd was attending the races – it was in Kentucky, of course – the landlord did not have a single place to stow me.

When I pressed the old chap, he admitted that there was one unoccupied room.

"But," he said, "no one can sleep in that room, for it's haunted. You must go on to the next village."

"I'll sleep in the room, ghost or no ghost," I declared, determined to go no further, as it promised to be a stormy night.

The landlord tried to persuade me; but I had established myself over the fire and called for supper.

Reluctantly the landlord gave orders to prepare the haunted chamber.

Meantime I was enlightened by the other guests as to the nature of the ghostly visitant.

Every night at a certain hour a sepulchral voice was heard outside the casement, saying:

"Do you want to be shaved?"

"And then, what happens?" I demanded.

No one could certainly say.

The last gentleman who slept in the room had fled, shrieking, on hearing the voice, and had spent the rest of his days in an asylum.

Some said that if you allowed the ghostly barber to approach and commence operations on your chin, your throat would infallibly be cut.

Fortified by this information, I retired early to rest, leaving the company engaged in an exciting game at cards, each with his pile of cash on the table before him.

Waking up from my first sleep, a hoarse, croaking sound seemed to come from the casement.

To my half-awakened senses the sound seemed to take form in the words:

"Do you want to be shaved?"

I jumped up and went to the window. The creaking branch of an old pear tree was swaying in the wind and scraping against the sash. This was the origin of the ghostly voice.

"What about those fellows downstairs?" I immediately asked myself, not thinking it fair that I should enjoy all of the fun.

I went to the door and listened. They were still at their cards.

So I dressed myself up in a sheet, took my razor in one hand, and a well-lathered brush in the other, and went downstairs.

Opening the door of the room where the card-players were still eagerly engaged in their game, I looked around. Every eye was fixed on me in terror. Advancing a step into the room, I waved my razor, and said, in a hoarse voice:

"Do you want to be shaved?"

There was a general stampede for the opposite door, and the ghost was left in possession. I walked around the table, and swept the various piles of money into my pocket. Retiring to bed, I slept soundly till the next morning. When I came down to breakfast, eager inquiries were made by the others as to what had happened.

"Well," I answered, "there was some one came, and asked, 'Do you want to be shaved?' So I said, 'No, I don't; but there are some chaps downstairs who do.'"

That's as near as I ever got to meeting a spectre.

But I have seen a dead man galvanized into life.

This is the way it happened.

It was on the stage.

We were playing Juliet at the time. I used to affect Shakespeare when I was young and foolish.

Paris had been duly slain, and Juliet lay stretched upon her bier.

Just then a portion of the scenery caught fire somehow, but some of us behind managed to extinguish it before much damage was done.

Juliet, with commendable presence of mind, did not move an eyelid, but the corpse of Paris was plainly nervous.

He raised himself to a sitting posture, gazing up at the fire in alarm, then scrambled to his feet and scuttled off the stage, the liveliest dead man you ever saw.

The danger being removed, his courage returned, and the audience shrieked with laughter at the spectacle of a corpse crawling along from the wings bent upon taking up his proper position for the final curtain.

I was around with the editor of the New York "Flapdoodle" yesterday, working up a sensational item about myself, when I heard a crash in the composing room. The editor and I dashed upstairs and found that a nervous printer had dropped the form of the first page and pied the whole business. The editor looked grimly at the wretch, and then remarked, mournfully:

"I wish you had broken the news more gently."

Now, we've got our quick-change artists on the stage, but to tell you the honest truth, I believe they can't hold a candle to some in private life.

There's Mrs. Stubb, for instance. You know her husband likes an occasional quiet game with the boys – the trouble is he is too confiding.

That sort of people always run up against a buzz saw for their pains.

"Maria," he said, penitently, one morning at breakfast, "last night I played poker and" —

"Played poker!" interrupted Mrs. Stubb. "How dare you spend your money gambling, sir!"

"As I was saying, I played poker and won enough to buy you a set of furs" —

"You did? Oh, John, you are so good! I knew those sharps could not get the best of you."

"And just as I was about to quit I dropped it all and fifty more."