Punch, Brothers, Punch by Mark Twain
Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines,
and see if he can discover anything harmful in them?
Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
A pink trip slip for a three-cent, fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
Punch, brothers! punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while
ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire
possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my
brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell
whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my
day's work the day before--thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am
writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my
pen, but all I could get it to say was, "Punch in the presence of the
passenjare." I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head
kept humming, "A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip
slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and so on, without peace or
respite. The day's work was ruined--I could see that plainly enough.
I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently discovered that my
feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand
it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes
accommodated themselves to the new step and went on harassing me just
as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered
all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and
cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled,
tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight
frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the
whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare."
By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was
distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--"'Punch! oh, punch!
punch in the presence of the passenjare!"
Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck,
and went forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev.
Mr.------, to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He
stared at me, but asked no questions. We started. Mr.------talked,
talked, talked as is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At
the end of a mile, Mr.------ said "Mark, are you sick? I never saw a
man look so haggard and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!"
Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch brothers, punch with
care! Punch in the presence o the passenjare!"
My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, they said:
"I do not think I get your drift, Mark. Then does not seem to be
any relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and
yet--maybe it was the way you said the words--I never heard anything
that sounded so pathetic. What is--"
But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless,
heartbreaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip
for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in
the presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during
the other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr.------ laid his
hand on my shoulder and shouted:
"Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we
are at the Tower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind,
and never got a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn
landscape! Look at it! look at it! Feast your eye on it! You have
traveled; you have seen boaster landscapes elsewhere. Come, now,
deliver an honest opinion. What do you say to this?"
I sighed wearily; and murmured:
"A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a
three-cent fare, punch in the presence of th passenjare."
Rev. Mr.------ stood there, very grave, full of concern,
apparently, and looked long at me; then he said:
"Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand.
Those are about the same words you said before; there does not seem
to be anything in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you
say them. Punch in the--how is it they go?"
I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines.
My friend's face lighted with interest. He said:
"Why, what a captivating jingle it is! It is almost music. It
flows along so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say
them over just once more, and then I'll have them, sure."
I said them over. Then Mr.------ said them. He made one little
mistake, which I corrected. The next time and the next he got them
right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That
torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of
rest and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing;
and I did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging
homeward. Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the
pent talk of many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on
and on, joyously, jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry.
As I wrung my friend's hand at parting, I said:
"Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't
said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!"
The Rev. Mr.------ turned a lack-luster eye upon me, drew a deep
sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:
"Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the
A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor
fellow! he has got it, now."
I did not see Mr.------ for two or three days after that. Then, on
Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly
into a seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded
eyes to my face and said:
"Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those
heartless rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and
night, hour after hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have
suffered the torments of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden
call, by telegraph, and took the night train for Boston. The occasion
was the death of a valued old friend who had requested that I should
preach his funeral sermon. I took my seat in the cars and set myself
to framing the discourse. But I never got beyond the opening
paragraph; for then the train started and the car-wheels began their
'clack, clack-clack-clack-clack! clack-clack! --clack-clack-clack!'
and right away those odious rhymes fitted themselves to that
accompaniment. For an hour I sat there and set a syllable of those
rhymes to every separate and distinct clack the car-wheels made. Why,
I was as fagged out, then, as if I had been chopping wood all day. My
skull was splitting with headache. It seemed to me that I must go mad
if I sat there any longer; so I undressed and went to bed. I
stretched myself out in my berth, and--well, you know what the result
was. The thing went right along, just the same. 'Clack-clack clack, a
blue trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for an eight cent fare;
clack-clack-clack, a buff trip slip, clack clack-clack, for a six-cent
fare, and so on, and so on, and so on punch in the presence of the
passenjare!' Sleep? Not a single wink! I was almost a lunatic when
I got to Boston. Don't ask me about the funeral. I did the best I
could, but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and
woven in and out with 'Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the
presence of the passenjare.' And the most distressing thing was that
my delivery dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing
rhymes, and I could actually catch absent-minded people nodding time
to the swing of it with their stupid heads. And, Mark, you may
believe it or not, but before I got through the entire assemblage were
placidly bobbing their heads in solemn unison, mourners, undertaker,
and all. The moment I had finished, I fled to the anteroom in a state
bordering on frenzy. Of course it would be my luck to find a
sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of the deceased there, who had arrived
from Springfield too late to get into the church. She began to sob,
"'Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn't see him before he
"'Yes!' I said, 'he is gone, he is gone, he is gone--oh, will this
suffering never cease!'
"'You loved him, then! Oh, you too loved him!'
"'Loved him! Loved who?'
"'Why, my poor George! my poor nephew!'
"'Oh--him! Yes--oh, yes, yes. Certainly--certainly.
Punch--punch--oh, this misery will kill me!'
"'Bless you! bless you, sir, for these sweet words! I, too,
suffer in this dear loss. Were you present during his last moments?'
"'Yes. I--whose last moments?'
"'His. The dear departed's.'
"'Yes! Oh, yes--yes--yes! I suppose so, I think so, I don't know!
Oh, certainly--I was there I was there!'
"'Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege! And his last
words- -oh, tell me, tell me his last words! What did he say?'
"'He said--he said-oh, my head, my head, my head! He said--he
said--he never said anything but Punch, punch, punch in the presence
of the passenjare! Oh, leave me, madam! In the name of all that is
generous, leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair! --a buff trip
slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent
fare--endu--rance can no fur--ther go!--PUNCH in the presence of the
My friend's hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and
then he said impressively:
"Mark, you do not say anything. You do not offer me any hope.
But, ah me, it is just as well--it is just as well. You could not do
me any good. The time has long gone by when words could comfort me.
Something tells me that my tongue is doomed to wag forever to the
jigger of that remorseless jingle, There--there it is coming on me
again: a blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for
Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank into a peaceful
trance and forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite.
How did I finally save him from an asylum? I took him to a
neighboring university and made him discharge the burden of his
persecuting rhymes into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking
students. How is it with them, now? The result is too sad to tell.
Why did I write this article? It was for a worthy, even a noble,
purpose. It was to warn you, reader, if you should came across those
merciless rhymes, to avoid them--avoid them as you would a pestilence.