Conference thebay::joyoflex

439.0. "Mark Twain on words" by GLIVET::RECKARD (Jon Reckard 264-7710) Fri Nov 20 1987 08:31

                                 A Dog's Tale
                        (reprinted without permission)

        My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a
    Presbyterian.  This is what my mother told me; I do not know these
    nice distinctions myself.  To me they are only fine large words
    meaning nothing.  My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to
    say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering
    how she got so much education.  But, indeed, it was not real education;
    it was only show:  she got the words by listening in the dining-room
    and drawing-room when there was company, and by going with the children
    to Sunday-school and listening there;  and whenever she heard a large
    word she said it over to herself many times, and so was able to keep it
    until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she
    would get it off, and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup
    to mastiff, which rewarded her for all her trouble.
        If there was a stranger he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and
    when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant.  And she
    always told him.  He was never expecting this, but thought he would
    catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed,
    whereas he had thought it was going to be she.  The others were always
    waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what
    was going to happen, because they had had experience.
        When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up
    with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was
    the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she
    answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and
    for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right or
    not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was.
        By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word
    Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard all the week at
    different gatherings, making much unhappiness and despondency; and it
    was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked
    for the meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh
    definition every time, which showed me that she had more presence of
    mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course.
        She had one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a
    life preserver, a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was
    likely to get washed overboard in a sudden way - that was the word
    Synonymous.  When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had
    its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile,
    if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for a
    couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she would
    be away down the wind on another tack, and not expecting anything; so
    when he'd hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the inside
    of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment - but only just a
    moment - then it would belly out taut and full, and she would say,
    as calm as a summer's day, "It's synonymous with supererogation", or
    some godless long reptile of a word like that, and go placidly about
    and skim away on the next tack, perfectly comfortable, you know, and
    leave that stranger looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated
    slatting the floor with their tails in unison and their faces
    transfigured with a holy joy.

                          Mark Twain - extracted from "A Dog's Tale", 1903

    wasn't that story also supposed to be a parody of the feelings
    that white people had about educated blacks? not to spoil the
    story...tho