But really, the condition of mind seems to be the same as that of some
of our criminals who profess they committed the deed because they
"couldn't help it," or the boy who was asked angrily "why he whistled?"
"He didn't," he replied, "it whistled itself." I imagine our literary
friend thinks that a punster draws the steel blade of his intellect,
discovers some close-mouthed, hard-fisted sort of a word or sentence
doubled up like an oyster and deliberately splits it apart, one shell
on one side, one on the other and the soft thing drops out between. I
could only despise the sort of brain that would do such a deed.
A pun is a part of the sunshine of words. It gives a sparkle and a glow
to language. It is a big pendulum that swings from torrid to frigid
zone quicker than a telegram goes. If you hold on to it, you will find
yourself in both places in a jiffy, and back again to the spot where
you start from without being hurt, and the jog to your intellect, if
you happen to have any, is only of an agreeable nature.
But it was not alone in puns and conundrums that the social life of
Brook Farm was rich. It was rich in cheerful buzz. The bumble-bees had
no more melodious hum than the Brook Farmers.
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