At the Chestnuts’ Dinner

"At the Chestnuts' Dinner" by Charles Battell Loomis is a whimsical and engaging piece of literature that captures a delightful dinner party held at the Chestnut family's home. Through a blend of humor and keen observations, Loomis paints a vivid picture of the guests, their interactions, and the social dynamics at play. The story showcases the charm of domestic gatherings while exploring themes of friendship, hospitality, and the quirks of human behavior, all infused with the author’s characteristic wit and lightheartedness.

• Short story

								
The Hoary Chestnuts were assembling for their annual Christmas
dinner. Sweet music was discoursed by the chestnut bell, and,
despite their age and many infirmities, the members wore a look of
gaiety suitable to so festive an occasion. There was not a young
joke among them, excepting a very few special jokes like the Trolley
variety and the Cuban War joke, and these, from overwork, were as
superannuated-looking as the oldest there. Not a well-known joke but
would come. Of course they would all live until the next dinner, for
an old joke is immortal; but this yearly gathering was their only
chance to meet and shake hands generally, as during the rest of the
year they would be scattered through the columns of the dailies and
the comic weeklies, and their meetings would be chance ones.

The hearty old Mother-in-law joke chatted gaily with that
venerable old lady, I-will-be-a-sister-to-you. The adorable twins,
Ballet-girl’s-age and Ballet-girl’s-scant-raiment, were the center of
a group made up of the haughty Rich-plumber, the Rejected-manuscript,
the Slow-messenger-boy, the Sleeping-watchman, and a good score of
Boarding-house jokes. The one called Boarding-house-coffee felt a
little stirred up at the false report that he was losing ground,
and he had an unsettled look upon his swarthy and senile features.
The idea was absurd on the face of it, for undoubtedly he would
be printed in every section of the country before the month was
out, as he had been any month for decades past. The Summer jokes,
including, of course, the star jest, the Summer-girl, looked
comparatively fresh, as they were not in use the year round, like
Her-father’s-foot, for instance, or that other member of the same
family, the Chicago-girl’s-foot, that year in and year out is used as
a laugh-producer.

The Boston jokes, icy and reserved, sat apart from the rest, and
glared at each other in a near-sighted way. The Freak jokes, on the
contrary, were hail-fellow-well-met with every one, and their vulgar
laughter could be heard everywhere.

A good deal of sympathy was expressed for Actor-walking-home, for
he was so feeble that he had to be helped across the room by Weary
Wraggles. The Tramps were out in force. Tickets to the dinner were
five dollars, and it was rumored that Dusty Rhodes had worked his way
in, but upon reflection the idea will be seen to be preposterous.

There was a strong smell of cloves in the air when the door opened
for the entrance of old Between-the-acts. He came arm in arm with
that other favorite, Detained-at-the-lodge.

The Farmer jokes came in a little late. Their chores had detained
them. But their entrance was hailed with delight by a body of
paragraphers who sat in the gallery as representatives of the press,
and who had paid many a bill, thanks to the Farmers.

A joke, rather square-cut and with wheels in his head, came in with a
“Where is she?” look on his dial, and as soon as he said, “I expected
to meter here,” he was recognized as Big-gas-bill. The Wheel jokes
were conspicuous by their absence. This was explained on the ground
that they were not yet old enough to become Hoary Chestnuts, and, as
a relentless paragrapher remarked, “They were tired, anyhow.”

The last ones to arrive were the Cannibal and Tough-missionary; and
the chairman of the reception committee having assigned them seats at
opposite ends of the table, all sat down, and the annual balloting to
determine what had been the most popular joke of the year was begun.

Many voted for themselves, notably the Boston-bean joke and the
Rich-plumber; but when the votes were counted, the successful person
proved to be neither of these, but a hideously homely woman with a
perpetual smirk upon her face.

“Who’s she?” asked one paragrapher of another.

“You don’t know her? Why, that’s
My-face-is-my-fortune-then-you-must-be-dead-broke.”

And they crowned her with laurel as unquestionably the most
perennially popular joke.
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