The Dialect Store

"The Dialect Store" by Charles Battell Loomis is a lighthearted work that captures the charm and quirks of various American dialects through a series of humorous sketches and anecdotes. Set in a fictional store that sells dialects as if they were everyday goods, the book plays with language and regional differences, showcasing how speech reflects cultural identity. Loomis's witty prose and keen observations bring to life the rich tapestry of American vernacular, inviting readers to appreciate the diversity and character inherent in the way people communicate.

• Short story

								
“I suppose I dreamed it; but if there isn’t such a store, there might
be, and it would help quill-drivers a lot,” said the newspaper man,
as he and his friend were waiting to give their order in a down-town
restaurant yesterday noon.

“What store are you talking about, and what dream? Don’t be so vague,
old man,” said his friend the magazine-writer.

“Why, a dialect store. Just the thing for you. I was walking down
Fifth Avenue, near Twenty-first Street, and I saw the sign, ‘Dialect
shop. All kinds of dialects sold by the yard, the piece, or in
quantities to suit.’ I thought that maybe I might be able to get some
Swedish dialect to help me out on a little story I want to write
about Wisconsin, so I walked in. The place looked a good deal like a
dry-goods store, with counters down each side, presided over by some
twenty or thirty clerks, men and women.

“The floor-walker stepped up to me and said, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I want to buy some dialect,’ said I. ‘Oh, yes; what kind do you want
to look at? We have a very large assortment of all kinds. There’s
quite a run on Scotch just now; perhaps you’d like to look at some
of that.’ ‘No; Swedish is what I’m after,’ I replied. ‘Oh, yes; Miss
Jonson, show this gentleman some Swedish dialect.’

“I walked over to Miss Jonson’s department, and she turned and opened
a drawer that proved to be empty. ‘Are you all out of it?’ I asked.
‘Ja; but I skall have some to-morrer. A faller from St. Paul he baen
haer an’ bought seventy jards.’

“I was disappointed, but as long as I was there I thought I’d look
around; so I stepped to the next counter, behind which stood a man
who looked as if he had just stepped out of one of Barrie’s novels.
‘Have you Scotch?’ said I. ‘I hae joost that. What’ll ye hae? Hielan’
or lowlan’, reeleegious or profane? I’ve a lairge stock o’ gude auld
Scotch wi’ the smell o’ the heather on it; or if ye’re wantin’ some
a wee bit shop-worn, I’ll let ye hae that at a lower price. There’s
a quantity that Ian Maclaren left oot o’ his last buke.’ I expressed
surprise that he had let any escape him, and he said: ‘Hech, mon,
dinna ye ken there’s no end to the Scots?’ I felt like telling him
that I was sorry there had been a beginning, but I refrained, and he
went on: ‘We’re gettin’ airders fra the whole English-sp’akin’ warld
for the gude auld tongue. Our manager has airdered a fu’ line of a’
soorts in anticipation of a brisk business, now that McKinley--gude
Scotch name, that--is President.’

“I should have liked to stay and see a lot of the Scotch, as it
seemed to please the man to talk about his goods; but I wanted to
have a look at all the dialects, so I bade him good morning, and
stepped to the next department--the negro.

“Here an unctuous voice called out: ‘Fo’ de Lawd! Ah don’ b’lieve
you’ll pass me widout buyin’. Got ’em all hyah, boss--Sou’ Ca’lina
an’ Ten’see an’ Virginny. Tawmas Nelson Page buys a heap er stuff
right yer. Dat man sut’n’y got a great haid. He was de fustes’ one
ter see how much folks was dyin’ ter git a leetle di’lect er de ra’ht
sawt, an’ Ah reckon Ah sol’ him de fus’ yard he evah bo’t.’

“‘Do you sell it by the yard?’ I asked, just to bring him out.
‘Shuah!’ and pulling down a roll of black goods, he unrolled enough
dialect to color ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ But I said, ‘I don’t want to
buy, uncle; but I’m obliged to you for showing it to me.’ ‘Oh, dat’s
all right, boss. No trouble to show goods. Ah reckon yo’ nev’ saw
sech a heap er local col’in’ as dat. Hyah! hyah! hyah! We got de
goods, an’ any tahm you want to fix up a tale, an’ put in de Queen’s
English in black, come yer an’ as’ fer me. Good day, sah.’ And I
passed on to the next--Western dialect.

“Here I found that James Whitcomb Riley had just engaged the whole
output of the plant. The clerk had an assistant in his little son,--a
Hoosier boy,--and he piped up: ‘We got ’ist a littul bit er chile’s
di’lec’, an’ my popper says ’at ef Mist’ Riley don’t come an’ git it
soon ’at I can sell it all my own se’f. ’At ’d be the mostest fun!’
and his childish treble caused all the other clerks in the store to
look around and smile kindly at him.

“In the German department the clerk told me he was not taking orders
for dialect in bulk. ‘Zome off dose tayatree-kalers dey buy it,
aber I zell not de best to dem. I zell imitation kints “made in
Chairmany.” Aber I haf der best eef you vant it.’

“I told him I did not care to buy, and passed on to the
French-Canadian department. The clerk was just going out to lunch;
but although I told him I merely wished to look, and not to buy,
he said politely: ‘I try hall I can for get di’lect, but hup in
Mon’réal dat McLennan he use hall dere is; but bymby I speak for some
dat a frien’ have, an’ he sen’ me some. An’ ’e tell me I’ll get hit
las’ summer.’

“I expressed a polite wish that he might get his goods even sooner
than ‘las’ summer,’ and walked to the Jew-dialect counter, over which
I was nearly pulled by the Hebrew clerk. ‘You’re chust in time,’ he
said. ‘Say, veepin’ Rachel! but I sell you a parkain. Some goots on’y
been ust vun veek on der staich; unt so hellep me cracious! you look
so like mein prudder Imre dat I let dem go’--here he lowered his
voice to a whisper--‘I let dem go fer a qvarter uf a darler.’

“I resisted him, and hurried to the Yankee department. There was tall
hustling going on there, and a perfect mob of buyers of all sorts
and conditions of writers; and it took half a dozen men, women, and
children, including three typical farmers, to wait on them; and they
were selling it by the inch and by the carload. ‘Wall, I’m plumb
tired. Wisht they’d let up so ’st I could git a snack er somep’n’
inside me,’ said one; and he looked so worn out that I passed on to
the Irish counter. A twinkling-eyed young Irishman, not long over, in
answer to my question, said: ‘Sure, there’s not much carl fer larrge
quantities av ut. Jane Barlow do be havin’ a good dale, an’ the funny
papers do be usin’ ut in smarl lots, but ’t is an aisy toime I have,
an’ that’s a good thing, fer toimes is harrd.’

“I paused a moment at the English-dialect counter, and the
rosy-cheeked clerk said: ‘Cawn’t I show you the very litest thing in
Coster?’ I told him no, and he offered me Lancashire and Yorkshire at
‘gritely reduced rites’; but I was proof against his pleading, and
having now visited all the departments but one, went to that.”

“What was it?” asked the writer for the magazines.

“The tough-dialect counter.”

“Tough is not a dialect,” said he.

“Maybe not, but it sounds all right, all right. Well, whatever it
is, the fellow in charge was a regular Ninth-Warder, and when I got
abreast of him he hailed me with, ‘Soy, cully, wot sort d’ yer want?
I got a chim-dandy Sunny-school line er samples fer use in dose
joints, or I c’n gi’ yer hot stuff up ter de limit an’ beyon’. See?
Here’s a lot of damaged “wot t’ ’ells” dat I’ll trun down fer a

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