Chapter V: To Sylvia

Were I on the Latin lay,
Were I turning Odes to-day,
You would draw a gem from me,
Little maid of mystery!

In an Ode I'd love to spout you;
I am simply bug about you.
That's the way!--the fairest peach
Is the one that's out of reach.

I have toasted in my time
Many a peach (and many a lime),
All of them, I must confess,
Lacking your elusiveness.

Lalage, my well known flame,
Was considerable dame;
Likewise Lydia and Phyllis,
Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.

Syl, if you had lived when they did
You'd have had those damsels faded.
(That will give you, girl, some notion
Of your Flaccus's devotion.)

Yep. If I were doing Odes
In my quondam favorite modes,
With your image to qui-vive me
I'd tear off some Ode, believe me!

A BALLAD OF MISFITS

"_Chacun son métier:_
_Les vaches seront bien gardées._"
--LA FONTAINE.

With skill for doing this or that
The Lord each man endows.
Some men are best for pushing pens,
And some for pushing plows;
And oh, the many many more
That should be tending cows!
_Chacun son métier:_
_Les vaches bien gardées._

The ivory-headed serving maid
Who poses as a "cook,"
She hath a very bovine brain,
She hath a bovine look.
Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine,
Oh, prithee get the hook!
_Chacun son métier:_
_Les vaches bien gardées._

The papering-and-painting gents
Whose work is never done,
Who mess around your house until
You pine to pull a gun,
Who take three mortal days to do
What should be done in one;--
_Chacun son métier:_
_Les vaches bien gardées._

The pestilential "pianiste,"
The screechy singer too,
The writer of the stupid book
And of the dull review,
The actor who is greatest when
He takes his exit cue;--
_Chacun son métier:_
_Les vaches bien gardées._

If every one were set to do
The task for which he's fit,
The writer of these trifling lines
Might also have to quit.
At tending cows the undersigned
Might make an awful hit.
_Chacun son métier:_
_Les vaches bien gardées._

AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY

When the hour was come Prince Chun arose,
And balanced a shoestring on his nose.
"From this some notion you will get,"
Said he, "of China's deep regret."

Now balancing upon his ear
A stein of foaming lager beer,
"This attitude," said he, "reveals
How very sorry China feels."

Then spinning top-like on his cue,
"I can't begin to tell to you
The deep remorse we suffer for
The death of your Ambassador."

Next, placing on his cue a plate,
He said, as it 'gan to gyrate:
"Nothing that's happened in his reign
Has caused my Emperor so much pain."

Upon his back he did declare,
While juggling five balls in the air,
"This attitude--the humblest yet--
Expresses personal regret."

Last, spreading out a deck of cards--
"Accept my Emperor's regards.
As our intentions were well meant,
Pray overlook the incident."

THE DAY OF THE COMET

(_May 18, 1910._)

Here it is--Eighteenth of May!
Dawneth now the fatal day
When we take the awful veil
Of the fearsome comet's tail.
Vale, Earth!

What will happen, heaven knows;
We can't even guess, suppose,
Hazard, speculate, surmise,
Hint, conjecture, theorize,
Or divine.

Will we merely drill a hole
Through the trailing aureole?
Or will the prediction dire
Of a world destroyed by fire
Be fulfilled?

Shall we crook our knees and pray
Counting this the Judgment Day?
Or preserve a cosmic ca'm,
Caring not a cosmic dam
What may come?

There's the rub. If we but knew
We should know just what to do.
Yes is just as good as No
To all questions. Here we go!--
Hang on tight!

THE MORNING AFTER

(_May 19, 1910._)

Here we are, friends, whole and hale
In or through the comet's tail;
And as far as we can say,
Matters are about as they
Were before.

Everything is much the same
As before the comet came.
Grasses grow and waters run--
Nothing new beneath the sun--
Same old sphere.

Life is drab or life is gay,
Thorny path or primrose way;
All is common, all is strange;
"Down the ringing grooves of change"
Spins the world.

Change but of a humdrum kind.
What we vaguely had in mind
Was some new sensation or
Thrill we never felt before.
Vain desire!

Nothing's added to the stock:
Same old shiver, same old shock.
Round about the sun we'll go
In the same old status quo.
Awful bore!

A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION

Isolde, in the story old,
When Ireland's coast the vessel nears,
And Death were fairer to behold,
To Tristan gives "the cup that clears."
Straight to their fate the helmsman steers:
Unknowing, each the potion sips....
Comes echoing through the ghostly years
"Give me the philtre of thy lips!"

Ah, that like Tristan I were bold!
My soul into the future peers,
And passion flags, and heart grows cold,
And sicklied resolution veers.
I see the Sister of the Shears
Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips....
Still falls upon my inward ears,
"Give me the philtre of thy lips!"

Hero of lovers, largely soul'd!
Imagination thee enspheres
With song-enchanted wood and wold
And casements fronting magic meres.
Tristan, thy large example cheers
The faint of heart; thy story grips!--
My soul again that echo hears,
"Give me the philtre of thy lips!"

_L'Envoi_

Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears!
He stakes all who Elysium clips.
What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!--
Give me the philtre of thy lips!

TO WHAT BASE USES!

"_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead of in the morning._" --NEWPORT ITEM.

This is the forest primeval.

This the spruce with the glorious plume
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the lumberman big and browned
Who felled the spruce tree to the ground
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the man with the paper mill
Who bought the pulp that paid the bill
Of the husky lumberjack who chopped
The lofty spruce and its branches lopped
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the publisher bland and rich
Who bought the roll of paper which
Was made by the man with the paper mill
Who bought the pulp that paid the bill
Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax
Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the youth with the writing tool
Who does the daily Newport drool
That helps to make the publisher rich
Who ordered the stock of paper which
Was made by the man with the paper mill
Who bought the pulp that paid the bill
Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat
Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the lady far from slim
Who changed the hour of her daily swim
And excited the youth with the writing tool
Who does the Newport drivel and drool
For the prosperous publisher bland and fat
Who ordered the virgin paper that
Was made by the man with the paper mill
Who bought the pulp that paid the bill
Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede
Who did a foul and darksome deed
When he swung his ax with vigor and vim
And smote the spruce tree tall and trim
That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the shop girl Mag or Liz
Who daily devours what news there is
Concerning the lady far from slim
Who changed the time of her ocean swim
And excited the youth with the writing tool
Who does the daily Newport drool
For the pursy publisher bland and rich
Who bought the innocent paper which
Was made by the man with the paper mill
Who bought the pulp that paid the bill
Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce
That came to a most ignoble use--
The lofty spruce with the glorious plume--
The giant spruce that used to loom
In the heart of the forest primeval.

HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS

We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck.
I snapped on my goggles and got to my work.
"Hi, there!" yelled the cop in the helmet of white;
"Let her flicker!" said Joris, and into the night,
With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent
To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent.

The going was poor, we expected delay,
And the usual livestock obstructed the way.
At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog,
At Düffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog;
What else, we'd no time to slow down to inquire;
At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire.

I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe,
And snapped on an extra that promised to do.
"All aboard!" I exclaimed as I cranked the machine,
But something was wrong with the curst gasoline.
"By Hasselt!" Dirck groaned, "We'll be half a day late;
We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight."

False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two
And again we were off like "a bolt from the blue."
We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip,
And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip,
Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop
For failing to slow when commanded to stop.

"Now, wouldn't that frost you!" said Joris, but we
When we told the glad tidings were instantly free.
The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars' fine,
And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent)
Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent.

THE DINOSAUR

Behold the mighty Dinosaur,
Famous in prehistoric lore,
Not only for his weight and strength
But for his intellectual length.
You will observe by these remains
The creature had two sets of brains--
One in his head (the usual place),
The other at his spinal base.
Thus he could reason _a priori_
As well as _a posteriori_.
No problem bothered him a bit;
He made both head and tail of it.
So wise he was, so wise and solemn,
Each thought filled just a spinal column.
If one brain found the pressure strong
It passed a few ideas along;
If something slipped his forward mind
'Twas rescued by the one behind;
And if in error he was caught
He had a saving afterthought.
As he thought twice before he spoke
He had no judgments to revoke;
For he could think, without congestion,
Upon both sides of every question.

Oh, gaze upon this model beast,
Defunct ten million years at least.

A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS

When as a dewdrop joy enspheres
This pleasant planet, arched with blue,
When every prospect charms and cheers,
And all the world is fair to view--
Who does not envy (have not you?)
That mortal, by Thalia kissed,
Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo,
The blithesome trade of humorist?

But when the wind of fortune veers,
And blue-white skies turn leaden hue,
When every pleasant prospect blears
And all the weary world's askew--
Who then would envy (if he knew)
Jack Point the jester, glum and trist;
Or ply, tho' first of all the crew,
The dismal trade of humorist?

Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears,
And merry stanzas steeped in rue!
When all the world in drab appears
The fool must still in motley woo.
Tho' bitter be the cud he chew,
Still must he grind his foolish grist;
Still must he ply, the long day through,
The tragic trade of humorist!

_L'Envoi_

Lady of Tears, what pains perdue
The heart and soul of him may twist
Who doth in cap and bells pursue
The glad sad trade of humorist!

GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN

It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown.
His auto was the terror of a small suburban town.
His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place,
Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace.

So constant was his practice and so high his motor's gear
That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer;
But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down
That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown.

Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent
He'd stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent.
He'd always pause, whoever 'twas he happened to run down:
A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown.

"How fortunate," he would observe, "how fortunate 'twas I
That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry.
There _are_ some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone,
Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan.

"Such callousness," said Doctor Brown, "I cannot comprehend;
To fathom such indifference I simply don't pretend.
One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss.
A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!"

Then, reaching in the tonneau, he'd unpack his little kit,
And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit.
"You may survive," said Doctor Brown; "it's happened once or twice.
If not, you've had the benefit of competent advice."

Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane,
How little bitterness there'd be, or reason to complain!
How different our point of view if we were ridden down
By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown!

IN THE GALLERY

Weirder than the pictures
Are the folks who come
With their owlish strictures--
Telling why they're bum.
Of all lines of babble
This one has the call:
Picture gallery gabble
Is the best of all.

Literary fluffle
Never, never cloys;
Much has Mrs. Guffle
Added to my joys.
For that chitter-chatter
I delight to fall.
But the picture patter
Is the best of all.

With the music highbrows
I delight to chat,
Elevating my brows
Over this and that.
Music tittle-tattle
Never fails to thrall.
But the picture prattle
Is the best of all.

Sociologic rub-dub
I delight to hear;
Philosophic flub-dub
Titillates my ear.
Lovelier yet the spiffle
In the picture hall;
For the picture piffle
Is the best of all.

Weirder than the pictures
Are the folks who stand
Passing owlish strictures,
Catalogue in hand.
Hear the bunk they babble
Under every wall.
Yes. The gallery gabble
Is the best of all.

ALWAYS

"_Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose._"
--ABELARD TO HELOISE.

When Mrs. Mead was full of groans,
When symptoms of all sorts assailed her,
She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones,
And told him all the things that ailed her.
It took her nearly half the day,
And when she finished out the string--
"Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead," drawled Doctor J.,
"There's always some dam thing."

I like the line. It's worth a ton
Of optimistic commonplaces.
It's tonic, it refreshes one,
It cheers, it stimulates, it braces.
It summarizes things so well;
It has the philosophic ring.
Has Kant or Hegel more to tell?
"There's always some dam thing."

The dean of all the cheer-up school
Adjures sad hearts to cease repining,
And intimates that, as a rule,
The sun behind the cloud is shining.
"Into each life----" You know the rest;
No need to finish out the string.
Longfellow boiled might be expressed,
"There's always some dam thing."

When things go wrong I do not read
The cheer-up poets, great or lesser.
To soothe my soul I do not need
The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser.
Sufficient for each working day,
With all the worries it may bring,
That helpful line by Doctor J.,
"There's always some dam thing."

THE MODERN MARINER

A dry sheet and a lazy sea,
And a wind so far from fast
It barely floats the owner's flag
That flutters at the mast--
That flutters at the mast, my boys;
So while the sky is free
Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance
And venture out to sea.

The aneroid has dropped a tenth!
Back, back across the bar
To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink,
And a big fat black cigar--
A big fat black cigar, my boys;
While, on an even keel,
The Swedish chef out-chefs himself
In getting up a meal.

Give me a soft and gentle wind,
A fleckless azure sky;
I care not for your "snoring breeze"
And dinners heaving high--
And dinners heaving high, my boys,
Make no great hit with me;
So when the breeze begins to snore
We'll not put out to sea.

There's laughter in yon beach hotel,
And summer girls a crowd;
And hark the music, mariners,
The band is piping loud!
The band is piping loud, my boys,
Bright eyes are flashing free.
Come, fly the owner's-absent flag
And join the revelry.

A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY

What of the phrases, long decayed,
Of paleologic pedigree,
Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed--
A doddering, dusty company?
What shall be done with them? say we;
And east and west the people bawl,
Dump them into the Cannery!--
Into the brine go one and all.

"Grilled" and "lauded" and "scored" and "flayed,"
"Common or garden variety,"
"Wave of crime" and "reform crusade,"
"Along these lines" and "it seems to me,"
"Noted savant," "I fail to see,"
The "groaning board" of the "banquet hall,"--
Masonjar 'em in "ghoulish glee"--
Into the brine go one and all.

"Succulent bivalves," "trusty blade,"
"Last analysis," "practical-ly,"
"Lone highwayman" and "fusillade,"
"Millionaire broker and clubman," "gee!"
"In reply to yours," "can such things be?"
"Sounded the keynote" or "trumpet call,"--
Can 'em, pickle 'em, one, two, three--
Into the brine go one and all.

_L'Envoi_

Under the spreading chestnut tree
Stands the Cannery, all too small.
The Canner a briny man is he,
And into the brine go one and all.

PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS

(_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_)