Chapter XXVIII: Part II (7)

“‘But,’ says th’ lawyer f’r th’ State, ‘measurin’ th’ vat with gas--an’ I lave it to ye whether this is not th’ on’y fair test--an’ supposin’ that two feet acrost is akel to tin feet sideways, an’ supposin’ that a thick green an’ hard substance, an’ I daresay it wud; an’ supposin’ you may, takin’ into account th’ measuremints--twelve be eight--th’ vat bein’ wound with twine six inches fr’m th’ handle an’ a rub iv th’ green, thin ar-re not human teeth often found in counthry sausage?’ ‘In th’ winter,’ says th’ profissor. ‘But th’ sisymoid bone is sometimes seen in th’ fut, sometimes worn as a watch-charm. I took two sisymoid bones, which I will call poker dice, an’ shook thim together in a cylinder, which I will call Fido, poored in a can iv milk, which I will call gum arabic, took two pounds iv rough-on-rats, which I rayfuse to call; but th’ raysult is th’ same.’ Question be th’ Coort: ‘Different?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Th’ Coort: ‘Th’ same.’ Be Misther McEwen: ‘Whose bones?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Be Misther Vincent: ‘Will ye go to th’ divvle?’ Answer: ‘It dissolves th’ hair.’

“Now what I want to know is where th’ jury gets off. What has that collection iv pure-minded pathrites to larn fr’m this here polite discussion, where no wan is so crool as to ask what anny wan else means? Thank th’ Lord, whin th’ case is all over, the jury’ll pitch th’ tistimony out iv th’ window, an’ consider three questions: ‘Did Lootgert look as though he’d kill his wife? Did his wife look as though she ought so be kilt? Isn’t it time we wint to supper?’ An’, howiver they answer, they’ll be right, an’ it’ll make little diff’rence wan way or th’ other. Th’ German vote is too large an’ ignorant annyhow.”

* * * * *

George Ade, in the Biographical Dictionaries, is classed almost exclusively as a playwright, but to those who know and love his _Fables in Slang_,--and who does not?--he will always be a humorist.

His slang is all that slang should be, witty, trenchant, picturesque and used but once. His own rule for slang stipulates that it shall be impromptu, spontaneous and never repeated.

From his opera _The Sultan of Sulu_, we quote one song.

_THE COCKTAIL_

The cocktail is a pleasant drink,
It’s mild and harmless--I don’t think!
When you have one, you call for two--
And then you don’t care what you do.

Last night I hoisted twenty-three
Of those arrangements into me;
My bosom heaved, I swelled with pride,
I was pickled, primed and ossified!

But R-E-M-O-R-S-E--
The water wagon is the place for me!
It is no time for mirth and laughter,
The cold, dark dawn of the Morning After!

_THE FABLE OF THE CADDY WHO HURT HIS HEAD WHILE THINKING_

One day a Caddy sat in the Long Grass near the Ninth Hole and wondered if he had a Soul. His number was 27, and he almost had forgotten his Real Name.

As he sat and Meditated, two Players passed him. They were going the Long Round, and the Frenzy was upon them.

They followed the Gutta-Percha Balls with the intent swiftness of trained Bird-Dogs, and each talked feverishly of Brassy Lies, and getting past the Bunker, and Lofting to the Green, and Slicing into the Bramble--each telling his own Game to the Ambient Air, and ignoring what the other Fellow had to say.

As they did the St. Andrews Full Swing for eighty Yards apiece and then Followed Through with the usual Explanations of how it Happened, the Caddy looked at them and Reflected that they were much inferior to his Father.

His Father was too Serious a Man to get out in Mardi Gras Clothes and hammer a Ball from one Red flag to another.

His Father worked in a Lumber-Yard.

He was an Earnest Citizen, who seldom Smiled, and he knew all about the Silver Question and how J. Pierpont Morgan done up a Free People on the Bond Issue.

The Caddy wondered why it was that his Father, a really Great Man, had to shove Lumber all day and could seldom get one Dollar to rub against another, while these superficial Johnnies who played Golf all the Time had Money to Throw at the Birds. The more he Thought the more his Head ached.

MORAL.--_Don’t try to Account for Anything._

* * * * *

Will Carleton wrote many long narrative ballads, of a homely type. His _Betsey and I Are Out_, and _Over the Hills to the Poorhouse_, in their day were known to every household.

A shorter work is:

_ELIPHALET CHAPIN’S WEDDING_

’Twas when the leaves of Autumn were by tempest-fingers picked,
Eliphalet Chapin started to become a benedict;
With an ancient two-ox waggon to bring back his new-found goods,
He hawed and gee’d and floundered through some twenty miles o’
woods;
With prematrimonial ardour he his hornèd steeds did press,
But Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t bristle with success.
Oh no,
Woe, woe!
With candour to digress,
Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t tremble with success.

He had not carried five miles his mouth-disputed face,
When his wedding garments parted in some inconvenient place;
He’d have given both his oxen to a wife that now was dead,
For her company two minutes with a needle and a thread.
But he pinned them up, with twinges of occasional distress,
Feeling that his wedding wouldn’t be a carnival of dress:
“Haw, Buck!
Gee, Bright!
Derned pretty mess!”
No; Eliphalet was not strictly a spectacular success.

He had not gone a ten-mile when a wheel demurely broke,
A disunited family of felloe, hub, and spoke;
It joined, with flattering prospects, the Society of Wrecks;
And he had to cut a sapling, and insert it ’neath the “ex.”
So he ploughed the hills and valleys with that Doric wheel and tire,
Feeling that his wedding journey was not all he could desire.
“Gee, Bright!
G’long, Buck!”
He shouted, hoarse with ire!
No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey none in candour could admire!

He had not gone fifteen miles with extended face forlorn,
When Night lay down upon him hard, and kept him there till morn;
And when the daylight chuckled at the gloom within his mind,
One ox was “Strayed or Stolen,” and the other hard to find.
So yoking Buck as usual, he assumed the part of Bright
(Constituting a menagerie diverting to the sight);
With “Haw, Buck!
Gee, Buck!
Sh’n’t get there till night!”
No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey was not one intense delight.

Now, when he drove his equipage up to his sweetheart’s door,
The wedding guests had tired and gone, just half-an-hour before;
The preacher had from sickness an unprofitable call,
And had sent a voice proclaiming that he couldn’t come at all;
The parents had been prejudiced by some one, more or less,
And the sire the bridegroom greeted with a different word from
“bless.”
“Blank your head,
You blank!” he said;
“We’ll break this off, I guess!”
No; Eliphalet’s wedding was not an unqualified success.

Now, when the bride saw him arrive, she shook her crimson locks,
And vowed to goodness gracious she would never wed an ox;
And with a vim deserving rather better social luck,
She eloped that day by daylight with a swarthy Indian “buck,”
With the presents in the pockets of her woollen wedding-dress;
And “Things ain’t mostly with me,” quoth Eliphalet, “I confess,”
No--no;
As things go,
No fair mind ’twould impress,
That Eliphalet Chapin’s wedding was an unalloyed success.

Dr. William H. Drummond is best known humorously by his apt rendition of the French-Canadian dialect.

_THE WRECK OF THE “JULIE PLANTE.”_

A Legend of Lake St. Peter.

On wan dark night on Lac Saint Pierre,
De win’ she blow, blow, blow,
An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante”
Got scar’t, an’ run below--
For de win’ she blow lak hurricain,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An’ de scow buss h’up on Lac Saint Pierre
Wan h’arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk h’on de fronte deck,
An’ walk de hin’ deck too--
He call de crew from h’up de ’ole
He call de cook h’also.
De crew she’s name was Rosie,
She’s come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid h’on lombaire barge,
H’on de Grande La Chine Canal.

De win’ she’s blow from nor’-eass-wess--
De sout’ win’ she’s blow too,
W’en Rosie cry, “Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w’at I shall do?”
Den de captinne trow de big h’ankerre,
But steel de scow she dreef,
De crew he can’t pass on de shore,
Becos he loss hees skeef.

De night was dark lak’ wan black cat,
De wave run ’igh an’ fas’,
W’en de captinne tak’ de poor Rosie
An’ tie her to de mas’.
Den he h’also tak’ de life preserve,
An’ jomp h’off on de lak’,
An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak’.”

Nex’ morning very h’early
Bout haf-pas’ two--t’ree--four--
De captinne--scow--an’ de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore.
For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricain,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An’ de scow bus’ h’up on Lac Saint Pierre,
Wan h’arpent from de shore.

MORAL

Now h’all good wood scow sailor man
Tak’ warning by dat storm,
An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl
An’ leev on one beeg farm.

De win’ can blow lak hurricain
An’ s’pose she blow some more,
You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.

Ben King is responsible for at least two humorous jingles of wide popularity.

_THE PESSIMIST_

Nothing to do but work;
Nothing to eat but food;
Nothing to wear but clothes,
To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air;
Quick as a flash ’tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off;
Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair;
Nowhere to sleep but in bed;
Nothing to weep but tears;
Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out;
Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights;
Nothing to quench but thirst;
Nothing to have but what we’ve got;
Thus thro’ life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.

_IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT_

If I should die to-night,
And you should come to my cold corpse and say,
Weeping and heartsick o’er my lifeless clay--
If I should die to-night,
And you should come in deepest grief and wo--
And say, “Here’s that ten dollars that I owe,”
I might arise in my large white cravat,
And say, “What’s that?”

If I should die to-night,
And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,
I say, if I should die to-night,
And you should come to me, and there and then
Just even hint ’bout payin’ me that ten,
I might arise the while,
But I’d drop dead again.

A humorous jingle that achieved immediate vogue is _Casey at the Bat_. The authorship has been questioned but consensus of research seems to ascribe it to Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

_CASEY AT THE BAT_

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to six, with just an inning left to play;
And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,
With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast;
For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that
They’d put up even money, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake,
And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake;
So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all,
And the much-despised Blakie tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Blakie safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,
It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell;
It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat;
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face;
And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his
hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered,
“Fraud!”
But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

John Kendrick Bangs, one time Editor of _Puck_, of lamented memory, wrote tomes of humorous verse. As a pastime in tricky rhyming we quote:

_MONA LISA_

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar!
Who’s the Chap so bold and pinchey
Thus to swipe the great da Vinci,
Taking France’s first Chef d’œuvre
Squarely from old Mr. Louvre,
Easy as some pocket-picker
Would remove our handkerchicker
As we ride in careless folly
On some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
Who’s your Captor? Doubtless he’s a
Crafty sort of treasure-seeker--
Ne’er a Turpin e’er was sleeker--
But, alas, if he can win you
Easily as I could chin you,
What is safe in all the nations
From his dreadful depredations?
He’s the style of Chap, I’m thinkin’
Who will drive us all to drinkin’!

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
Next he’ll swipe the Tower of Pisa,
Pulling it from out its socket
For to hide it in his pocket;
Or perhaps he’ll up and steal, O,
Madame Venus, late of Milo;
Or maybe while on the grab he
Will annex Westminster Abbey,
And elope with that distinguished
Heap of Ashes long extinguished.

Maybe too, O Mona Lisa,
He will come across the seas a--
Searching for the style of treasure
That we have in richest measure.
Sunset Cox’s brazen statue,
Have a care lest he shall catch you
Or maybe he’ll set his eye on
Hammerstein’s, or the Flatiron,
Or some bit of White Wash done
By those lads at Washington--
Truly he’s a crafty geezer,
Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

Thomas L. Masson, humorous writer, and for many years editor of _Life_, has doubtless written more humor and books of humor than any one in the country.

_THE KISS_

“What other men have dared, I dare,”
He said. “I’m daring, too:
And tho’ they told me to beware,
One kiss I’ll take from you.

“Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;
That was a grave mistake,
For when I’ve taken one, I fear,
One hundred more I’ll take.

“’Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,
But to stop there? Oh, no!
One kiss is only to begin;
There is no end, you know.”

The maiden rose from where she sat
And gently raised her head:
“No man has ever talked like that--
You may begin,” she said.

_DESOLATION_

Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,
And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa, beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth
She plays as if she owned the earth
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima dallied with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled,
All thankful that they’re safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

Stephen Crane, a strange and often misunderstood genius, never waxed humorous in a broad sense. But the incisive, satirical wit of his lines can seldom be found bettered.

A man said to the universe,
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

Upon the road of my life,
Passed me many fair creatures,
Clothed all in white, and radiant;
To one, finally, I made speech:
“Who art thou?”
But she, like the others,
Kept cowled her face,
And answered in haste, anxiously,
“I am Good Deed, forsooth;
You have often seen me.”

“Not uncowled,” I made reply.
And with rash and strong hand,
Though she resisted,
I drew away the veil,
And gazed at the features of Vanity.
She, shamefaced, went on;
And after I had mused a time,
I said of myself, “Fool!”

“Think as I think,” said a man,
“Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad.”
And after I had thought of it,
I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

Charles Battell Loomis was a favorably known writer of humorous jingles, and he wielded a facile pen in parody.

_JACK AND JILL_

(_As Austin Dobson might have written it_)

Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet,
Brave Jack and fair Jill.
Their pail they must fill
At the top of the hill,
Then she gives him a ringlet.
Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet.

They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead,
Oh, how he did yell!
They stumbled and fell,
And went down pell-mell--
By Jove! it was horrid.
They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead.

(_As Swinburne might have written it_)

The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees!
The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas!
The moaning of the night wind on the wold,
That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze!

On such a night as this went Jill and Jack
With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black
To find the hill’s high top and water cold,
Then toiling through the town to bear it back.

The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips
Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips,
And then with arms entwined they homeward go;
Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips.

Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight,
His crazèd cries and cranium cracked; the fright
Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo!
Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night!

(_As Walt Whitman might have written it_)

I celebrate the personality of Jack!
I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering.
Each wart upon his hands I sing,
Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades.
Also Jill!
Her I celebrate.
I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue,
Whoop her up!
What’s the matter with Jill?
Oh, she’s all right!
Who’s all right?
Jill.

Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands;
So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling.
I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and
through the darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds of
myriad creatures of the night.
I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their
mother.
Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time.
She is simply immense!

But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill.
(I didn’t mean that rhyme.)
I must watch them.
I love to watch their walk,
And wonder as I watch;
He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound,
Yet lusty,
Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a
paperweight.
She, erect, standing, her head uplifting,
Holding, but bearing not the bucket.
They have reached the spring.
They have filled the bucket.
Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”?
I will sing it:--

Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed!
Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born.
The father is happy, the mother is happy.
Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.”
Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms,
Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile,
A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping.
Here’s a large piece of black cloth!
“Have you any last words to say?”
“No.”
“Sheriff, do your work!”
Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill.
I see them descending, obstacles not heeding.
I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring, a
noise from leathern lungs out-belching.
The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his
pate with gore besmeared.
I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like
Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes.
Whoop!!!

Guy Wetmore Carryl, son of Charles E. Carryl, possessed a lovable and whimsical nature and wielded an exceedingly clever pen, both in verse and prose. His untimely death robbed us of one of our most delightful young humorists.

_HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR_

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin,
Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;
Her general form was German,
By which I mean that you
Her waist could not determine
Within a foot or two.
And not only did she stammer,
But she used the kind of grammar
That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire
A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.
She was willing, she was active,
She was sober, she was kind,
But she _never_ looked attractive
And she _hadn’t_ any mind.
I knew her more than slightly,
And I treated her politely
When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,
She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,
And threw with much composure
A smallish rubber ball
At an inoffensive osier
By a little waterfall;
But Matilda’s way of throwing
Was like other people’s mowing,
And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried
To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.
And, before her eyes astounded,
On a fallen maple’s trunk
Ricochetted and rebounded
In the rivulet, and sunk!
Matilda, greatly frightened,
In her grammar unenlightened,
Remarked, “Well now I ast yer, who’d ’er thunk?”

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose
A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.
He beheld her fright and frenzy
And, her panic to dispel,
On his knee by Miss Mackenzie
He obsequiously fell.
With quite as much decorum
As a speaker in a forum
He started in his history to tell.

“Fair maid,” he said, “I beg you do not hesitate or wince,
If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince;
For a fairy, old and vicious,
An enchantment round me spun!”
Then he looked up, unsuspicious,
And he saw what he had won,
And in terms of sad reproach, he
Made some comments, _sotto voce_,
(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold;
“I _never_! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain’t you awful bold!”
Just a glance he paused to give her,
And his head was seen to clutch,
Then he darted to the river,
And he dived to beat the Dutch!
While the wrathful maiden panted
“I don’t think he was enchanted!”
(And he really didn’t look it overmuch!)

THE MORAL

In one’s language one conservative should be;
Speech is silver and it never should be free!

Edwin Arlington Robinson, among the greatest of our later poets, has a fine wit, nowhere better shown than in:

_MINIVER CHEEVY_

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot
And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace,
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed he was without it;
Miniver thought and thought and thought
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.

_TWO MEN_

There be two men of all mankind
That I should like to know about;
But search and question where I will,
I cannot ever find them out.

Melchizedek he praised the Lord,
And gave some wine to Abraham;
But who can tell what else he did
Must be more learned than I am.

Ucalegon he lost his house
When Agamemnon came to Troy;
But who can tell me who he was--
I’ll pray the gods to give him joy.

There be two men of all mankind
That I’m forever thinking on;
They chase me everywhere I go,--
Melchizedek, Ucalegon.

Arthur Guiterman, among the best of our present day humorous writers, never did anything better than this intensified bit of burlesque.

_MAVRONE_

ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES

From Arranmore the weary miles I’ve come;
An’ all the way I’ve heard
A Shrawn[2] that’s kep’ me silent, speechless, dumb,
Not sayin’ any word.
An’ was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[3] you’ll say,
For him that died the death on Carrisbool?
It was not that; nor was it, by the way,
The Sons of Garnim[4] blitherin’ their drool;
Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[5]
Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[6]
For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me.
’Twas but my own heart cryin’ out for you
Magraw![7] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru,
Aroon, Machree, Aboo![8]

_ELEGY_

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss
In what was once Persepolis.
Proud Babylon is but a trace
Upon the desert’s dusty face.
The topless towers of Ilium
Are ashes. Judah’s harp is dumb.
The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre
Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire
And all the oligarchies, kings,
And potentates that ruled these things
Are gone! But cheer up; don’t be sad;
Think what a lovely time they had!

Oliver Herford, born in England but living most of his life in America, has without doubt the most humorous soul in the world.

His art, which is pictorial as well as literary, is unique and of an intangible, indescribable nature.

As graceful of fancy as Spenser, as truly funny as Sir William Gilbert, he also possesses a deep philosophy and a perfect technique.

_PHYLLIS LEE_

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill
Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress
Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill
Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.
Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill
His Brush refused to work his Will.

“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes
I cannot paint to-day,” he said;
“Their Brightness shames the very Skies
And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”
Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies
And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,
Not dreaming of such Treachery,
Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,
“Without the Light, how can one See?”
“If you are _sure_ that none can see
I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

_SOME GEESE_

Ev-er-y child who has the use
Of his sen-ses knows a goose.
See them un-der-neath the tree
Gath-er round the goose-girl’s knee,
While she reads them by the hour
From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.

How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!
But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend
What Scho-pen-hau-er’s driv-ing at?
Oh, not at all; but what of that?
Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;
And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

_THE CHIMPANZEE_

Children, behold the Chimpanzee:
He sits on the ancestral tree
From which we sprang in ages gone.
I’m glad we sprang: had we held on,
We might, for aught that I can say,
Be horrid Chimpanzees to-day.

_THE HEN_

Alas! my Child, where is the Pen
That can do Justice to the Hen?
Like Royalty, She goes her way,
Laying foundations every day,
Though not for Public Buildings, yet
For Custard, Cake and Omelette.

Or if too Old for such a use
They have their Fling at some Abuse,
As when to Censure Plays Unfit
Upon the Stage they make a Hit,
Or at elections Seal the Fate
Of an Obnoxious Candidate.
No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen,
Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.

_MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM_

Well I recall how first I met
Mark Twain--an infant barely three
Rolling a tiny cigarette
While cooing on his nurse’s knee.

Since then in every sort of place
I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,
Yet how can I describe his face?
I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a _smokership_,
At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)
His name was soon on every lip,
They made him “_smoker_” of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout
With Mount Vesuvius--our cheers--
When Mount Vesuvius went out
And didn’t smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England’s King,
Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,
Offered him dukedoms--anything
To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,
“To no imperial command,
No ducal coronet for me,
My smoke is for my native land!”

For Mark there waits a brighter crown!
When Peter comes his card to read--
He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,
--Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

_GOLD_

Some take their gold
In minted mold,
And some in harps hereafter,
But give me mine
In tresses fine,
And keep the change in laughter!

_AFTER HERRICK_

_SONG_

Gather Kittens while you may,
Time brings only Sorrow;
And the Kittens of To-day
Will be Old Cats To-morrow.

_THE PRODIGAL EGG_

An egg of humble sphere
By vain ambition stung,
Once left his mother dear
When he was very young.

’Tis needless to dilate
Upon a tale so sad;
The egg, I grieve to state,
Grew very, very bad.

At last when old and blue,
He wandered home, and then
They gently broke it to
The loving mother hen.

She only said, in fun,
“I fear you’re spoiled, my son!”

Frank Gelett Burgess, one time editor of _The Lark_, a short-lived humorous periodical, is at his best in the realms of sheer nonsense. His _Purple Cow_ has a nation-wide reputation and his humorous excursions into the French Forms are always marked by exact precision as to rule and law.

_THE PURPLE COW_

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.

_THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE_

I’d Never Dare to Walk across
A Bridge I Could Not See;
For Quite afraid of Falling off,
I fear that I Should Be!

_VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING_

These are the things that make me laugh--
Life’s a preposterous farce, say I!
And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half.

The high-heeled antics of colt and calf,
The men who think they can act, and try--
These are the things that make me laugh.

The hard-boiled poses in photograph,
The groom still wearing his wedding tie--
And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

These are the bubbles I gayly quaff
With the rank conceit of the new-born fly--
These are the things that make me laugh!

For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff,
And people will tickle me till I die--
And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

So write me down in my epitaph
As one too fond of his health to cry--
These are the things that make me laugh,
And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

_PSYCHOLOPHON_

_Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee_

Twine then the rays
Round her soft Theban tissues!
All will be as She says,
When that dead past reissues.
Matters not what nor where,
Hark, to the moon’s dim cluster!
How was her heavy hair
Lithe as a feather duster!
Matters not when nor whence;
Flittertigibbet!
Sounds make the song, not sense,
Thus I inhibit!

Carolyn Wells has written much humorous verse and prose. Her work has appeared in many of the periodicals and in book form.

_THE IDIOT’S DELIGHT_

A curious man of the human clan
Is a man who fools himself;
Who thinks he can swing the Pierian spring
Through a conduit of books on a shelf!
Who thinks if he pores in the old bookstores
And browses among the rares,
He is fit to belong to the scholarly throng
And gives himself scholarly airs.

He gasps as he speaks of his worn antiques--
With emotion almost dumb!
Or he solemnly turns his Kilmarnock Burns
With an awed and reverent thumb;
He’ll scrimp to possess a Kelmscott Press,
And hoard up his hard-earned wage
Till he saves the cost of a Paradise Lost
With the right sort of title page.

If he has on his shelves some dumpy twelves,
Of which he’s a connoisseur,
The bibliophile, with a fatuous smile,
Believes he’s a littérateur!
Because he achieves incunabula leaves,
On himself as a scholar he’ll look;
Though I’m ready to bet no scholar _I’ve_ met
Has ever collected a book!

The difference, you see, in the viewpoint must be,
And it _is_ a distinction nice;
A scholar will look at the worth of a book,
A collector will think of its price.
He nearly bursts with pride in his firsts;
And you can’t get it into his dome
That he cannot affect his intellect
By buying a tattered tome!

A collector _may_ have matter gray,
He _may_ have wisdom, too;
As he may have a head of a carroty red
Or eyes of a chicory blue.
But he has these things by the grace of God;
Especially his good looks;
By Nature’s laws, and _not_ because
The things he collects are _books_!

And so I maintain there is no brain,
No genius or talent or mind,
Required to look for a certain book,
Or to struggle that book to find.
No collector reads his precious screeds,
He appraises his books by sight;
And I make claim that the blooming game
Is the idiot’s delight!

_THE MYSTERY_

I can understand politics, civics and law,
Of national issues I have no great awe;
The theories of Einstein are simple to me,
And psychoanalysis mere A. B. C.
But there is one thing I can’t get in my head--
Why _do_ people marry the people they wed?

I can do mathematics, no matter how high;
And to me fourth dimension is easy as pie;
Most intricate problems I readily solve,
And I know why the nebular spirals revolve.
But on this baffling question no light has been shed;
Why _do_ people marry the people they wed?

Long hours over Nietzsche I frequently spend,
I’ve all his philosophy at my tongue’s end.
Of Freudian conclusions I haven’t a doubt.
I’ve got human complexes all straightened out.
But on this deep problem I muse in my bed--
Why _do_ people marry the people they wed?

I’ve studied up ancient religions and cults,
I’ve tried spiritism with curious results;
I know the Piltdown and Neanderthal man,
How big is Betelgeuse and how old is Ann;
But this I shall wonder about till I’m dead--
Why _do_ people marry the people they wed?

_WOMAN_

Women are dear and women are queer
Men call them, with a laugh,
The female of the species,
Or a husband’s better half.
They sing their praise in many ways,
They flatter them--but, oh,
How little they know of Woman
Who only women know!

Now women are pert and women will flirt,
And they’re catty and rude and vain;
And sometimes they’re witty and sometimes they’re pretty--
And sometimes they’re awfully plain.
But Woman is rare beyond compare,
The poets tell us so;
How little they know of Woman
Who only women know!

Women are petty and women are fretty,
They try to hide their years;
They steadily nag and nervously rag,
And frequently burst into tears.
But Woman is gracious, serene and calm,
Above all tricks or arts,
Her sympathy’s like a soothing balm
To sad and sorrowing hearts.

Women are very perverse and contrary,
They will contradict you flat;
Oh, women I’ll call the devil and all,
There’s no denying that!
But Woman, oh, men, is beyond our ken,
Too angelic for mortals below;
How little they know of Woman
Who only women know!

_A SYMPOSIUM OF POETS_

Once upon a time a few of the greatest Poets of all ages gathered together for the purpose of discussing the merits of the Classic Poem:

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater,
Had a wife and couldn’t keep her,
Put her in a Pumpkin shell,
And there he kept her very well.

In many ways this historic narrative called forth admiration. One must admit Peter’s great strength of character, his power of quick decision, and immediate achievement. Some hold that his inability to retain the lady’s affection in the first place, argues a defect in his nature; but remembering the lady’s youth and beauty (implied by the spirit of the whole poem), we can only reiterate our appreciation of the way he conquered circumstances, and proved himself master of his fate, and captain of his soul! Truly, the Pumpkin-Eaters must have been a forceful race, able to defend their rights and rule their people.

The Poets at their symposium unanimously felt that the style of the poem, though hardly to be called crude, was a little bare, and they took up with pleasure the somewhat arduous task of rewriting it.

Mr. Ed. Poe opined that there was lack of atmosphere, and that the facts of the narrative called for a more impressive setting. He therefore offered:

The skies, they were ashen and sober,
The lady was shivering with fear;
Her shoulders were shud’ring with fear.
On a dark night in dismal October,
Of his most Matrimonial Year.
It was hard by the cornfield of Auber,
In the musty Mud Meadows of Weir,
Down by the dank frog-pond of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted cornfield of Weir.

Now, his wife had a temper Satanic,
And when Peter roamed here with his Soul,
Through the corn with his conjugal Soul,
He spied a huge pumpkin Titanic,
And he popped her right in through a hole.
Then solemnly sealed up the hole.

And thus Peter Peter has kept her
Immured in Mausoleum gloom,
A moist, humid, damp sort of gloom.
And though there’s no doubt he bewept her,
She is still in her yellow hued tomb,
Her unhallowed, Hallowe’en tomb
And ever since Peter side-stepped her,
He calls her his lost Lulalume,
His Pumpkin-entombed Lulalume.

This was received with acclaim, but many objected to the mortuary theory.

* * * * *

Mrs. Robert Browning was sure that Peter’s love for his wife, though perhaps that of a primitive man, was of the true Portuguese stamp, and with this view composed the following pleasing Sonnet:

How do I keep thee? Let me count the ways.
I bar up every breadth and depth and height
My hands can reach, while feeling out of sight
For bolts that stick and hasps that will not raise.
I keep thee from the public’s idle gaze,
I keep thee in, by sun or candle light.
I keep thee, rude, as women strive for Right.
I keep thee boldly, as they seek for praise,
I keep thee with more effort than I’d use
To keep a dry-goods shop or big hotel.
I keep thee with a power I seemed to lose
With that last cook. I’ll keep thee down the well,
Or up the chimney-place! Or if I choose,
I shall but keep thee in a Pumpkin shell.

This was of course meritorious, though somewhat suggestive of the cave-men, who, we have never been told, were Pumpkin Eaters.

Austin Dobson’s version was really more ladylike:

_BALLADE OF A PUMPKIN_

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright,
Wondrous of texture and hue,
Bathed in a soft, sunny light,
Pearled with a silvery dew.
Fair as a flower to the view,
Ripened by summer’s soft heat,
Basking beneath Heaven’s blue,--
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Peter consumed day and night,
Pumpkin in pie or in stew;
Hinted to Cook that she might
Can it for winter use, too.
Pumpkin croquettes, not a few,
Peter would happily eat;
Knowing content would ensue,--
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Everything went along right,
Just as all things ought to do;
Till Peter,--unfortunate wight,--
Married a girl that he knew,
Each day he had to pursue,
His runaway Bride down the street,--
So her into prison he threw,--
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

_L’envoi_

Lady, a sad lot, ’tis true,
Staying your wandering feet;
But ’tis the best place for you,--
This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Like the other women present Dinah Craik felt the pathos of the situation, and gave vent to her feelings in this tender burst of song:

Could I come back to you Peter, Peter,
From this old pumpkin that I hate;
I would be so tender, so loving, Peter,--
Peter, Peter, gracious and great.

You were not half worthy of me, Peter,
Not half worthy the like of I;
Now all men beside are not in it, Peter,--
Peter, Peter, I feel like a pie.

Stretch out your hand to me, Peter, Peter,
Let me out of this Pumpkin, do;
Peter, my beautiful Pumpkin Eater,
Peter, Peter, tender and true.

Mr. Hogg took his own graceful view of the matter, thus:

Lady of wandering,
Blithesome, meandering,
Sweet was thy flitting o’er moorland and lea;
Emblem of restlessness,
Blest be thy dwelling place,
Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Peter, though bland and good,
Never thee understood,
Or he had known how thy nature was free;
Goddess of fickleness,
Blest be thy dwelling place,
Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

Mr. Kipling grasped at the occasion for a ballad in his best vein. The plot of the story aroused his old time enthusiasm, and he transplanted the pumpkin eater and his wife to the scenes of his earlier powers:

In a great big Mammoth pumpkin
Lookin’ eastward to the sea,
There’s a wife of mine a-settin’
And I know she’s mad at me.
For I hear her calling, “Peter!”
With a wild hysteric shout;
“Come you back, you Punkin Eater,--
Come you back and let me out!”
For she’s in a punkin shell,
I have locked her in her cell;
But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell;
And there she’ll have to dwell,
For she didn’t treat me well,
So I put her in the punkin and I’ve kept her very well.

Algernon Swinburne was also in one of his early moods, and as a result he wove the story into this exquisite fabric of words:

_IN THE PUMPKIN_

Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see,
What is this confine either side of me?
Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl,
Seen sidelong, like a ’possum in a tree,--
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out;
From this gold lush encircling me about;
I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall.
The crescent moon shines slim,--but I am stout,--
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams;
Ah, Pete,--too sweet to me,--my Pete, it seems
Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall;
And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,--
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

This intense poesy thrilled the heavens, and it was with a sense of relief to their throbbing souls that they listened to Mr. Bret Harte’s contribution:

Which I wish to remark,
That the lady was plain;
And for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
She had predilections peculiar,
And drove Peter nearly insane.

Far off, anywhere,
She wandered each day;
And though Peter would swear,
The lady would stray;
And whenever he thought he had got her,
She was sure to be rambling away.

Said Peter, “My Wife,
Hereafter you dwell
For the rest of your life
In a big Pumpkin Shell.”
He popped her in one that was handy,
And since then he’s kept her quite well.

Which is why I remark,
Though the lady was plain,
For ways that are dark
And tricks that are vain,
A husband is very peculiar,
And the same I am free to maintain.

Oscar Wilde in a poetic fervour and a lily-like kimono, recited with tremulous intensity this masterpiece of his own:

Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud,
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud;
(Ah me; ah me!
Hurroo, Hurree!)

Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith;
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Wan hope a dolorous Musing saith;
(Ah me; ah me!
Dum diddle dee!)

Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin shell
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
(Fast and forever! Sooth, ’tis well.
(Ah me; ah me!
Faloodle dee!)

There was little to be said after this, so the meeting was closed with a solo by Lady Arthur Hill, using with a truly touching touch:

In the pumpkin, oh, my darling,
Think not bitterly of me;
Though I went away in silence,
Though I couldn’t set you free.
For my heart was filled with longing,
For another piece of pie;
It was best to leave you there, dear,
Best for you and best for I.

Two of our most gentle and kindly humorists may not be quoted, because it would be a crime to separate their text and pictures.

Peter Newell and J. G. Francis have drawn some of the most delicately witty pictures and have written quatrains or Limericks to accompany them, but picture and text must be shown together, if at all.

For the same reason our cartoonists may not be touched upon.

Nor can we include any writers whose work did not appear before 1900.

The scope of this book is bounded by the twentieth century, and much as we should like to present the Columnists and the more recent versifiers, they must be left for a later chronicler.

INDEX

_About a Woman’s Promise_, Unknown, 172

ABRAHAM Á SANCTA CLARA,
_Burdensome Wife, A_ (from _Hie! Fie!_), 413
_Donkey’s Voice, The_ (from _Judas, the Arch-Rogue_), 412
_St. Anthony’s Sermon to the Fishes_, 413

ABU ISHAK,
_Parody on Hafiz_, 154

_Academy of Syllographs, The_, Count Giacomo Leopardi, 616

_Acrostics_, Sir John Davies, 309

ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY,
_To Sally_, 650

ADDISON, JOSEPH, 421
_Will of a Virtuoso, The_ (from _The Tatler_), 422

_Address to Bacchus, An_, Marc-Antoine Gerard, 392

_Address to the Toothache_, Robert Burns, 444

ADE, GEORGE,
_Cocktail, The_ (from _The Sultan of Sulu_), 722
_Fable of the Caddy Who Hurt His Head While Thinking, The_, 723

_Adventures of Baron Münchausen_, (selections), Rudolph Erich
Raspe, 589

_Advice to a Friend on Marriage_, Eustache Deschampes, 315

_Advice to an Innkeeper_, José Morell, 412

_Advice to Ponticus_, Johannes Audœmus, 194

ÆSOP’S _Fables_, 44
_Lion, the Bear, the Monkey and the Fox, The_, 44
_Partial Judge, The_, 45

ÆSOP, G. WASHINGTON. _See_ Lanigan, George Thomas

_Æstivation_, Oliver Wendell Holmes, 666

_After a Wedding_ (from _Mrs. Partington_), Benjamin Penhallow
Shillaber, 664

_After Herrick: Song_, Oliver Herford, 747

_After Swimming the Hellespont_, Lord Byron, 462

_Against Abolishing Christianity_, Jonathan Swift, 415

AGATHIAS,
_Grammar and Medicine_, 76

_Alarmed Skipper, The_, James Thomas Fields, 668

ALCAZAR, BALTAZAR DEL, _Sleep_, 359

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, 683

ALEXIS,
Epigrams, 69

ALY BEN AHMED BEN MANSOUR,
_To the Vizier Cassim Obid Allah, on the Death of One of His
Sons_, 191

American humor, 643–760

AMICIS, EDMONDO DE,
_Tooth for Tooth_, 623

AMMIANUS,
_Epitaph, An_, 77

_Analects of Confucius, The_ (extracts), 156

ANAXANDRIADES,
Epigrams, 68

ANSTEY, F. _See_ Guthrie, T. A.

Anthologies, 311

ANTIPHANES, 66
Epigrams, 67

APOLLODORUS,
Epigrams, 85

_Apology for Cider_, Olivier Basselin, 317

_Apology for Herodotus_ (Noodle Stories from), Henry Stephens
(Henri Estienn), 215

APULEIUS,
_Metamorphose, or The Golden Ass_ (extracts), 112

Arabian humor, 33, 126–138, 208

_Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, The_, 33, 126
_Bakbarah’s Visit to the Harem_, 132
_Husband and the Parrot, The_, 131
_Ignorant Man Who Set Up for a Schoolmaster, The_, 129
_Simpleton and the Sharper, The_, 127
_Thief Turned Merchant and the Other Thief, The_, 128

Arabian Riddle, 35

Arabian tale, the universal, 208

ARBUTHNOT, JOHN,
_Dissertation on Dumplings, A_, (from _Bull and Mouth_), 427

ARISTOPHANES,
_Birds, The_ (plot), 64
_Frogs, The_ (extracts), 55

ARISTOPHON, Epigram, 69

ARISTOTLE,
definition of the Ridiculous, 3, 70
Disappointment Theory, 4 ff.

AROUET. _See_ Voltaire

_Artist and Public_, Friedrich Rückert, 609

“As with my hat upon my head,” Samuel Johnson, 431

_As You Like It_ (extract), Shakespeare, 288

_Ass and the Flute, The_, Thomas Yriarte, 626

_Ass’s Testament, The_, Rutebœuf, 312

_At the Sign of the Cock_, Sir Owen Seaman, 541

AUDŒMUS, JOHANNES,
_Advice to Ponticus_, 194
_To a Friend in Distress_, 194

AUTHORS UNKNOWN,
_Convenient Partnership_, 78
_Creation of Woman_, The (_from The Churning of the Ocean of
Time_), 122
_Good Wife and the Bad Husband, The_, 37
_Lerneans, The_, 79
_Long and Short_, 78
_On Late Acquired Wealth_, 190
_On the Inconstancy of Woman’s Love_, 191
_Perplexity_, 79
_Voice from the Grave, A_, 190
_Wife’s Ruse, A_: A Rabbinical Tale, 32

AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE, 493
_Husband’s Petition, The_, 494
_Lay of the Lovelorn, The_, 495

_Baby’s Début, The_, James Smith, 466

BACON, FRANCIS,
Epigrams, 291

_Baharistan, The_ (extracts), Jami, 196

_Bakbarah’s Visit to the Harem_ (from _The Arabian Nights’
Entertainment_), 132

BAKIN, KIOKUTEI,
_On Clothes and Comforts_ (from _The Land of Dreams_), 161

Balaam and his Ass, story of, 30

_Ballad_, after Rosetti, Charles Stuart Calverly, 506

_Ballad_ (from _Hans Breitmann Ballads_), Charles Godfrey Leland,
680

Ballad literature, 365

_Ballad of the Primitive Jest_, Andrew Lang, 526

_Ballad of the Women of Paris_, François Villon, 320

_Ballad of Women’s Doubleness_, Chaucer, 258

_Ballade of an Anti-Puritan, A_, Gilbert K. Chesterton, 558

_Ballade of Dead Ladies, The_, François Villon, 318

_Ballade of Literary Fame_, Andrew Lang, 527

_Ballade of Old Time Ladies, A_, François Villon, 319

_Ballade of Suicide, A_, Gilbert K. Chesterton, 557

BALZAC, HONORÉ DE,
_Innocence_ (from _Contés Drolatiques_), 568
_Slight Misunderstanding, A_ (from _Contés Drolatiques_), 567

BANGS, JOHN KENDRICK,
Mona Lisa, 731

Bards or rhapsodists, 26

BAR HEBRÆUS, GREGORY,
_The Book of Laughable Stories_ (extracts), 204

BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS,
_Ingoldsby Legends_, 455
_Raising the Devil_, 456
_“True and Original” Version, A_, 455

BARRIE, JAMES MATTHEW,
_Humourist on his Calling, A_ (from _A Window in Thrums_), 535

BARROW, DR. ISAAC,
on facetiousness, 9

BASSELIN, OLIVIER,
_Apology for Cider_, 317
_To My Nose_, 316

_Battle of the Frogs and Mice, The_,
Homer, 51
Version by “Singing Mouse,” 53
Version by Samuel Wesley, 54

_Battle of the Kegs, The_, Francis Hopkinson, 647