Chapter V: Book III: , Ode 3 (2)

Lines on Reading Frank J. Wilstach's "A Dictionary of Similes"

As neat as wax, as good as new, As true as steel, as truth is true, Good as a sermon, keen as hate, Full as a tick, and fixed as fate--

Brief as a dream, long as the day, Sweet as the rosy morn in May, Chaste as the moon, as snow is white, Broad as barn doors, and new as sight--

Useful as daylight, firm as stone, Wet as a fish, dry as a bone, Heavy as lead, light as a breeze-- Frank Wilstach's book of similes.

The Dictaphone Bard

[And here is a suggestion: Did you ever try dictating your
stories or articles to the dictaphone for the first draft? I
would be glad to have you come down and make the
experiment.--From a shorthand reporter's circular letter.]

(As "The Ballad of the Tempest" would have to issue from the dictaphone to the stenographer)

_Begin each line with a capital. Indent alternate lines. Double space after each fourth line._

_We were crowded in the cabin comma
Not a soul would dare to sleep dash comma
It was midnight on the waters comma
And a storm was on the deep period_

_Apostrophe Tis a fearful thing in capital Winter
To be shattered by the blast comma
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder colon quote capital Cut away the mast exclamation point
close quote_

_So we shuddered there in silence comma dash For the stoutest held his breath comma While the hungry sea was roaring comma And the breakers talked with capital Death period_

_As thus we sat in darkness comma
Each one busy with his prayers comma
Quote We are lost exclamation point close quote the captain shouted comma
As he staggered down the stairs period_

_But his little daughter whispered comma
As she took his icy hand colon
Quote Isn't capital God upon the ocean comma
Just the same as on the land interrogation point close quote_

_Then we kissed the little maiden comma
And we spake in better cheer comma
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear period_

The Comfort of Obscurity

INSPIRED BY READING MR. KIPLING'S POEMS AS PRINTED IN THE NEW YORK PAPERS

Though earnest and industrious,
I still am unillustrious;
No papers empty purses
Printing verses
Such as mine.
No lack of fame is chronicker
Than that about my monicker;
My verse is never cabled
At a fabled
Rate per line.

Still though the Halls Of Literature are closed To me a bard obscure I Have a consolation The Copyreaders crude and rough Can't monkey with my Humble stuff and change MY Punctuation.

Ballade of the Traffickers

Up goes the price of our bread-- Up goes the cost of our caking! People must ever be fed; Bakers must ever be baking. So, though our nerves may be quaking, Dumbly, in arrant despair, Pay we the crowd that is taking All that the traffic will bear.

Costly to sleep in a bed! Costlier yet to be waking! Costly for one who is wed! Ruinous for one who is raking! Tradespeople, ducking and draking, Charge you as much as they dare, Asking, without any faking, All that the traffic will bear.

Roof that goes over our head, Thirst so expensive for slaking, Paper, apparel, and lead-- Why are their prices at breaking? Yet, though our purses be aching, Little the traffickers care; Getting, for chopping and steaking, All that the traffic will bear.

L'ENVOI

Take thou my verses, I pray, King, Letting my guerdon be fair. Even a bard must be making All that the traffic will bear.

To W. Hohenzollern, on Discontinuing The Conning Tower

William, it was, I think, three years ago--
As I recall, one cool October morning--
(You have _The Tribune_ files; I think they'll show
I gave you warning).

I said, in well-selected words and terse,
In phrases balanced, yet replete with power,
That I should cease to pen the prose and verse
Known as The Tower.

That I should stop this Labyrinth of Light--
Though stopping make the planet leaden-hearted--
Unless you stopped the well-known _Schrecklichkeit_
Your nation started.

I printed it in type that you could read;
My paragraphs were thewed, my rhymes were sinewed.
You paid, I judge from what ensued, no heed ...
The war continued.

And though my lines with fortitude were fraught,
Although my words were strong, and stripped of stuffing,
You, William, thought--oh, yes, you did--you thought
That I was bluffing.

You thought that I would fail to see it through!
You thought that, at the crux of things, I'd cower!
How little, how imperfectly you knew
The Conning Tower!

You'll miss the column at the break of day.
I have no fear that I shall be forgotten.
You'll miss the daily privilege to say:
"That stuff is rotten!"

Or else--as sometimes has occurred--when I
Have chanced upon a lucky line to blunder,
You'll miss the precious privilege to cry:
"That bird's a wonder!"

Well, William, when your people cease to strafe,
When you have put an end to all this war stuff,
When all the world is reasonably safe,
I'll write some more stuff.

And when you miss the quip and wanton wile,
And learn you can't endure the Towerless season,
O William, I shall not be petty ... I'll
Listen to reason.

_October 5, 1917._

To W. Hohenzollern, on Resuming The Conning Tower

Well, William, since I wrote you long ago--
As I recall, one cool October morning--
(I have _The Tribune_ files. They clearly show
I gave you warning.)

Since when I penned that consequential ode,
The world has seen a vast amount of slaughter,
And under many a Gallic bridge has flowed
A lot of water.

I said that when your people ceased to strafe,
That when you'd put an end to all this war stuff,
And all the world was reasonably safe
I'd write some more stuff;

That when you missed the quip and wanton wile
And learned you couldn't bear a Towerless season,
I quote: "O, I shall not be petty.... I'll
Listen to reason."

_Labuntur anni_, not to say _Eheu
Fugaces_! William, by my shoulders glistening!
I have the final laugh, for it was you
Who did the listening.

_January 15, 1919._

Thoughts on the Cosmos

I

I do not hold with him who thinks The world is jonahed by a jinx; That everything is sad and sour, And life a withered hothouse flower.

II

I hate the Pollyanna pest Who says that All Is for the Best, And hold in high, unhidden scorn Who sees the Rose, nor feels the Thorn.

III

I do not like extremists who Are like the pair in (I) and (II); But how I hate the wabbly gink, Like me, who knows not what to think!

On Environment

I used to think that this environ-
Ment talk was all a lot of guff;
Place mattered not with Keats and Byron
Stuff.

If I have thoughts that need disclosing,
Bright be the day or hung with gloom,
I'll write in Heaven or the composing-
Room.

Times are when with my nerves a-tingle,
Joyous and bright the songs I sing;
Though, gay, I can't dope out a single
Thing.

And yet, by way of illustration,
The gods my graying head anoint ...
I wrote _this_ piece at Inspiration
Point.

The Ballad of the Thoughtless Waiter

I saw him lying cold and dead
Who yesterday was whole.
"Why," I inquired, "hath he expired?
And why hath fled his soul?"

"But yesterday," his comrade said,
"All health was his, and strength;
And this is why he came to die--
If I may speak at length.

"But yesternight at dinnertime
At a not unknown cafe,
He had a frugal meal as you
Might purchase any day.

"The check for his so simple fare
Was only eighty cents,
And a dollar bill with a right good will
Came from his opulence.

"The waiter brought him twenty cents.
'Twas only yesternight
That he softly said who now is dead
'Oh, keep it. 'At's a' right.'

"And the waiter plainly uttered 'Thanks,'
With no hint of scorn or pride;
And my comrade's heart gave a sudden start
And my comrade up and died."

Now waiters overthwart this land,
In tearooms and in dives,
Mute be your lips whatever the tips,
And save your customers' lives.

Rus Vs. Urbs

Whene'er the penner of this pome Regards a lovely country home, He sighs, in words not insincere, "I think I'd like to live out here."

And when the builder of this ditty Returns to this pulsating city, The perpetrator of this pome Yearns for a lovely country home.

"I'm Out of the Army Now"

When first I doffed my olive drab, I thought, delightedly though mutely, "Henceforth I shall have pleasure ab- Solutely."

Dull with the drudgery of war, Sick of the very name of fighting, I yearned, I thought, for something more Exciting.

The rainbow be my guide, quoth I; My suit shall be a brave and proud one Gay-hued my socks; and oh, my tie A loud one!

For me the theatre and the dance; Primrose the path I would be wending; For me the roses of romance Unending.

Those were my inner thoughts that day (And those of many another million) When once again I should be a Civilian.

I would not miss the old o. d.; (Monotony I didn't much like) I would not miss the reveille, And such like.

I don't ... And do I now enjoy My walks along the primrose way so? Is civil life the life? Oh, boy, I'll say so.

"Oh Man!"

Man hath harnessed the lightning;
Man hath soared to the skies;
Mountain and hill are clay to his will;
Skilful he is, and wise.
Sea to sea hath he wedded,
Canceled the chasm of space,
Given defeat to cold and heat;
Splendour is his, and grace.

His are the topless turrets;
His are the plumbless pits;
Earth is slave to his architrave,
Heaven is thrall to his wits.
And so in the golden future,
He who hath dulled the storm
(As said above) may make a glove
That'll keep my fingers warm.

An Ode in Time of Inauguration

(March 4, 1913)

Thine aid, O Muse, I consciously beseech;
I crave thy succour, ask for thine assistance
That men may cry: "Some little ode! A peach!"
O Muse, grant me the strength to go the distance!
For odes, I learn, are dithyrambs, and long;
Exalted feeling, dignity of theme
And complicated structure guide the song.
(All this from Webster's book of high esteem.)

Let complicated structure not becloud
My lucid lines, nor weight with overloading.
To Shelley, Keats, and Wordsworth and that crowd
I yield the bays for ground and lofty oding.
Mine but the task to trace a country's growth,
As evidenced by each inauguration
From Washington's to Wilson's primal oath--
In these U. S., the celebrated nation.

But stay! or ever that I start to sing,
Or e'er I loose my fine poetic forces,
I ought, I think, to do the decent thing,
To wit: give credit to my many sources:
Barnes's "Brief History of the U. S. A.,"
Bryce, Ridpath, Scudder, Fiske, J. B. McMaster,
A book of odes, a Webster, a Roget--
The bibliography of this poetaster.

Flow, flow, my pen, as gently as sweet Afton ever flowed! An thou dost ill, shall this be still a poor thing, but mine ode.

G. W., initial prex, Right down in Wall Street, New York City, Took his first oath. Oh, multiplex The whimsies quaint, the comments witty One might evolve from that! I scorn To mock the spot where he was sworn.

On next Inauguration Day He took the avouchment sempiternal Way down in Phil-a-delph-i-a, Where rises now the L. H. Journal. His Farewell Speech in '96 Said: "'Ware the Trusts and all their tricks!"

John Adams fell on darksome days: March Fourth was blustery and sleety; The French behaved in horrid ways Until John Jay drew up a treaty. Came the Eleventh Amendment, too, Providing that--but why tell _you_?

T. Jefferson, one history showed, Held all display was vain and idle; Alone, unpanoplied, he rode; Alone he hitched his horse's bridle. No ball that night, and no carouse, But back to Conrad's boarding house.

He tied that bridle to the fence The morning of inauguration; John Davis saw him do it; whence Arose his "simple" reputation. The White House, though, with Thomas J., Had chefs--and parties every day.

THE MUSE INTERRUPTS THE ODIST

If I were you I think I'd change my medium;
I weary of your meter and your style.
The sameness of it sickens me to tedium;
I'll quit unless you switch it for a while.

THE ODIST REPLIES

I bow to thee, my Muse, most eloquent of pleaders; But why embarrass me in front of all these readers?

Madison's inauguration Was a lovely celebration. In a suit of wool domestic Rode he, stately and majestic, Making it be manifest Clothes American are best. This has thundered through the ages. (See our advertising pages.)

Lightly I pass along, and so Come to the terms of James Monroe Who framed the doctrine far too well Known for an odist to retell. His period of friendly dealing Began The Era of Good Feeling.

John Quincy Adams followed him in Eighteen Twenty-four; Election was exciting--the details I shall ignore. But his inauguration as our country's President Was, take it from McMaster, some considerable event. It was a brilliant function, and I think I ought to add The Philadelphia "Ledger" said a gorgeous time was had.

Old Andrew Jackson's pair of terms were terribly exciting; That stern, intrepid warrior had little else than fighting. A time of strife and turbulence, of politics and flurry. But deadly dull for poem themes, so, Mawruss, I should worry!

In Washington did Martin Van A stately custom then decree: Old Hickory, the veteran, Must ride with him, the people's man, For all the world to see. A pleasant custom, in a way, And yet I should have laughed To see the Sage of Oyster Bay On Tuesday ride with Taft. (Pardon me this Parenthetical halt: That sight you'll miss, But it isn't my fault.)

William Henry Harrison came Riding a horse of alabaster, But the weather that day was a sin and a shame, Take it from me and John McMaster. Only a month--and Harrison died, And V.-P. Tyler began preside. A far from popular prex was he, And the next one was Polk of Tennessee. There were two inaugural balls for him, But the rest of his record is rather dim.

Had I the pen of a Pope or a Thackeray,
Had I the wisdom of Hegel or Kant,
Then might I sing as I'd like to of Zachary,
Then might I sing a Taylorian chant.
Oh, for the lyrical art of a Tennyson!
Oh, for the skill of Macaulay or Burke!
None of these mine; so I give him my benison,
Turning reluctantly back to my work.

O Millard Fillmore! when a man refers To thee, what direful, awful thing occurs? Though in itself thy name hath nought of wit, Yet--and this doth confound me to admit When I do hear it, I do smile; nay, more-- I laugh, I scream, I cachinnate, I roar As Wearied Business Men do shake with glee At mimes that say "Dubuque" or "Kankakee"; As basement-brows that laugh at New Rochelle; As lackwits laugh when actors mention Hell. Perhaps--it may be so--I am not sure-- Perhaps it is that thou wast so obscure, And that one seldom hears a single word of thee; I know a lot of girls that never heard of thee. Hence did I smile, perhaps.... How very near The careless laughing to the thoughtful tear! O Fillmore, let me sheathe my mocking pen. God rest thee! I'll not laugh at thee again!

I have heard it remarked that to Pierce's election
There wasn't a soul had the slightest objection.
I have also been told, by some caustical wit,
That no one said nay when he wanted to quit.
Yet Franklin Pierce, forgotten man,
I celebrate your fame.
I'm doing just the best I can
To keep alive your name,
Though as a President, F. P.,
You didn't do as much for me.

Of James Buchanan things a score
I might recite. I'll say that he was
The only White House bachelor--
The only one, that's what J. B. was.
For he was a bachelor--
For he might have been a bigamist,
A Mormon, a polygamist,
And had thirty wives or more;
But this be his memorial:
He was ever unuxorial,
And remained a bachelor--
He re-mai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ained a bachelor.

Lincoln! I falter, feeling it to be As if all words of mine in praise of him Were as the veriest dolt that saw the sun; And God had spoken him and said to him: "I bid you tell me what you think of it." And he should answer: "Oh, the sun is nice." So sadly fitted I to speak in praise Of Lincoln.

Now during Andrew Johnson's term the currency grew stable; We bought Alaska and we laid the great Atlantic cable; And then there came eight years of Grant; thereafter four of Hayes; And in his time the parties fell on fierce and parlous days; And Garfield came, and Arthur too, and Congress shoes were worn, And Brooklyn Bridge was built, and I, your gifted bard, was born.

Cleveland and Harrison came along then; Followed an era of Cleveland again. Came then McKinley and--light me a pipe-- Hey, there, composing room, get some new type!

_I sing him now as I shall sing him again;
I sing him now as I have sung before.
How fluently his name comes off my pen!
O Theodore!_

_Bless you and keep you, T. R.!
Energy tireless, eternal,
Fixed and particular star,
Theodore, Teddy, the Colonel._

_Energy tireless, eternal;
Hater of grafters and crooks!
Theodore, Teddy, the Colonel,
Writer and lover of books,_

_Hater of grafters and crooks,
Forceful, adroit, and expressive,
Writer and lover of books,
Nevertheless a Progressive._

_Forceful, adroit, and expressive,
Often asserting the trite;
Nevertheless a Progressive;
Errant, but generally right._

_Often asserting the trite;
Stubborn, and no one can force you.
Errant, but generally right--
Yet, on the whole, I indorse you._

_Stubborn, and no one can force you,
Fixed and particular star,
Yet, on the whole, I indorse you,
Bless you and keep you, T. R.!_

It blew, it rained, it snowed, it stormed, it froze, it hailed, it sleeted The day that William Howard Taft upon the chair was seated. The four long years that followed--ah, that I should make a rime of it! For Mr. Taft assures me that he had an awful time of it. And yet meseems he did his best; and as we bid good-bye, I'll add he did a better job than you'd have done--or I.

Welcome to thee! I shake thy hand,
New prexy of our well-known land.
May what we merit, and no less,
Descend to give us happiness!
May what we merit, and no more,
Descend on us in measured store!
Give us but peace when we shall earn
The right to such a rich return!
Give us but plenty when we show
That we deserve to have it so!

Mine ode is finished! Tut! It is a slight one,
But blame me not; I do as I am bid.
The editor of COLLIER'S said to write one--
And I did.

What the Copy Desk Might Have Done to:

("Annabel Lee")

=SOUL BRIDE ODDLY DEAD IN QUEER DEATH PACT=

=High-Born Kinsman Abducts Girl from Poet-Lover--Flu Said to Be Cause of Death--Grand Jury to Probe=

Annabel L. Poe, of 1834-1/2 3rd Av., the beautiful young fiancee of Edmund Allyn Poe, a magazine writer from the South, was found dead early this morning on the beach off E. 8th St.

Poe seemed prostrated and, questioned by the police, said that one of her aristocratic relatives had taken her to the "seashore," but that the cold winds had given her "flu," from which she never "rallied."

Detectives at work on the case believe, they say, that there was a suicide compact between the Poes and that Poe also intended to do away with himself.

He refused to leave the spot where the woman's body had been found.

("Curfew Must Not Ring To-night")

=GIRL, HUMAN BELL-CLAPPER, SAVES DOOMED LOVER'S LIFE=

=BRAVE ACT Of "BESSIE" SMITH HALTS CURFEW FROM RINGING AND MELTS CROMWELL'S HEART=

(By Cable to _The Courier_)

HUDDERSFIELD, KENT, ENGLAND.--Jan. 15.--Swinging far out above the city, "Bessie" Smith, the young and beautiful fiancee of Basil Underwood, a prisoner incarcerated in the town jail, saved his life to-night.

The woman went to "Jack" Hemingway, sexton of the First M. E. Church, and asked him to refrain from ringing the curfew bell last night, as Underwood's execution had been set for the hour when the bell was to ring. Hemingway refused, alleging it to be his duty to ring the bell.

With a quick step Miss Smith bounded forward, sprang within the old church door, left the old man threading slowly paths which previously he had trodden, and mounted up to the tower. Climbing the dusty ladder in the dark, she is said to have whispered:

"Curfew is not to ring this evening."

Seizing the heavy tongue of the bell, as it was about to move, she swung far out suspended in mid-air, oscillating, thus preventing the bell from ringing. Hemingway's deafness prevented him from hearing the bell ring, but as he had been deaf for 20 years, he attributed no importance to the silence.

As Miss Smith descended, she met Oliver Cromwell, the well-known lord protector, who had condemned Underwood to death. Hearing her story and noting her hands, bruised and torn, he said in part: "Go, your lover lives. Curfew shall not ring this evening."

("The Ballad of the Tempest")

=TOT'S FEW WORDS KEEP 117 SOULS FROM DIRE PANIC=

=Babe's Query to Parent Saves Storm-Flayed Ship's Passengers Crowded in Cabin=

FEARFUL THING IN WINTER

BOSTON, MASS, Jan. 17--Cheered by the faith of little "Jennie" Carpenter, the 7-year-old daughter of Capt. B. L. Carpenter, of a steamer whose name could not be learned, 117 passengers on board were brought through panic early this morning while the storm was at its height, to shore.

George H. Nebich, one of the passengers, told the following story to a COURIER reporter:

"About midnight we were crowded in the cabin, afraid to sleep on account of the storm. All were praying, as Capt. Carpenter, staggering down the stairs, cried: 'We are lost!' It was then that little 'Jennie,' his daughter, took him by his hand and asked him whether he did not believe in divine omnipresence. All the passengers kissed the little 'girlie' whose faith had so inspirited us."

The steamer, it was said at the office of the company owning her, would leave as usual to-night for Portland.

("Plain Language from Truthful James")

=AH SIN, FAMED TONG MAN, BESTS BARD AT CARD TILT=

="Celestial" Gambler, Feigning Ignorance of Euchre, Tricks Francis Bret Harte and "Bill" Nye into Heavy Losses--Solons to Probe Ochre Peril=

SAN FRANCISCO, Aug. 3.--Francis B. Harte and E. W. Nye, a pair of local magazine writers, lost what is believed to be a large sum of money in a game of euchre played near the Bar-M mine this afternoon.

There had been, Harte alleged, a three-handed game of euchre participated in by Nye, a Chinaman named Ah Sin and himself. The Chinaman, Harte asserted, did not understand the game, but, Harte declared, smiled as he sat by the table with what Harte termed was a "smile that was childlike and bland."

Harte said that his feelings were shocked by the chicanery of Nye, but that the hands held by Ah Sin were unusual. Nye, maddened by the Chinaman's trickery, rushed at him, 24 packs of cards spilling from the tong-man's long sleeves. On his taper nails was found some wax.

The "Mongolian," Harte said, is peculiar.

Harte and Nye are thought to have lost a vast sum of money, as they are wealthy authors.

The legislature, it is said, will investigate the question of the menace to American card-players by the so-called Yellow peril.

("Excelsior")

=DOG FINDS LAD DEAD IN DRIFT=

=Unidentified Body of Young Traveler Found by Faithful Hound Near Small Alpine Village--White Mantle His Snowy Shroud=

ST. BERNARD, Sept. 12.--Early this morning a dog belonging to the St. Bernard Monastery discovered the body of a young man, half buried in the snow.

In his hand was clutched a flag with the word "Excelsior" printed on it.

It is thought that he passed through the village last night, bearing the banner, and that a young woman had offered him shelter, which he refused, having answered "Excelsior."

The police are working on the case.

("The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers")

=PILGRIM DADS LAND ON MASS. COAST TOWN=

=Intrepid Band of Britons, Seeking Faith's Pure Shrine, Reach Rock-Bound Coast, Singing Amid Storm=

PROVINCETOWN, MASS, Dec. 21--Poking her nose through the fog, the ship _Mayflower_, of Southampton, Jones, Master, limped into port to-night.

On board were men with hoary hair and women with fearless eyes, 109 in all.

Asked why they had made the journey, they alleged that religious freedom was the goal they sought here.

The _Mayflower_ carried a cargo of antique furniture.

Among those on board were William Bradford, M. Standish, Jno. Alden, Peregrine White, John Carver and others.

Steps are being taken to organize a society of Mayflower Descendants.

("The Bridge Of Sighs")

=KINLESS YOUNG WOMAN, WEARY, TAKES OWN LIFE=

=Body of Girl Found in River Tells Pitiful Story of Homelessness and Lack of Charity=

LONDON, March 16.--The body of a young woman, her garments clinging like cerements, was found in the river late this afternoon.

In the entire city she had no home. There are, according to the police, no relatives.

The woman was young and slender and had auburn hair.

No cause has been assigned for the act.

Song of Synthetic Virility

Oh, some may sing of the surging sea, or chant of the raging main; Or tell of the taffrail blown away by the raging hurricane. With an oh, for the feel of the salt sea spray as it stipples the guffy's cheek! And oh, for the sob of the creaking mast and the halyard's aching squeak! And some may sing of the galley-foist, and some of the quadrireme, And some of the day the xebec came and hit us abaft the beam. Oh, some may sing of the girl in Kew that died for a sailor's love, And some may sing of the surging sea, as I may have observed above.

Oh, some may long for the Open Road, or crave for the prairie breeze, And some, o'ersick of the city's strain, may yearn for the whispering trees. With an oh, for the rain to cool my face, and the wind to blow my hair! And oh, for the trail to Joyous Garde, where I may find my fair! And some may love to lie in the field in the stark and silent night, The glistering dew for a coverlet and the moon and stars for light. Let others sing of the soughing pines and the winds that rustle and roar, And others long for the Open Road, as I may have remarked before.

Ay, some may sing of the bursting bomb and the screech of a screaming shell, Or tell the tale of the cruel trench on the other side of hell. And some may talk of the ten-mile hike in the dead of a winter night, And others chaunt of the doughtie Kyng with mickle valour dight. And some may long for the song of a child and the lullaby's fairy charm, And others yearn for the crack of the bat and the wind of the pitcher's arm. Oh, some have longed for this and that, and others have craved and yearned; And they all may sing of whatever they like, as far as I'm concerned.

* * * * *

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Original variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained.

Bold text is surrounded by =.

Italic text is surrounded by _.

Page 71: The oe in Croesus was originally printed as a ligature.

End of Project Gutenberg's Something Else Again, by Franklin P. Adams