Chapter I: Shot an Arrow

I shot an arrow: how it sang!
It was a poisoned arrow!
And when it turned, a boomerang,
It chilled me to the marrow.

I know not where the arrow struck,
And care but little whether
It came straight back or ran amuck
Upon the near-by heather.

But _this_ I know; however fast
The arrow homeward scurried,
My getaway was unsurpassed--
For, Goodness, how I hurried!

FIXING THE BLAME

The almost-King of Verdun, still uncrowned,
Wearied of _driving_, walked the ramparts 'round
To see his father, Mr. William Kaiser,
Who was to him an Oracle and wiser.
"O Sire! Inform me! Tell your first-born son,
Who caused the War, and why it was begun?
Who slipped the leash, and what was the excuse
For turning Europe's rabid War Dogs loose?
Did you? Or was it Cousin George, or Nick
Who stacked the cards and played the dirty trick?
Or was it Joe, or Ferdinand, or Grey
Who sawed the bridge and pulled the props away?"

"My Son, I swear by all the periscopes
And Zeppelins to which I pin my hopes;
By all the Ocean Sharks and Bats a-sky,
By Gott-in-Himmel! As I hope to die,
_I'm_ not to blame! I didn't use the spurs,
Or try to overwork Geographers!
I fought for Peace, and ne'er defiance hurled,
Altho' the Fatherland _should_ rule the world.
But here's the truth: a secret I'll disclose!
A stranger 'twas who made us come to blows!
It happened thus: a mighty Nimrod came
From Afric wilds, where he had played the game
Until his cudgel bore a hundred nicks,
(A record this for all Prodigious Sticks)
To Germany. No pussyfoot was his,
But there was courage in his Nobel phiz;
And in his stride were energy and grace
Enough to make the goose-step commonplace.
I took him to my Palace, as my guest,
And poured libations from the cellar's _best_,
(He was a _certified_ non-drinker--See?
So just accord this proper secrecy!)
And then arranged to hold a Grand Review
Of all my Armies and Reservists too.
'De-lighted!' said my guest, and nothing more,
As we reviewed my legions corps by corps;
But this blunt comment signified his zeal,
And so I mobilized my fleet at Kiel;
And on my Royal Yacht, my guest and I
Watched the maneuvres as my ships passed by.
'De-lighted, Bill!' the Hardy Hunter shouted--
'With such a fleet I'd have the whole world routed;
And with your armies I would soon disperse
The Fighting Units of the Universe!'
Such praise was pleasing to my ears, altho
My Wasps and Devil-fish I didn't show:
I deemed it best to _meld_ this 'hundred aces'
When all my ships and men were in their places.
Had he seen _these_, I knew he would advise
The conquest of the Earth and Seas and Skies:
But, Shades of Bismarck! _that_, you understand
Might prove a strain upon the Fatherland.
And so I kept the Peace, but thought about
The many martial plans we figured out;
And how the cost of my Frontier Defences
Compared with his proposed campaign expenses.
You see, Mein Heir, this man was full of guile
And caused the War: this Bey of Oyster Isle.
He hypnotized me: put it in my mind
To be the Potentate of all Mankind!
So blame me not! The fault I must disown,
And put the guilt on Theodore alone!
Whatever comes anon, I'm not whipped yet!
And with it all, I have but one regret--
That _he_ was not impressed to lead my drive
To Petersburg to take the Czar alive;
And then, a Marshal, ordered to Paree
To capture it and bring it back to me;
Then take my fleet, the English Channel over
And put King George to rout and bombard Dover;
And then supplant the Sultan, take his Fez
And lead my peerless Forces to Suez.
While _you_ have failed, and Hindenburg and Mack,
_He_ never fizzles when he makes attack.
See what I've missed! for, _see what he has done_!
And yet his vast campaign is just begun.
He leads his Legions, Bull Moose, Calf and Cow
To capture a Convention _even now_."

* * * * *

An orderly approached the Royal Pair
Just at this stage and left despatches there.
He stood at close attention, hand to head,
While this absorbing cablegram was read--
"Outflanked and captured; resignation tendered;
Mooses dehorned and all the herd surrendered!
Am looking for another job already,--
Would take the German Presidency--Teddy."

* * * * *

The Kaiser turned, looked at the Prince and wept,
While noxious gases o'er the bulwarks crept.

LOVE'S RECOMPENSE

"Do you really, truly love me, with a love that mocks at Fate?"
Cried the rustic, buxom maiden to her lover at the gate;
"Yes, my Pet! And when Dame Fortune smiles upon us we will wed;
I will strew your path with roses: Bear me witness, Gods o'erhead!"
Thus he spake unto his sweetheart, under Heaven's starry blue,
And the angels, smiling on him, heard his vow to "e'er be true."
Then he placed his arms around her--kissed her: they were in a trance!
And two _soles_ toward Heav'n were lifted as the bulldog grabbed his
pants.

ADAM'S ALE

Come, Comrades, gather 'round the festal board
And quaff the sparkling Water from the gourd!
_This_ is the drink that Adam's Tribe imbibed
Before the Wines of Gath were diatribed.
(Methinks some other brand was drunk by Cain
The day that Abel ruthlessly was slain.)
And won, against all other potions there,
The First White Ribbon at the Gaza Fair.
You'll never know, until you take a sip
Its power to soothe, and cool the fevered lip.
Had Noah _stuck to_ water he would shine
As undisputed Master of the Brine.
The Water-wagon that he launched, at first
Steered Noah straight but didn't cure his thirst:
So when he _spoke_ the Ararat Café
He soon fell off,--his rudder washed away.
But wallward turn the picture you're beholding
And hang more cheerful paintings on the moulding!
Behold a _watercolor_ of eclat!
This, fair Rebecca had the skill to _draw_:
She stands beside the well and plies the sweep,
While sweat and blushes o'er her features creep.
Such grace and poise, such strength and skill,
Such sweeping gestures and unbending will
Are indices of Abstinence complete;
(We can't abstain from loving you, Petite!)
Upon her head she rests the dripping urn
And goes straight home: she doesn't _dare_ to turn!
Don't stumble, Miss! Or suffer teasing boys
To cause derangement of your equipoise!
But keep your head and waver not at all
Lest you be deluged by the waterfall!
So daily to the pool Rebecca strayed
And drank the water, when she didn't wade:
And thus her framework waxed like iron; I trust
'Twas ne'er assailed or undermined by rust.
So, fill the gourd and pass it to your friend!
It's Safety First and safety to the end.
No headaches lurk within, no tinge of sorrow,
No dark forebodings or remorse to-morrow!
And furthermore, it isn't hard to take:
If you've not tried it, _do_, for Mercy's sake!
Behold the Oaken Bucket, hanging high,
By Bards and Singers lauded to the sky.
It never touched, in all its useful days,
A thing but water. Here fair Psyche plays
Beside the spring that mirrors all her graces.
(Would you object to _water in_ such cases?)
Now mark the fate befalling Jack and Jill
Because they slipped and let the water spill;
And see poor Tantalus for water crying,
Thus punished for his sins,--athirst and dying!
And note this "Titian," called "The Drunkard's Fate,"
In which the crimson hues predominate.
He holds the lamp-post in his close embrace
And has a package from Pat Murphy's place
To carry home. His eyes are red and dim,
So close the bar and turn the hose on him!
This drink was ever priceless, yet it's free;
The Source and Fountain of Sobriety;
And so we offer without bar or price
Enough of THIS to put your thirst on ice.
So drink to WATER, while the billows swell:
The World wants Prohibition--and all's WELL!

RUSSIA

Canst Thou, in all this babel, build aright
Freedom's Palladium? The long, black night
That, ages thru, hath dimmed your yearning eyes
And dulled your minds, still hovers o'er your skies.
A rift there was, disclosing to your view
The Dawn of Day, but then the darkness grew
Yet more intense, as if the Sun rebelled
At such a cheerless greeting and withheld
Its Light. And now again Night reigns supreme,
But just beyond the Day is all agleam.

BELGIUM

Sad-eyed and weary, Thou must suffer more,
Until thy supermen have paid the score
For outraged daughters, murdered sons and wives;
For ravaged homesteads, and brave soldiers' lives.
Be not dismayed! Altho your Cup of Woe
Is full to overflowing from the blow;
Tho Justice seems indifferent to your prayer,
And ruin stalks about you everywhere.
The day of reckoning is near at hand,
When Justice will restore your pillaged Land,
And Vengeance will unsheath its righteous blade
And flay the Teutons till your score is paid.

OUR FRIENDS ACROSS THE STREET

(To S. and W. A.)

When we're tired of reading essays,
Tho they be a mental treat;
When we're bored by social callers,
Be they ever so elite;
When we crave some relaxation
Or the Foursome's incomplete,
We S. O. S. or telephone
To our Friends across the Street.

When our larder needs renewing
Or our ice succumbs to heat;
When the signs of Drought are brewing
'Cause our "stock" is incomplete;
And our chairs are insufficient
When we have some guests to seat,
Why, we just go out and borrow
From our Friends across the Street.

When we're worried or in trouble,
And our projects meet defeat;
When our prospects seem quite hopeless,--
Life seems bitter that was sweet;
When we lose our nerve and falter
'Cause the rough way wounds our feet,
We can always find sweet comfort
In our Friends across the Street.

When we end, at last, our journey
And the saintly Peter greet,
Or descend to Realms Infernal
Where the Goats, rejected, bleat,
We would never feel contented,
Whether mixed with Chaff or Wheat,
If we couldn't be together
With our Friends across the Street.

EPITAPHS

I left this Vale of Tears to gain repose,
And change, for Harp and Wings, my worldly clothes;
There's no redress, so if I _fall_ from grace
I'll be quite cool enough for _either_ place.

Wed
Bled
Fled
Dead
Nufsed

Go not the way I went, O Mortal Man!
But follow out a more successful plan,
Lest you, as I am now, remorseful be
For imitating U. S. Currency.

For forty cents an hour I slaved
At Delpont's Powder Mills;
And all the money that I saved
Scarce paid my funeral bills.

Erected to our father is this stone:
He couldn't leave the whiskey flask alone;
To Spirit World he vanished from our sight;
We hope he's very snug, and _know_ he's tight.

Above the clouds I sojourn now,
The twinkling stars between,
Because I tried to figure how
To cook with gasolene.

I'm _dead_ all right, but not quite _all right_ dead,
For schemes of vengeance hurtle thru my head;
My wife eloped, a cheating chicken she;
Forsook her nest, and then flew back to me
With all her brood: I love her as I useter
But I'm a-laying for that other Rooster.

I followed Father with the rake
The day he scythed the clover;
So _green_, he cut _me_, by mistake
And my heydays were over.

Here sleeps, at last, our little baby Yorick!
_We_ couldn't make him _without paregoric_.

I'm not averse to being dead,
But this I do despise,--
To have a tombstone at my head
Inscribed with blooming lies:
"A faithful spouse, a parent kind;
Alas, too soon he went!"

But this is all they had in mind--
To get my last red cent.

Assembled here my Wife is, Helen Nation:
'Twas gasoline that caused the separation,
Which shows how very short the mortal lease is,--
I think 'twas lucky to have saved the pieces!

Here let me rest without a sigh or tear,
I've learned my lesson--not to interfere!
If I could live my mortal life agin
I'd be a pussyfoot and not butt in.

My Mother, famous for her pies
Lies buried 'neath this shaft;
I wonder if, in Paradise,
She still pursues her craft?
She'll be too much engrossed, 'twould seem,
In picking on the lyre
To give attention to a scheme
To bake without a fire.
But if perchance she had the dough
And couldn't make it rise,
I'm sure she'd know just where to go
To look for _heat_ supplies.

He called me "Liar!" Like a flash
My honor I defended,
Until his razor cut a gash
So deep, that I was ended.
If I could live my life again
I'd not invite an issue
But say, when villified, Amen!
And thus preserve my tissue.

THE CONQUEST OF THE SUN

The Morning Sun, with golden dart,
Crept to Milady's bed;
And as he drew the screens apart
A halo crowned her head.

Such radiance he'd never viewed;
Enraptured, he surveyed
Her virgin charms: beatitude!
He stooped and kissed the maid.

Entranced because her splendor seemed
To dazzle as it shone,
He conjured all his wiles and beamed
Her burning cheeks upon.

And then she woke, Milady fair,
Enchanted by his art,
To find, 'midst fires a slumb'ring there,
His dart had pierced her heart.

And so the Morning Sun can gain
Milady when he tries,
But Midnight Sons must lose, 'tis plain,
Because they're late to rise.

OWED TO A ROACH

O, Thou, who thru the sink doth blithely go;
(O, Little Roach, how could you _sink_ so low?)
Who pipeth all your kin from kitchens near
Wherever crumbs of comfort may appear;
Who layeth siege, in mural cracks or trenches,
Where grease spots lure or rampant be the stenches;
Who hideth in the dough when bread is rising,--
I ask you to a Feast, of my devising,--
To eat these _powders_, 'round the plumbing placed,
Until your glutted carcass be effaced.
O, Little Roach, if you would selfish be
And not "ring in" your whole fool family,
We'd tolerate you: nay, a pet would make you
If you'd not scamper all our pie and cake thru!

THE MOODS OF THE WINDS

O, Breezes of Spring!
How they rollick and ring
With delight as they sing
Like birds on the wing.

O, Zephyrs of May!
With your balm and bouquet;
How you gladden the day
Like Fairies at play.

O, Winds of the Fall!
How they thrill and enthrall,
How they hurtle and call
With shrill caterwaul.

O, Winter's bleak Breath!
How it freezes and saith
To the ice-vested wraith,
"Thou'rt shrouded in Death."

THE TOXIC TIPPET

'Tis said that Mary, she of Reader note,
Was wrapped up in her lamb--her lambskin coat--
E'en after his demise, beatified.
He served her well, and for his mistress dyed.

Then Mary died, and took angelic form,
Because the lambskin (used to keep her warm)
Gave her the anthrax: what a cruel blow
To be thus snatched above from furbelow!

TWENTY-THIRD PSALM

My Shepherd careth for His flock:
Beneath a cloudless sky
In pastures green, by spring-cleft rock,
In luxury I lie.

He brings contentment to my soul
And leads me to the Light,
By which I see the Heav'nly goal
From dismal depths of Night.

Though Poverty attend my way
And sorrow fills my heart,
Thy Guidance will disaster stay,
So good and pure Thou art!

Thou, in the presence of my foes,
Bestoweth favors rare,
And giveth pleasure and repose
In answer to my prayer.

To such a Shepherd I will give
My everlasting love,
And glory in the Hope--to live
With Him, at last, Above.

FRIENDSHIP

True Friends are rare: who counts them by the score
Is blest indeed, for we have, seldom, more.
If we possess just one real, _trusting_ friend
Who shares our troubles, loyal to the end;
Who, when we fall, will help us to our feet;
Who finds with us contentment most complete;
Whose pocket-book and heart are open thrown
Whether we need affection or a loan,
And makes no record of the favor done,
But gives, with equal pleasure, either one--
That's Friendship _true_! If I had twenty such,
With all their purses open to my touch,
And each disposed to "stake" me and forget
The circumstance and measure of the debt,
I'd soon be on the road to ease and plenty,
But wish I had _such_ friendships _more than twenty_.

PARAMOUNT PROBLEMS

Shall Women vote? Shall Demon Rum survive
Or be, thru Woman Suffrage, flayed alive?
These are the questions that engross the nation:
Shall Women vote or be kept on probation?
Are they not gentle, honest, sweet and kind?
A single missing virtue we can't find,
And yet we say--"Stay home and can the cherries!
You're far too frail and fine for statecraft worries!
The Sacred Home for you! Just 'tend your chicks!
You'd soil your hands to mix in Politics!
And then there's scrubbing, cooking and a few
Odd jobs besides: you couldn't ballot _too_!"
But how absurd! Fair Woman, in her wrath,
Will make our future course a thorny path:
Unless we meet her fairly in these matters,
She'll tear our senseless arguments to tatters,
And rule _both_ Home and State to suit herself,
Putting deceitful _man_ upon the shelf.
As sure as death or taxes, day or night,
She'll have the _vote_ without, or _with_ a fight;
And those of us who counsel Peace, as best,
Should not oppose and put her to the test;
And when she _gets_ the vote, by force or gift,
The clouds obscuring Temperance will lift;
For all the Wets will vanish, ev'ry one!
Evaporate like mists before the sun.
True, Women drink; it's foolish to deny it!
But not as men do--as a steady diet;
They'll take a punch, or sip a little claret,
But when it comes to liquor--they can't bear it.
And so we ask again--shall Women vote?
Shall men surrender to the petticoat
And give up all their freedom and their tipples
Just to return to Lacteal Life and Nipples?
The War is on! Nebraska bids defiance
To Rum Dispensers and the Booze Alliance:
Hereafter all our barley, wheat and corn
Will be quite unresponsive to the _horn_.
The _essence_ of the grain will be tabooed
And ev'ry seed accounted for as _food_.
No more will Barleycorn assail our vitals
Or be the Leader in our Song Recitals:
No more will Liquor check our ardent thirst,
And so we'll go from bad, perhaps, to worst.
If we must _eat_, perforce, and never rum it,
What will befall the man who has to gum it;
Whose teeth are absent and who food eschews,
Drawing his daily nourishment from booze;
Who can't obtain a single drop of gin
To comfort and sustain the man within?
Pleading for drinks, unheeded he'll grow wheezy,
But he'll improve his breath if he'll Speak Easy.
The Drunkard's fate would be a dreadful warning,
Who, having "opened" Riley's place each morning
Found, one cold dawn, the foot-rail gone and read--
"Soft Drinks for Sale" where Schnapps was sold instead.
Picture his sorrow! See him pallid grow
When told the facts: a spectacle of woe!
Back to his wife he slinks: he couldn't face her!
Because he missed his usual "morning bracer."
The Place is sold: it's now a candy store
Where Schnapps will be dispensed _with_ evermore.
Good-bye, Old Demijohn; Decanters, too!
His life will empty be--and so are you!
Where once the Canteen flourished 'neath our flag,
Now Prohibition flags the soldier's jag;
And where Josephus keeps his arid log
The water-pitcher has succeeded grog.
Some Commonwealths already have the pluck
To ban, humanely, those who _chase the duck_;
And other States have punished Rum enough
To have compassion on the _boot-leg_ stuff.
Thus Prohibition grows: but so does wheat
And corn and rye: I wonder which will beat?
But what of Woman? Where's her rightful freedom?
They ought to have the vote, because we need 'em
To purge our land of drunkenness and crime
And save our striplings from the slough and slime.
Why _shouldn't_ Women vote? Perhaps they may!
Should Drunkards or Illiterates say nay?
Could citizens of foreign birth refuse
To give our Native Daughters what they choose?
Our Native Sons with chivalry invoke
Fair play for women,--freedom from the yoke;
And shouldn't other Freemen rise in flocks
To help our Women win the Ballot Box?
The trouble lies, not _here_, but with the Bosses
Who trade in graft and deal in _double crosses_.
The sooner we eliminate this class
The quicker will _full freedom_ come to pass.
But watch the Anti! Make her hold her tongue,
Or duck her in the pond, the geese among;
Or lock her in the booth, without a mirror,
Where she can't see herself and we can't hear her.
Thus, neck and neck, these two great questions lead:
Will men be equal to their Country's need?
If one Reform upon the other waits,
Speed Equal Suffrage to the White House gates,

And Prohibition (Farewell, Dear old Liquor!)
Will follow as the tape pursues the ticker!
But if, perchance, the Dry's should get a trimmin',
_Smile_, if you please,--but don't _prohibit_ Women!

A REUNION

Once more, Good Friends, we're gathered 'round the board
To feel the joys of fellowship restored.
There's nothing like them! _Friends_ can't be replaced,
Nor thoughts of them from Memory be effaced!
Of course we form _new_ friendships, but I feel
That these, like _old_ ones, are not staunch and real.
It takes long years to _prove_ our friends, you know,--
Those who are steadfast in our weal or woe.
So here's to you, Miss Prim! and you, Miss Prude!
We wouldn't have you different if we could!
Two Roses rare you are, and sweet; I ween
You were not doomed to bloom and blush unseen.
I've seen your cheeks suffused with crimson hues;
(Dame Nature's _make-up_ is the rouge you use!)
I've seen your lips in saucy challenge perked;
(But for your protests, they'd be overworked!)
I've seen your eyes with mischief filled and tears;
(But I could never _pity_ you, My Dears!)
I've seen your breasts with agitation heave;
(Your _hearts_ must be affected, I believe!)
I've seen your shapely forms pass in review
Before my lonely couch, in dreams of you,--
And what I haven't seen, some little bird
Has told me all about. Upon my word,
If what he says be true, what I have _heard_
To what I've seen, methinks, would be preferred.
Then here's to Friendship! What more potent force
Doth link mankind together? Love, of course,
Doth fetter us betimes, but Time must say
Whom we shall cherish, whom to cast away.
When Love and Friendship, heart and hand, are bound,
What more of Joy can compass us around?
So, Friends and Sweethearts, Comrades tried and true,
We pledge our love and loyalty to you!

THE CRUISE OF THE SQUIRREL

Somewhere, sometime, I've heard it said, or read
That Fools butt in where Angels fear to tread.
A single "Angel" with a Pack of Fools
Is not enough to change established rules;
And so, I think, the "Angel" in this case
Should bear, alone, the onus and disgrace,--
For Angels should know better than to swoop
Upon the Dove of Peace and fowl her coop.
The Good Ship Squirrel has left our shores behind
To measure human breath 'gainst Ocean Wind.
"Laden with Nuts" her clearance shows. Four Bells!
She's off! to fight for Peace with all those shells.
No Port, however, figures in her quest,
Her "papers" show,--and this is manifest!

The Dove of Peace, perched on the mizzen-top,
Hath disappointments sticking in her crop.
The peaceful bird is shy and very frail;
Can't stand the weight of salt upon her tail;
The War has made her nervous, and the roar
Of many cannon made the poor bird soar.

Up springs a storm! The Dove's white feathers show,
While Nuts are cracking on the deck below.
And then an iceberg looms against the sky,
But still the Dove is far too proud to fly;
But when, anon, a periscope appears
The Bird of Peace is overcome by fears,
And "beats it" to the iceberg's crystal crest,
Where she prepares to build her neutral nest.

The Submarine atop the billows now,
Stands by the Squirrel until she dips her bow
And sinks beneath the waves; then looks above
And takes a parting broadside at the Dove.
The "Angel" then, in Neptune's sky-machine
Ascendeth in a blaze of gasoline;
The Dove, marooned, broods over many things,
Nestling her poor _cold feet_ beneath her wings.

* * * * *

Regenerate, the Angel has returned
From empyrean Flight, to Earth, and learned
(I think Saint Peter gave him sound advice!)
To keep the Pacifistic Germ on ice
Until a Luther, if there still remains
One decent man where Wilhelm Cæsar reigns,
Denounces all the crimes of Germany,
And proselytes to crush Autocracy.

JINGLES

Little Bo Peep
Went fast to sleep;
Losing her sheep.
There were ninety and nine of these lambkins that fled
When poor, little Bo was asleep in her bed;
And when they returned they were _mutton_ instead.
O, what a stew!
'Twixt me and yew
What could Bo do?

O! Jack and Jill
Went up the hill,
Their pail to fill.
The water was _running_: they didn't pursue,
But filled up their growler with Double X Brew,
And Jill, in a measure, was full, and Jack too.
Both had a thirst:
Jack's was the worst:
He tumbled first.

Horner boy Jack
Had the right knack;
Cornered the snack.
His fortune grew fast from that one Christmas plum;
His profits on 'Change showed a marvelous sum,
Till he soon had Financialdom under his thumb.
O! what a wiz!
Jack knew his biz:
All now is his.

Good old King Cole,
"Merry old Soul,"
Knew how to _bowl_.
No high-balls were spared at his nocturnal spread,
And the fumes of the liquor would strike in his head
Till, knocked off his pins, he was set up in bed.
Jackass or king
Will have his fling:
Naughty, Old Thing.

Old Lady Drew
Lived in a shoe:
Children there too.
Their home was too cramped for a dozen or more,
But others have suffered from tight shoes before,
So the latch-string was always hung out on the door.
To upper skies
Good old sole flies,
With all her ties.

The Drews and Jack Horner lived on the same street:
Jack gambled with Hymen and Drew Marguerite,
And love for his sole-mate affected his feet.
There ne'er was a "comeback" to poor Jack and Jill;
The King followed after them going "down hill,"
And Bo, left alone, is a sheepish maid still.

THE WEIGHT OF LOVE

I was sitting in the parlor
With my Sweetheart on my knee,
And the fireplace lights and shadows
Silhouetted her and me.

Heavy grew she towards the morning,
When the gold-fringed sunbeams leap:
_She_ was wide awake as ever
But my leg was fast asleep.

Flesh is weak and so I shifted
My loved load, as best I could,
From the numb knee to the other;
From the leg of flesh to wood.

Then I felt my Sweetheart shiver,
And I realized her state
When she drew a white-ash sliver
From the leg _articulate_.

DO IT!

Dare to do it!
You'll not rue it
If you save some Human Craft
From the rocks where fierce gales blew it,
Using Kindness for a raft.

O, dare to do!
Be kind and true
To the friends you make thru life;
Then High Heaven will reward you
With immunity from strife.

If a Lion
Were a dyin',
Would you go into his lair
And attempt to soothe his cryin'?
Do it! Do it, if you _dare_!

AMENITIES

The Parson tied the Hymen knot
That made two halves a whole;
The while a speculating what
Would be his marriage toll.

The Groom, when he had kissed the Bride,
Was taken with the chills:
Her icy lips could not abide
Osculatory thrills.

But soon his fever was effaced;
His hand obeyed his will,
And in the Parson's palm he placed
A soiled One Dollar Bill.

"Anathema!" the preacher cried,--
"Thou reptile of the Earth!"
The Groom replied--"Then take the Bride!
I think it's all she's worth!"

"DANSER SUR UN VULCAN"

Now goeth forth the Swell elite,
With patent leathers on his feet;
With collar spotless, cuffs to suit,
In truth bon-ton, from hat to boot.

A bootblack, with an eye to biz,
With dirty hands and ugly phiz,
Beholds him as he goes, and throws
Banana peels beneath his toes.

Along the pave Adonis trips;
He steps upon the peel, and slips
Into the juicy gutter:
His eyes are filled with fire and ire,
But water, muck and mire conspire
To drown the words he'd utter.

L'ENVOI

Go where you will, the stars will _shine_,
And so will Tony, I opine:
But O! the stars Adonis spied
When he went "out," a sewerside.

AT THE BULGING UDDER TIME

Years have passed since I, an urchin,
Drove the Cow, so sleek and prime,
Down the path, where crows were perchin'
At the Bulging Udder Time.

Those were days well worth one's living,
When I watched, with joy sublime,
What the generous Cow was giving
At the Bulging Udder Time.

Later on, when we grew older,
Father gave us each a dime--
Me and Bill--to milk and _hold_ her,
At the Bulging Udder Time:

But, alas! we came to grieving:
Bill was kicked and smeared with grime,
And the Cow boo-booed on leaving--
"Come around some _udder_ time!"

VAGARIES

The husky Corn has pushed ahead with silken locks atop;
O, Brother, ain't it shocking?
And Colonels are expecting quite a bumper Bourbon crop--
Saloonward they are flocking!
But when they strip the ears and find the wasteful worms surrounding,
'Twill make the "moonshine" dimmer;
For ev'ry still has coils of worms illicitly abounding
Where sour-mash mixtures simmer.
The hillside Stills their fragrance breathe, and wood birds are a
sounding;
My jug is in the hollow:
So fill it up, but watch your step and Secret Service hounding!
The scent is sweet to follow.

The Cotton Bolls are bursting forth with weevils in the sepals;
Come, Dinah, get to picking!
And rush the staple to the mart to clothe the naked peoples!
Or you will get a licking!
The baleful Gins are all prepared to do the fibre-squeezing:
Get busy, Massa Willie!
And set the weevils back a bit, and save the folks from freezing!
It's getting powerful chilly!
You Pickaninnies hustle now, and do the proper bagging!
The possum's cooking, Honey!
And when the work is thru we'll do our banjo stunts, and ragging
And get our "Cakewalk" money.

A SHATTERED ROMANCE

My heart is aflame with a love that enslaves
My passion for thee is afire;
My soul is athirst for the love that it craves,
And you are the one I admire.

Pray speak, Dear! and say your affections are mine,
And all the sweet charms you possess;
Then I will surrender my wishes to thine
And be but thy slave, I confess.

When she answered, at length, I felt very sure
I'd pleaded my cause quite enough;
"You're the one man on earth I _couldn't endure_,
So cut out that comedy stuff!"

THE MILKY WAY

I went to school, like any lad,
And learned to read and write:
With pencil, books and writing-pad
I grew quite erudite.

Promoted soon, my Teacher thought
I would some day, be great;
And so painstakingly he taught
Me how to conjugate.

And talked to me about the Moon,
Of Venus, Saturn, Mars,
Till I was rated, very soon,
Authority on Stars.

A graduate, I searched the skies
For orbs unknown before,
Determined that I'd specialize
In Astronomic lore:

But how to buy a telescope
And all the charts required?
An _attick_ was my only hope
Of all the things desired:

And so I compromised and bought
Binoculars and case,
And ev'ry night the Stars I sought
At Daly's Burlesque Place.

The one, bright, meteoric Flame
In all that stellar group,
Soon _fell for me_; then took my name
And quit the Burlesque Troupe.

But I'm eclipsed! the Satellite
That twinkles in the crib,
Keeps Mother _pinning_, day and night,
A didy or a bib.

THE LOGOTHETE

"Beware the dog!" Beware the Logothete!
The Octoped with elephantine feet:
(I mean by this--with the _big understanding_;
The Byzantine Pup of Theodore's branding.)
A thousand years chained to Hellespont's brink,
He never once whimpered or lapped up a drink.
Hydrophobia? No! just aphasia,
'Cause he couldn't cross over to Asia.

The old Logothete is the Watch Dog of State:
He feeds upon figures (he'll cipher an eight!)
And starts ev'ry meal with a twelve or sixteen,
Then multiplies units to munch on between.
Voracity thus as an integer stands
For his diurnal gorge on multiplicands.
Numerical strength makes the Logothete thrive,
And fractions he dotes on--just eats 'em alive!

He lashes his tail by Marmora's flood,
But eats from the hand of Sultan Ahmud;
A collar of gold, set with aquamarines,
Makes him the envy of Justin's near-queens;
His Kennel-Kiosque (the hyphen's germane!)
Rivals the harems of Constantine's reign.
Innocuous? No! nor yet desuetude,
For he daily absorbs whole columns of food.

His teeth are as sharp as the Damaskeene blade
That severed the chains on the Macedon maid;
And as keen as the knife avenging the dame
Who was sold to the Sheik in Mesopotame.
But the point that I make--no whimper or yelp
Had ever been voiced by this Logothete whelp
Until Archæologists, searching the grounds,
Unearthed dogmatisms and bitumen sounds
Of the highest known pitch, resembling a whine
Or unrav'ling snarls of the Octopedine.
And thus they've exploded the silence complete
Tradition ascribes to the old Logothete[1]--
And so, in unleashing this Byzantine Pup,
They merit grave censure for _digging things up_.

[1] From _Logos_ (word) and _Thete_ (Theodore)--The word of Theodore.

THE PRICE OF PEACE

There's music in the Eagle's shriek;
There's ditto in the Lion's roar,
But discord marks the Bolshevik
Because the Bear doth growl no more.

The Dogs of War are out of tune,--
No harmony doth move the critters:
Unless they cease their fighting soon
The wounded whelps will have no litters.

Jerusalem! the Turk is spent!
The bagpipes took his breath, I think.
The Crescent now is badly bent,
And Allah's cause is on the blink.

The Bulgar too has shot his bolt,
And soon will quit--the poor pariah!
For now there's rumor of revolt
In Ananias and Sofia.

The Hun is playing with the Slav--
The Kremlin Mouse and Potsdam Cat;
But Cossack, too, can smear the salve,
And 'twixt them twain doth Peace fall flat.

Some day the Dove of Peace will swoop
With long, befigured _bill_, and put it
Against the Vulture-Kultur coop
And make the Prussian Junkers _foot it_.

MEN HAD HORNS THEN

Newspaper Item, Athens, Pa., July 29: The archaeologists who
are traversing the Susquehanna River Valley, visiting sites of
Indian villages and digging up aborigines and other relics, are
said to have made a most astounding discovery on the Murray
farm, near here, in finding the bones of sixty-eight
pre-historic men. The average height of these men when their
skeletons were assembled was seven feet, while many were much
taller. Additional evidence of their gigantic size is found in
the massive stone battle axes in their graves. The average age
of these men is said to have been from thirty to forty. Another
amazing point of this discovery is the allegation that
"perfectly formed skulls were found from which horns grew
straight out from the head."

The Homestead of Satan, they say, has been found
Near Athens, P. A., in a hole in the ground;
And people are flocking from Athens and Sayre
To view the remains of their ancestors there.

When Satan established himself in this zone
He found it distasteful to live all alone;
So he went to Towanda in quest of a bride,
And then tilled the soil till his seed multiplied.

So scores of young Devils at Murray's were born
That measured five cubits between hoof and horn.
Each one was equipped with a tail and two wings,
And _asbestos garments_ at Nick's Sulphur Springs.

And that's why you find all their skeletons here
In good preservation: but isn't it queer
That Devils at Athens, the place of their birth,
Were the sole legatees of Hell upon Earth?

But Devils, like men, reach the ends of their ropes,
And have disappointments and unfulfilled hopes,--
So Satan discovered, too late we are told,
The climate at Murray's was too beastly cold.

His imps all contracted pneumonia and died;
So he buried them here in the Pit, side by side,
Near Athens, P. A., by the River Chemung,
Where they've been unmolested till now, and unsung.

And there their bones bleached, in the Sulphuric Pits,
Until Archæologists came with their kits
And made excavations, not thinking of harm,
But raising the devil at Rube Murray's Farm.

Now Satan's _exposed_ and his ossified get,
(A few yet remain in the flesh, I regret!)
And Murray of Athens is living, I wot
On skeletons dug from this Hell-enic spot.

SUB ROSA

The Busy Bee, to gather honey, goes
Touching the clover bloom and then the rose;
An easy prey, the clover blossom yields
Its treasures garnered from the fragrant fields;
But all the sweetness that the rose adorns,
Protected is from theft by jealous thorns.
The Bee, ergo, in quest the flowers among,
Gets sometimes honey and gets sometimes _stung_.

WHITMANESQUE

The snow is falling on the hemlock boughs:
Courage, Comrade, Spring will come again!
The birds are leaving the evergreen trees,
And that's why they are not deciduous.
O, Winter! I shake thy icy hand,
And, shaking, shovel the beautiful snow:
But what shall I do with such an abundance?
It is already piled high in my neighbor's yard,
And he is watching me from his attic window.
And yet more snow! How pure you seem tho' falling!

AN APEOLOGY

This is the Ape, made famous, you'll agree,
By Darwin's Evolution Theory.
His destiny fulfilled, he rests at ease
With tribal Apes, Baboons and Chimpanzees;
Preferring, so, to recreation find,
Than with his tailless counterpart, Mankind,
A doubtful branch of his posterity:
And makes a _monkey_, thus, of you and me.

THE BUG

This is the Bug, unable to resist
The blandishments of Entomologist.
He soon succumbs to net or trap or pin
And fills his place the _cabinet_ within.
A volume then explains his habits, source,
And all his secrets and his aims of course;
Which leads me to conclude, when facts are dug,
The Man of Science is the biggest "Bug."

WAKE, MY LOVE!

Darling, I my vigil keep
Close beside you, while you sleep.
Let the Dream of Love abide!
Cupid will not be denied;
For he whispers to you now,
And prints kisses on your brow;
While his velvet finger tips
Hush the protest on your lips.
Wake, My Love! And do not chide
Cupid pleading by your side!

Darkness lingers in the skies
Till the light of your bright eyes
Adds new brilliance to the sun:
Not till then is Day begun!
Ope your lips and speak one word--
Sweetest cadence ever heard!
Loose your tresses! Let them rest
On your snowy, virgin breast,
And entwine these roses rare
In the ringlets nestling there.

Wake, My Love! The sunbeams shed
Golden treasures on your head;
While Æolus woos your cheeks,
And exacts the kiss he seeks.
Love, aquiver, draws his bow

And demands that sleep must go;
For a jealous elf is he
Who will brook no rivalry.
So let Love a Kingdom make
In his Heart for Thee: Awake!

FIRST PSALM

Happy indeed is he who goes
The Straight and Narrow Way,
And heedeth not the lure of those
Who from His precepts stray.

With joy observeth he the acts
The Master doth proclaim,
And, day or night, no fervor lacks
To bless His holy name.

And he shall be a fruitful tree
Deep-rooted in the Truth;
And not a leaf shall withered be
Nor fruitage cease, forsooth.

But those who follow not the Course
The Master hath decreed,
Shall shrivel and decay, perforce,
And barren be their seed.

It follows then, that those who sin
Must turn again to clay,
While righteous men are gathered in
On Resurrection Day.

For God rewards the Pure in Heart
And knoweth all their needs;
While those who from his ways depart
Shall be like broken reeds.

_NOT_ PEACE, BUT REVENGE!

Peace? do you say? When my homestead is razed,
And Death stalks the fields where my cattle once grazed;
And the Dear One is dead
Whom I courted and wed,
The Joy of my Life when the hearthstone fires blazed.

Peace? What a travesty! Give back my wife
And the brave little son, who gave up his life
That she might escape
From the murder or rape
Of helmeted hordes in the unequal strife!

Peace? Where is my father? Cleaning your shoes!
Like a thousand old men you maim and abuse.
He was true to his Land,
So you cut off his hand
And left him but slav'ry or famine to choose.

Peace? My wounds cry aloud: Never! I say
Till your legions are killed or driven away
And my country is free:
But, stay! What's that to me,
Since all my own Loved Ones lie murdered to-day?

No!! _Not_ Peace, but REVENGE! Here is my gun--
Surrendered? O, No! for its work is not done:
When my bayonet's sting
Smites the heart of your King,
And your hell-hounds are flayed,--_then_ Peace will be _won_!

HEREDITY

I see her creeping 'long the nursery floor,--
A dainty, blue-eyed Babe, scarce old enough
To realize 'tis _she_ whom I adore,--
She is a priceless diamond in the rough.

Again I see her playing with a host
Of noisy, kindergarten girls and boys;
She seems to me the fairest and the most
Refined: a _pure gold_ girl without alloys.

And thus from stage to stage I watch the maid
As she develops like the budding rose,
And then, Ah me! I'm jealously afraid
That she admires me less than other beaux.

And then, anon, I see her on the knee
Of Willie Jones: I think she shouldn't oughter!
But then my Courtship Days come back to me--
_Just like her Ma!_ She is my only Daughter!

THE CALL OF THE HOMESTEAD

There's a dear, little spot, near my Hoosier hometown,
Where the mortgage runs up as the buildings run down,
That I love to return to, a restful retreat,
Just to slush around there with the mud on my feet.

There's the forked, wormy apple-tree, dead to the bark,
And the sickle and grindstone, brought out of the Ark;
And the Shed, where I fled, with my illicit pipe,
To assuage stomach-aches when green apples were "ripe."

There's the collar and churn, _worn_ by Dash day by day,
And the chain that prevented his running away;
And the yoke for the oxen--Haw, Buck! and Gee, Bride!
And the Troth for the Squealers the hen-house beside.

There's the Dovecote, unroofed, and the sweep by the well,
And the ooze in the barnyard and natural-gas smell:
There's the hayrake and silo; the tin weathervane,
And the two, moss-grown graves where the Old Folks were lain.

And the milk-stools are there, and the cowpath and stile;
And a few hardy scarecrows remain yet awhile;
And the taxes, unpaid, still appear on the book
Of the County Collector, Nathaniel U. Crook.

So I keep coming back, to my old Hoosier shack,
To inhale the sweet mildew of hay in the stack,
And to drink from the spring where the bull-frogs abound
That protect the young cowslips that grow all around.

Now the mortgage is due and the int'rest unpaid,
And I can't get a cent for the place, I'm afraid;
But I love to return here, at vacation time,
Just to revel again in the mud and the slime.

DECIMAL POINTS

The Paleface undertook, with sword and gun,
To civilize the Redskins one by one;
And Lo attempted, with his bow and arrow,
To sap the Paleface of his very marrow.
As fast as one, on either side, was slain
Another took his place to fight again;
Thus both the warring tribes said--"What's the use?"
And straightway called a halt and signed a truce.

Then Paleface planned and dug--and _well_ of course--
A pit for Lo, without resort to force;
And Lo, in turn, a counter plan invented
To clear the forests where the Paleface tented.
And so the Paleface, from his fullness, gave
A cask of Laughing Water to each Brave;
And Lo, whose giving was an artful knack,
Took up the scent and sent tobacco back.
So, Time discloses how each plan availed;
Which won, at last, and which, in order, failed,
For now in _Peace_ the Paleface moves about,
While Lo and Laughing Water _fight it out_.

He was the first to fly--Darius Green!
But Green had trouble with his _crude_ machine
And failed to make a mark for lofty flying,
And so he just _dropped out_ and gave up trying.

The Pickaninny to the bayou goes
And caches on the bank his homespun clothes;
Then headlong leaps into the pool below
Where Imps of Darkness destined are to go.
An alligator sees the urchin dive
And, Holy Moses! swallows him alive,
Not thinking that the Afric _strength_, thus caged,
Would prove his match and master when engaged:
But so it did! for Fate evolved a plan
To snatch the "charcoal" from the saurian;
And as the latter spewed and lashed his tail,
(A tale like Jonah wrestling with the whale)
The lad escaped; of course he had to shout some!
So overjoyed was he at such an _outcome_.

When Aaron Burr decided to invite
His hated rival to a pistol fight,
He knew, of course, because his aim was wicked,
That his opponent, in advance, was líckéd.
And thus the scheme of Providence began
To canonize the Hamiltonian.

Had Mary tied her lambkin in the barn,
There might have been a different kind of yarn.
She could have said "I leave you" with the bull,
Or "I'll return anon," and pulled the wool;

The lamb could have replied--"What's all this for?
I'll meet you, Mary, in the abattoir!"
But No! They had to make the sheep the goat
And tie a siren bell around his throat,
And make him go to school. "Kids," as a rule,
Would rather _much_ be killed than go to school.

Had Nero played on burning Rome the hose
Instead of fiddling while the blazes rose,
He might have been, in Fame's Retort, a hero,
Firemano Primo Volunteero Nero.
But quite another part this Cæsar played,
The part of Arson in red robes arrayed.
He watched the fire, in all its flares and phases,
Quite unconcerned, but fiddled on like blazes.
But Nero didn't finish what he started
Because, while Rome still burned, his E string parted.
Tho Julius Cæsar's Wars our lives inspire
This Cæsar wouldn't even fight a fire;
Nor would he lead the Roman Legions, tho
He was reputed skillful with the bow;
Perhaps the smoke-screen from the burning city
Was planned to hide the discords of his ditty;
And when at last this King is placed on trial,
This verdict will prevail,--his work was viol.

Had Antony been less a Marc and kept
His armor on while Cleopatra slept,
He might have been a Conqueror of note
Instead of Captor of a Petticoat;
And, traitor to his country, judged to be
A Soldier less than Slave to Lingerie.
Some Commentators--and I blush with shame--
Contend that "Cle" and Sheba were the same:
If this contention's true, as I surmise,
It follows that King Solomon was wise;
And so was Sheba when she left his regions
By camel-carriage for the Roman Legions,--
Leaving the King, with all his wives and breeders,
To pine for her among the stately cedars.
I'm not quite sure, but who's the bigger dunce?
The King? Or Marc, who got in wrong _but once_?

The oldtime Reader taught us self-reliance
(But this refers to school-days--not to Science!)
And pointed out, in no uncertain style,
Examples we should follow or revile.
Old Rover, for example, was to me
The highest standard of true loyalty.
He used to hang around the playground gate
And there for Bones, his Master, sit and wait,
Though Bones, poor dunce, each day when school was over,
Was kept and spanked, but waited still old Rover.

The Reader states that Rover, too, was fleet,
And never knew the anguish of de feet;
And had a face so honest, ear so quick,
That he could steal a bone and dodge a stick.
That's all the Reader says, but I believe
He grew too diabetic to retrieve,
And so was cast aside--the poor old brute!
Because the mange affected his hirsute;
Was driven from the confines of his birth
Because not prized: Great Scott! a Kennelworth:
And so, a rover still, thus doomed to flea
Far from his home and consanguinity;
But, cast adrift in sinking bark, O, Setter!
Than wienerwursts or sausages is better!

There was a time when Henry Clay awoke
To see his fame and name go up in smoke.
His reputation only went this far,
That he was featured as a choice cigar.
Before that day, when his renown was ripe,
He also was distinguished as a pipe.
Eliminating all attempts at joking,
He was thus honored then, and still is smo-King.

Had Eve, a woman of unusual birth,
Who had the love of ev'ry man on earth,
Been given what the modern wife receives,
Fine frocks and hats instead of wreaths and leaves;
A mansion, bank-account and car or carriage,
Hers would have been the first ideal marriage.
But selfish Adam took her to a cavern
(Our present bridal parties seek a tavern.)
And made her wash and sew and hem and haw
With fitting meekness 'cause his word was law.
First Lady of the Land, she should have had 'em--
All creature comforts but the stingy Adam.
Faithful to husband, she should have instead
Broken her marriage vows upon his head.
No wonder she was tempted: if she fell
'Twas circumstantial, else she wouldn't tell.

BELLES-LETTRES

Hear the perfume of the belles,
Social belles!
What a loud auroma, a monopoly in smells!
How they stinkle, stinkle, stinkle,
When the corsage bursts in sight!
While the powder in each wrinkle
And the gewgaw gems that twinkle
Make them ugly in the light;
Reeking scent, scent, scent,
When they're upright, prone or bent
While the sachet begs for freedom, and the musk, revolting, yells
On the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
On the weary, bleary, smeary Social Belles.

Hear the monstrous Schoolhouse bells,
Direful bells!
What a dirge of irony their ting-a-ling expels!
Like the chanticleer at morn,
How they torture us, and warn
We must hurry or be canned
At call of roll.
How they peel their tunics and
Whoop 'er up, with tireless tongues, to beat the band;
What a toll!

O, you blatant, brazen shells!
You ringers for Mephisto, from superheated hells,
With your knells!
Truth compels
That we voice our joy with yells
'Cause you're hung and bound in cells
While we're swearing and despairing,
O, you bells, bells, bells,
Wicked bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
O, you rocking, mocking, shocking Schoolhouse bells!

SANDY, THE PIPER

Do ye know me mon Sandy,--Sandy the Piper?
'E's 'ome on a leave, with 'is chin shot away!
They wouldn't a 'armed 'im, but some blooming sniper
Just slipped 'im a slug from a roof in Bombay.

'Ow did it all 'appen? Well, just one battalion
Was left in the Barracks: the rest 'ad been sent
To guard the new Viceroy, with Major MacCallion:
It was dubbed the "'Ot Scotch," this 12th Regiment.

The Colonel was sick with a Jungle disorder,
And 'arf of the time was well out of 'is 'ead;
And when the Sepoys, from the 'Yderbad Border
Revolted and rushed us, the Colonel was dead.

So Sandy and men were besieged and near choking,
And most the battalion was killed or 'ad fell,
While the fiends in the street, like devils a stoking,
Were firing this 'ell 'ole with bullet and shell.

'Twas 'ere that me Sandy broke out thru a window,
Disguised as a Rajah, with turban and sword;
And so, quite unnoticed (they thought him a Indoo!)
'E soon joined the ranks of the mutinous 'orde.

And then 'e 'arrangued 'em ('e knew all their jargon!)
And urged 'em to scatter and uphold the law;
But 'ere 'e was thru 'e was sick of 'is bargain
When a bloody bomb-bullet 'alf shattered 'is jaw.

So Sandy's back 'ome, but his features are altered:
What a close shave 'e 'ad! 'is face is a sight!
But when duty called 'e was there and ne'er faltered:
With toot, shoot or Hoot, Mon! 'e mixed in the fight.

'Is goatee is gone, with the chin where 'e grew it:
'E was once very bonnie when 'e was a lad;
And 'is bagpipe would charm me: my, 'ow 'e blew it!
When 'e marched with 'is squad, a playing like mad.

And I makes o'er 'im still, tho Sandy's not pretty,
But a 'ero 'e is in Northlands and South:
A gude wife I've been, tho I think it a pity
That Sandy was given to _shoot off 'is mouth_.

"BEN BOLT"

Ben Franklin was a Jester of the sort
That fused, with wit, rare wisdom in retort;
And, on his mettle, tempered by a smile
His irony could hold them _all_ awhile.
King Louis' Court to impotence made plea
Before the onslaughts of his repartee.
His well-aimed jibes were quite as hard to dodge
As meteors agleam with persiflage.
His oily tongue worked on a swinging swivel,
For he _spat out_ his thoughts and didn't drivel.
The Quakers, in his absence, had attacks
Of blues, because they missed his almanacs;
And Frenchmen soon began to understand
And praise his jokes (in England contraband).
He said to Louis, "Sire, the skies are down;
I wouldn't give a Fillip for your crown."
And added, "Nay, I wouldn't give a sou!
There's just one Philip, but sixteen of you!"
He had no fear, you see, of raining Kings,
And, with umbrella raised, enjoyed his flings.
Such pointed puns _disfavor_ oft beget,
But Louis laughed and so did Lafayette.
Tho galley slave, like creatures of his type,
He broke his chains, when Freedom's plans were ripe,
And put the U. S. A. upon the chart,
Allied to France, thru diplomatic art.
To-day Ben Bolt, who clipped the lion's claws,
For lightning work gets thunderous applause.
The thunderbolts obeyed at his command,
And currents, insubordinate, were canned.
He kept the Upper Regions on the string
And shocked the Lower World like everything.
All praise to Franklin, Diplomatic Star!
He went where he was sent, but not _too far_:
And tho he flew his mortal kite so high,
Poor Richard's name illuminates the sky.

EXCELSIOR

The bale consigned to O. U. Crook,
Upholsterer--marked, USE NO HOOK,
Was not curled hair or even moss,
Nor yet a mixture or a cross,
Excelsior!

"This Davenport was made to wear;
Fine leather and best camel hair!"
Said Crook (a patent skin all right,
But all the "hair" was out of sight).
Excelsior!

And so Crook sold the lounge or couch
To some poor Boob with gold-filled pouch;
And also sold an easy chair
(The Easy Mark was stuffed for fair.)
Excelsior!

And thus he plied his artful trade
(A better Craftsman ne'er was made)
Until the shavings, dyed and curled,
Resembled hair for all the world.
Excelsior!

O, baleful occupation his!
The way he made his mattresses
Would make a lounging layman sick.
He sold for cash and gave no tick tick--
Excelsior!

A mark-down sale Crook staged in time--
"Such bed-rock prices are a crime,"
"I get my hair by camel-train":
But all his "hair" was cut in Maine--
Excelsior!

And then a fire occurred at length
To bolster Crook's financial strength:
The _glue_ that mocked the incensed air
Mistaken was for burning hair;
Excelsior!

Beware the pine-tree's fibrous heart!
But this gave Crook his fiscal start,
And now a tall, pine shaft is seen
Above Crook's grave; 'tis evergreen--
Excelsior!

HER AND HIM

HER

To-day's her birthday: I'll not say which one,--
But I have known her twenty years or more
When courtship days were joyously begun,
And she had reached her sixteenth year, before.

And so her age is no concern of mine:
She may have dropped a birthday now and then,
But surely she's improved with age like wine:
I wouldn't wish her in her _teens_ again.

And she's my Pal! O, yes, we love, of course!
But feel, besides, the joy of comradeship
That finds expression at Love's very source
In language of the heart--not of the lip.

And so she is my everlasting pride:
To Beauty's very pinnacle she's grown!
Thru life we'll seek our pleasures side by side;
Her heart athrob with love for me alone.

HIM

O, yes! we're splendid friends, Old Jack and I:
He's growing grave and wrinkles now appear
Where once the smiles his cheeks were wont to ply.
He's losing all his energy, I fear.

I married him some twenty years ago
When dancing was a chief delight of his;
But now alone I trip the Terpsic toe,
For poor, old Jack has got the rheumatiz.

He's aging fast: I see it every day!
He's fat and short of breath, yet how he snores!
His few remaining hairs are saffron-grey,
For nicotine keeps oozing from his pores.

He seems so childish, but I humor him
Altho my friends declare I'm such a dunce.
Wrinkled, rheumatic; bare of brains and vim--
Good-bye, Old Jack! You were a good one _once_!

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIVING

We bivouac here and barely get acquainted
Until the furlough ends; then we are sainted,
Whether our acts deserve rebuke or praise.
When we are _dead_ the recollection stays
Of virtues only: vices are excused,
But to the _living_ pardon is refused.
And yet, alive, I'd rather be unsung,
Than any Saint the catacombs among.
Tho critics flay me and the censors sneer,
'Twere better so, than praises on my bier.
And so we walk life's slender rope till, bing!
We slip and fall or someone cuts the string.
Ambition lures us, but the pinkest peach
Is always just beyond us, out of reach:
And when, at last, we think we are in line
To cross the threshold, lo! the Full House sign.
We never quite obtain the golden urn
Tho rainbows beckon every way we turn.
Who ever found, I ask you, all he sought?
Our best endeavors ofttimes come to naught:
And yet we trudge along, loath to confess
We're only groping in a wilderness;
Plodding the sands that burn our feet, and hurt;
Seeking the Promised Land, our just desert.
Had Cæsar reached the zenith of his life
When Brutus cut his friendship with the knife?
The ladder broke and he was headlong flung
While setting foot upon the topmost rung.
Thus picture Cæsar giving up the ghost
Just when he reached the pinnacle, almost!
Did Bonaparte receive his proper due?
He _got_ it, but too late, at Waterloo.
He played with fire, aroused the seething crater,
And now, with Nick, inhabits the Equator.
So we conclude, delving the lines between,
He might as well have clung to Josephine.
Tho Tell's renown illumes the Alpine sky
Whose target was the Apple of his eye,
As much distinction, and applause to boot,
Should be bestowed on William's steady _shoot_:
More praise to him, than the Toxopholite,
Who held the apple but eschewed a bite!
The _worst_ of us hath goodness in his breast;
The _best_ of us but fails, put to the test,--
So, in arrears, we strive to pay the price
For Fortune's frowns or Fate's disastrous dice
Until we're bankrupt or too spent to wrest
Long hoped-for treasure from Mad Mammon's chest.
Tho life hath ups and downs, the weeping willow
Our ends shapes better than the downy pillow.
It takes stern measures to incline the bantling,
In right direction, without switch or scantling.
The optimist with farthings in his pouch,
Gets more enjoyment than the wealthy Grouch;
Thus cheerfulness, a product underrated,
In every household should be cultivated.
Give me the man who, tho in direst straits,
Will thumb his sharp proboscis at the Fates;
Who'll take the flimsy fire escape, or dive
Into the net, glad to get out alive;
Who, tho the skies be unpropitious, crowds
His way along, unmindful of the clouds;
Who never quits, in life's unequal bout,
But keeps on fighting till he's counted out.

THE SIXTH OF APRIL

Awake, Americans! Awake! Awake!
'Tis April Sixth! A _year_ of War and yet
The Hun lines hold: Louvain is unavenged.
Be Thou our Guide, O God of Joshua!
Thru battles yet unstaged, and Comfort when,
From War's Inferno comes the phantom file,
The endless, ghastly file of martyred dead.

Daughters of Belgium, thy vestal tears
Make _womanhood_ still more an honored name;
And Germany, when Reason reappears,
Must dearly pay for her revolting shame!

Awake, Americans! Our task is grim;
For Hell and all the Imps of Sin deride
The Code of Morals, spit upon the Cross,
Drive torturing nails into the bleeding flesh
Of all Mankind who follow Him thru paths
Made plain and gladsome by the Golden Rule;
And foist vile _kultur_ as Refinement's height.

And what of skulking Sharks, scum of the sea,
That prey on Innocents, while o'er them fly
Poised to inflict a further agony,
The Vampire Bats that violate the sky?

Behold the ravaged homes of Serbia!
Where are her people? Ask the godless Goths
Whose Car of Kultur crushed beneath its wheels
This stalwart Race! Ask, too, the Bulgar hordes,
The mountain wolves, who pounce upon and rend,
In guise of Pacifiers of the Land,
Those who escaped the onslaughts of the Huns.

Tho sapped by hunger and disease; tho crushed
By overwhelming numbers of the foe,
Thy Star, O, Serb, when battles' din be hushed,
Shall rise again, suffused with Freedom's glow!

Now in the sacred name of God our guide,
Home, Country, Honor, Love and Motherhood,
Can we indifferent be to ravishment,
Wanton destruction, murder steeped in hate--
This loathsome litter whelped by Junkerdom?
'Tis _ours_ to dare and crush this monstrous THING:
Our Allies worn and bleeding, struggle on.

Armenian tears, a flood of pent-up grief,
Flow on and on, a torrent of despair.
Rape! Murder! Pillage! Is there no relief
For Niobe, deserted, weeping there?

Nation Invincible, unsheath thy blade!
God be thy leader: Justice be thy Sword!
Nor pause until the ruthless BEAST is flayed
With sated steel--and Liberty restored!

BENEATH A CLOUD

Under a passing cloud the moon was hid.
I really was delighted to be rid
Of _Super_ light, for I was with my Nell,
And I could see by her bright eyes as well.
We didn't need the aid of spheres above,
For that's _our_ proper sphere--a making love.
Midst whispering pines we pledged our love aloud,
And thus our plight began _beneath a cloud_.

THE COLUMBIAD

AMERICA! Our home, our native land!
The joy of it--the rapture! when we say--
We who are freemen and can understand--
This is our heritage--the U. S. A.!
Hewn from the virgin forests by our sires,
And launched by giants capable and true,
Our Ship of State was manned, when Freedom's fires
Were beacon lights, by sturdy, godly crew,--
And so hath kept, steered by the Guiding Star
Of Faith, her steadfast course, thru shoal or blast,
Aloof from sirens luring from afar,
With Stars and Stripes still waving at the mast.
Here in our Land, where Plenty hath its store,
Where fertile fields teem with abundant grain,
Hunger ne'er casts its shadow on the door,
And Famine hath no lodge on hill or plain.
In truth doth Luxury with Plenty vie
To fill our laps with all the luscious things
That Nature doth provide--loath to deny
The satisfaction that such bounty brings.
To us was Freedom's heritage bequeathed
To have and hold while life and pride remain:
And so our sword must ever be unsheathed
To guard this priceless boon from hurt or stain--
So that the war-worn hosts in Europe's maze,
Who fight against the Despot's ruthless spear,
May see the light of Liberty ablaze,
Diffusing matchless splendor over here;
And, friendly beacon, be to them a sign
And Bow of Promise, in their dismal sky,
The Light of Hope eternally to shine
In God's resplendent galaxy on High.
But grim starvation, at the board, presides
Across the seas, where once the farmsteads poured
Autumnal wealth--and Desolation rides
Rough shod along where tramped the Prussian horde.
No life remains: the fields are stark and sere;
The forests, leaf and branch and root, are fled;
The flowers lie trampled on the soldier's bier:
Destroyed are e'en the shelters of the dead.
The gardens that held plenty in their wombs
Are stripped and barren as the sands of Dearth,
And now, instead, keep vigil o'er the tombs
Of demigods, redeemers of the Earth.
The vineyards where the fragrant fruitage hung
To cheer the peaceful peasant in his toil
Are desolate where Death his shroud has flung
Upon the breadth of France's sacred soil.
Wrecked are the homesteads: buzzard broods abound
Where shell-holes gape, and heaps of carnage rise
Above the naked bosom of the ground,
Mutely denying guilt, in sacrifice.
Still with the jackal at her wounds doth France
Fight on unmindful of her pains, and lo!
We hear her call and, seizing shield and lance,
Crusader-like, to her assistance go.
Her cause is just: we make her Cause our own!
For Liberty doth in the balance swing,
And we must guard her, if we fight alone
To rid the world of this malignant _Thing_
That, in the guise of Kultur, hides its hoofs
And horns, its tail and spear and hideous face,
And, as a pious priest, on Moslem roofs,
Extols itself, usurping Allah's place.
What blasphemy! Obsessed to germinate
Its propaganda, its infernal cult;
Condoning Cain's offense, instilling hate,
It strikes with poison, dirk and catapult
Against the precepts of the Prince of Peace;
Against the Conscience of the Universe.
But hatred, lust and war will never cease
Until God's Sword destroys this monstrous curse.
Audaciously the Priests of Kultur strive
To spread their doctrine, but the graven god
Against the Living Christ cannot survive,
And in His time will scourged be with His rod.
And so our Ship of State to battle hastes,
All sails a-drawing, sheets secure and taut,
Manned by a stalwart crew, stripped to the waists,
Inspired by battles that our fathers fought.
In port at last whence Lafayette once sailed
To aid our fight that made Britannia halt,
They take their stand where Frenchmen never failed
To hold the Verdun forts against assault.
A mighty effort this! To send our force
Three thousand miles, thru shark-infested sea,
Beneath dark skies where vultures lay their course,
To face the foe and ransom Liberty,
Thru sacrificial offering of our sons;
To arm and clothe five million men, and then
Build, to convey and feed them, countless tons
Of mighty vessels--transports, merchantmen;
To furnish, in addition, vast supplies
To allied Powers whose Cause we have embraced,
To hearten them--to strengthen friendly ties
And stay the hand that layeth Europe waste.
A task indeed! But let it not be thought
By foemen or by those whom we befriend
That Liberty our trust, so dearly bought,
Will not be guarded to the very end.
Tho Hercules the Strong should heave in sight
And challenge us to tests of thews and nerve,
We'd enter the arena in our might
And win new honors for the Land we serve;
For Antaeus and all the myths of old
'Gainst whom the supermen of yore engaged,
Were never half so mighty, half so bold
As peaceful freemen, righteously enraged:
And all the modern Bullies who presume
To dominate the world against the Right,
Must see their day-dreams doomed to blackest gloom
When Truth prevails against the Imps of Night.
So let us fabricate in forge and mill;
So let us plant and nurture grain and seed;
So let us labor and conserve until
There be an end to Kultur's cruel creed.
Each one of us must fight or toil or save;
_Co-ordination_ be our battle song;
Hardships endure and gravest dangers brave
If we would victors be and right the wrong.
God's ways to mortal eyes are not revealed,
But Faith our guidance is thru War's grim task,
And with His help the _Hosts of Sin_ must yield
And Satan be denuded of his mask.

HE'S ALL RIGHT, BUT--!"

I like the good old-fashioned way--
A handshake or a slap,--
The boys who jab your ribs and say
"You're all right, Bill, Old Chap!"

I like the lad who sees you first
And always shouts your name,--
Who, tho your luck be at its worst,
Says--"Cheer up, Bill! Be game!"

I like the chum who's always glad
To soothe you when you're ill,--
Who, when he finds you broke and sad,
Says--"Here's a Dollar, Bill!"

I'd like to grab him by the throat
And hold his mouth tight shut,--
Who, questioned, makes you out the goat--
"Who? Bill? He's all right, _but_--!"

NATURE'S STUDIO

Go where the winds keep vigil o'er the trees,
Rocking the tender saplings in the breeze;
Go where the sunbeams play on rill and stream,
Making the purling waters all agleam;
Go where the birds rehearse their songs and trills
In cool retreats, led by the Whippoorwills;
Go where the bees, midst clover blooms, indulge
Their honey habit till their bellies bulge;
Go where the trout, in alder-arbored brooks,
Abate their hunger but eschew the hooks;
Go where the flowers, by fairy weavers spun,
Pour out their grateful incense to the Sun;
Go where the deer in secret nooks disport
And Nature, clad in verdure, holds her Court;
Go where--nay, stay! Yonder the artist stands,
With brush and prismy palette in her hands,
Before her easel, where the canvas seems
A masterpiece in wondrous color schemes.
What artistry! What fascinating views
Dame Nature paints! Behold the rainbow hues
That tint the dainty flowers and make the rose
Blush to its sepals when it seeks repose;
That tinge the moors and fields and turquoise sky,
And stain the Autumn leaves with crimson dye!
So tarry here, where moss and bluebells grow
Upon the floor of Nature's Studio!

PICARDY

With heads uncovered and with cautious tread
Approach ye here! where lie our martyred dead
In graves unmarked, here, there and everywhere:
So lest, ashamed, ye trample them, beware!

AMERICA'S PRAYER

God bless our Allies! damn the Huns!
And consecrate our swords and guns!