Chapter XIII: Part II (1)

She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
And spake not a word. While a lady speaks
There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks;
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
She gave up mending her father's breeks,
And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;
Then she follow'd him o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them,
(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)
And this song is consider'd a perfect gem,
And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

DISASTER

'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour!
My fondest hopes would not decay;
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty;
The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve
I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet--
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He's imbecile, but lingers yet.
He's green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye;
He'd look inimitable stuffed,
And knows it--but he will not die!

I had a kitten--I was rich
In pets--but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which
I've more than once been scratched and bitten
And when for sleep her limbs she curl'd
One day beside her untouch'd plateful,
And glided calmly from the world,
I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog--a queen!
Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug.
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert bow-wow;
But now she snaps if you don't mind;
'Twere lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier--I should die.
But ah! disasters have their use,
And life might e'en be too sunshiny;
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

WORDSWORTHIAN REMINISCENCE

I walked and came upon a picket fence, And every picket went straight up and down, And all at even intervals were placed, All painted green, all pointed at the top, And every one inextricably nailed Unto two several cross-beams, which did go, Not as the pickets, but quite otherwise, And they two crossed, but back of all were posts.

O beauteous picket fence, can I not draw Instruction from thee? Yea, for thou dost teach, That even as the pickets are made fast To that which seems all at cross purposes, So are our human lives, to the Divine, But, oh! not purposeless, for even as they Do keep stray cows from trespass, we, no doubt, Together guard some plan of Deity.

Thus did I moralise. And from the beams And pickets drew a lesson to myself,-- But where the posts came in, I could not tell.

_Unknown._

INSPECT US

Out of the clothes that cover me
Tight as the skin is on the grape,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable shape.

In the fell clutch of bone and steel
I have not whined nor cried aloud;
Whatever else I may conceal,
I show my thoughts unshamed and proud.

The forms of other actorines
I put away into the shade;
All of them flossy near-blondines
Find and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how straight the tape,
How cold the weather is, or warm--
I am the mistress of my shape--
I am the captain of my form.

_Edith Daniell._

THE MESSED DAMOZEL

AT THE CUBIST EXHIBITION

The Messed Damozel leaned out
From the gold cube of Heav'n;
There were three cubes within her hands,
And the cubes in her hair were seven;
I looked, and looked, and looked, and looked--
I could not see her, even.

Her robe, a cube from clasp to hem,
Was moderately clear;
Methought I saw two cubic eyes,
When I had looked a year;
But when I turned to tell the world,
Those eyes did disappear!

It was the rampart of some house
That she was standing on;
That much, at least, was plain to me
As her I gazed upon;
But even as I gazed, alas!
The rampart, too, was gone!

(I saw her smile!) Oh, no, I didn't,
Though long mine eyes did stare;
The cubes closed down and shut her out;
I wept in deep despair;
But this I know, and know full well--
_She simply wasn't there!_

_Charles Hanson Towne._

A MELTON MOWBRAY PORK-PIE

Strange pie that is almost a passion,
O passion immoral for pie!
Unknown are the ways that they fashion,
Unknown and unseen of the eye.
The pie that is marbled and mottled,
The pie that digests with a sigh:
For all is not Bass that is bottled,
And all is not pork that is pie.

_Richard Le Gallienne._

ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS

In heaven a Spirit doth dwell Whose heart strings are a fiddle, (The reason he sings so well-- This fiddler Israfel), And the giddy stars (will any one tell Why giddy?) to attend his spell Cease their hymns in the middle.

On the height of her go
Totters the Moon, and blushes
As the song of that fiddle rushes
Across her bow.
The red Lightning stands to listen,
And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten
As each of the seven puts its fist in
Its eye, for the mist in.

And they say--it's a riddle-- That all these listening things, That stop in the middle For the heart-strung fiddle With such the Spirit sings, Are held as on the griddle By these unusual strings.

Wherefore thou art not wrong, Israfel! in that thou boastest Fiddlestrings uncommon strong; To thee the fiddlestrings belong With which thou toastest Other hearts as on a prong.

Yes! heaven is thine, but this
Is a world of sours and sweets,
Where cold meats are cold meats,
And the eater's most perfect bliss
Is the shadow of him who treats.

If I could griddle As Israfiddle Has griddled--he fiddle as I,-- He might not fiddle so wild a riddle As this mad melody, While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle Hearing my griddle-cry.

_Unknown._

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI

"Why do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen? This week is the third since you began." "I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother! What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)"

"But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen? And why do you dress in sage, sage green?" "Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother? (O Mother Carey, mother! What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)"

"But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen? And why are your skirts so funnily tight?" "Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write, Little brother? (O Mother Carey, mother! How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)"

"And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen? And why do you call her again and again?" "You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain, Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother! What work is toward in the startled heaven?)"

"And what's a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen! Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?" "Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd, Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother! Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)"

(A big brother speaketh:)
"The refrain you've studied a meaning had,
Sister Helen!
It gave strange force to a weird ballad.
But refrains have become a ridiculous 'fad,'
Little brother.
And Mother Carey, mother,
Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

"But the finical fashion has had its day, Sister Helen. And let's try in the style of a different lay To bid it adieu in poetical way, Little brother. So, Mother Carey, mother! Collect your chickens and go to--heaven."

(_A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying himself in a plaintive wise on the triangle._)

"Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was;
I am also called Played-out, and Done to Death,
And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth
Slowly but sure awakening it has,
The common-sense of man; and I, alas!
The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,
And turned to scorn, and grown contemptible--
A too transparent artifice to pass.

"What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart
Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise
Assail judicious ears not otherwise;
And yet no critics praise the urchin's 'art,'
Who to the wretched creature's caudal part
Its foolish empty-jingling 'burden' ties."

_H. D. Traill._

WHENCENESS OF THE WHICH

SOME DISTANCE AFTER TENNYSON

Come into the Whenceness Which,
For the fierce Because has flown:
Come into the Whenceness Which,
I am here by the Where alone;
And the Whereas odors are wafted abroad
Till I hold my nose and groan.

Queen Which of the Whichbud garden of What's
Come hither the jig is done.
In gloss of Isness and shimmer of Was,
Queen Thisness and Which in one;
Shine out, little Which, sunning over the bangs,
To the Nowness, and be its sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the Is flower at the fence;
She is coming, my Which, my dear,
And as she Whistles a song of the Whence,
The Nowness cries, "She is near, she is near."
And the Thingness howls, "Alas!"
The Whoness murmurs, "Well, I should smile,"
And the Whatlet sobs, "I pass."

_Unknown._

THE LITTLE STAR

Scintillate, scintillate, globule orific, Fain would I fathom thy nature's specific. Loftily poised in ether capacious, Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.

When torrid Ph[oe]bus refuses his presence And ceases to lamp with fierce incandescence, Then you illumine the regions supernal, Scintillate, scintillate, semper nocturnal.

Then the victim of hospiceless peregrination Gratefully hails your minute coruscation. He could not determine his journey's direction But for your bright scintillating protection.

_Unknown._

THE ORIGINAL LAMB

Oh, Mary had a little Lamb, regarding whose cuticular The fluff exterior was white and kinked in each particular. On each occasion when the lass was seen perambulating, The little quadruped likewise was there a gallivating.

One day it did accompany her to the knowledge dispensary, Which to every rule and precedent was recklessly contrary. Immediately whereupon the pedagogue superior, Exasperated, did eject the lamb from the interior.

Then Mary, on beholding such performance arbitrary, Suffused her eyes with saline drops from glands called lachrymary, And all the pupils grew thereat tumultuously hilarious, And speculated on the case with wild conjectures various.

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" the scholars asked the teacher. He paused a moment, then he tried to diagnose the creature. "Oh pecus amorem Mary habit omnia temporum." "Thanks, teacher dear," the scholars cried, and awe crept darkly o'er 'em.

_Unknown._

SAINTE MARGÉRIE

Slim feet than lilies tenderer,-- _Margérie!_ That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

White as a shroud the silken gown,-- _Margérie!_ That flowed from shoulder to ankle down, With clear blue shadows along it thrown; _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

On back and bosom withouten braid,-- _Margérie!_ In crispèd glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Eyes, like a dim sea, viewed from far,-- _Margérie!_ Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet that lips of mortals are;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

The chamber walls are cracked and bare;-- _Margérie!_ Without the gossips stood astare At men her bed away that bare;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Five pennies lay her hand within,-- _Margérie!_ So she her fair soul's weal might win, Little she reck'd of dule or teen;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Dank straw from dunghill gathered,-- _Margérie!_ Where fragrant swine have made their bed, Thereon her body shall be laid;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

Three pennies to the poor in dole,-- _Margérie!_ One to the clerk her knell shall toll, And one to masses for her soul;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_

_Unknown._

ROBERT FROST

RELATES THE DEATH OF THE TIRED MAN

There were two of us left in the berry-patch; Bryan O'Lin and Jack had gone to Norwich.-- They called him Jack a' Nory, half in fun And half because it seemed to anger him.-- So there we stood and let the berries go, Talking of men we knew and had forgotten. A sprawling, humpbacked mountain frowned on us And blotted out a smouldering sunset cloud That broke in fiery ashes. "Well," he said, "Old Adam Brown is dead and gone; you'll never See him any more. He used to wear A long, brown coat that buttoned down before. That's all I ever knew of him; I guess that's all That anyone remembers. Eh?" he said, And then, without a pause to let me answer, He went right on. "How about Dr. Foster?" "Well, how _about_ him?" I managed to reply. He glared at me for having interrupted. And stopped to pick his words before he spoke; Like one who turns all personal remarks Into a general survey of the world. Choosing his phrases with a finicky care So they might fit some vague opinions, Taken, third-hand, from last year's _New York Times_ And jumbled all together into a thing He thought was his philosophy. "Never mind; There's more in Foster than you'd understand. But," he continued, darkly as before, "What do you make of Solomon Grundy's case? You know the gossip when he first came here. Folks said he'd gone to smash in Lunenburg, And four years in the State Asylum here Had almost finished him. It was Sanders' job That put new life in him. A clear, cool day; The second Monday in July it was. 'Born on a Monday,' that is what they said. Remember the next few days? I guess you don't; That was before your time. Well, Tuesday night He said he'd go to church; and just before the prayer He blurts right out, 'I've come here to get christened. If I am going to have a brand new life I'll have a new name, too.' Well, sure enough They christened him, though I've forgotten what; And Etta Stark, (you know, the pastor's girl) Her head upset by what she called romance, She went and married him on Wednesday noon. Thursday the sun or something in the air Got in his blood and right off he took sick. Friday the thing got worse, and so did he; And Saturday at four o'clock he died. Buried on Sunday with the town decked out As if it was a circus-day. And not a soul Knew why they went or what he meant to them Or what he died of. What would be _your_ guess?" "Well," I replied, "it seems to me that he, Just coming from a sedentary life, Felt a great wave of energy released, And tried to crowd too much in one short week. The laws of physics teach--" "No, not at all. He never knew 'em. He was just tired," he said.

_Louis Untermeyer._

OWEN SEAMAN

ESTABLISHES THE "ENTENTE CORDIALE" BY RECITING "THE SINGULAR STUPIDITY
OF J. SPRATT, ESQ.," IN THE MANNER OF GUY WETMORE CARRYL.

Of all the mismated pairs ever created The worst of the lot were the Spratts. Their life was a series of quibbles and queries And quarrels and squabbles and spats. They argued at breakfast, they argued at tea, And they argued from midnight to quarter past three.

The family Spratt-head was rather a fat-head, And a bellicose body to boot. He was selfish and priggish and worse, he was piggish-- A regular beast of a brute. At table his acts were incredibly mean; He gave his wife fat--and _he_ gobbled the lean!

What's more, she was censured whenever she ventured To dare to object to her fare; He said "It ain't tasteful, but we can't be wasteful; And _someone_ must eat what is there!" But his coarseness exceeded all bounds of control When he laughed at her Art and the State of her Soul.

So what with his jeering and fleering and sneering, He plagued her from dawn until dark. He bellowed "I'll teach ye to read Shaw and Nietzsche"-- And he was as bad as his bark. "The place for a woman----" he'd start, very glib.... And so on, for two or three hours _ad lib_.

So very malignant became his indignant Remarks about "Culture" and "Cranks," That at last she revolted. She up and she bolted And entered the militant ranks.... When she died, after breaking nine-tenths of the laws, She left all her money and jewels to the Cause!

And _THE MORAL_ is this (though a bit abstruse): What's sauce for a more or less proper goose, When it rouses the violent, feminine dander, Is apt to be sauce for the propaganda.

_Louis Untermeyer._

THE MODERN HIAWATHA

He killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside. Why he turned them inside outside.

_Unknown._

SOMEWHERE-IN-EUROPE-WOCKY

'Twas brussels, and the loos liège
Did meuse and arras in latour;
All vimy were the metz maubege,
And the tsing-tau namur.

"Beware the petrograd, my son--
The jaws that bite, the claws that plough!
Beware the posen, and verdun
The soldan mons glogau!"

He took his dixmude sword in hand;
Long time his altkirch foe he sought;
Then rested he 'neath the warsaw tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in danzig thought he stood
The petrograd, with eyes of flame,
Came ypring through the cracow wood,
And longwied as it came.

One two! One two! and through and through
The dixmude blade went snicker-snack;
He left it dead, and with its head
He gallipolied back.

"And hast thou slain the petrograd?
Come to my arms, my krithnia boy!
O chanak day! Artois! Grenay!"
He woevred in his joy.

'Twas brussels, and the loos liège
Did meuse and arras in latour;
All vimy were the metz maubege,
And the tsing-tau namur.

_F. G. Hartswick._

RIGID BODY SINGS

Gin a body meet a body
Flyin' through the air,
Gin a body hit a body,
Will it fly? and where?
Ilka impact has its measure,
Ne'er a' ane hae I,
Yet a' the lads they measure me,
Or, at least, they try.

Gin a body meet a body
Altogether free,
How they travel afterwards
We do not always see.
Ilka problem has its method
By analytics high;
For me, I ken na ane o' them,
But what the waur am I?

_J. C. Maxwell._

A BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR

Ah Night! blind germ of days to be,
Ah, me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
What wail of smitten strings hear we?
(Ah me! ah me!
_Hey diddle dee!_)

Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon,
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon
(Ah me! ah me!
_Dum diddle dee!_)

What profits it to rise i' the dark?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
If love but over-soar its mark
(Ah me! ah me!
_Hey diddle dee!_)

What boots to fall again forlorn?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn,
(Ah me! ah me!
_Dum diddle dee!_)

Art thou not greater who art less?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Low love fulfilled of low success?
(Ah me! ah me!
_Hey diddle dee!_)

_Unknown._

FATHER WILLIAM

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
Allow me to sell you a couple."

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak;
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"

_Lewis Carroll._

THE POETS AT TEA

1--(_Macaulay, who made it_)

Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, Nor Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals, Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires, More rich the herbs of China's field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield; For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires!

2--(_Tennyson, who took it hot_)

I think that I am drawing to an end: For on a sudden came a gasp for breath, And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, And a great darkness falling on my soul. O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.

3--(_Swinburne, who let it get cold_)

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning
Is foul in the ending thereof,
As the heat of the summer's beginning
Is past in the winter of love:
O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably gray!
Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding.
And take it away!

4--(_Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it_)

The cosy fire is bright and gay, The merry kettle boils away And hums a cheerful song. I sing the saucer and the cup; Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up, And do not make it strong.

5--(_Browning, who treated it allegorically_)

Tut! Bah! We take as another case--
Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule
(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place
Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)--so perhaps you'll
Excuse the digression--this cup which I hold
Light-poised--Bah, it's spilt in the bed!--well, let's on go--
Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told
The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

6--(_Wordsworth, who gave it away_)

"Come, little cottage girl, you seem
To want my cup of tea;
And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me."

She had a rustic, woodland grin,
Her cheek was soft as silk,
And she replied, "Sir, please put in
A little drop of milk."

"Why, what put milk into your head?
'Tis cream my cows supply;"
And five times to the child I said,
"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?"

"You call me pig-head," she replied;
"My proper name is Ruth.
I called that milk"--she blushed with pride--
"You bade me speak the truth."

7--(_Poe, who got excited over it_)

Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit, or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n----th.

8--(_Rossetti, who took six cups of it_)

The lilies lie in my lady's bower (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady's head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now--you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)

9--(_Burns, who liked it adulterated_)

Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,
Whusky or tay--to state my mind,
Fore ane or ither;
For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,
And gin the next, I'm dull as you,
Mix a' thegither.
10--(_Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more than a minute_)

One cup for myself-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together, O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it. What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal. All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver. Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned. Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.

_Barry Pain._

HOW OFTEN

They stood on the bridge at midnight,
In a park not far from the town;
They stood on the bridge at midnight,
Because they didn't sit down.

The moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church spire;
The moon rose o'er the city
And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh, how often!
They whispered words so soft;
How often, oh, how often;
How often, oh, how oft!

_Ben King._

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and say,
Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay--
If I should die to-night,
And you should come in deepest grief and woe--
And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"
I might arise in my large white cravat
And say, "What's that?"
If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,
I say, if I should die to-night
And you should come to me, and there and then
Just even hint 'bout paying me that ten,
I might arise the while,
But I'd drop dead again.

_Ben King._

"THE DAY IS DONE"

The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,--
A good and regular meal--
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn't give a farthing
For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city
And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the "finally, brethren,"
That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

JACOB

He dwelt among "Apartments let,"
About five stories high;
A man, I thought, that none would get,
And very few would try.

A boulder, by a larger stone
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell
When Jacob was not free;
But he has got a wife--and O!
The difference to me!

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

BALLAD OF THE CANAL

We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul had room to sleep;
It was midnight on the waters,
And the banks were very steep.

'Tis a fearful thing when sleeping,
To be startled by the shock,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Coming to a lock!"

So we shuddered there in silence,
For the stoutest berth was shook,
While the wooden gates were opened
And the mate talked with the cook.

And as thus we lay in darkness,
Each one wishing we were there,
"We are through!" the captain shouted,
And he sat down on a chair.

And his little daughter whispered,
Thinking that he ought to know,
"Isn't travelling by canal-boats
Just as safe as it is slow?"

Then he kissed the little maiden,
And with better cheer we spoke,
And we trotted into Pittsburg,
When the morn looked through the smoke.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES

There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard?

No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;
As thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

REUBEN

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not), Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on In henly meditation, bullet free.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

THE WIFE

Her washing ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,
And passed the long, long night away
In darning ragged hose.

But when the sun in all its state
Illumed the Eastern skies,
She passed about the kitchen grate
And went to making pies.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN

When lovely woman wants a favor,
And finds, too late, that man won't bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling is--to cry.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER

A fellow near Kentucky's clime
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver dime
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I am this young lady's beau,
And she, John Thompson's daughter.

"We've fled before her father's spite
With great precipitation;
And should he find us here to-night,
I'd lose my reputation.

"They've missed the girl and purse beside,
His horsemen hard have pressed me;
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?"

Out spoke the boatman then in time,
"You shall not fail, don't fear it;
I'll go, not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit.

"And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing;
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing.

But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer;
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.

"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"It's anything but funny;
I'll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father's money!"

And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing place--
His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning's angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!

"Come back, come back!" he cried in woe,
Across the stormy water;
"But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain; they reached the other shore
(Such doom the Fates assign us);
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there _minus_.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

A PORTRAIT

He is to weet a melancholy carle: Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air; Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom. No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer; No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.

Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half; Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl; And sauces held he worthless as the chaff; He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl: Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl; Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair; But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul Panted and all his food was woodland air; Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.

The slang of cities in no wise he knew, _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; He sipped no "olden Tom," or "ruin blue," Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek; Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat, Nor in obscurèd purlieus would be seek For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat, Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.

_John Keats._

ANNABEL LEE

'Twas more than a million years ago,
Or so it seems to me,
That I used to prance around and beau
The beautiful Annabel Lee.
There were other girls in the neighborhood
But none was a patch to she.

And this was the reason that long ago,
My love fell out of a tree,
And busted herself on a cruel rock;
A solemn sight to see,
For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

We loved with a love that was lovely love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
And we went one day to gather the nuts
That men call hickoree.
And I stayed below in the rosy glow
While she shinned up the tree,
But no sooner up than down kerslup
Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And the pallid moon and the hectic noon Bring gleams of dreams for me, Of the desolate and desperate fate Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And I often think as I sink on the brink Of slumber's sea, of the warm pink link That bound my soul to Annabel Lee; And it wasn't just best for her interest To climb that hickory tree, For had she stayed below with me, We'd had no hickory nuts maybe, But I should have had my Annabel Lee.

_Stanley Huntley._

HOME SWEET HOME WITH VARIATIONS

Being suggestions of the various styles in which an old theme might have been treated by certain metrical composers.

FANTASIA

I

_The original theme as John Howard Payne wrote it:_

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.

Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!
There's no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! The birds singing gaily that came at my call! Give me them! and the peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!
There's no place like Home!

II

(_As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped it up in variations._)

('Mid pleasures and palaces--)

As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted
Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze,
Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath, shaken and shifted,
The salt of us stings and is sore for the sobbing seas.
For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches
Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss,
For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor
scorches,
Nor elsewhere than this.

(An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain--)

For here we know shall no gold thing glisten,
No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine;
Nor love lower never an ear to listen
To words that work in the heart like wine.
What time we are set from our land apart,
For pain of passion and hunger of heart,
Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen,
Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.

(Variation: An exile from home--)

Whether with him whose head Of gods is honored, With song made splendent in the sight of men-- Whose heart most sweetly stout, From ravishing France cast out, Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then-- Or where on shining seas like wine The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine. (Give me my lowly thatched cottage--)

For Joy finds Love grow bitter,
And spreads his wings to quit her,
At thought of birds that twitter
Beneath the roof-tree's straw--
Of birds that come for calling,
No fear or fright appalling,
When dews of dusk are falling,
Or daylight's draperies draw.

(Give me them, and the peace of mind--)

Give me these things then back, though the giving
Be at cost of earth's garner of gold;
There is no life without these worth living,
No treasure where these are not told.
For the heart give the hope that it knows not,
Give the balm for the burn of the breast--
For the soul and the mind that repose not,
Oh, give us a rest!

III

(_As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt._)

Brown o' San Juan,
Stranger, I'm Brown.
Come up this mornin' from 'Frisco--
Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.

Be'n a-knockin' around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty consid'able frequent--
Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!

Right thar lies my home--
Right thar in the red--
I could slop over, stranger, in po'try--
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace, Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho. Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London, Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live-stock; Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'-- For the two of us, pard--and thar, I allow, the heavens Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction. Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens-- I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty-- Gimme me them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man--
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers--I 'low 'twuz the po'try--
I thought that my eyes hed gone blind.

Take that pop from my belt!
Hi, thar!--gimme yer han'--
Or I'll kill myself--Lizzie--she's left me--
Gone off with a purtier man!

Thar, I'll quit--the ole gal
An' the kids--run away!
I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard--
The griddle-cake's thar, anyway.

IV

(_As Austin Dobson might have translated it from Horace, if it had ever occurred to Horace to write it._)

RONDEAU

At home alone, O Nomades, Although Mæcenas' marble frieze Stand not between you and the sky Nor Persian luxury supply Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease.

Tempt not the far Ægean breeze;
With home-made wine and books that please,
To duns and bores the door deny,
At home, alone.

Strange joys may lure. Your deities
Smile here alone. Oh, give me these:
Low eaves, where birds familiar fly,
And peace of mind, and, fluttering by,
My Lydia's graceful draperies,
At home, alone.

V

(_As it might have been constructed in 1744, Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and Alexander Pope, at 52, the second._)

Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise, Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies; 'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys, Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. There, where affection warms the father's breast, There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest. Howe'er we search, though wandering with the wind Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, The light of heaven upon our dark below.

When from our dearest hope and haven reft, Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left, We long, obedient to our nature's law, To see again our hovel thatched with straw: See birds that know our avenaceous store Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share, His pristine peace of mind's his final prayer.

VI

(_As Walt Whitman might have written all around it._)

I

You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound, covered flexibly with red linen, Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you. Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him, too, I take in, just as I would a coyote or a king, or a toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything, or anybody else in the world. Where are you going? You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you want to see Venice. Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris. I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and loafe with me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things. You listen to my ophicleide! Home! Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by the thought of home. Come in!--take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not minding; there is room enough for all of you. This is my exhibition--it is the greatest show on earth--there is no charge for admission. All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.

II

1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried from a
bad day's business; the wife meets him in the marble pav'd
vestibule; she throws her arms about him; she presses him
close to her; she looks him full in the face with
affectionate eyes; the frown from his brow disappearing.

Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head; the
cook is going away, and the boiler leaks.

2. The mechanic's dark little third-story room, seen in a flash
from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a
corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating
cabbage around a kerosene lamp; of the clatter and roar and
groaning wail of the Elevated train unconscious; of the
smell of the cabbage unconscious.

Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so
unconscious.

3. The French Flat; the small rooms, all right-angles,
un-individual; the narrow halls; the gaudy, cheap
decorations everywhere.

The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down the
elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more coal, the solid
splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends up
the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her
kitchen retiring.

4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city; the
widow's boy coming home from his first day down town; he is
flushed with happiness and pride; he is no longer a
school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on the airs of a
man and talks learnedly of business.

5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the mean little
hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it,
the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the private
provender hid away in the closet, the dreary backyard out
the window; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full
of hairpins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt
with the young fellows in the parlor.

6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict just
returned from prison--it was his first offense, and the
judges were lenient on him.

He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been received
back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again; his lungs, his
nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air; with
shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart too,
expanding.

The old mother busies herself about the table; she has ready for
him the dishes he us'd to like; the father sits with his
back to them, reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking
and rustling much; the children hang wondering around the
prodigal--they have been caution'd: Do not ask where our Jim
has been; only say you are glad to see him.

The elder daughter is there, palefac'd, quiet; her young man
went back on her four years ago; his folks would not let him
marry a convict's sister. She sits by the window, sewing on
the children's clothes, the clothes not only patching up;
her hunger for children of her own invisibly patching up.

The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful,
apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully
smiling, with loving pretence of hope smiling--it is too
much for him; he buries his face in the folds of the
mother's black gown.

7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only open'd; the
smell of horse-hair furniture and mahogany varnish; the
ornaments on the what-not in the corner; the wax fruit,
dusty, sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, under a glass
globe, the sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes
with shells plastered over, the perforated card-board motto.

The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the fine
ironing to-morrow--it is the Third-day night, and the plain
things are ready iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers stowed
away.

The wife waiting for the husband--he is at the tavern, jovial,
carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling clothes--the
little red wood clock with peaked top, with pendulum wagging
behind a pane of gayly painted glass, strikes twelve.

The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air--he is
singing: "We won't go home until morning!"--the wife
arising, toward the wood-shed hastily going, stealthily
entering, the voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate,
chantant.

The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club over his
head, now with his head in contact; the sudden cessation of
the song; the benediction of peace over the domestic foyer
temporarily resting.

I sing the soothing influences of home. You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with guide-book wandering, You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope Yawp!

_H. C. Bunner._

AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS

IN THE ORIGINAL

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,--
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

(_As Austin Dobson writes it._)

TRIOLET

A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow. Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet (For a little lamb had Mary, sweet), And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat, And wherever she went it wanted to go; A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.

(_As Mr. Browning has it._)

You knew her?--Mary the small, How of a summer,--or, no, was it fall? You'd never have thought it, never believed, But the girl owned a lamb last fall.

Its wool was subtly, silky white, Color of lucent obliteration of night, Like the shimmering snow or--our Clothild's arm! You've seen her arm--her right, I mean-- The other she scalded a-washing, I ween-- How white it is and soft and warm?

Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender, Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender, There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting, That passionate lambkin--her soul's heart delighting-- Ay, every place that Mary sought in, That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.

(_As Longfellow might have done it._)

Fair the daughter known as Mary, Fair and full of fun and laughter, Owned a lamb, a little he-goat, Owned him all herself and solely. White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi-- The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm. Hither Mary went and thither, But went with her to all places, Sure as brook to run to river, Her pet lambkin following with her.

(_How Andrew Lang sings it._)

RONDEAU

A wonderful lass was Marie, petite, And she looked full fair and passing sweet-- And, oh! she owned--but cannot you guess What pet can a maiden so love and caress As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat

And mud upon his dainty feet
And a gentle veally odour of meat,
And a fleece to finger and kiss and press--
White as snow?

Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,
As she sauntered on, there at her feet
She would find that lambkin--bless
The dear!--treading on her dainty dress,
Her dainty dress, fresh and neat--
White as snow!

(_Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne's idea._)

VILLANELLE

Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair, Maiden and lamb were a sight to see, For her pet was white as she was fair.

And its lovely fleece was beyond compare, And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie, Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.

Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare, To tangle her fingers in, where they could be (For her pet was white as she was fair).

Lost from sight, both so snow-white were, And the lambkin adored the maiden wee, Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.

Th' impassioned incarnation of rare, Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty, And her pet was white as she was fair.

Wherever she wandered, hither and there, Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be, With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair, And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.

_A. C. Wilkie._

MORE IMPRESSIONS

LA FUITE DES OIES

To outer senses they are geese,
Dull drowsing by a weedy pool;
But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool!
Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!

Deep silence on the shadowy flood,
Save rare sharp stridence (that means "quack"),
Low amber light in Ariel track
Athwart the dun (that means the mud).

And suddenly subsides the sun,
Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom
(That means the white geese waddling home),
And darkness reigns! (See how it's done?)

_Oscuro Wildgoose._

NURSERY RHYMES À LA MODE

(_Our nurseries will soon lie too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model._)

Oh, but she was dark and shrill,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
The cat that (on the first April)
Played the fiddle on the lea.
Oh, and the moon was wan and bright,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
The Cow she looked nor left nor right,
But took it straight at a jump, pardie!
The hound did laugh to see this thing,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
As it was parlous wantoning,
(Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,)
And underneath a dreesome moon
Two lovers fled right piteouslie;
A spooney plate with a plated spoon,
(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)

POSTSCRIPT

Then blame me not, altho' my verse
Sounds like an echo of C. S. C.
Since still they make ballads that worse and worse
Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee.

_Unknown._

A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD

TO HIS LILY

My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, My languid lily-love fragile and thin, With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly. That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly! Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin! Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay! Art thou not Utter and wholly akin To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway The peacock's feather, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday?