Chapter II: Introduction (2)

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon a grin.

He read the next, the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third, a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth, he broke into a roar;
The fifth, his waistband split;
The sixth, he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

SHAKE, MULLEARY AND GO-ETHE

I

I have a bookcase, which is what Many much better men have not. There are no books inside, for books, I am afraid, might spoil its looks. But I've three busts, all second-hand, Upon the top. You understand I could not put them underneath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

II

Shake was a dramatist of note; He lived by writing things to quote, He long ago put on his shroud: Some of his works are rather loud. His bald-spot's dusty, I suppose. I know there's dust upon his nose. I'll have to give each nose a sheath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

III

Mulleary's line was quite the same; He has more hair, but far less fame. I would not from that fame retrench-- But he is foreign, being French. Yet high his haughty head he heaves, The only one done up in leaves, They're rather limited on wreath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

IV

Go-ethe wrote in the German tongue: He must have learned it very young. His nose is quite a butt for scoff, Although an inch of it is off. He did quite nicely for the Dutch; But here he doesn't count for much. They all are off their native heath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

V

They sit there, on their chests, as bland As if they were not second-hand. I do not know of what they think, Nor why they never frown or wink, But why from smiling they refrain I think I clearly can explain: They none of them could show much teeth-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

_H. C. Bunner._

A RONDELAY

Man is for woman made, And woman made for man: As the spur is for the jade, As the scabbard for the blade, As for liquor is the can, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man.

As the sceptre to be sway'd,
As to night the serenade,
As for pudding is the pan,
As to cool us is the fan,
So man's for woman made,
And woman made for man.

Be she widow, wife, or maid, Be she wanton, be she staid, Be she well or ill array'd, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man.

_Peter A. Motteux._

WINTER DUSK

The prospect is bare and white,
And the air is crisp and chill;
While the ebon wings of night
Are spread on the distant hill.

The roar of the stormy sea
Seem the dirges shrill and sharp
That winter plays on the tree--
His wild Æolian harp.

In the pool that darkly creeps
In ripples before the gale,
A star like a lily sleeps
And wiggles its silver tail.

_R. K. Munkittrick._

COMIC MISERIES

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,--
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes,--
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain--
Alas for one that drops a jest
And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy
With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
With suitable discourse,--
You think you've got him--when he calls
A friend across the way,
And begs you'll say that funny thing
You said the other day!

You drop a pretty _jeu-de-mot_
Into a neighbor's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about,
The old authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While everybody marvels why
Your mirth is under ban,--
They think your very grief "a joke,"
You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card
That bids you come and dine,
And bring along your freshest wit
(To pay for musty wine),
You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,
And wonders what you're thinking of
And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends
A fancy-tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose--
solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news:
You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

_John G. Saxe._

EARLY RISING

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself; nor try To make it--as the lucky fellow might-- A close monopoly by patent-right!

Yes--bless the man who first invented sleep, (I really can't avoid the iteration;) But blast the man, with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off--Early Rising!

"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all!

The time for honest folks to be a-bed Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else--he drinks!

Thompson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to _rise_ in season; But then he said it--lying--in his bed, At ten o'clock A.M.,--the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.

'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,-- Awake to duty, and awake to truth,-- But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!

'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angel's sight, In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only _dream_ of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right!--it's not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

_John G. Saxe._

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL

"Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of volcanic tufa!

"Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth's epidermis!

"Eo--Mio--Plio--whatsoe'er the 'cene' was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,-- Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,-- Tell us thy strange story!

"Or has the professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures?

"Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch?

"Tell us of that scene--the dim and watery woodland, Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, Lycopodiacea,--

"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And all around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls;--

"Tell us of thy food,--those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods _au naturel_,-- Cuttle-fish to which the _pieuvre_ of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle.

"Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation-- Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence-- Speak! thou oldest primate!"

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together.

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration:

"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces Home to old Missouri!"

_Bret Harte._

ODE TO WORK IN SPRINGTIME

Oh, would that working I might shun,
From labour my connection sever,
That I might do a bit--or none
Whatever!

That I might wander over hills,
Establish friendship with a daisy,
O'er pretty things like daffodils
Go crazy!

That I might at the heavens gaze,
Concern myself with nothing weighty,
Loaf, at a stretch, for seven days--
Or eighty.

Why can't I cease a slave to be,
And taste existence beatific
On some fair island, hid in the
Pacific?

Instead of sitting at a desk
'Mid undone labours, grimly lurking--
Oh, say, what is there picturesque
In working?

But no!--to loaf were misery!--
I love to work! Hang isles of coral!
(To end this otherwise would be
Immoral!)

_Thomas R. Ybarra._

OLD STUFF

If I go to see the play,
Of the story I am certain;
Promptly it gets under way
With the lifting of the curtain.
Builded all that's said and done
On the ancient recipe--
'Tis the same old Two and One:
_A and B in love with C_.

If I read the latest book,
There's the mossy situation;
One may confidently look
For the trite triangulation.
Old as time, but ever new,
Seemingly, this tale of Three--
Same old yarn of One and Two:
_A and C in love with B_.

If I cast my eyes around,
Far and near and middle distance,
Still the formula is found
In our everyday existence.
Everywhere I look I see--
Fact or fiction, life or play--
Still the little game of Three:
_B and C in love with A._

While the ancient law fulfills,
Myriad moons shall wane and wax.
Jack must have his pair of Jills,
Jill must have her pair of Jacks.

_Bert Leston Taylor._

TO MINERVA

My temples throb, my pulses boil,
I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad--
So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,
And pour it on a lobster salad.

My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read--
Then Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a Lark instead.

_Thomas Hood._

THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN

Out rode from his wild, dark castle
The terrible Heinz von Stein;
He came to the door of a tavern
And gazed on its swinging sign.

He sat himself down at a table,
And growled for a bottle of wine;
Up came with a flask and a corkscrew
A maiden of beauty divine.

Then, seized with a deep love-longing,
He uttered, "O damosel mine,
Suppose you just give a few kisses
To the valorous Ritter von Stein!"

But she answered, "The kissing business
Is entirely out of my line;
And I certainly will not begin it
On a countenance ugly as thine!"

Oh, then the bold knight was angry,
And cursed both coarse and fine;
And asked, "How much is the swindle
For your sour and nasty wine?"

And fiercely he rode to the castle
And sat himself down to dine;
And this is the dreadful legend
Of the terrible Heinz von Stein.

_Charles Godfrey Leland._

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE

It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued.

There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts.

We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him,-- Go, read that virile poem,-- It is No. 25.

He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a massic-laden ditty And a classic maiden pretty, He painted up the city, And Mæcenas paid the freight!

_Eugene Field._

PROPINQUITY NEEDED

Celestine Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie, A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree, Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be (Which isn't saying much).

Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed).

Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said; And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wanderéd (He was a peripatetic Baker, he was).

And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he hasn't the price).

And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my title).

_Charles Battell Loomis._

IN THE CATACOMBS

Sam Brown was a fellow from way down East, Who never was "staggered" in the least. No tale of marvellous beast or bird Could match the stories he had heard; No curious place or wondrous view "Was ekil to Podunk, I tell yu."

If they told him of Italy's sunny clime, "Maine kin beat it, every time!" If they marvelled at Ætna's fount of fire, They roused his ire: With an injured air He'd reply, "I swear I don't think much of a smokin' hill; We've got a moderate little rill Kin make yer old volcaner still; Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater, 'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!"

They showed him a room where a queen had slept; "'Twan't up to the tavern daddy kept." They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunk From the beautiful Molechunkamunk. They took him at last to ancient Rome, And inveigled him into a catacomb: Here they plied him with draughts of wine, Though he vowed old cider was twice as fine, Till the fumes of Falernian filled his head, And he slept as sound as the silent dead; They removed a mummy to make him room, And laid him at length in the rocky tomb.

They piled old skeletons round the stone, Set a "dip" in a candlestick of bone, And left him to slumber there alone; Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam, Waiting to jeer at his frightened scream, When he should wake from his drunken dream.

After a time the Yankee woke, But instantly saw through the flimsy joke; So never a cry or shout he uttered, But solemnly rose, and slowly muttered: "I see how it is. It's the judgment day, We've all been dead and stowed away; All these stone furreners sleepin' yet, An' I'm the fust one up, you bet! Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder? _United States ahead, by thunder!_"

_Harlan Hoge Ballard._

OUR NATIVE BIRDS

Alone I sit at eventide;
The twilight glory pales,
And o'er the meadows far and wide
I hear the bobolinks--
(We have no nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old manse on the lea
Flies slow the cawing crow--
(In England 'twere a rook!)

The last faint golden beams of day
Still glow on cottage panes,
And on their lingering homeward way
Walk weary laboring men--
(Alas! we have no swains!)

From farmyards, down fair rural glades
Come sounds of tinkling bells,
And songs of merry brown milkmaids
Sweeter than catbird's strains--
(I should say Philomel's!)

I could sit here till morning came,
All through the night hours dark,
Until I saw the sun's bright flame
And heard the oriole--
(Alas! we have no lark!)

We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,
No swains, no nightingales,
No singing milkmaids (save in books)
The poet does his best:--
It is the rhyme that fails.

_Nathan Haskell Dole._

THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN

"The proper way for a man to pray,"
Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes,
"And the only proper attitude
Is down upon his knees."

"No, I should say the way to pray,"
Said Rev. Doctor Wise,
"Is standing straight with outstretched arms
And rapt and upturned eyes."

"Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow,
"Such posture is too proud:
A man should pray with eyes fast closed
And head contritely bowed."

"It seems to me his hands should be
Austerely clasped in front.
With both thumbs pointing toward the ground,"
Said Rev. Doctor Blunt.

"Las' year I fell in Hodgkin's well
Head first," said Cyrus Brown,
"With both my heels a-stickin' up,
My head a-pinting down;

"An' I made a prayer right then an' there--
Best prayer I ever said,
The prayingest prayer I ever prayed,
A-standing on my head."

_Sam Walter Foss._

ERRING IN COMPANY

"If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln."
--_Theodore Roosevelt_.

If e'er my rhyming be at fault,
If e'er I chance to scribble dope,
If that my metre ever halt,
I err in company with Pope.

An that my grammar go awry,
An that my English be askew,
Sooth, I can prove an alibi--
The Bard of Avon did it too.

If often toward the bottled grape
My errant fancy fondly turns,
Remember, leering jackanape,
I err in company with Burns.

If now and then I sigh "Mine own!"
Unto another's wedded wife,
Remember, I am not alone--
Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life?

If frequently I fret and fume,
And absolutely will not smile,
I err in company with Hume,
Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.

If e'er I fail in etiquette,
And foozle on The Proper Stuff
Regarding manners, don't forget
A. Tennyson's were pretty tough.

Eke if I err upon the side
Of talking overmuch of Me,
I err, it cannot be denied,
In most illustrious company.

_Franklin P. Adams._

CUPID

Why was Cupid a boy,
And why a boy was he?
He should have been a girl,
For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow,
And the girl shoots with her eye;
And they both are merry and glad,
And laugh when we do cry.

Then to make Cupid a boy
Was surely a woman's plan,
For a boy never learns so much
Till he has become a man.

And then he's so pierced with cares,
And wounded with arrowy smarts,
That the whole business of his life
Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

_William Blake._

IF WE DIDN'T HAVE TO EAT

Life would be an easy matter
If we didn't have to eat.
If we never had to utter,
"Won't you pass the bread and butter,
Likewise push along that platter
Full of meat?"
Yes, if food were obsolete
Life would be a jolly treat,
If we didn't--shine or shower,
Old or young, 'bout every hour--
Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat--
'Twould be jolly if we didn't have to eat.

We could save a lot of money
If we didn't have to eat.
Could we cease our busy buying,
Baking, broiling, brewing, frying,
Life would then be oh, so sunny
And complete;
And we wouldn't fear to greet
Every grocer in the street
If we didn't--man and woman,
Every hungry, helpless human--
Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat--
We'd save money if we didn't have to eat.

All our worry would be over
If we didn't have to eat.
Would the butcher, baker, grocer
Get our hard-earned dollars? No, Sir!
We would then be right in clover
Cool and sweet.
Want and hunger we could cheat,
And we'd get there with both feet,
If we didn't--poor or wealthy,
Halt or nimble, sick or healthy--
Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat,
We could get there if we didn't have to eat.

_Nixon Waterman._

TO MY EMPTY PURSE

To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere; Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good companie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, But I pray unto your curtesie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

_Geoffrey Chaucer._

THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK

On the eighth day of March it was, some people say, That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day; While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born, And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn; For mistakes _will_ occur in a hurry and shock, And some blam'd the baby--and some blam'd the clock-- Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know, If the child was too fast--or the clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in ould Ireland, they say, Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday, Some fought for the eighth--for the ninth more would die. And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye! At last, _both_ the factions so positive grew, That _each_ kept a birthday, so Pat then had _two_, Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins, Said, "No one could have two birthdays but a _twins_."

Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine, Don't be always dividin'--but sometimes combine; Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark, So let that be his birthday."--"Amen," says the clerk. "If he wasn't a _twins_, sure our hist'ry will show-- That, at least, he's worth any _two_ saints that we know!" Then they all got blind dhrunk--which complated their bliss, And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

_Samuel Lover._

HER LITTLE FEET

Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea, She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded, One shoe above the other danglingly, And lo! a Something exquisitely graded, Brown rings and white, distracting--to the knee!

The band was loud. A wild waltz melody
Flowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded.
And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free:
Her little feet.

Till she made room for some one. It was He!
A port-wine flavored He, a He who traded,
Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!
A sense of injury overmastered me.
Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided
Her little feet.

_William Ernest Henley._

SCHOOL

If there is a vile, pernicious, Wicked and degraded rule, Tending to debase the vicious, And corrupt the harmless fool; If there is a hateful habit Making man a senseless tool, With the feelings of a rabbit And the wisdom of a mule; It's the rule which inculcates, It's the habit which dictates The wrong and sinful practice of going into school.

If there's anything improving To an erring sinner's state, Which is useful in removing All the ills of human fate; If there's any glorious custom Which our faults can dissipate, And can casually thrust 'em Out of sight and make us great; It's the plan by which we shirk Half our matu-ti-nal work, The glorious institution of always being late.

_James Kenneth Stephen._

THE MILLENNIUM

TO R. K.

_As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic._ --|Robert Browning|.

Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse:
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling
And the Haggards Ride no more?

_James Kenneth Stephen._

"EXACTLY SO"

A |speech|, both pithy and concise, Marks a mind acute and wise; What speech, my friend, say, do you know, Can stand before "Exactly so?"

I have a dear and witty friend Who turns this phrase to every end; None can deny that "Yes" or "No" Is meant in this "Exactly so."

Or when a bore his ear assails, Good-humour in his bosom fails, No response from his lips will flow, Save, now and then, "Exactly so."

Is there remark on matters grave That he may wish perchance to waive, Or thinks perhaps is rather slow, He stops it by "Exactly so."

It saves the trouble of a thought-- No sour dispute can thence be sought; It leaves the thing in _statu quo_, This beautiful "Exactly so."

It has another charm, this phrase, For it implies the speaker's praise Of what has just been said--_ergo_-- It pleases, this "Exactly so."

Nor need the conscience feel distress, By answ'ring wrongly "No" or "Yes;" It 'scapes a falsehood, which is low, And substitutes "Exactly so."

Each mortal loves to think he's right, That his opinion, too, is bright; Then, Christian, you may soothe your foe By chiming in "Exactly so."

Whoe'er these lines may chance peruse, Of this famed word will see the use, And mention where'er he may go, The praises of "Exactly so."

Of this more could my muse relate, But you, kind reader, I'll not sate; For if I did you'd cry "Hallo! I've heard enough"--"Exactly so."

_Lady T. Hastings._

COMPANIONS

A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER

I know not of what we ponder'd
Or made pretty pretence to talk,
As, her hand within mine, we wander'd
Tow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk,
While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers
And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure:
Was it regal as Juno's own?
Or only a trifle bigger
Than the elves who surround the throne
Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween,
By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not:
Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears;
And perhaps in your skies there glow not
(On the contrary) clearer spheres.
No! as to her eyes I am just as wise
As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly":
But which was she, brunette or blonde?
Her hair, was it quaintly curly,
Or as straight as a beadle's wand?
That I fail'd to remark;--it was rather dark
And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly
In mine,--was it plump or spare?
Was the countenance fair or ugly?
Nay, children, you have me there!
_My_ eyes were p'r'aps blurr'd; and besides I'd heard
That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I--was I brusque and surly?
Or oppressively bland and fond?
Was I partial to rising early?
Or why did we twain abscond,
All breakfastless, too, from the public view,
To prowl by a misty pond?

What pass'd, what was felt or spoken--
Whether anything pass'd at all--
And whether the heart was broken
That beat under that shelt'ring shawl--
(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone,
Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?
Or her uncle? I can't make out--
Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.
For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt
As to why we were there, who on earth we were,
And, what this is all about.

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

THE SCHOOLMASTER

ABROAD WITH HIS SON

O what harper could worthily harp it,
Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold
(Look out _wold_) with its wonderful carpet
Of emerald, purple and gold!
Look well at it--also look sharp, it
Is getting so cold.

The purple is heather (_erica_);
The yellow, gorse--call'd sometimes "whin."
Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a
Green beetle as if on a pin.
You may roll in it, if you would like a
Few holes in your skin.

You wouldn't? Then think of how kind you
Should be to the insects who crave
Your compassion--and then, look behind you
At yon barley-ears! Don't they look brave
As they undulate--(_undulate_, mind you,
From _unda, a wave_).

The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it
Sounds here--(on account of our height)!
And this hillock itself--who could paint it,
With its changes of shadow and light?
Is it not--(never, Eddy, say "ain't it")--
A marvelous sight?

Then yon desolate eerie morasses.
The haunts of the snipe and the hern--
(I shall question the two upper classes
On _aquatiles_, when we return)--
Why, I see on them absolute masses
Of _filix_ or fern.

How it interests e'en a beginner
(Or _tiro_) like dear little Ned!
Is he listening? As I am a sinner
He's asleep--he is wagging his head.
Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner,
And you to your bed.

The boundless ineffable prairie;
The splendor of mountain and lake
With their hues that seem ever to vary;
The mighty pine forests which shake
In the wind, and in which the unwary
May tread on a snake;

And this wold with its heathery garment--
Are themes undeniably great.
But--although there is not any harm in't--
It's perhaps little good to dilate
On their charms to a dull little varmint
Of seven or eight.

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

A APPEAL FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT OF THE OLD BRICK MEETINOUSE

BY A GASPER

The sextant of the meetinouse, which sweeps And dusts, or is supposed too! and makes fiers, And lites the gas and sometimes leaves a screw loose, in which case it smells orful--worse than lampile; And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps pathes; And for the servases gits $100 per annum, Which them that thinks deer, let em try it; Getting up be foar star-lite in all weathers and Kindlin-fires when the wether it is cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers; I wouldn't be hired to do it for no some-- But o sextant! there are 1 kermoddity Which's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, Worth more than anything exsep the Sole of Man. i mean pewer Are, sextent, i mean pewer are! O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about Scaterin levs and bloin of men's hatts; in short, jest "fre as are" out dores. But o sextant, in our church its scarce as piety, scarce as bank bills wen agints beg for mischuns, Wich some say purty often (taint nothin to me, Wat I give aint nothin to nobody), but o sextant, u shut 500 mens wimmen and children, Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete, some is fevery, some is scrofilus, some has bad teeth, And some haint none, and some aint over clean; But every 1 on em breethes in and out and out and in, Say 50 times a minit, or 1 million and a half breths an our, Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, I ask you, say 15 minutes, and then wats to be did? Why then they must brethe it all over agin. And then agin, and so on, till each has took it down, At least ten times, and let it up again, and wats more The same individible don't have the privilege of brethen his own are, and no one's else; Each one mus take whatever comes to him, O sextant, don't you know our lungs is bellusses, To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; and how can bellusses blow without wind, And aint wind _are_? i put it to your conscens. Are is the same to us as milk to babes, Or water to fish, or pendlums to clox-- Or roots and airbs unto an injun Doctor, Or little pils to an omepath, Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, Wat signifies who preeches if i cant brethe? Wats Pol? Wats Pollus? to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth? why sextant, when we die Its only coz we cant brethe no more--that's all. And now, O sextant, let me beg of you 2 let a little are into our church. (Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews) And do it weak days and Sundays tew-- It aint much trouble--only make a hole And the are will come in itself; (It luvs to come in whare it can git warm): And o how it will rouse the people up And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garbs, And yawns and figgits as effectooal As wind on the dry Boans the Profit tells of.

_Arabella Willson._

CUPID'S DARTS

WHICH ARE A GROWING MENACE TO THE PUBLIC

Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry,
Dropping hastily my curry and retiring into balk;
Do not let it cause you wonder if, by some mischance or blunder,
We encounter on the Underground and I get out and walk.

If I double as a cub'll when you meet him in the stubble,
Do not think I am in trouble or attempt to make a fuss;
Do not judge me melancholy or attribute it to folly
If I leave the Metropolitan and travel 'n a bus.

Do not quiet your anxiety by giving me a diet,
Or by base resort to _vi et armis_ fold me to your arms,
And let no suspicious tremor violate your wonted phlegm or
Any fear that Harold's memory is faithless to your charms.

For my passion as I dash on in that disconcerting fashion
Is as ardently irrational as when we forged the link
When you gave your little hand away to me, my own Amanda
As we sat 'n the veranda till the stars began to wink.

And I am in such a famine when your beauty I examine
That it lures me as the jam invites a hungry little brat;
But I fancy that, at any rate, I'd rather waste a penny
Then be spitted by the many pins that bristle from your hat.

_Unknown._

A PLEA FOR TRIGAMY

I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal,
And find that my tastes are so far from concise
That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll
Suffice

I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric
Compression, but still, in defiance of force,
They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric
Discourse.

My _first_ must be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter,
Proud, peerless, and perfect--in fact, _comme il faut_;
A waltzer and wit of the very first water--
For _show_.

But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous,
Once face them alone in the family cot,
Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us)
They're _not_.

But so much for appearances. Now for my _second_,
My lover, the wife of my home and my heart:
Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'd
A part.

She must know all the needs of a rational being,
Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax;
And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeing
My jokes.

I complete the ménage by including the other
With all the domestic prestige of a hen:
As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a mother
Of men.

Total _three!_ and the virtues all well represented;
With fewer than this such a thing can't be done;
Though I've known married men who declare they're contented
With one.

Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter?
And how can one woman expect to combine
Certain qualifications essentially inter-
necine?

You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless;
I state that I find them as clear as can be:--
I will marry _no_ wife, since I can't do with one less
Than three.

_Owen Seaman._

THE POPE

The Pope he leads a happy life, He fears not married care nor strife. He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,-- I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.

But yet all happy's not his life, He has no maid, nor blooming wife; No child has he to raise his hope,-- I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me, His is a life of jollity; He's wives as many as he will,-- I would the Sultan's throne then fill.

But even he's a wretched man, He must obey the Alcoran; He dare not drink one drop of wine-- I would not change his lot for mine.

So here I'll take my lowly stand, I'll drink my own, my native land; I'll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

And when my maiden kisses me I'll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I'll fancy then I am the Pope.

_Charles Lever._

ALL AT SEA

THE VOYAGE OF A CERTAIN UNCERTAIN SAILORMAN

I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea, And in the manner of his tribe he yawned this yarn to me: "'Twere back in eighteen-fifty-three, or mebbe fifty-four, I skipped the farm,--no, 't were the shop,--an' went to Baltimore. I shipped aboard the _Lizzie_--or she might ha' bin the _Jane;_ Them wimmin names are mixey, so I don't remember plain; But anyhow, she were a craft that carried schooner rig, (Although Sam Swab, the bo'sun, allus swore she were a brig); We sailed away from Salem Town,--no, lemme think;--'t were _Lynn_,-- An' steered a course for Africa (or Greece, it might ha' bin); But anyway, we tacked an' backed an' weathered many a storm-- Oh, no,--as I recall it now, that week was fine an' warm! Who did I say the cap'n was? I _didn't_ say at all? Wa-a-ll now, his name were 'Lijah Bell--or was it Eli Ball? I kinder guess 't were Eli. He'd a big, red, bushy beard-- No-o-o, come to think, he allus kept _his_ whiskers nicely sheared.

But anyhow, that voyage was the first I'd ever took, An' all I had to do was cut up cabbage for the cook; But come to talk o' cabbage just reminds me,--that there trip Would prob'ly be my _third_ one, on a Hong Kong clipper-ship.

The crew they were a jolly lot, an' used to sing '_Avast_,' I think it were, or else '_Ahoy_,' while bailing out the mast. And as I recollect it now,--" But here I cut him short, And said: "It's time to tack again, and bring your wits to port; I came to get a story both adventurous and _true_, And here is how I started out to write the interview: 'I saw a _certain_ sailorman,' but you turn out to be The most _un_-certain sailorman that ever sailed the sea!" He puffed his pipe, and answered, "Wa-a-ll, I _thought_ 'twere mine, but still, _I must ha' told the one belongs to my twin brother Bill_!"

_Frederick Moxon._

BALLAD OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST

I am an ancient Jest! Paleolithic man In his arboreal nest The sparks of fun would fan; My outline did he plan, And laughed like one possessed, 'Twas thus my course began, I am a Merry Jest.

I am an early Jest! Man delved and built and span; Then wandered South and West The peoples Aryan, _I_ journeyed in their van; The Semites, too, confessed,-- From Beersheba to Dan,-- I am a Merry Jest.

I am an ancient Jest, Through all the human clan, Red, black, white, free, oppressed, Hilarious I ran! I'm found in Lucian, In Poggio, and the rest, I'm dear to Moll and Nan! I am a Merry Jest!

|envoy|:

Prince, you may storm and ban-- Joe Millers _are_ a pest, Suppress me if you can! I am a Merry Jest!

_Andrew Lang._

VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Gelett Burgess._

HOW TO EAT WATERMELONS

When you slice a Georgy melon you mus' know what you is at
An' look out how de knife is gwine in.
Put one-half on dis side er you--de yuther half on dat,
En' den you gits betwixt 'em, en begin!
Oh, melons!
Honey good ter see;
But we'en it comes ter sweetness,
De melon make fer me!
En den you puts yo' knife up, en you sorter licks de blade,
En never stop fer sayin' any grace;
But eat ontell you satisfy--roll over in de shade,
En sleep ontell de sun shine in yo' face!
Oh, melons!
Honey good ter see;
But we'en it comes ter sweetness,
De melon make fer me!

_Frank Libby Stanton._

A VAGUE STORY

Perchance it was her eyes of blue,
Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed,
Her figure in proportion true
To all the rules by artists framed;
Perhaps it was her mental worth
That made her lover love her so,
Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth--
I cannot tell--I do not know.

He may have had a rival, who
Did fiercely gage him to a duel,
And, being luckier of the two,
Defeated him with triumph cruel;
Then _she_ may have proved false, and turned
To welcome to her arms his foe,
Left _him_ despairing, conquered, spurned--
I cannot tell--I do not know.

So oft such woes will counteract
The thousand ecstacies of love,
That you may fix on base of fact
The story hinted at above;
But all on earth so doubtful is,
Man _knows_ so little here below,
That, if you ask for proof of this,
I cannot tell--I do not know.

_Walter Parke._

HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW

He stood on his head by the wild seashore,
And danced on his hands a jig;
In all his emotions, as never before,
A wildly hilarious grig.

And why? In that ship just crossing the bay
His mother-in-law had sailed
For a tropical country far away,
Where tigers and fever prevailed.

Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life
And even be happy yet,
Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,
And up to his collar in debt.

He had borne the old lady through thick and thin,
And she lectured him out of breath;
And now as he looked at the ship she was in
He howled for her violent death.

He watched as the good ship cut the sea,
And bumpishly up-and-downed,
And thought if already she qualmish might be,
He'd consider his happiness crowned.

He watched till beneath the horizon's edge
The ship was passing from view;
And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge
And pranced like a kangaroo.

He watched till the vessel became a speck
That was lost in the wandering sea;
And then, at the risk of breaking his neck,
Turned somersaults home to tea.

_Walter Parke._

ON A DEAF HOUSEKEEPER

Of all life's plagues I recommend to no man To hire as a domestic a deaf woman. I've got one who my orders does not hear, Mishears them rather, and keeps blundering near. Thirsty and hot, I asked her for a _drink_; She bustled out, and brought me back some _ink_. Eating a good rump-steak, I called for _mustard_; Away she went, and whipped me up a _custard_. I wanted with my chicken to have _ham_; Blundering once more, she brought a pot of _jam_. I wished in season for a cut of _salmon_; And what she brought me was a huge fat _gammon_. I can't my voice raise higher and still higher, As if I were a herald or town-crier. 'T would better be if she were deaf outright; But anyhow she quits my house this night.

_Unknown._

HOM[OE]OPATHIC SOUP

Take a robin's leg
(Mind, the drumstick merely);
Put it in a tub
Filled with water nearly;
Set it out of doors,
In a place that's shady;
Let it stand a week
(Three days if for a lady);
Drop a spoonful of it
In a five-pail kettle,
Which may be made of tin
Or any baser metal;
Fill the kettle up,
Set it on a boiling,
Strain the liquor well,
To prevent its oiling;
One atom add of salt,
For the thickening one rice kernel,
And use to light the fire
"The Hom[oe]opathic Journal."
Let the liquor boil
Half an hour, no longer,
(If 'tis for a man
Of course you'll make it stronger).
Should you now desire
That the soup be flavoury,
Stir it once around,
With a stalk of savoury.
When the broth is made,
Nothing can excell it:
Then three times a day
Let the patient _smell_ it.
If he chance to die,
Say 'twas Nature did it:
If he chance to live,
Give the soup the credit.

_Unknown._

SOME LITTLE BUG

In these days of indigestion It is oftentimes a question As to what to eat and what to leave alone; For each microbe and bacillus Has a different way to kill us, And in time they always claim us for their own. There are germs of every kind In any food that you can find In the market or upon the bill of fare. Drinking water's just as risky As the so-called deadly whiskey, And it's often a mistake to breathe the air.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Then he'll send for his bug friends And all your earthly trouble ends; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

The inviting green cucumber Gets most everybody's number, While the green corn has a system of its own; Though a radish seems nutritious Its behaviour is quite vicious, And a doctor will be coming to your home. Eating lobster cooked or plain Is only flirting with ptomaine, While an oyster sometimes has a lot to say, But the clams we cat in chowder Make the angels chant the louder, For they know that we'll be with them right away.

Take a slice of nice fried onion And you're fit for Dr. Munyon, Apple dumplings kill you quicker than a train. Chew a cheesy midnight "rabbit" And a grave you'll soon inhabit-- Ah, to eat at all is such a foolish game. Eating huckleberry pie Is a pleasing way to die, While sauerkraut brings on softening of the brain. When you eat banana fritters Every undertaker titters, And the casket makers nearly go insane.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, With a nervous little quiver He'll give cirrhosis of the liver; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

When cold storage vaults I visit I can only say what is it Makes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff? Now, for breakfast, prunes are dandy If a stomach pump is handy And your doctor can be found quite soon enough. Eat a plate of fine pigs' knuckles And the headstone cutter chuckles, While the grave digger makes a note upon his cuff. Eat that lovely red bologna And you'll wear a wooden kimona, As your relatives start scrappin 'bout your stuff.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Eating juicy sliced pineapple Makes the sexton dust the chapel; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

All those crazy foods they mix Will float us 'cross the River Styx, Or they'll start us climbing up the milky way. And the meals we eat in courses Mean a hearse and two black horses So before a meal some people always pray. Luscious grapes breed 'pendicitis, And the juice leads to gastritis, So there's only death to greet us either way; And fried liver's nice, but, mind you, Friends will soon ride slow behind you And the papers then will have nice things to say.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day Eat some sauce, they call it chili, On your breast they'll place a lily; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

_Roy Atwell._

ON THE DOWNTOWN SIDE OF AN UPTOWN STREET

On the downtown side of an uptown street Is the home of a girl that I'd like to meet, But I'm on the uptown, And she's on the downtown, On the downtown side of an uptown street. On the uptown side of the crowded old "L," I see her so often I know her quite well, But I'm on the downtown When she's on the uptown, On the uptown side of the crowded old "L."

On the uptown side of a downtown street This girl is employed that I'd like to meet, But I work on the downtown And she on the uptown, The uptown side of a downtown street.

On a downtown car of the Broadway line Often I see her for whom I repine, But when I'm on a uptown She's on a downtown, On a downtown car of the Broadway line.

Oh, to be downtown when I am uptown, Oh, to be uptown when I am downtown, I work at night time, She in the daytime, Never the right time for us to meet, Uptown or downtown, in "L," car or street.

_William Johnston._

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS

If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream broad Hellespont.

If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For _me_, degenerate, modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo--and--Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'T were hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labor, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I've the ague.

_Lord Byron._

THE FISHERMAN'S CHANT

Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight!
He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night.
He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay--
He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day.
Oh, who so merry as he!
On the river or the sea!
Sniggling,
Wriggling
Eels, and higgling
Over the price
Of a nice
Slice
Of fish, twice
As much as it ought to be.