Marion Hill.



JOCOSA LYRA

In our hearts is the Great One of Avon Engraven, And we climb the cold summits once built on By Milton.

But at times not the air that is rarest Is fairest, And we long in the valley to follow Apollo.

Then we drop from the heights atmospheric To Herrick, Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander, Of Landor;

Or our cosiest nook in the shade is Where Praed is, Or we toss the light bells of the mocker With Locker.

Oh, the song where not one of the Graces Tight-laces,— Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly But archly,—

Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying, Comes playing,— And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer In answer,—

It will last till men weary of pleasure In measure! It will last till men weary of laughter ... And after!

Austin Dobson.



TO A THESAURUS

O precious code, volume, tome, Book, writing, compilation, work Attend the while I pen a pome, A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.

For I would pen, engross, indite, Transcribe, set forth, compose, address, Record, submit—yea, even write An ode, an elegy to bless—

To bless, set store by, celebrate, Approve, esteem, endow with soul, Commend, acclaim, appreciate, Immortalize, laud, praise, extol.

Thy merit, goodness, value, worth, Experience, utility— O manna, honey, salt of earth, I sing, I chant, I worship thee!

How could I manage, live, exist, Obtain, produce, be real, prevail, Be present in the flesh, subsist, Have place, become, breathe or inhale.

Without thy help, recruit, support, Opitulation, furtherance, Assistance, rescue, aid, resort, Favour, sustention and advance?

Alack! Alack! and well-a-day! My case would then be dour and sad, Likewise distressing, dismal, gray, Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad.

* * * * *

Though I could keep this up all day, This lyric, elegiac, song, Meseems hath come the time to say Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long!

Franklin P. Adams.



THE FUTURE OF THE CLASSICS

No longer, O scholars, shall Plautus Be taught us. No more shall professors be partial To Martial. No ninny Will stop playing "shinney" For Pliny. Not even the veriest Mexican Greaser Will stop to read Caesar. No true son of Erin will leave his potato To list to the love-lore of Ovid or Plato. Old Homer, That hapless old roamer, Will ne'er find a rest 'neath collegiate dome or Anywhere else. As to Seneca, Any cur Safely may snub him, or urge ill Effects from the reading of Virgil. Cornelius Nepos Wont keep us Much longer from pleasure's light errands— Nor Terence. The irreverent now may all scoff in ease At the shade of poor old Aristophanes. And moderns it now doth behoove in all Ways to despise poor old Juvenal; And to chivvy Livy. The class-room hereafter will miss a row Of eager young students of Cicero. The 'longshoreman—yes, and the dock-rat, he's Down upon Socrates. And what'll Induce us to read Aristotle? We shall fail in Our duty to Galen. No tutor henceforward shall rack us To construe old Horatius Flaccus. We have but a wretched opinion Of Mr. Justinian. In our classical pabulum mix we've no wee sop Of AEsop. Our balance of intellect asks for no ballast From Sallust. With feminine scorn no fair Vassar-bred lass at us Shall smile if we own that we cannot read Tacitus. No admirer shall ever now weathe with begonias The bust of Suetonius. And so, if you follow me, We'll have to cut Ptolemy. Besides, it would just be considered facetious To look at Lucretius. And you can Not go in Society if 'you read Lucan, And we cannot have any fun Out of Xenophon.

Unknown.



CAUTIONARY VERSES

My little dears, who learn to read, pray early, learn to shun That very silly thing indeed which people call a pun; Read Entick's rules, and 'twill be found how simple an offence It is to make the selfsame sound afford a double sense.

For instance, ale may make you ail, your aunt an ant may kill, You in a vale may buy a veil and Bill may pay the bill. Or if to France your bark you steer, at Dover it may be A peer appears upon the pier, who blind, still goes to sea.

Thus, one might say, when, to a treat, good friends accept our greeting, 'Tis meet that men who meet to eat should eat their meat when meeting; Brawn on the board's no bore indeed, although from boar prepared; Nor can the fowl on which we feed, foul feeding be declared.

Thus one ripe fruit may be a pear, and yet be pared again, And still be one, which seemeth rare until we do explain. It therefore should be all your aim to speak with ample care, For who, however fond of game, would choose to swallow hair?

A fat man's gait may make us smile, who have no gate to close; The farmer sitting on his stile no stylish person knows. Perfumers men of scents must be; some Scilly men are bright; A brown man oft deep read we see, a black a wicked wight.

Most wealthy men good manors have, however vulgar they; And actors still the harder slave the oftener they play; So poets can't the baize obtain, unless their tailors choose; While grooms and coachmen, not in vain, each evening seek the Mews.

The dyer, who by dyeing lives, a dire life maintains; The glazier, it is known, receives his profits for his panes; By gardeners thyme is tied, 'tis true, when spring is in its prime, But time or tide won't wait for you if you are tied for time.

Then now you see, my little dears, the way to make a pun; A trick which you, through coming years, should sedulously shun; The fault admits of no defence; for wheresoe'er 'tis found, You sacrifice for sound the sense; the sense is never sound.

So let your words and actions too, one single meaning prove, And, just in all you say or do, you'll gain esteem and love; In mirth and play no harm you'll know when duty's task is done, But parents ne'er should let you go unpunished for a pun!

Theodore Hook.



THE WAR: A-Z

An Austrian Archduke, assaulted and assailed, Broke Belgium's barriers, by Britain bewailed, Causing consternation, confused chaotic crises; Diffusing destructive, death dealing devices. England engaged earnestly, eager every ear, France fought furiously, forsaking foolish fear, Great German garrisons grappled Gallic guard, Hohenzollern Hussars hammered, heavy, hard. Infantry, Imperial, Indian, Irish, intermingling, Jackets jaunty, joking, jesting, jostling, jingling. Kinetic, Kruppised Kaiser, kingdom's killing knight, Laid Louvain lamenting, London lacking light, Mobilising millions, marvellous mobility, Numberless nonentities, numerous nobility. Oligarchies olden opposed olive offering, Prussia pressed Paris, Polish protection proffering, Quaint Quebec quickly quartered quotidian quota, Renascent Russia, resonant, reported regal rota. Scotch soldiers, sterling, songs stalwart sung, "Tipperary" thundered through titanic tongue. United States urging unarmament, unwanted, Visualised victory vociferously vaunted, Wilson's warnings wasted, world war wild, Xenian Nanthochroi Nantippically X-iled. Yorkshire's young yeomen yelling youthfully, "Zigzag Zeppelins, Zuyder Zee."

John R. Edwards.



LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON

Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy Shall we seek for communion of souls Where the deep Mississippi meanders Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?

Ah, no!—for in Maine I will find thee A sweetly sequestrated nook, Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.

There wander two beautiful rivers, With many a winding and crook: The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis; The other, the Skoodoowabskook.

Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned In geography, atlas, or book, How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis, When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

Our cot shall be close by the waters, Within that sequestrated nook, Reflected by Skoodoowabskooksis, And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.

You shall sleep to the music of leaflets, By zephyrs in wantonness shook, To dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.

Your food shall be fish from the waters, Drawn forth on the point of a hook, From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis, Or meandering Skoodoowabskook.

You shall quaff the most sparkling of waters, Drawn forth from a silvery brook, Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis, And so to the Skoodoowabskook.

And you shall preside at the banquet, And I shall wait on you as cook; And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And sing of the Skoodoowabskook.

Let others sing loudly of Saco, Of Quoddy and Tattamagouche, Of Kenebeccasis and Quaco, Of Merigoniche and Buctouche,

Of Nashwaak and Magaguadavique, Or Memmerimammericook:— There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis, Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!

Unknown.



TO MY NOSE

Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows, Knows he the titillating joys Which my nose knows? O Nose, I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows, I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows!

Albert A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill).



A POLKA LYRIC

Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debet—ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel and toe, One, two, three, Hop with me, Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, Will you join the polka, miss? Liberius—most willingly, Sic agimus—then let us try: Nunc vide, Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.

Tum laeva cito, turn dextra, First to the left, and then t'other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, and she looks at you. Das palmam Change hands, ma'am; Celere—run away, just in sham.

Barclay Philips.



A CATALECTIC MONODY!

A cat I sing, of famous memory, Though catachrestical my song may be; In a small garden catacomb she lies, And cataclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the catacoustic song Swells with her virtues' catalogue along, No cataplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears. Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice It dwindled to a catcall's squeaking noise; Most categorical her virtues shone, By catenation join'd each one to one;— But a vile catchpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like catling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her caterwauling pierced the heavy air, As cataphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as caterpillars drag away Their lengths, like cattle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit kat the Embodyment of this catastrophe.

Cruikshank's Omnibus.



ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING

WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER

Come! fill a fresh bumper,—for why should we go logwood While the {nectar} still reddens our cups as they flow? decoction Pour out the {rich juices} still bright with the sun, dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the {rubies} shall run. half-ripened apples The {purple-globed clusters} their life-dews have bled; taste sugar of lead How sweet is the {breath} of the {fragrance they shed}! rank poisons wines!!! For Summer's {last roses} lie hid in the {wines} stable-boys smoking long-nines That were garnered by {maidens who laughed through the vines}, scowl howl scoff sneer Then a {smile}, and a {glass}, and a {toast}, and a {cheer}, strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer For {all the good wine, and we've some of it here}!

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! {Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!}

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

[Transcriber's note: The words in {braces} are struck out in the original text with alternatives above.]



THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II



I devise to end my days—in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me—the glass when I am shrinking, That the cherubim may cry—when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul—of this gentleman's way of thinking.

A glass of wine amazingly—enlighteneth one's internals; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar—that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns—have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us—in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath—a mold which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those—who never could write fasting; By a single little boy—I should be surpass'd in Writing so: I'd just as lief—be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation: I, when I make verses—do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine—that comes into the nation: It maketh sermons to astound—for edification.

Just as liquor floweth good—floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat—or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly—should I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat—I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me—prophetic animation, Unless when I have eat and drank—yea, ev'n to saturation, Then in my upper story—hath Bacchus domination, And Ph[oe]bus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.

Leigh Hunt.



LIMERICKS

There was an old man of Tobago, Who lived upon rice, gruel and sago; Till, much to his bliss, His physician said this: "To a leg, sir, of mutton, you may go."

There was an old soldier of Bister, Went walking one day with his sister; When a cow, at one poke, Tossed her into an oak, Before the old gentleman missed her.

There was a young man of St. Kitts Who was very much troubled with fits; The eclipse of the moon Threw him into a swoon, When he tumbled and broke into bits.

There was an old man who said, "Gee! I can't multiply seven by three! Though fourteen seems plenty, It might come to twenty,— I haven't the slightest idee!"

There was an old man in a pie, Who said, "I must fly! I must fly!" When they said, "You can't do it!" He replied that he knew it, But he had to get out of that pie!

A Tutor who tooted the flute Tried to teach two young tooters to toot; Said the two to the Tutor, "Is it harder to toot, or To tutor two tooters to toot?"

Carolyn Wells.



RECITED BY A CHINESE INFANT

If-itty-teshi-mow Jays Haddee ny up-plo-now-shi-buh nays; ha! ha! He lote im aw dow, Witty motti-fy flow; A-flew-ty ho-lot-itty flays! Hee!

Translation

Infinitesimal James Had nine unpronounceable names; He wrote them all down, With a mortified frown, And threw the whole lot in the flames.

For beauty I am not a star, There are others more handsome by far; But my face I don't mind it, For I am behind it, It's the people in front that I jar.

There was a young lady of Oakham, Who would steal your cigars and then soak 'em In treacle and rum, And then smear them with gum, So it wasn't a pleasure to smoke 'em.

There was an Old Man in a tree Who was horribly bored by a bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" He replied, "Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a bee."

Edward Lear.

There was an Old Man of St. Bees Who was stung in the arm by a wasp. When asked, "Does it hurt?" He replied, "No, it doesn't, But I thought all the while 'twas a hornet."

W. S. Gilbert.

There was an old man of the Rhine, When asked at what hour he would dine, Replied, "At eleven, Four, six, three and seven, And eight and a quarter of nine."

There was a young man of Laconia, Whose mother-in-law had pneumonia; He hoped for the worst, And after March first They buried her 'neath a begonia.

There was a young man of the cape Who always wore trousers of crepe; When asked, "Don't they tear?" He replied, "Here and there; But they keep such a beautiful shape."

There once were some learned M.D.'s, Who captured some germs of disease, And infected a train, Which without causing pain, Allowed one to catch it with ease.

Oliver Herford.

There was a young lady of Lynn, Who was deep in original sin; When they said, "Do be good," She said, "Would if I could!" And straightway went at it ag'in.

I'd rather have fingers than toes; I'd rather have ears than a nose; And as for my hair I'm glad it's all there, I'll be awfully sad when it goes.

Gelett Burgess.

There was a young fellow named Clyde; Who was once at a funeral spied. When asked who was dead, He smilingly said, "I don't know,—I just came for the ride!"

There was a young lady of Truro, Who wished a mahogany bureau; But her father said, "Dod! All the men on Cape Cod Couldn't buy a mahogany bureau!"

There was a young man of Ostend Who vowed he'd hold out to the end, But when halfway over From Calais to Dover, He done what he didn't intend—

There was a young man of Cohoes, Wore tar on the end of his nose; When asked why he done it, He said for the fun it Afforded the men of Cohoes.

Robert J. Burdette.

There is a young artist called Whistler, Who in every respect is a bristler; A tube of white lead, Or a punch on the head, Come equally handy to Whistler.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

There is a creator named God, Whose doings are sometimes quite odd; He made a painter named Val, And I say and I shall, That he does no great credit to God.

J. M. Whistler.

There was a young lady of station, "I love man!" was her sole exclamation; But when men cried, "You flatter!" She replied, "Oh, no matter! Isle of Man, is the true explanation."

Lewis Carroll.

There was a young lady of Twickenham, Whose shoes were too tight to walk quick in 'em; She came back from her walk, Looking white as a chalk, And took 'em both off and was sick in 'em.

Oliver Herford.

"It's a very warm day," observed Billy. "I hope that you won't think it silly If I say that this heat Makes me think 'twould be sweet If one were a coolie in Chile!"

Tudor Jenks.

There was a young man from Cornell, Who said, "I'm aware of a smell, But whether it's drains Or human remains, I'm really unable to tell."

There was a young lady from Joppa, Whose friends all decided to drop her; She went with a friend On a trip to Ostend,— And the rest of the story's improper.

There once was a sculptor named Phidias, Whose statues by some were thought hideous; He made Aphrodite Without any nighty, Which shocked all the ultra-fastidious.

John woke on Jan. first and felt queer; Said, "Crackers I'll swear off this year! For the lobster and wine And the rabbit were fine,— And it certainly wasn't the beer."

There was a young lady of Venice Who used hard-boiled eggs to play tennis; When they said, "You are wrong," She replied, "Go along! You don't know how prolific my hen is!"

There was a young man of Fort Blainey, Who proposed to his typist named Janey; When his friends said, "Oh, dear! She's so old and so queer!" He replied, "But the day was so rainy!"



XIII

NONSENSE



LUNAR STANZAS

Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packs Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs; Walk crank along with coffin on their backs While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear His white jean breeches and black woollen hose, But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul, When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes? When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll, And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes.

Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light, A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear; And 'twere indelicate, although she might Swallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear.

But what to me are woven clouds, or what, If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms? If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State, With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste! To eat one's mother ere itself was born! To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste, And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.

No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone; Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep; Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone, And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.

Henry Coggswell Knight.



THE WHANGO TREE

The woggly bird sat on the whango tree, Nooping the rinkum corn, And graper and graper, alas! grew he, And cursed the day he was born. His crute was clum and his voice was rum, As curiously thus sang he, "Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammed Ere I perched on this whango tree."

Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn, As sharp as a nootie's bill, And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lorn And weepadge, the smart did thrill. He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst, For he couldn't at all get free, And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammed On the luggardly whango tree."

And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill, Nor no guggledom in his nest; He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care, And his grabbles give him no rest; He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar, And nothing to nob has he, As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed, In this cuggerdom whango tree."

Unknown.



THREE CHILDREN

Three children sliding on the ice Upon a summer's day, As it fell out they all fell in, The rest they ran away.

Now, had these children been at home, Or sliding on dry ground, Ten thousand pounds to one penny They had not all been drowned.

You parents all that children have, And you too that have none, If you would have them safe abroad Pray keep them safe at home.

Unknown.



'TIS MIDNIGHT

'Tis midnight, and the setting sun Is slowly rising in the west; The rapid rivers slowly run, The frog is on his downy nest. The pensive goat and sportive cow, Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.

Unknown.



COSSIMBAZAR

Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar, For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar. "Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh, And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry. Pestonjee Bomanjee! Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar. Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon, Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round. Jamsetjee, Jeejeebhoy! Sweep the guitar. Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed? Art thou a Ghebir—a blinded Parsee? Not that it matters an atom to me. Cursetjee Bomanjee! Twang the guitar Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Henry S. Leigh.



AN UNSUSPECTED FACT

If down his throat a man should choose In fun, to jump or slide, He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth, Nor dirt his own inside. But if his teeth were lost and gone, And not a stump to scrape upon, He'd see at once how very pat His tongue lay there by way of mat, And he would wipe his feet on that!

Edward Cannon.



THE CUMBERBUNCE

I strolled beside the shining sea, I was as lonely as could be; No one to cheer me in my walk But stones and sand, which cannot talk— Sand and stones and bits of shell, Which never have a thing to tell.

But as I sauntered by the tide I saw a something at my side, A something green, and blue, and pink, And brown, and purple, too, I think. I would not say how large it was; I would not venture that, because It took me rather by surprise, And I have not the best of eyes.

Should you compare it to a cat, I'd say it was as large as that; Or should you ask me if the thing Was smaller than a sparrow's wing, I should be apt to think you knew, And simply answer, "Very true!"

Well, as I looked upon the thing, It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?" And then I knew its name at once— It plainly was a Cumberbunce.

You are amazed that I could tell The creature's name so quickly? Well, I knew it was not a paper-doll, A pencil or a parasol, A tennis-racket or a cheese, And, as it was not one of these, And I am not a perfect dunce— It had to be a Cumberbunce!

With pleading voice and tearful eye It seemed as though about to cry. It looked so pitiful and sad It made me feel extremely bad. My heart was softened to the thing That asked me if it, please, could sing. Its little hand I longed to shake, But, oh, it had no hand to take! I bent and drew the creature near, And whispered in its pale blue ear, "What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can! Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"

The Cumberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its little head, In tones of awful longing, said:

"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies, And why the sea is wet, Of jelly-fish and conger-eels, And things that I forget. And I would hum a plaintive tune Of why the waves are hot As water boiling on a stove, Excepting that they're not!

"And I would sing of hooks and eyes, And why the sea is slant, And gayly tips the little ships, Excepting that I can't! I never sang a single song, I never hummed a note. There is in me no melody, No music in my throat.

"So that is why I do not sing Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

I looked in innocent surprise, My wonder showing in my eyes, "Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried, "Did you come walking at my side And ask me if you, please, might sing, When you could not warble anything?"

"I did not ask permission, sir, I really did not, I aver. You, sir, misunderstood me, quite. I did not ask you if I might. Had you correctly understood, You'd know I asked you if I could. So, as I cannot sing a song, Your answer, it is plain, was wrong. The fact I could not sing I knew, But wanted your opinion, too."

A voice came softly o'er the lea. "Farewell! my mate is calling me!"

I saw the creature disappear, Its voice, in parting, smote my ear— "I thought all people understood The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

Paul West.



MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP

Mr. Finney had a turnip And it grew and it grew; And it grew behind the barn, And that turnip did no harm.

There it grew and it grew Till it could grow no longer; Then his daughter Lizzie picked it And put it in the cellar.

There it lay and it lay Till it began to rot; And his daughter Susie took it And put it in the pot.

And they boiled it and boiled it As long as they were able, And then his daughters took it, And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife They sat down to sup; And they ate and they ate And they ate that turnip up.

Unknown.



NONSENSE VERSES

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep! The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills? Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em working a poor body's wheels? Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut— To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.

Charles Lamb.



LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE

Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat; E'en such is he who never was begotten Until his children were both dead and rotten.

Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding; E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt, Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.

Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose, Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box, Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks; E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh To see these lines writ for his epitaph.

Bishop Corbet in 17th century.



AESTIVATION

In candent ire the solar splendour flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dolce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum— No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

Me wretched! let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,— Depart—be off,—excede,—evade,—crump!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM

Uncle Simon he Clumb up a tree To see What he could see, When presentlee Uncle Jim Clumb up beside of him And squatted down by he.

Charles Farrar Browne (Artemus Ward).



A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed more, Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, "The mystery I've found,— I'll turn me round,"—he turned him round; But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain—it mattered not a pin,— The pigtail hung behind him.

And right and left, and round about, And up and down, and in and out, He turned; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist and twirl and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back, The pigtail hangs behind him.

W. M. Thackeray.



SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE

Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize! For the old egg of my desire is broken, Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and As the mild melancholy contents grease My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees. Time's trashy purse is as a taken token Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.

And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn? Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast? Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn? Or swallow any pill from out the past? Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn Like a potato riding on the blast.

Unknown.



THE JIM-JAM KING OF THE JOU-JOUS

AN ARABIAN LEGEND

Translated from the Arabic

Far off in the waste of desert sand, The Jim-jam rules in the Jou-jou land: He sits on a throne of red-hot rocks, And moccasin snakes are his curling locks; And the Jou-jous have the conniption fits In the far-off land where the Jim-jam sits— If things are now as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

The country's so dry in Jou-jou land You could wet it down with Sahara sand, And over its boundaries the air Is hotter than 'tis—no matter where: A camel drops down completely tanned When he crosses the line in Jou-jou land— If things are now as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

A traveller once got stuck in the sand On the fiery edge of Jou-jou land; The Jou-jous they confiscated him, And the Jim-jam tore him limb from limb; But, dying, he said: "If eaten I am, I'll disagree with this Dam-jim-jam! He'll think his stomach's a Hoodoo's den!" Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

Then the Jim-jam felt so bad inside, It just about humbled his royal pride. He decided to physic himself with sand, And throw up his job in the Jou-jou land. He descended his throne of red-hot rocks, And hired a barber to cut his locks: The barber died of the got-'em-again. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

And now let every good Mussulman Get all the good from this tale he can. If you wander off on a Jamboree, Across the stretch of the desert sea, Look out that right at the height of your booze You don't get caught by the Jou-jou-jous! You may, for the Jim-jam's at it again. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

Alaric Bertrand Stuart.



TO MARIE

When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blim Twirls the toads in a tooroomaloo, And the whiskery whine of the wheedlesome whim Drowns the roll of the rattatattoo, Then I dream in the shade of the shally-go-shee, And the voice of the bally-molay Brings the smell of stale poppy-cods blummered in blee From the willy-wad over the way. Ah, the shuddering shoo and the blinketty-blanks When the yungalung falls from the bough In the blast of a hurricane's hicketty-hanks On the hills of the hocketty-how! Give the rigamarole to the clangery-whang, If they care for such fiddlededee; But the thingumbob kiss of the whangery-bang Keeps the higgledy-piggle for me.

L'ENVOI

It is pilly-po-doddle and aligobung When the lollypop covers the ground, Yet the poldiddle perishes punketty-pung When the heart jimmy-coggles around. If the soul cannot snoop at the giggle-some cart, Seeking surcease in gluggety-glug, It is useless to say to the pulsating heart, "Panky-doodle ker-chuggetty-chug!"

John Bennett.



MY DREAM

I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week, Beneath the apple-trees; I thought my eyes were big pork-pies, And my nose was Stilton cheese. The clock struck twenty minutes to six, When a frog sat on my knee; I asked him to lend me eighteenpence, But he borrowed a shilling of me.

Unknown.



THE ROLLICKING MASTODON

A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree. His face was plain, but his jocular vein Was a burst of the wildest glee. His voice was strong and his laugh so long That people came many a mile, And offered to pay a guinea a day For the fractional part of a smile.

The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide— Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride; And oh! so proud of his jocular vein Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, "I feel that I need some air, For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, As well as a gloss for the hair." So he skipped along and warbled a song In his own triumphulant way. His smile was bright and his skip was light As he chirruped his roundelay.

The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, And sang what Mastodons call a song; But every note of it seemed to pain The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

A Little Peetookle came over the hill, Dressed up in a bollitant coat; And he said, "You need some harroway seed, And a little advice for your throat." The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, There's a chance for your taste to grow. If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find How little, how little you know."

The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; For he felt it a sort of a musical stain On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?" Said the Little Peetookle. "Dear me! It certainly seems your horrible screams Intended for music must be!" The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped, And murmured, "Good morning, my dear! I never will sing to a sensitive thing That shatters a song with a sneer!"

The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu." Of course 'twas a sensible thing to do; For Little Peetookle is spared the strain Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

Arthur Macy.



NONSENSE VERSES

THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

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

THE LAZY ROOF

The Roof it has a Lazy Time A-lying in the Sun; The Walls they have to Hold Him Up; They do Not Have Much Fun!

MY FEET

My feet, they haul me Round the House, They Hoist me up the Stairs; I only have to Steer them and They Ride me Everywheres.

Gelett Burgess.



SPIRK TROLL-DERISIVE

The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon, And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." The quavering shriek of the Fliupthecreek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star.

The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wig On the opposite side of his head; And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies To plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes.

The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance; And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub! And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail!" While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail.

James Whitcomb Riley.



THE MAN IN THE MOON

Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon, "My! Sakes! What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon But people that's been up to see him like Me, And calls on him frequent and intimutly, Might drop a few hints that would interest you Clean! Through! If you wanted 'em to— Some actual facts that might interest you!

"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back Whee! Whimm! Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun,— So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctor's advise— My! Eyes! But isn't he wise— To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?

"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear— Whee! Whing! What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,— There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,— He calls it a dimple,—but dimples stick in,— Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! Whang! Ho! Why certainly so!— It might be a dimple turned over, you know!

"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee, Gee! Whizz! What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan, Whing! Whann! What a marvellous man! What a very remarkably marvellous man!

"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man, "Gits! So! Sullonesome, you know! Up there by himself since creation began!— That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,— Till—well, if it wasn't for Jimmy-cum-Jim, Dadd! Limb! I'd go pardners with him! Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"

James Whitcomb Riley.



THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG

Out on the margin of moonshine land, Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Out where the whing-whang loves to stand Writing his name with his tail on the sand, And wiping it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks, Crouching low by the winding creeks, And holding his breath for weeks and weeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things! Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, 'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings, And bridal jewels of fangs and stings, And she sits and as sadly and softly sings As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings; Tickle me, dear; tickle me here; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

James Whitcomb Riley.



THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO

I

On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle,— These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

II

Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking, "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

III

"Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, "I am tired of living singly,— On this coast so wild and shingly,— I'm a-weary of my life; If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

IV

"On this Coast of Coromandel Shrimps and watercresses grow, Prawns are plentiful and cheap," Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "You shall have my chairs and candle, And my jug without a handle! Gaze upon the rolling deep (Fish is plentiful and cheap): As the sea, my love is deep!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

V

Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,— "Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! I would be your wife most gladly!" (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) "But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

VI

"Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,— Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.) Dorking fowls delights to send, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle, And your jug without a handle,— I can merely be your friend! Should my Jones more Dorkings send, I will give you three, my friend! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

VII

"Though you've such a tiny body, And your head so large doth grow,— Though your hat may blow away, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy, Yet I wish that I could modi- fy the words I needs must say! Will you please to go away? That is all I have to say, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"

VIII

Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle. "You're the Cove," he said, "for me: On your back beyond the sea, Turtle, you shall carry me!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

IX

Through the silent roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. With a sad primaeval motion Toward the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well, Holding fast upon his shell. "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!" Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

X

From the Coast of Coromandel Did that Lady never go, On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On the little heap of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

Edward Lear.



THE JUMBLIES

I

They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to sea. And when the sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig: In a sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

II

They sailed away in a sieve, they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. And every one said who saw them go, "Oh! won't they soon be upset, you know? For the sky is dark and the voyage is long, And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

III

The water it soon came in, it did; The water it soon came in: So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat; And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar; And each of them said, "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our sieve we spin." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

IV

And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballoo! How happy we are When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! And all night long, in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail In the shade of the mountains brown." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

V

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,— To a land all covered with trees; And they bought an owl and a useful cart, And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, And a hive of silvery bees; And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, And no end of Stilton cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

VI

And in twenty years they all came back,— In twenty years or more; And every one said, "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore." And they drank their health, and gave them a feast— Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, "If we only live, We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, To the hills of the Chankly Bore." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

Edward Lear.



THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES

The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all," He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!" And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink Lavender water tinged with pink; For she said, "The World in general knows There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

The Pobble who has no toes Swam across the Bristol Channel; But before he set out he wrapped his nose In a piece of scarlet flannel. For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm Can came to his toes if his nose is warm; And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes Are safe—provided he minds his nose."

The Pobble swam fast and well, And when boats or ships came near him, He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell So that all the world could hear him. And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, When they saw him nearing the farther side, "He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore— The shore of the Bristol Channel, A sea-green Porpoise carried away His wrapper of scarlet flannel. And when he came to observe his feet, Formerly garnished with toes so neat, His face at once became forlorn On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew, From that dark day to the present, Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes, In a manner so far from pleasant. Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, Or crafty mermaids stole them away, Nobody knew; and nobody knows How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes Was placed in a friendly Bark, And they rowed him back and carried him up To his Aunt Jobiska's Park. And she made him a feast at his earnest wish, Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes."

Edward Lear.



THE NEW VESTMENTS

There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess, Who invented a purely original dress; And when it was perfectly made and complete, He opened the door and walked into the street.

By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread, In the middle of which he inserted his head; His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice, The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice; His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes, His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose; His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops; His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.

His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border, And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order. And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather, A Cloak of green Cabbage leaves, stitched all together.

He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings and Boys; And from every long street and dark lane in the town Beasts, Birdies and Boys in a tumult rushed down. Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage leaf Cloak; Four Apes seized his girdle which vanished like smoke; Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat, And the tails were devoured by an ancient He Goat. An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies; And while they were growling and mumbling the Chops Ten Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops. He tried to run back to his house, but in vain, For scores of fat Pigs came again and again; They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors, They tore off his Stockings, his Shoes and his Drawers. And now from the housetops with screechings descend Striped, spotted, white, black and grey Cats without end; They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat, When Crows, Ducks and Hens made a mincemeat of that. They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice; They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,— Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all. And he said to himself as he bolted the door, "I will not wear a similar dress any more, Any more, any more, any more, nevermore!"

Edward Lear.



THE TWO OLD BACHELORS

Two old Bachelors were living in one house; One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse, "This happens just in time, for we've nothing in the house, Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey, And what to do for dinner,—since we haven't any money? And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?"

Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin, "We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin'! If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well, But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell!"

And then those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up an down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round.

But some one said, "A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth; And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,— An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up and seize him by the toes,—all studious as he sits,— And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits! Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps), And your Stuffin' will be ready, and very good—perhaps."

And then those two old Bachelors, without loss of time, The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book. "You earnest Sage!" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in! We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin'!"

But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took; And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,— At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town; And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin') The Mouse had fled—and previously had eaten up the Muffin.

They left their home in silence by the once convivial door; And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.

Edward Lear.



JABBERWOCKY

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought. So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through, and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! callay!" He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll.



WAYS AND MEANS

I'll tell thee everything I can; There's little to relate. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. "Who are you, aged man?" I said, "And how is it you live?" His answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men," he said, "Who sail on stormy seas; And that's the way I get my bread— A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan To dye one's whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!" And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale; He said, "I go my ways And when I find a mountain-rill I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland's Macassar Oil— Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue; "Come, tell me how you live," I cried, "And what it is you do!"

He said, "I hunt for haddock's eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of Hansom cabs. And that's the way" (he gave a wink) "By which I get my wealth— And very gladly will I drink Your Honor's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai Bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health.

And now if e'er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know— Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly, and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo— That summer evening, long ago, A-sitting on a gate.

Lewis Carroll.



HUMPTY DUMPTY'S RECITATION

"In winter, when the fields are white, I sing this song for your delight——

"In spring, when woods are getting green, I'll try and tell you what I mean:"

"In summer, when the days are long, Perhaps you'll understand the song:

In autumn, when the leaves are brown, Take pen and ink, and write it down."

"I sent a message to the fish: I told them 'This is what I wish.'

The little fishes of the sea, They sent an answer back to me.

The little fishes' answer was, 'We cannot do it, Sir, because——'"

"I sent to them again to say 'It will be better to obey.'

The fishes answered, with a grin, 'Why, what a temper you are in!'

I told them once, I told them twice: They would not listen to advice.

I took a kettle large and new, Fit for the deed I had to do.

My heart went hop, my heart went thump: I filled the kettle at the pump.

Then some one came to me and said, 'The little fishes are in bed.'

I said to him, I said it plain, 'Then you must wake them up again.'

I said it very loud and clear: I went and shouted in his ear.

But he was very stiff and proud: He said, 'You needn't shout so loud!'

And he was very proud and stiff: He said, 'I'd go and wake them, if——'

I took a corkscrew from the shelf: I went to wake them up myself.

And when I found the door was locked, I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.

And when I found the door was shut, I tried to turn the handle, but——"

Lewis Carroll.



SOME HALLUCINATIONS

He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. "At length I realise," he said, "The bitterness of Life!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece. "Unless you leave this house," he said, "I'll send for the Police!"

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. "The one thing I regret," he said, "Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the 'bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus: "If this should stay to dine," he said, "There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage-Stamp. "You'd best be getting home," he said; "The nights are very damp!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. "Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. "Were I to swallow this," he said, "I should be very ill!"

Lewis Carroll.



SING FOR THE GARISH EYE

Sing for the garish eye, When moonless brandlings cling! Let the froddering crooner cry, And the braddled sapster sing. For never, and never again, Will the tottering beechlings play, For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May!

The wracking globe unstrung, Unstrung in the frittering light Of a moon that knows no day, Of a day that knows no night! Diving away in the crowd Of sparkling frets in spray, The bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May!

Hasten, O hapful blue, Blue, of the shimmering brow, Hasten the deed to do That shall roddle the welkin now! For never again shall a cloud Out-thribble the babbling day, When bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May!

W. S. Gilbert.



THE SHIPWRECK

Upon the poop the captain stands, As starboard as may be; And pipes on deck the topsail hands To reef the topsail-gallant strands Across the briny sea.

"Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!" The captain loudly cried; "Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay! For we must luff for Falmouth Bay Before to-morrow's tide."

The good ship was a racing yawl, A spare-rigged schooner sloop, Athwart the bows the taffrails all In grummets gay appeared to fall, To deck the mainsail poop.

But ere they made the Foreland Light, And Deal was left behind, The wind it blew great gales that night, And blew the doughty captain tight, Full three sheets in the wind.

And right across the tiller head The horse it ran apace, Whereon a traveller hitched and sped Along the jib and vanished To heave the trysail brace.

What ship could live in such a sea? What vessel bear the shock? "Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee! Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree, With many a running block!"

And right upon the Scilly Isles The ship had run aground; When lo! the stalwart Captain Giles Mounts up upon the gaff and smiles, And slews the compass round.

"Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry, And scandalize the skiff; As taut and hoisted high and dry They see the ship unstoppered lie Upon the sea-girt cliff.

And since that day in Falmouth Bay, As herring-fishers trawl, The younkers hear the boatswains say How Captain Giles that awful day Preserved the sinking yawl.

E. H. Palmer.



UFFIA

When sporgles spanned the floreate mead And cogwogs gleet upon the lea, Uffia gopped to meet her love Who smeeged upon the equat sea.

Dately she walked aglost the sand; The boreal wind seet in her face; The moggling waves yalped at her feet; Pangwangling was her pace.

Harriet R. White.



'TIS SWEET TO ROAM

'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light Resounds across the deep; And the crystal song of the woodbine bright Hushes the rocks to sleep, And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon Is bathed in a crumbling dew, And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout, To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!

Unknown.



THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN

There were three jovial huntsmen, As I have heard them say, And they would go a-hunting All on a summer's day.

All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind.

One said it was a ship, The other said Nay; The third said it was a house With the chimney blown away.

And all the night they hunted, And nothing could they find; But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind.

One said it was the moon, The other said Nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o't cut away.

Unknown.



KING ARTHUR

When good King Arthur ruled the land, He was a goodly king: He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag-pudding.

A bag-pudding the king did make, And stuffed it well with plums; And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs.

The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried.

Unknown.



HYDER IDDLE

Hyder iddle diddle dell, A yard of pudding is not an ell; Not forgetting tweedle-dye, A tailor's goose will never fly.

Unknown.



THE OCEAN WANDERER

Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean wave Through realms that rove not, clouds that cannot save, Sinks in the sunshine; dazzles o'er the tomb And mocks the mutiny of Memory's gloom. Oh! who can feel the crimson ecstasy That soothes with bickering jar the Glorious Tree? O'er the high rock the foam of gladness throws, While star-beams lull Vesuvius to repose: Girds the white spray, and in the blue lagoon, Weeps like a walrus o'er the waning moon? Who can declare?—not thou, pervading boy Whom pibrochs pierce not, crystals cannot cloy;— Not thou soft Architect of silvery gleams, Whose soul would simmer in Hesperian streams, Th' exhaustless fire—the bosom's azure bliss, That hurtles, life-like, o'er a scene like this;— Defies the distant agony of Day— And sweeps o'er hecatombs—away! away! Say shall Destruction's lava load the gale, The furnace quiver and the mountain quail? Say shall the son of Sympathy pretend His cedar fragrance with our Chief's to blend? There, where the gnarled monuments of sand Howl their dark whirlwinds to the levin brand; Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog, Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog, Impetuous arrant toadstool; Thundering quince, Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince, Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun, Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun, Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting, Heav'n-born Insanity, courageous thing. Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all, Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall.

Unknown.



SCIENTIFIC PROOF

If we square a lump of pemmican And cube a pot of tea, Divide a musk ox by the span From noon to half-past three; If we calculate the Eskimo By solar parallax, Divide the sextant by a floe And multiply the cracks By nth-powered igloos, we may prove All correlated facts.

If we prolongate the parallel Indefinitely forth, And cube a sledge till we can tell The real square root of North; Bisect a seal and bifurcate The tangent with a pack Of Polar ice, we get the rate Along the Polar track, And proof of corollary things Which otherwise we lack.

If we multiply the Arctic night By X times ox times moose, And build an igloo on the site Of its hypotenuse; If we circumscribe an arc about An Arctic dog and weigh A segment of it, every doubt Is made as clear as day. We also get the price of ice F. O. B. Baffin's Bay.

If we amplify the Arctic breeze By logarithmic signs, And run through the isosceles Imaginary lines, We find that twice the half of one Is equal to the whole. Which, when the calculus is done, Quite demonstrates the Pole. It also gives its length and breadth And what's the price of coal.

J. W. Foley.



THE THINGUMBOB

A PASTEL

The Thingumbob sat at eventide, On the shore of a shoreless sea, Expecting an unexpected attack From something it could not foresee.

A still calm rests on the angry waves, The low wind whistles a mournful tune, And the Thingumbob sighs to himself, "Alas, I've had no supper now since noon."

Unknown.



WONDERS OF NATURE

Ah! who has seen the mailed lobster rise, Clap her broad wings, and, soaring, claim the skies? When did the owl, descending from her bower, Crop, 'midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flower; Or the young heifer plunge, with pliant limb, In the salt wave, and, fish-like, try to swim? The same with plants, potatoes 'tatoes breed, The costly cabbage springs from cabbage-seed; Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed; Nor e'er did cooling cucumbers presume To flower like myrtle, or like violets bloom.

The Anti-Jacobin.



LINES BY AN OLD FOGY

I'm thankful that the sun and moon Are both hung up so high, That no presumptuous hand can stretch And pull them from the sky. If they were not, I have no doubt But some reforming ass Would recommend to take them down And light the world with gas.

Unknown.



A COUNTRY SUMMER PASTORAL

As written by a learned scholar of the city from knowledge derived from etymological deductions rather than from actual experience.

I would flee from the city's rule and law, From its fashion and form cut loose, And go where the strawberry grows on its straw, And the gooseberry on its goose; Where the catnip tree is climbed by the cat As she crouches for her prey— The guileless and unsuspecting rat On the rattan bush at play.

I will watch at ease for the saffron cow And the cowlet in their glee, As they leap in joy from bough to bough On the top of the cowslip tree; Where the musical partridge drums on his drum, And the dog devours the dogwood plum And the wood chuck chucks his wood, In the primitive solitude.

And then to the whitewashed dairy I'll turn, Where the dairymaid hastening hies, Her ruddy and golden-haired butter to churn From the milk of her butterflies; And I'll rise at morn with the early bird, To the fragrant farm-yard pass, When the farmer turns his beautiful herd Of grasshoppers out to grass.

Unknown.



TURVEY TOP

'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawn That into a doze I chanced to drop, And thence awoke in the grey of dawn, In the wonder-land of Turvey Top.

A land so strange I never had seen, And could not choose but look and laugh— A land where the small the great includes, And the whole is less than the half!

A land where the circles were not lines Round central points, as schoolmen show, And the parallels met whenever they chose, And went playing at touch-and-go!

There—except that every round was square, And save that all the squares were rounds— No surface had limits anywhere, So they never could beat the bounds.

In their gardens, fruit before blossom came, And the trees diminished as they grew; And you never went out to walk a mile, It was the mile that walked to you.

The people there are not tall or short, Heavy or light, or stout or thin, And their lives begin where they should leave off, Or leave off where they should begin.

There childhood, with naught of childish glee, Looks on the world with thoughtful brow; 'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow, And cry "We have done with it now!";

A singular race! what lives they spent! Got up before they went to bed! And never a man said what he meant, Or a woman meant what she said.

They blended colours that will not blend, All hideous contrasts voted sweet; In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd, And considered it rather neat.

They didn't believe in the wise and good, Said the best were worst, the wisest fools; And 'twas only to have their teachers taught That they founded national schools.

They read in "books that are no books," Their classics—chess-boards neatly bound; Those their greatest authors who never wrote, And their deepest the least profound.

Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land, A curious people, as you will own; But are there none of the race abroad, Are no specimens elsewhere known?

Well, I think that he whose views of life Are crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd, Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes— Sees himself and believes it God,

Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill, Curses a world he cannot mend; Who measures life by the rule of wrong And abuses its aim and end,

The man who stays when he ought to move, And only goes when he ought to stop— Is strangely like the folk in my dream, And would flourish in Turvey Top.

William Sawyer.



A BALLAD OF BEDLAM

O lady wake!—the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last, We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar. Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine. To some rich desert fly with me.

Unknown.



XIV

NATURAL HISTORY



THE FASTIDIOUS SERPENT

There was a snake that dwelt in Skye, Over the misty sea, oh; He lived upon nothing but gooseberry pie For breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.

Now gooseberry pie—as is very well known,— Over the misty sea, oh, Is not to be found under every stone, Nor yet upon every tree, oh.

And being so ill to please with his meat, Over the misty sea, oh; The snake had sometimes nothing to eat, And an angry snake was he, oh.

Then he'd flick his tongue and his head he'd shake, Over the misty sea, oh, Crying, "Gooseberry pie! For goodness' sake, Some gooseberry pie for me, oh."

And if gooseberry pie was not to be had, Over the misty sea, oh, He'd twine and twist like an eel gone mad, Or a worm just stung by a bee, oh.

But though he might shout and wriggle about, Over the misty sea, oh, The snake had often to go without His breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.

Henry Johnstone.



THE LEGEND OF THE FIRST CAM-U-EL

AN ARABIAN APOLOGUE

Across the sands of Syria, Or, possibly, Algeria, Or some benighted neighbourhood of barrenness and drouth, There came the Prophet Sam-u-el Upon the Only Cam-u-el— A bumpy, grumpy Quadruped of discontented mouth.

The atmosphere was glutinous; The Cam-u-el was mutinous; He dumped the pack from off his back; with horrid grunts and squeals He made the desert hideous; With strategy perfidious He tied his neck in curlicues, he kicked his paddy heels.

Then quoth the gentle Sam-u-el, "You rogue, I ought to lam you well! Though zealously I've shielded you from every grief and woe, It seems, to voice a platitude, You haven't any gratitude. I'd like to hear what cause you have for doing thus and so!"

To him replied the Cam-u-el, "I beg your pardon, Sam-u-el. I know that I'm a Reprobate, I know that I'm a Freak; But, oh! this utter loneliness! My too-distinguished Onliness! Were there but other Cam-u-els I wouldn't be Unique."

The Prophet beamed beguilingly. "Aha," he answered, smilingly, "You feel the need of company? I clearly understand. We'll speedily create for you The corresponding mate for you— Ho! presto, change-o, dinglebat!"—he waved a potent hand,

And, lo! from out Vacuity A second Incongruity, To wit, a Lady Cam-u-el was born through magic art. Her structure anatomical, Her form and face were comical; She was, in short, a Cam-u-el, the other's counterpart.

As Spaniards gaze on Aragon, Upon that Female Paragon So gazed the Prophet's Cam-u-el, that primal Desert Ship. A connoisseur meticulous, He found her that ridiculous He grinned from ear to auricle until he split his lip!

Because of his temerity That Cam-u-el's posterity Must wear divided upper lips through all their solemn lives! A prodigy astonishing Reproachfully admonishing Those, wicked, heartless married men who ridicule their wives.

Arthur Guiterman.



UNSATISFIED YEARNING

Down in the silent hallway Scampers the dog about, And whines, and barks, and scratches, In order to get out.

Once in the glittering starlight, He straightway doth begin To set up a doleful howling In order to get in.

R. K. Munkittrick.



KINDLY ADVICE

Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young, In thy country far over the sea, 'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mama, And had several mouthfuls of thee!

Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide The depth of his badgery soul? And think of the tapir, when flashes the lamp O'er the fast and the free flowing bowl.

Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine Ever put up his bactrian back; And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag, Nor venture to give her the sack.

Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope To have such a stomach as it? And when the proud day of your "bridal" shall come, Do give the poor birdie a "bit."

Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget To have it on Tuesday to tea; But butter the crumpets on only one side, Save such as are eaten by thee.

Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal In the light of thy love have a share; And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail, And have lots of larks in its lair!

Be kind to the bustard, that genial bird, And humour its wishes and ways; And when the poor elephant suffers from bile, Then tenderly lace up his stays!

Unknown.



KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf, Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh! Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear, Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare! Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh, And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie! But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,— Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram, And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb. Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp, Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp. Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly, Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry; Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,— Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs, And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs; Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese, And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese. Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive, Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive; When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee— Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.

J. Ashby-Sterry.



TO BE OR NOT TO BE

I

I sometimes think I'd rather crow And be a rooster than to roost And be a crow. But I dunno.

II

A rooster he can roost also, Which don't seem fair when crows can't crow. Which may help some. Still I dunno.

III

Crows should be glad of one thing, though; Nobody thinks of eating crow, While roosters they are good enough For anyone unless they're tough.

IV

There are lots of tough old roosters, though, And anyway a crow can't crow, So mebby roosters stand more show. It looks that way. But I dunno.

Unknown.



THE HEN

Was once a hen of wit not small (In fact, 'twas not amazing), And apt at laying eggs withal, Who, when she'd done, would scream and bawl, As if the house were blazing. A turkey-cock, of age mature, Felt thereat indignation; 'Twas quite improper, he was sure— He would no more the thing endure; So, after cogitation, He to the lady straight repaired, And thus his business he declared: "Madam, pray, what's the matter, That always, when you've laid an egg, You make so great a clatter? I wish you'd do the thing in quiet. Do be advised by me, and try it." "Advised by you!" the lady cried, And tossed her head with proper pride; "And what do you know, now I pray, Of the fashion of the present day, You creature ignorant and low? However, if you want to know, This is the reason why I do it: I lay my egg, and then review it!"

Matthew Claudius.



OF BAITING THE LION

Remembering his taste for blood You'd better bait him with a cow; Persuade the brute to chew the cud Her tail suspended from a bough; It thrills the lion through and through To hear the milky creature moo.

Having arranged this simple ruse, Yourself you climb a neighboring tree; See to it that the spot you choose Commands the coming tragedy; Take up a smallish Maxim gun, A search-light, whisky, and a bun.

It's safer, too, to have your bike Standing immediately below, In case your piece should fail to strike, Or deal an ineffective blow; The Lion moves with perfect grace, But cannot go the scorcher's pace.

Keep open ear for subtle signs; Thus, when the cow profusely moans, That means to say, the Lion dines. The crunching sound, of course, is bones; Silence resumes her ancient reign— This shows the cow is out of pain.

But when a fat and torpid hum Escapes the eater's unctuous nose, Turn up the light and let it come Full on his innocent repose; Then pour your shot between his eyes, And go on pouring till he dies.

Play, even so, discretion's part; Descend with stealth; bring on your gun; Then lay your hand above his heart To see if he is really done; Don't skin him till you know he's dead Or you may perish in his stead!

* * * * *

Years hence, at home, when talk is tall, You'll set the gun-room wide agape, Describing how with just a small Pea-rifle, going after ape You met a Lion unaware, And felled him flying through the air.

Owen Seaman.



THE FLAMINGO

Inspired by reading a chorus of spirits in a German play

First Voice Oh! tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo? Oh! tell me have you ever yet seen him the water in go?

Second voice Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've seen a red long-leg'd Flamingo, Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've there seen him the water in go.

First Voice Oh! tell me did you ever see a bird so funny stand-o When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o?

Second Voice No! in my life I ne'er did see a bird so funny stand-o When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o.

First Voice He has a leg some three feet long, or near it, so they say, Sir. Stiff upon one alone he stands, t'other he stows away, Sir.

Second Voice And what an ugly head he's got! I wonder that he'd wear it. But rather more I wonder that his long, thin neck can bear it.

First voice And think, this length of neck and legs (no doubt they have their uses) Are members of a little frame, much smaller than a goose's!

Both Oh! isn't he a curious bird, that red, long-leg'd Flamingo? A water bird, a gawky bird, a sing'lar bird, by jingo!

Lewis Gaylord Clark.



WHY DOTH A PUSSY CAT?

Why doth a pussy cat prefer, When dozing, drowsy, on the sill, To purr and purr and purr and purr Instead of merely keeping still? With nodding head and folded paws, She keeps it up without a cause.

Why doth she flaunt her lofty tail In such a stiff right-angled pose? If lax and limp she let it trail 'Twould seem more restful, Goodness knows! When strolling 'neath the chairs or bed, She lets it bump above her head.

Why doth she suddenly refrain From anything she's busied in And start to wash, with might and main, Most any place upon her skin? Why doth she pick that special spot, Not seeing if it's soiled or not?

Why doth she never seem to care To come directly when you call, But makes approach from here and there, Or sidles half around the wall? Though doors are opened at her mew, You often have to push her through.

Why doth she this? Why doth she that? I seek for cause—I yearn for clews; The subject of the pussy cat Doth endlessly inspire the mews. Why doth a pussy cat? Ah, me, I haven't got the least idee.

Burges Johnson.



THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER

The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright— And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done— "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead— There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him, But not a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head— Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat— And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more— All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock, Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need; Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed— Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed."

"But not on us," the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said, "Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come, And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "Cut us another slice. I wish you were not quite so deaf— I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick. After we've brought them out so far And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said, "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none— And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll.



NIRVANA

I am A Clam! Come learn of me Unclouded peace and calm content, Serene, supreme tranquillity, Where thoughtless dreams and dreamless thoughts are blent.

When the salt tide is rising to the flood, In billows blue my placid pulp I lave; And when it ebbs I slumber in the mud, Content alike with ooze or crystal wave.

I do not shudder when in chowder stewed, Nor when the Coney Islander engulfs me raw. When in the church soup's dreary solitude Alone I wander, do I shudder? Naw!

If jarring tempests beat upon my bed, Or summer peace there be, I do not care: as I have said, All's one to me; A Clam I am.

Unknown.



THE CATFISH

The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean, The Catfish I bewail. I cannot even think without emotion Of his distressful tail. When with my pencil once I tried to draw one, (I dare not show it here) Mayhap it is because I never saw one, The picture looked so queer. I vision him half feline and half fishy, A paradox in twins, Unmixable as vitriol and vichy— A thing of fur and fins. A feline Tantalus, forever chasing His fishy self to rend; His finny self forever self-effacing In circles without end. This tale may have a Moral running through it As AEsop had in his; If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it, If you know what it is!

Oliver Herford.



WAR RELIEF

"Can you spare a Threepenny bit, Dear Miss Turkey," said Sir Mouse, "For Job's Turkey's benefit? I've engaged the Opera House!"

"Alas! I've naught to spare!" Said Miss Turkey, "save advice, I am getting up a Fair, To relieve the Poor Church Mice."

Oliver Herford.



THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear.



MEXICAN SERENADE

When the little armadillo With his head upon his pillow Sweetly rests, And the parrakeet and lindo Flitting past my cabin window Seek their nests,—

When the mists of even settle Over Popocatapetl, Dropping dew,— Like the condor, over yonder, Still I ponder, ever fonder, Dear, of You!

May no revolution shock you, May the earthquake gently rock you To repose, While the sentimental panthers Sniff the pollen-laden anthers Of the rose!

While the pelican is pining, While the moon is softly shining On the stream, May the song that I am singing Send a tender cadence winging Through your dream!

I have just one wish to utter— That you twinkle through your shutter Like a star, While, according to convention, I shall cas-u-ally mention My guitar.

Senorita Maraquita, Muy bonita, pobracita!— Hear me weep!— But the night is growing wetter, So I guess that you had better Go to sleep.

Arthur Guiterman.



ORPHAN BORN

I am a lone, unfathered chick, Of artificial hatching, A pilgrim in a desert wild, By happier, mothered chicks reviled, From all relationships exiled, To do my own lone scratching.

Fair science smiled upon my birth One raw and gusty morning; But ah, the sounds of barnyard mirth To lonely me have little worth; Alone am I in all the earth— An orphan without borning.

Seek I my mother? I would find A heartless personator; A thing brass-feathered, man-designed, With steam-pipe arteries intermined, And pulseless cotton-batting lined— A patent incubator.

It wearies me to think, you see— Death would be better, rather— Should downy chicks be hatched of me, By fate's most pitiless decree, My piping pullets still would be With never a grandfather.

And when to earth I bid adieu To seek a planet greater, I will not do as others do, Who fly to join the ancestral crew, For I will just be gathered to My incubator.

Robert J. Burdette.



DIVIDED DESTINIES

It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine, And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine, And many, many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke, I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamed that Bandar spoke.

He said: "Oh, man of many clothes! sad crawler on the Hills! Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills! I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress; Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.

"I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide (For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountainside, I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.

"Oh, man of futile fopperies—unnecessary wraps; I own no ponies in the Hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps; I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings, Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on pretty things.

"I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad; But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord. I never heard of fever—dumps nor debts depress my soul; And I pity and despise you!" Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.

His hide was very mangy and his face was very red, And undisguisedly he scratched with energy his head. His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountainside!

So I answered: "Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree Makes thee a gleesome, fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me. Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine; Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot with thine."

Rudyard Kipling.



THE VIPER

Yet another great truth I record in my verse, That some Vipers are venomous, some the reverse; A fact you may prove if you try, By procuring two Vipers and letting them bite; With the first you are only the worse for a fright, But after the second you die.

Hilaire Belloc.



THE LLAMA

The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy, hairy goat, With an indolent expression and an undulating throat, Like an unsuccessful literary man. And I know the place he lives in (or at least I think I do) It is Ecuador, Brazil or Chile—possibly Peru; You must find it in the Atlas if you can.

The Llama of the Pampases you never should confound (In spite of a deceptive similarity of sound), With the Lhama who is Lord of Turkestan. For the former is a beautiful and valuable beast, But the latter is not lovable nor useful in the least; And the Ruminant is preferable surely to the Priest Who battens on the woful superstitions of the East, The Mongol of the Monastery of Shan.

Hilaire Belloc.



THE YAK

As a friend to the children commend me the yak, You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string.

A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich, He will buy you the creature—or else he will not, (I cannot be positive which).



THE FROG

Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog," Or likewise, "Uncle James," Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong," Or, "Billy-Bandy-knees;" The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these.