William E. Aytoun.



LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE

BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS

Stiff are the warrior's muscles, Congeal'd, alas! his chyle; No more in hostile tussles Will he excite his bile. Dry is the epidermis, A vein no longer bleeds— And the communis vermis Upon the warrior feeds.

Compress'd, alas! the thorax, That throbbed with joy or pain; Not e'en a dose of borax Could make it throb again. Dried up the warrior's throat is, All shatter'd too, his head: Still is the epiglottis— The warrior is dead.

Unknown.



LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER, WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME

I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms, As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day; And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms, And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread, Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever, And I look to the moment of parting with dread, For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever. Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart! Thou know'st all its secrets—each joy and each grief; And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race, As thy days are declining I love thee the more, For I feel that thy loss I can never replace— That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years, I cannot I will not forget what thou wert! While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears, In fancy will wash thee once more My Last Shirt .

Unknown.



THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS

Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay, Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms, Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay, Come, call around, a world of country charms. Let all this room, these walls dissolve away, And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place: This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play; Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face; My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream; My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream. The spell is wrought: imagination swells My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells! I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder, And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the winder!

Unknown.



IX

PARODY



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is; Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.

One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew; You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.

One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.



NEPHELIDIA

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death; Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,— "Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die." Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things: Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.



UP THE SPOUT

I

Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say! Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist? Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay— Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due— Promising—not to pay?

II

For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand; Burst worst fate's weight's in one burst gun? A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land? Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer! Reef points, though—understand?

III

I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed! Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes! Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road; Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged— Clogged, water-logged, her load!

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away. No show now how best plough sea's brow, Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day, Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean, With twinkling wrinkles—eh?

V

Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles light Shells' bells—boy's joys that hap to snap! It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spite God's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge— Not proper, is it—quite?

VI

See, fore and aft, life's craft undone! Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea's lark! That gray cold sea's old sprees, begun When men lay dark i' the ark, no spark, All water—just God's fun!

VII

Not bright, at best, his jest to these Seemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin! When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed please Some dumb new grim great whim in him Made Jews take chalk for cheese.

VIII

Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowls Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face! None heard, 'tis odds, his—God's—folk's howls. Now, how must I apply, to try This hookiest-beaked of owls?

Well, I suppose God knows—I don't. Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripes Broad as fen's lands men's hands were wont Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud With birds' words—No! he won't!

X

One never should think good impossible. Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse— His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible By spy—spring's air takes there no care To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!

XI

But gold bells chime in time there, coined— Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—"Read my screed!" Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined (Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth— At once all three purloined!

XII

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt, (Miss this chance, glance untried aside?) John's shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout! Let yet the door gape, store on floor And not a soul about?

XIII

Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I'm Weak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know! But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime. Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn—you spawn Of Jewry! Just in time!

Algernon Charles Swinburne.



IN IMMEMORIAM

We seek to know, and knowing seek; We seek, we know, and every sense Is trembling with the great Intense And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft, We know enough, and should no more; And yet we skim through Fancy's lore And look to earth and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom; I know it not, nor seek to know; I only see it swell and grow, And more than this world would presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill, And I, unchanged where all is changed; It seems unreal; I own it strange, Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide, Raise quiring on its carol-tune; I watch the golden-sickled moon, And clearer voices call beside.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; O Moon! whose golden sickle's gone; O Voices all! like ye I die!

Cuthbert Bede.



LUCY LAKE

Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown, But somewhat underbrained. She did not know enough, I own, To go in when it rained. Yet Lucy was constrained to go; Green bedding,—you infer. Few people knew she died, but oh, The difference to her!

Newton Mackintosh.



THE COCK AND THE BULL

You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day— I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech, As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur (You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?) Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i' my poke, having given for same By way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange— "Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term— One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?— What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see—bar a spit o' rain!) In February, eighteen sixty nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei, Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne.

Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum—what you will— Of the impending eighty thousand lines. "Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.

Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling—and for matter o' that, the pence— I had o' course upo' me—wi' me say— (Mecum's the Latin, make a note o' that) When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratched ear, wiped snout,

(Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff'd—tch!—at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed, Haw-haw'd (not he-haw'd, that's another guess thing): Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat; And in vestibulo, i' the lobby to-wit, (Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir,) Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i' in my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you!) cas o' rain, I flopped forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes, (I do assure you there be ten of them) And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call-toy, This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D. That's proven without aid for mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated cardinal. (Isn't it, old Fatchops? You're in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling—having i' fact a lot— And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (lapis, lapidis, di, dem, de— What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchops, eh?) O, the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun, For one-and-fourpence. Here we are again. Now Law steps in, bewigged, voluminous-jaw'd; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head. Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.

At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) vice versa all the coin, Rer juris operationem, vests I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom; In saecula saeculo-o-orum; (I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them ... Confer some idiot on Conveyancing. Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, Quodcunque pertinet ad em rem, (I fancy, sir, my Latin's rather pat) Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should, Subaudi caetera—clap we to the close— For what's the good of law in such a case o' the kind Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.

Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him, (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)— And paid for 't, like a gen'lman, on the nail. "Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit. Fiddlepin's end! Get out, you blazing ass! Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby me! Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?" —There's the transaction viewed in the vendor's light.

Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes, The scum o' the Kennel, cream o' the filth-heap—Faugh! Aie, aie, aie, aie! [Greek: otototototoi], ('Stead which we blurt out, Hoighty toighty now)— And the baker and candlestick maker, and Jack and Gill. Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that, Ask the Schoolmaster, Take Schoolmaster first. He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it rite on the square, And carry it off per saltum, jauntily Propria quae maribus, gentleman's property now (Agreeable to the law explained above). In proprium usum, for his private ends, The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit I' the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by, (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,) Then abiit—What's the Ciceronian phrase? Excessit, evasit, erupit—off slogs boy;

Off like bird, avi similis—(you observed The dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan!)—Anglice Off in three flea skips. Hactenus, so far, So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male,— Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag? I did once hitch the Syntax into verse Verbum personale, a verb personal, Concordat—ay, "agrees," old Fatchops—cum Nominativo, with its nominative, Genere, i' point of gender, numero, O' number, et persona, and person. Ut, Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et and, Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.

You see the trick on't, though, and can yourself Continue the discourse ad libitum. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at; And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands Extend from here to Mesopotamy.

Charles Stuart Calverley.



BALLAD

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

The piper he piped on the hilltop high, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said "I die," and the goose asked "Why?" And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard— The connection of which the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

PART II

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

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

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

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

Charles Stuart Calverley.



DISASTER

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

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

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

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

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

Charles Stuart Calverley.



WORDSWORTHIAN REMINISCENCE

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

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

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

Unknown.



INSPECT US

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

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

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

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

Edith Daniell.



THE MESSED DAMOZEL

AT THE CUBIST EXHIBITION

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

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

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

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

Charles Hanson Towne.



A MELTON MOWBRAY PORK-PIE

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

Richard Le Gallienne.



ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unknown.



AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

H. D. Traill.



WHENCENESS OF THE WHICH

SOME DISTANCE AFTER TENNYSON

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

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

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

Unknown.



THE LITTLE STAR

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

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

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

Unknown.



THE ORIGINAL LAMB

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

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

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

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

Unknown.



SAINTE MARGERIE

Slim feet than lilies tenderer,— Margerie! That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were;— C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

White as a shroud the silken gown,— Margerie! That flowed from shoulder to ankle down, With clear blue shadows along it thrown; C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

On back and bosom withouten braid,— Margerie! In crisped glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed;— C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

Eyes, like a dim sea, viewed from far,— Margerie! Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet that lips of mortals are;— C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

The chamber walls are cracked and bare;— Margerie! Without the gossips stood astare At men her bed away that bare;— C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

Five pennies lay her hand within,— Margerie! So she her fair soul's weal might win, Little she reck'd of dule or teen;— C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

Dank straw from dunghill gathered,— Margerie! Where fragrant swine have made their bed, Thereon her body shall be laid;— C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

Three pennies to the poor in dole,— Margerie! One to the clerk her knell shall toll, And one to masses for her soul;— C'est ca Sainte Margerie!

Unknown.



ROBERT FROST

RELATES THE DEATH OF THE TIRED MAN

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

Louis Untermeyer.



OWEN SEAMAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Louis Untermeyer.



THE MODERN HIAWATHA

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

Unknown.



SOMEWHERE-IN-EUROPE-WOCKY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

F. G. Hartswick.



RIGID BODY SINGS

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

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

J. C. Maxwell.



A BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR

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

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

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

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

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

Unknown.



FATHER WILLIAM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lewis Carroll.



THE POETS AT TEA

1—(Macaulay, who made it)

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

2—(Tennyson, who took it hot)

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

3—(Swinburne, who let it get cold)

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

4—(Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it)

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

5—(Browning, who treated it allegorically)

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

6—(Wordsworth, who gave it away)

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

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

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

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

7—(Poe, who got excited over it)

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

8—(Rossetti, who took six cups of it)

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

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

9—(Burns, who liked it adulterated)

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

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

Barry Pain.



HOW OFTEN

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

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

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

Ben King.



IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

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

Ben King.



"THE DAY IS DONE"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



JACOB

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

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

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



BALLAD OF THE CANAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES

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

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

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

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



REUBEN

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



THE WIFE

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

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



WHEN LOVELY WOMAN

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

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ph[oe]be Cary.



A PORTRAIT

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

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

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

John Keats.



ANNABEL LEE

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

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

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

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

Stanley Huntley.



HOME SWEET HOME WITH VARIATIONS

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

FANTASIA

I

The original theme as John Howard Payne wrote it:

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

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

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

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

II

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

('Mid pleasures and palaces—)

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

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

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

(Variation: An exile from home—)

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

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

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

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV

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

RONDEAU

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

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

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

V

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

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

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

VI

(As Walt Whitman might have written all around it.)

I

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

H. C. Bunner.



AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS

IN THE ORIGINAL

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

(As Austin Dobson writes it.)

TRIOLET

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

(As Mr. Browning has it.)

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

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

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

(As Longfellow might have done it.)

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

(How Andrew Lang sings it.)

RONDEAU

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

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

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

(Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne's idea.)

VILLANELLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

A. C. Wilkie.



MORE IMPRESSIONS

LA FUITE DES OIES

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

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

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

Oscuro Wildgoose.



NURSERY RHYMES A LA MODE

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

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

POSTSCRIPT

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

Unknown.



A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD

TO HIS LILY

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

My long lithe lily, my languid lily, My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win— Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily, How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly? What shall I weave for thee—what shall I spin— Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai? Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play On the weird bird-whistle, sweeter than sin, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long lithe lily-love, men may grin— Say that I'm soft and supremely silly— What care I while you whisper stilly; What care I while you smile? Not a pin! While you smile, you whisper—'Tis sweet to decay?

I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, Upside down in an intense way, In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.

Unknown.



GILLIAN

Jack and Jille I have made me an end of the moods of maidens, I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love; From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens, The woes that madden, the words that move. In the dim last days of a spent September, When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain; Before you forget, and while I remember, I cry as I shall cry never again.

Went up a hylle Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels Of misty meadows, and streams that stray; We raised us at eve from our rosy revels, With the faces aflame for the death of the day; With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver, Low lids that cling to the last of love: We left the levels, we left the river, And turned us and toiled to the air above.

To fetch a paile of water, By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow, The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips— Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not tomorrow The wells of Lethe for wearied lips. With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter, With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray, We bowed us and bent to the white well-water, We dipped and we drank it and bore away.

Jack felle downe The low light trembled on languid lashes, The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown, Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes, As night's dim net on the day was thrown. What was it meant for, or made for, that minute, But that our lives in delight should be dipt? Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in it Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt.

And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after. Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder, Love from our limbs as a shift was shed, But paused a moment, to watch with wonder The pale pained body, the bursten head. While our sad souls still with regrets are riven, While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows, I have set you free, and I stand forgiven— And now I had better go call my cows.

Unknown.



EXTRACTS FKOM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR CAYENNE

Wake! for the Hack can scatter into flight Shakespeare and Dante in a single Night! The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikes Our Modern Literature with blithering Blight.

Before Historical Romances died, Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried, "When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale, Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?"

A Book of Limericks—Nonsense, anyhow— Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue— Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!

Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears To-Day of dreary Debt and sad Arrears; To-morrow! Why, To-Morrow I may see My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's.

And we, that now within the Editor's Room Make merry while we have our little Boom, Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set— Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!

As then the Poet for his morning Sup Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts That Someone may, before you burn them up!

And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, End in the Garbage-Barrel—take no Heed; Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.

So, when Who's-Who records your silly Name, You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame; And though ten thousand other Names are there, You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!

Why, if an Author can fling Art aside, And in a Book of Balderdash take pride, Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for him A Conscientious Novel to have tried?

And fear not, if the Editor refuse Your work, he has no more from which to choose; The Literary Microbe shall bring forth Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use.

The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines; For her the Home, and Mother-Tale, and Scenes Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End— The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.

But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot Which these immortal Elements has not, You gaze To-Day upon a Slip, which reads, "The Editor Regrets" and such-like Rot.

Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use That subtle Touch which Editors refuse; Better be jocund at two cents a word, Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!

Strange—is it not?—that of the Authors who Publish in England, such a mighty Few Make a Success, though here they score a Hit? The British Public knows a Thing or Two!

The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose, But what the Editor demands, he shows; And he who buys three thousand words of Drool, He knows what People want—you Bet He knows!

Would but some winged Angel bring the News Of Critic who reads Books that he Reviews, And make the stern Reviewer do as well Himself, before he Meed of Praise refuse!

Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeed In boiling down the Million Books we read Into One Book, and edit that a Bit There'd be a World's Best Literature indeed!

Gelett Burgess.



DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB

It is with pleasure that we announce our ability to offer to the public the papers of the Re-Echo Club. This club, somewhat after the order of the Echo Club, late of Boston, takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:

"I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one."

The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:

Hence, vain, deluding cows. The herd of folly, without colour bright, How little you delight, Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse! But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature! Hail, divinest purple creature! Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight. And though I'd like, just once, to see thee, I never, never, never'd be thee!

MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Cow thou never wert; But in life to cheer it Playest thy full part In purple lines of unpremeditated art.

The pale purple colour Melts around thy sight Like a star, but duller, In the broad daylight. I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.

We look before and after At cattle as they browse; Our most hearty laughter Something sad must rouse. Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.

MR. W. WORDSWORTH:

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dee; A Cow whom there were few to praise And very few to see.

A violet by a mossy stone Greeting the smiling East Is not so purple, I must own, As that erratic beast. She lived unknown, that Cow, and so I never chanced to see; But if I had to be one, oh, The difference to me!

MR. T. GRAY:

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; I watched them slowly wend their weary way, But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see. Full many a cow of purplest ray serene Is haply grazing where I may not see; Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween, But neither of these creatures would I be.

MR. J. W. RILEY:

There, little Cow, don't cry! You are brindle and brown, I know. And with wild, glad hues Of reds and blues, You never will gleam and glow. But though not pleasing to the eye, There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.

LORD A. TENNYSON:

Ask me no more. A cow I fain would see Of purple tint, like to a sun-soaked grape— Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape— But such a creature I would never be— Ask me no more.

MR. R. BROWNING:

All that I know Of a certain Cow Is it can throw, Somewhere, somehow, Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue (That makes purple, 'tis said). I would fain see, too. This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!

MR. J. KEATS:

A cow of purple is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases. I have never Seen this phenomenon. Yet ever keep A brave lookout; lest I should be asleep When she comes by. For, though I would not be one, I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.

MR. D. G. ROSSETTI:

The Purple Cow strayed in the glade; (Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!) She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed (And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)

I've never seen her—nay, not I; (Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!) Yet were I that Cow I should want to die. (And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!) But in vain my tears I strew.

MR. T. ALDRICH:

Somewhere in some faked nature place, In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land, Two darkling shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand.

"And who are you?" said each to each; "Tell me your title, anyhow." One said, "I am the Papal Bull," "And I the Purple Cow."

MR. E. ALLAN POE:

Open then I flung a shutter, And, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor. Not the least obeisance made she, Not a moment stopped or stayed she, But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door. On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.

And that Purple Cow unflitting Still is sitting—still is sitting On that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door, And her horns have all the seeming Of a demon's that is screaming, And the arc-light o'er her streaming Casts her shadow on the floor. And my soul from out that pool of Purple shadow on the floor, Shall be lifted Nevermore!

MR. H. LONGFELLOW:

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wing of night As ballast is wafted downward From an air-ship in its flight.

I dream of a purple creature Which is not as kine are now; And resembles cattle only As Cowper resembles a cow.

Such cows have power to quiet Our restless thoughts and rude; They come like the Benedictine That follows after food.

MR. A. SWINBURNE:

Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision, Oh, purple, impalpable Cow, Do you browse in a Dream Field Elysian, Are you purpling pleasantly now? By the side of wan waves do you languish? Or in the lithe lush of the grove? While vainly I search in my anguish, O Bovine of mauve!

Despair in my bosom is sighing, Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest; Though cows of rare sorts I am buying, Not one breathes a balm to my breast. Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion, When I such a glory might see! But a cow of a purple persuasion I never would be.

MR. A. DOBSON:

I'd love to see A Purple Cow, Oh, Goodness me! I'd love to see But not to be One. Anyhow, I'd love to see A Purple Cow.

MR. O. HERFORD:

Children, observe the Purple Cow, You cannot see her, anyhow; And, little ones, you need not hope Your eyes will e'er attain such scope. But if you ever have a choice To be, or see, lift up your voice And choose to see. For surely you Don't want to browse around and moo.

MR. H. C. BUNNER:

Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the cows are purple? Ah, woe is me! I never hope On such a sight my eyes to ope; But as I sing in merry glee Along the road to Arcady, Perchance full soon I may espy A Purple Cow come dancing by. Heigho! I then shall see one. Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay, And garlanded with rosy may,— A tricksy sight. Still I must say I'd rather see than be one.

MR. A. SWINBURNE:

(Who was so enthused that he made a second attempt.)

Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously dreaming Cows there may be of a passionate purple,—cows of a violent violet hue;

Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a demi-delirious dreaming— Ne'er may I happily harbour a hesitant hope in my heart that my dream may come true.

Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one. Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily wearily watching I wait;

Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling and throbbing; to see is a glorious gain—but to be one! That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller, frightfuller fate!

MR. R. KIPLING:

In the old ten-acre pasture, Lookin' eastward toward a tree, There's a Purple Cow a-settin' And I know she thinks of me. For the wind is in the gum-tree, And the hay is in the mow, And the cow-bells are a-calling "Come and see a Purple Cow!"

But I am not going now, Not at present, anyhow, For I am not fond of purple, and I can't abide a cow; No, I shall not go to-day, Where the Purple Cattle play. But I think I'd rather see one Than to be one, anyhow.

Carolyn Wells.



STYX RIVER ANTHOLOGY

ALICE BEN BOLT

I couldn't help weeping with delight When the boys kissed me and called me sweet. It was foolish, I know, To weep when I was glad; But I was young and I wasn't very well. I was nervous, weak, anemic, A sort of human mimosa; and I hadn't much brains, And my mind wouldn't jell, anyhow. That's why I trembled with fear when they frowned. But they didn't frown often, For I was sweetly pretty and most pliable. But, oh, the grim joke of asking Ben Bolt if he remembered me! Me! Why, it was Ben Bolt who— Well, never mind. He paid for this granite slab, And it's as stylish as any in the church yard. But I wish I had a more becoming shroud.

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL

I was one of those long, lanky, loose-jointed girls Who fool people into believing They are willowy and psychic and mysterious. I was always hungry; I never ate enough to satisfy me, For fear I'd get fat. Oh, how little the world knows of the bitterness of life To a woman who tries to keep thin! Many thought I died of a broken heart, But it was an empty stomach. Then Mr. Rossetti wrote about me. He described me all dolled up in some ladies' wearing apparel That I wore at a fancy ball. I had fasted all day, and had had my hair marcelled And my face corrected. And I was a dream. But he seemed to think he really saw me, Seemed to think I appeared to him after my death. Oh, fudge! Those spiritualists are always seeing things!

ENOCH ARDEN

Yes, it was the eternal triangle, Only they didn't call it that then. Of course everybody thought I was all broken up When I found Annie wed to Philip, But, as a matter of fact, I didn't care so much; For she was one of those self-starting weepers, And a man can't stand blubbering all the time. And, then, of course, When I was off on that long sea trip— Oh, well, you know what sailors are.

LITTLE EVA

To be honest, I didn't mind dying, For I had One of these here now Dressy deaths. It was staged, you know, And, like Samson, My death brought down the house. I was a smarty kid, And they were less frequent then than later. Oh, I was the Mary Pickford of my time, And I rest content With my notoriety.

LUCY

Yes, I am in my grave, And you bet it makes a difference to him! For we were to be married,—at least, I think we were, And he'd made me promise to deed him the house. But I had to go and get appendicitis, And they took me to the hospital. It was a nice hospital, clean, And Tables Reserved For Ladies. Well, my heart gave out. He came and stood over my grave, And registered deep concern. And now, he's going round with that Hen-minded Hetty What's-her-name! Her with her Whistler's Mother and her Baby Stuart On her best-room wall! And I hate her, and I'm glad she squints. Well, I suppose I lived my life, But it was Life in name only. And I'm mad at the whole world!

OPHELIA

No, it wasn't suicide, But I had heard so much of those mud baths, I thought I'd try one. Ugh! it was a mess! Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me! Had I been Annette Kellerman Or even a real mermaid, I had lived to tell the tale. But I slid down and under, And so Will Shaxpur told it for me. Just as well. But I think my death scene is unexcelled By any in cold print. It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood's All hollow!

CASABLANCA

I played to the Grand Stand! Sure I did, And I made good. Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader? Don't they speak pieces about me Friday afternoons? Don't everybody know the first two lines of my story,— And no more? Say, I was there with the goods, Wasn't I? And it paid. But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then!

ANNABEL LEE

They may say all they like About germs and micro-crocuses,— Or whatever they are! But my set opinion is,— If you want to get a good, old-fashioned chills and fever, Just poke around In a damp, messy place by the sea, Without rubbers on. A good cold wind, Blowing out of a cloud, by night, Will give you a harder shaking ague Than all the bacilli in the Basilica. It did me.

ANGUS MCPHAIRSON

Oh, of course, It's always some dratted petticoat! Just because that little flibbertigibbet, Annie Laurie Had a white throat and a blue e'e, She played the very devil with my peace of mind. She'd dimple at me Till I was aboot crazy; And then laugh at me through her dimples! She was my bespoke. And I'd beg her to have the banns called,— But there was no pinning her down. Well, she was so bonny That like a fool, I said I'd lay me doon And dee for her. And,—like a fool,— I did.

Carolyn Wells.



ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, "SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?"

Shall I, mine affections slack, 'Cause I see a woman's black? Or myself, with care cast down, 'Cause I see a woman brown? Be she blacker than the night, Or the blackest jet in sight! If she be not so to me, What care I how black she be?

Shall my foolish heart be burst, 'Cause I see a woman's curst? Or a thwarting hoggish nature Joined in as bad a feature? Be she curst or fiercer than Brutish beast, or savage man! If she be not so to me, What care I how curst she be?

Shall a woman's vices make Me her vices quite forsake? Or her faults to me made known, Make me think that I have none? Be she of the most accurst, And deserve the name of worst! If she be not so to me, What care I how bad she be?

'Cause her fortunes seem too low, Shall I therefore let her go? He that bears an humble mind And with riches can be kind, Think how kind a heart he'd have, If he were some servile slave! And if that same mind I see What care I how poor she be?

Poor, or bad, or curst, or black, I will ne'er the more be slack! If she hate me (then believe!) She shall die ere I will grieve! If she like me when I woo I can like and love her too! If that she be fit for me! What care I what others be?

Ben Jonson.



SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE

O Season supposed of all free flowers, Made lovely by light of the sun, Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers, Thy singers are surely in fun! Or what is it wholly unsettles Thy sequence of shower and shine, And maketh thy pushings and petals To shrivel and pine?

Why is it that o'er the wild waters That beastly North-Easter still blows, Dust-dimming the eyes of our daughters, Blue-nipping each nice little nose? Why is it these sea-skirted islands Are plagued with perpetual chills, Driving men to Italian or Nile-lands From Albion's ills?

Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee, All sunlit, in luckier lands, With thy garment of greenery round thee, And belted with blossomy bands. From us by the blast thou art drifted, All brag of thy beauties is bosh; When the songs of thy singers are sifted, They simply won't wash.

What lunatic lune, what vain vision, Thy laureate, Springtide, may move To sing thee,—oh, bitter derision! A season of laughter and love? You make a man mad beyond measure, O Spring, and thy lauders like thee: Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures, Are fiddlededee!

Unknown.



THE VILLAGE CHOIR

Half a bar, half a bar, Half a bar onward! Into an awful ditch Choir and precentor hitch, Into a mess of pitch, They led the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered. Oh, that precentor's look, When the sopranos took Their own time and hook From the Old Hundred! Screeched all the trebles here, Boggled the tenors there, Raising the parson's hair, While his mind wandered; Theirs not to reason why This psalm was pitched too high: Theirs but to gasp and cry Out the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered.

Stormed they with shout and yell, Not wise they sang nor well, Drowning the sexton's bell, While all the church wondered.

Dire the percenter's glare, Flashed his pitchfork in air Sounding fresh keys to bear Out the Old Hundred. Swiftly he turned his back, Reached he his hat from rack, Then from the screaming pack, Himself he sundered. Tenors to right of him, Tenors to left of him, Discords behind him, Bellowed and thundered. Oh, the wild howls they wrought: Right to the end they fought! Some tune they sang, but not, Not the Old Hundred.

Unknown.



MY FOE

John Alcohol, my foe, John, When we were first acquaint, I'd siller in my pockets, John, Which noo, ye ken, I want; I spent it all in treating, John, Because I loved you so; But mark ye, how you've treated me, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, We've been ower lang together, Sae ye maun tak' ae road, John, And I will take anither; For we maun tumble down, John, If hand in hand we go; And I shall hae the bill to pay, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye've blear'd out a' my een, And lighted up my nose, John, A fiery sign atween! My hands wi' palsy shake, John, My locks are like the snow; Ye'll surely be the death of me, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, 'Twas love to you, I ween, That gart me rise sae ear', John, And sit sae late at e'en; The best o' friens maun part, John, It grieves me sair, ye know; But "we'll nae mair to yon town," John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye've wrought me muckle skaith; And yet to part wi' you, John, I own I'm unko' laith; But I'll join the temperance ranks, John, Ye needna say me no; It's better late than ne'er do weel, John Alcohol, my foe.

Unknown.



NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH

Singee a songee sick a pence, Pockee muchee lye; Dozen two time blackee bird Cookee in e pie. When him cutee topside Birdee bobbery sing; Himee tinkee nicey dish. Setee foree King! Kingee in a talkee loom Countee muchee money; Queeny in e kitchee, Chew-chee breadee honey. Servant galo shakee, Hangee washee clothes; Cho-chop comee blackie bird, Nipee off her nose!

Unknown.



FATHER WILLIAM

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your nose has a look of surprise; Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head, And you live upon cucumber pies." "I know it, I know it," the old man replied, "And it comes from employing a quack, Who said if I laughed when the crocodile died I should never have pains in my back."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your legs always get in your way; You use too much mortar in mixing your bread, And you try to drink timothy hay." "Very true, very true," said the wretched old man, "Every word that you tell me is true; And it's caused by my having my kerosene can Painted red where it ought to be blue."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your teeth are beginning to freeze, Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head, And the chickens are eating your knees." "You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny, That my troubles are many and great, But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July, And then I'll be able to skate."

Unknown.



A POE-'EM OF PASSION

It was many and many a year ago, On an island near the sea, That a maiden lived whom you mightn't know By the name of Cannibalee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than a passionate fondness for me.

I was a child, and she was a child— Tho' her tastes were adult Feejee— But she loved with a love that was more than love, My yearning Cannibalee; With a love that could take me roast or fried Or raw, as the case might be.

And that is the reason that long ago, In that island near the sea, I had to turn the tables and eat My ardent Cannibalee— Not really because I was fond of her, But to check her fondness for me.

But the stars never rise but I think of the size Of my hot-potted Cannibalee, And the moon never stares but it brings me nightmares Of my spare-rib Cannibalee; And all the night-tide she is restless inside, Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride, In her pallid tomb, which is Me, In her solemn sepulcher, Me.

C. F. Lummis.



HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON

How do the daughters Come down at Dunoon? Daintily, Tenderly, Fairily, Gingerly, Glidingly, Slidingly, Slippingly, Skippingly, Trippingly, Clippingly, Bumpingly, Thumpingly, Stumpingly, Clumpingly, Starting and bolting, And darting and jolting, And tottering and staggering, And lumbering and slithering, And hurrying and scurrying, And worrying and flurrying, And rushing and leaping and crushing and creeping; Feathers a-flying all—bonnets untying all— Petticoats rapping and flapping and slapping all, Crinolines flowing and blowing and showing all Balmorals, dancing and glancing, entrancing all; Feats of activity— Nymphs on declivity— Mothers in extacies— Fathers in vextacies— Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on True-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on, Dashing and clashing and shying and flying on, Blushing and flushing and wriggling and giggling on, Teasing and pleasing and squeezing and wheezing on, Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on, Tumbling and rumbling and grumbling and stumbling on, Any fine afternoon, About July or June— That's just how the Daughters Come down at Dunoon!