Part 1 — PART I (continued 4)

What will we do when the good days come— When the prima donna’s lips are dumb. And the man who reads us his “little things” Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums— Oh, what will we do when the good time comes? Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work—oh, thing sublime! And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appetite Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,” Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”; When the funny man is humorsome— How can we stand the millennium?

A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea Just when the war was growing hot, And he shouted, “I’m Tjalikavakeree— Karindabrolikanavandorot— Schipkadirova— Ivandiszstova— Sanilik— Danilik— Varagobhot!” A Turk was standing upon the shore Right where the terrible Russian crossed; And he cried, “Bismillah! I’m Abd el Kor— Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk— Getzinpravadi— Kilgekosladji— Grivido— Blivido— Jenikodosk!” So they stood like brave men, long and well, And they called each other their proper names, Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell They buried them both by the Irdosholames— Kalatalustchuk— Mischaribustchup— Bulgari— Dulgari— Sagharimainz.

“‘Oh, let who will, Oh, let who can, Be tied onto A horrid male man.’ “Thus said I ere My tendah heart was touched; Thus said I ere My tendah feelings gushed. “But oh, a change Hath swept ore me, As billows sweep The ‘deep blue sea.’ “A voice, a noble form One day I saw; An arrow flew, My heart is nearly raw. “His first pardner lies Beneath the turf; He is wondering now In sorrow’s briny surf. “Two twins, the little Death cherub creechahs, Now wipe the teahs From off his classic feachahs. “Oh, sweet lot, worthy Angel arisen, To wipe teahs From eyes like hisen.”

What, what, what, What’s the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Cometh by cable led Through the Indian Ocean’s bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean: he’s dead,— The Akhoond is dead! For the Akhoond I mourn. Who wouldn’t? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Akhoondn’t. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow, Swats!) Swats wha hae wi’ Akhoond bled, Swats wham he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be,— Sorrow, Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Akhoond is dead! That’s Swat’s the matter! Mourn, city of Swat, Your great Akhoond is not, But laid ’mid worms to rot,— His mortal part alone: his soul was caught (Because he was a good Akhoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthly walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground), And sceptics mock the lowly mound And say, “He’s now of no Akhoond!” His soul is in the skies,— The azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat; He sees, with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries; He knows what’s Swat. Let Swat bury the great Akhoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Akhoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength. Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned, Dead lies the great Akhoond, The great Akhoond of Swat, Is not!

From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art; And none might tell, from sight alone, In which had Culture ripest grown— The Gotham Million, fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree, The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo— For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A. ***** Long they worshiped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said, “What a lovely vace!” Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo. But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word. Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!” But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the house of Penn, With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!” And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me! “I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!” Dies erit praegelida Sinistra quum Bostonia.

Baby’s brain is tired of thinking On the Wherefore and the Whence; Baby’s precious eyes are blinking With incipient somnolence. Little hands are weary turning Heavy leaves of lexicon; Little nose is fretted learning How to keep its glasses on. Baby knows the laws of nature Are beneficent and wise; His medulla oblongata Bids my darling close his eyes, And his pneumogastrics tell him Quietude is always best When his little cerebellum Needs recuperative rest. Baby must have relaxation, Let the world go wrong or right. Sleep, my darling, leave Creation To its chances for the night.

In an ocean, ’way out yonder (As all sapient people know), Is the land of Wonder-Wander, Whither children love to go; It’s their playing, romping, swinging, That give great joy to me While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing In the Amfalula-tree! There the gum-drops grow like cherries, And taffy’s thick as peas,— Caramels you pick like berries When, and where, and how you please: Big red sugar-plums are clinging To the cliffs beside that sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree. So when children shout and scamper And make merry all the day, When there’s naught to put a damper To the ardor of their play; When I hear their laughter ringing, Then I’m sure as sure can be That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree. For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras And staccatos are so sweet— His roulades, appogiaturas, And robustos so complete, That the youth of every nation— Be they near or far away— Have especial delectation In that gladsome roundelay. Their eyes grow bright and brighter, Their lungs begin to crow, Their hearts get light and lighter, And their cheeks are all aglow; For an echo cometh bringing The news to all and me. That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree. I’m sure you’d like to go there To see your feathered friend— And so many goodies grow there You would like to comprehend! Speed, little dreams, your winging To that land across the sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-Tree!

A little peach in the orchard grew, A little peach of emerald hue: Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew, It grew. One day, walking the orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue— Those two. Up at the peach a club they threw: Down from the limb on which it grew, Fell the little peach of emerald hue— Too true! John took a bite, and Sue took a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,— Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue,— Paregoric too. Under the turf where the daisies grew, They planted John and his sister Sue; And their little souls to the angels flew— Boo-hoo! But what of the peach of emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well! its mission on earth is through— Adieu!

In letters large upon a frame, That visitors might see, The painter placed his humble name, O’Callaghan McGee. And from Beersheba unto Dan, The critics with a nod Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman Adores his native sod. “His stout heart’s patriotic flame There’s naught on earth can quell He takes no wild romantic name To make his pictures sell!” Then poets praised in sonnets neat His stroke so bold and free; No parlor wall was thought complete That hadn’t a McGee. All patriots before McGee Threw lavishly their gold; His works in the Academy Were very quickly sold. His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,” His “When the Morning Smiled,” His “Seven Miles from Ararat,” His “Portrait of a Child,” Were purchased in a single day And lauded as divine. ***** That night as in his atelier The artist sipped his wine, And looked upon his gilded frames, He grinned from ear to ear: “They little think my real name’s V. Stuyvesant De Vere!”

Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize About the ocean and the skies, An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon About the other side the moon; An’ ’bout the natur of the place Ten miles beyend the end of space. An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank If he wouldn’t kinder try to yank Hisself outdoors an’ git some wood To make her kitchen fire good, So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies, He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.” An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize About the natur an’ the size Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp, An’ wonder how they made ’em flop. He’d calkerlate how long a skid ’Twould take to move the sun, he did; An’ if the skid wuz strong an’ prime, It couldn’t be moved to supper-time. An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout If he wouldn’t kinder waltz about An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies, He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.” An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize ’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies, Then lettin’ out the lots to rent So’s he could make an honest cent. An’ if he’d find it pooty tough To borry cash fer fencin’ stuff. An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth An’ go to Europe for his health, Or save his cash till he’d enough To buy some more of fencin’ stuff. Then, if his wife she’d ask the gump If he wouldn’t kinder try to hump Hisself to t’other side the door So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor, He’d look at her with mournful eyes, An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.” An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize ’Bout w’at it wuz held up the skies, An’ how God made this earthly ball Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall, An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form Of nawthin’ that He made it from. Then, if his wife sh’d ask the freak If he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak Out to the barn an’ find some aigs, He’d never move, nor lift his laigs, He’d never stir, nor try to rise, But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.” An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize About the earth an’ sea an’ skies, An’ scratch his head an’ ask the cause Of w’at there wuz before time wuz, An’ w’at the universe’d do Bimeby w’en time had all got through; An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb If we sh’d travel out er time, An’ if we’d need, w’en we got there To keep our watches in repair. Then, if his wife she’d ask the gawk If he wouldn’t kinder try to walk To where she had the table spread An’ kinder git his stomach fed, He’d leap for that ’ar kitchen door, An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?” An’ w’en he’d got his supper et, He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set, An’ fold his arms an’ shet his eyes, An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.

The cocktail is a pleasant drink, It’s mild and harmless—I don’t think! When you have one, you call for two— And then you don’t care what you do. Last night I hoisted twenty-three Of those arrangements into me; My bosom heaved, I swelled with pride, I was pickled, primed and ossified! But R-E-M-O-R-S-E— The water wagon is the place for me! It is no time for mirth and laughter, The cold, dark dawn of the Morning After!

’Twas when the leaves of Autumn were by tempest-fingers picked, Eliphalet Chapin started to become a benedict; With an ancient two-ox waggon to bring back his new-found goods, He hawed and gee’d and floundered through some twenty miles o’ woods; With prematrimonial ardour he his hornèd steeds did press, But Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t bristle with success. Oh no, Woe, woe! With candour to digress, Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t tremble with success. He had not carried five miles his mouth-disputed face, When his wedding garments parted in some inconvenient place; He’d have given both his oxen to a wife that now was dead, For her company two minutes with a needle and a thread. But he pinned them up, with twinges of occasional distress, Feeling that his wedding wouldn’t be a carnival of dress: “Haw, Buck! Gee, Bright! Derned pretty mess!” No; Eliphalet was not strictly a spectacular success. He had not gone a ten-mile when a wheel demurely broke, A disunited family of felloe, hub, and spoke; It joined, with flattering prospects, the Society of Wrecks; And he had to cut a sapling, and insert it ’neath the “ex.” So he ploughed the hills and valleys with that Doric wheel and tire, Feeling that his wedding journey was not all he could desire. “Gee, Bright! G’long, Buck!” He shouted, hoarse with ire! No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey none in candour could admire! He had not gone fifteen miles with extended face forlorn, When Night lay down upon him hard, and kept him there till morn; And when the daylight chuckled at the gloom within his mind, One ox was “Strayed or Stolen,” and the other hard to find. So yoking Buck as usual, he assumed the part of Bright (Constituting a menagerie diverting to the sight); With “Haw, Buck! Gee, Buck! Sh’n’t get there till night!” No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey was not one intense delight. Now, when he drove his equipage up to his sweetheart’s door, The wedding guests had tired and gone, just half-an-hour before; The preacher had from sickness an unprofitable call, And had sent a voice proclaiming that he couldn’t come at all; The parents had been prejudiced by some one, more or less, And the sire the bridegroom greeted with a different word from “bless.” “Blank your head, You blank!” he said; “We’ll break this off, I guess!” No; Eliphalet’s wedding was not an unqualified success. Now, when the bride saw him arrive, she shook her crimson locks, And vowed to goodness gracious she would never wed an ox; And with a vim deserving rather better social luck, She eloped that day by daylight with a swarthy Indian “buck,” With the presents in the pockets of her woollen wedding-dress; And “Things ain’t mostly with me,” quoth Eliphalet, “I confess,” No—no; As things go, No fair mind ’twould impress, That Eliphalet Chapin’s wedding was an unalloyed success.

On wan dark night on Lac Saint Pierre, De win’ she blow, blow, blow, An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante” Got scar’t, an’ run below— For de win’ she blow lak hurricain, Bimeby she blow some more, An’ de scow buss h’up on Lac Saint Pierre Wan h’arpent from de shore. De captinne walk h’on de fronte deck, An’ walk de hin’ deck too— He call de crew from h’up de ’ole He call de cook h’also. De crew she’s name was Rosie, She’s come from Montreal, Was chambre maid h’on lombaire barge, H’on de Grande La Chine Canal. De win’ she’s blow from nor’-eass-wess— De sout’ win’ she’s blow too, W’en Rosie cry, “Mon cher captinne, Mon cher, w’at I shall do?” Den de captinne trow de big h’ankerre, But steel de scow she dreef, De crew he can’t pass on de shore, Becos he loss hees skeef. De night was dark lak’ wan black cat, De wave run ’igh an’ fas’, W’en de captinne tak’ de poor Rosie An’ tie her to de mas’. Den he h’also tak’ de life preserve, An’ jomp h’off on de lak’, An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear, I go drown for your sak’.” Nex’ morning very h’early Bout haf-pas’ two—t’ree—four— De captinne—scow—an’ de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore. For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricain, Bimeby she blow some more, An’ de scow bus’ h’up on Lac Saint Pierre, Wan h’arpent from de shore. Moral Now h’all good wood scow sailor man Tak’ warning by dat storm, An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl An’ leev on one beeg farm. De win’ can blow lak hurricain An’ s’pose she blow some more, You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre So long you stay on shore.

Nothing to do but work; Nothing to eat but food; Nothing to wear but clothes, To keep one from going nude. Nothing to breathe but air; Quick as a flash ’tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off; Nowhere to stand but on. Nothing to comb but hair; Nowhere to sleep but in bed; Nothing to weep but tears; Nothing to bury but dead. Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out; Nowhere to come but back. Nothing to see but sights; Nothing to quench but thirst; Nothing to have but what we’ve got; Thus thro’ life we are cursed. Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

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 wo— 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 payin’ me that ten, I might arise the while, But I’d drop dead again.

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood four to six, with just an inning left to play; And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast; For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that They’d put up even money, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake, And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakie tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakie safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face; And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there; Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped. “That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore; “Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand. And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone, He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.” “Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!” But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow. Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar! Who’s the Chap so bold and pinchey Thus to swipe the great da Vinci, Taking France’s first Chef d’œuvre Squarely from old Mr. Louvre, Easy as some pocket-picker Would remove our handkerchicker As we ride in careless folly On some gaily bounding trolley? Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Who’s your Captor? Doubtless he’s a Crafty sort of treasure-seeker— Ne’er a Turpin e’er was sleeker— But, alas, if he can win you Easily as I could chin you, What is safe in all the nations From his dreadful depredations? He’s the style of Chap, I’m thinkin’ Who will drive us all to drinkin’! Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Next he’ll swipe the Tower of Pisa, Pulling it from out its socket For to hide it in his pocket; Or perhaps he’ll up and steal, O, Madame Venus, late of Milo; Or maybe while on the grab he Will annex Westminster Abbey, And elope with that distinguished Heap of Ashes long extinguished. Maybe too, O Mona Lisa, He will come across the seas a— Searching for the style of treasure That we have in richest measure. Sunset Cox’s brazen statue, Have a care lest he shall catch you Or maybe he’ll set his eye on Hammerstein’s, or the Flatiron, Or some bit of White Wash done By those lads at Washington— Truly he’s a crafty geezer, Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

“What other men have dared, I dare,” He said. “I’m daring, too: And tho’ they told me to beware, One kiss I’ll take from you. “Did I say one? Forgive me, dear; That was a grave mistake, For when I’ve taken one, I fear, One hundred more I’ll take. “’Tis sweet one kiss from you to win, But to stop there? Oh, no! One kiss is only to begin; There is no end, you know.” The maiden rose from where she sat And gently raised her head: “No man has ever talked like that— You may begin,” she said.

Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old fashioned country seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw. And there throughout the livelong day, Jemima plays the pi-a-na. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do. In the front parlor there it stands, And there Jemima plies her hands, While her papa, beneath his cloak, Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!” And swears to himself and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do. Through days of death and days of birth She plays as if she owned the earth Through every swift vicissitude She drums as if it did her good, And still she sits from morn till night And plunks away with main and might Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do. In that mansion used to be Free-hearted hospitality; But that was many years before Jemima dallied with the score. When she began her daily plunk, Into their graves the neighbors sunk. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do. To other worlds they’ve long since fled, All thankful that they’re safely dead. They stood the racket while alive Until Jemima rose at five. And then they laid their burdens down, And one and all they skipped the town. Do, re, mi, Mi, re, do.

A man said to the universe, “Sir, I exist!” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation.” Upon the road of my life, Passed me many fair creatures, Clothed all in white, and radiant; To one, finally, I made speech: “Who art thou?” But she, like the others, Kept cowled her face, And answered in haste, anxiously, “I am Good Deed, forsooth; You have often seen me.” “Not uncowled,” I made reply. And with rash and strong hand, Though she resisted, I drew away the veil, And gazed at the features of Vanity. She, shamefaced, went on; And after I had mused a time, I said of myself, “Fool!” “Think as I think,” said a man, “Or you are abominably wicked; You are a toad.” And after I had thought of it, I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

Their pail they must fill In a crystalline springlet, Brave Jack and fair Jill. Their pail they must fill At the top of the hill, Then she gives him a ringlet. Their pail they must fill In a crystalline springlet. They stumbled and fell, And poor Jack broke his forehead, Oh, how he did yell! They stumbled and fell, And went down pell-mell— By Jove! it was horrid. They stumbled and fell, And poor Jack broke his forehead. (As Swinburne might have written it) The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees! The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas! The moaning of the night wind on the wold, That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze! On such a night as this went Jill and Jack With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black To find the hill’s high top and water cold, Then toiling through the town to bear it back. The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips, And then with arms entwined they homeward go; Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips. Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight, His crazèd cries and cranium cracked; the fright Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo! Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night! (As Walt Whitman might have written it) I celebrate the personality of Jack! I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering. Each wart upon his hands I sing, Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades. Also Jill! Her I celebrate. I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue, Whoop her up! What’s the matter with Jill? Oh, she’s all right! Who’s all right? Jill. Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands; So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling. I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and through the darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds of myriad creatures of the night. I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their mother. Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time. She is simply immense! But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill. (I didn’t mean that rhyme.) I must watch them. I love to watch their walk, And wonder as I watch; He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound, Yet lusty, Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a paperweight. She, erect, standing, her head uplifting, Holding, but bearing not the bucket. They have reached the spring. They have filled the bucket. Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”? I will sing it:— Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed! Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born. The father is happy, the mother is happy. Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.” Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms, Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile, A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping. Here’s a large piece of black cloth! “Have you any last words to say?” “No.” “Sheriff, do your work!” Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.” I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill. I see them descending, obstacles not heeding. I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring, a noise from leathern lungs out-belching. The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his pate with gore besmeared. I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes. Whoop!!!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin, Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in; Her general form was German, By which I mean that you Her waist could not determine Within a foot or two. And not only did she stammer, But she used the kind of grammar That is called, for sake of euphony, askew. From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire. She was willing, she was active, She was sober, she was kind, But she never looked attractive And she hadn’t any mind. I knew her more than slightly, And I treated her politely When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind! Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll, She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll, And threw with much composure A smallish rubber ball At an inoffensive osier By a little waterfall; But Matilda’s way of throwing Was like other people’s mowing, And she never hit the willow-tree at all! One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide. And, before her eyes astounded, On a fallen maple’s trunk Ricochetted and rebounded In the rivulet, and sunk! Matilda, greatly frightened, In her grammar unenlightened, Remarked, “Well now I ast yer, who’d ’er thunk?” But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose. He beheld her fright and frenzy And, her panic to dispel, On his knee by Miss Mackenzie He obsequiously fell. With quite as much decorum As a speaker in a forum He started in his history to tell. “Fair maid,” he said, “I beg you do not hesitate or wince, If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince; For a fairy, old and vicious, An enchantment round me spun!” Then he looked up, unsuspicious, And he saw what he had won, And in terms of sad reproach, he Made some comments, sotto voce, (Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!) Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold; “I never! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain’t you awful bold!” Just a glance he paused to give her, And his head was seen to clutch, Then he darted to the river, And he dived to beat the Dutch! While the wrathful maiden panted “I don’t think he was enchanted!” (And he really didn’t look it overmuch!) THE MORAL In one’s language one conservative should be; Speech is silver and it never should be free!

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing. Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot And Priam’s neighbors. Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant. Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one. Miniver cursed the commonplace, And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing. Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed he was without it; Miniver thought and thought and thought And thought about it. Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

There be two men of all mankind That I should like to know about; But search and question where I will, I cannot ever find them out. Melchizedek he praised the Lord, And gave some wine to Abraham; But who can tell what else he did Must be more learned than I am. Ucalegon he lost his house When Agamemnon came to Troy; But who can tell me who he was— I’ll pray the gods to give him joy. There be two men of all mankind That I’m forever thinking on; They chase me everywhere I go,— Melchizedek, Ucalegon.

From Arranmore the weary miles I’ve come; An’ all the way I’ve heard A Shrawn[2] that’s kep’ me silent, speechless, dumb, Not sayin’ any word. An’ was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[3] you’ll say, For him that died the death on Carrisbool? It was not that; nor was it, by the way, The Sons of Garnim[4] blitherin’ their drool; Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[5] Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[6] For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me. ’Twas but my own heart cryin’ out for you Magraw![7] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru, Aroon, Machree, Aboo![8]

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss In what was once Persepolis. Proud Babylon is but a trace Upon the desert’s dusty face. The topless towers of Ilium Are ashes. Judah’s harp is dumb. The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire And all the oligarchies, kings, And potentates that ruled these things Are gone! But cheer up; don’t be sad; Think what a lovely time they had!

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill Her likeness, as a Shepherdess. Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill His Brush refused to work his Will. “Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes I cannot paint to-day,” he said; “Their Brightness shames the very Skies And turns their Turquoise into Lead.” Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.” Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear, Not dreaming of such Treachery, Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear, “Without the Light, how can one See?” “If you are sure that none can see I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

Ev-er-y child who has the use Of his sen-ses knows a goose. See them un-der-neath the tree Gath-er round the goose-girl’s knee, While she reads them by the hour From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er. How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend! But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend What Scho-pen-hau-er’s driv-ing at? Oh, not at all; but what of that? Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she; And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

Children, behold the Chimpanzee: He sits on the ancestral tree From which we sprang in ages gone. I’m glad we sprang: had we held on, We might, for aught that I can say, Be horrid Chimpanzees to-day.

Alas! my Child, where is the Pen That can do Justice to the Hen? Like Royalty, She goes her way, Laying foundations every day, Though not for Public Buildings, yet For Custard, Cake and Omelette. Or if too Old for such a use They have their Fling at some Abuse, As when to Censure Plays Unfit Upon the Stage they make a Hit, Or at elections Seal the Fate Of an Obnoxious Candidate. No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen, Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.

Well I recall how first I met Mark Twain—an infant barely three Rolling a tiny cigarette While cooing on his nurse’s knee. Since then in every sort of place I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke, Yet how can I describe his face? I never saw it for the smoke. At school he won a smokership, At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.) His name was soon on every lip, They made him “smoker” of his class. Who will forget his smoking bout With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers— When Mount Vesuvius went out And didn’t smoke again for years? The news was flashed to England’s King, Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay, Offered him dukedoms—anything To smoke the London fog away. But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he, “To no imperial command, No ducal coronet for me, My smoke is for my native land!” For Mark there waits a brighter crown! When Peter comes his card to read— He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down, —Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

Some take their gold In minted mold, And some in harps hereafter, But give me mine In tresses fine, And keep the change in laughter!

Gather Kittens while you may, Time brings only Sorrow; And the Kittens of To-day Will be Old Cats To-morrow. THE PRODIGAL EGG An egg of humble sphere By vain ambition stung, Once left his mother dear When he was very young. ’Tis needless to dilate Upon a tale so sad; The egg, I grieve to state, Grew very, very bad. At last when old and blue, He wandered home, and then They gently broke it to The loving mother hen. She only said, in fun, “I fear you’re spoiled, my son!”

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.

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

These are the things that make me laugh— Life’s a preposterous farce, say I! And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half. The high-heeled antics of colt and calf, The men who think they can act, and try— These are the things that make me laugh. The hard-boiled poses in photograph, The groom still wearing his wedding tie— And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half! These are the bubbles I gayly quaff With the rank conceit of the new-born fly— These are the things that make me laugh! For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff, And people will tickle me till I die— And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half! So write me down in my epitaph As one too fond of his health to cry— These are the things that make me laugh, And I’ve missed of too many jokes by half!

Twine then the rays Round her soft Theban tissues! All will be as She says, When that dead past reissues. Matters not what nor where, Hark, to the moon’s dim cluster! How was her heavy hair Lithe as a feather duster! Matters not when nor whence; Flittertigibbet! Sounds make the song, not sense, Thus I inhibit!

A curious man of the human clan Is a man who fools himself; Who thinks he can swing the Pierian spring Through a conduit of books on a shelf! Who thinks if he pores in the old bookstores And browses among the rares, He is fit to belong to the scholarly throng And gives himself scholarly airs. He gasps as he speaks of his worn antiques— With emotion almost dumb! Or he solemnly turns his Kilmarnock Burns With an awed and reverent thumb; He’ll scrimp to possess a Kelmscott Press, And hoard up his hard-earned wage Till he saves the cost of a Paradise Lost With the right sort of title page. If he has on his shelves some dumpy twelves, Of which he’s a connoisseur, The bibliophile, with a fatuous smile, Believes he’s a littérateur! Because he achieves incunabula leaves, On himself as a scholar he’ll look; Though I’m ready to bet no scholar I’ve met Has ever collected a book! The difference, you see, in the viewpoint must be, And it is a distinction nice; A scholar will look at the worth of a book, A collector will think of its price. He nearly bursts with pride in his firsts; And you can’t get it into his dome That he cannot affect his intellect By buying a tattered tome! A collector may have matter gray, He may have wisdom, too; As he may have a head of a carroty red Or eyes of a chicory blue. But he has these things by the grace of God; Especially his good looks; By Nature’s laws, and not because The things he collects are books! And so I maintain there is no brain, No genius or talent or mind, Required to look for a certain book, Or to struggle that book to find. No collector reads his precious screeds, He appraises his books by sight; And I make claim that the blooming game Is the idiot’s delight!

I can understand politics, civics and law, Of national issues I have no great awe; The theories of Einstein are simple to me, And psychoanalysis mere A. B. C. But there is one thing I can’t get in my head— Why do people marry the people they wed? I can do mathematics, no matter how high; And to me fourth dimension is easy as pie; Most intricate problems I readily solve, And I know why the nebular spirals revolve. But on this baffling question no light has been shed; Why do people marry the people they wed? Long hours over Nietzsche I frequently spend, I’ve all his philosophy at my tongue’s end. Of Freudian conclusions I haven’t a doubt. I’ve got human complexes all straightened out. But on this deep problem I muse in my bed— Why do people marry the people they wed? I’ve studied up ancient religions and cults, I’ve tried spiritism with curious results; I know the Piltdown and Neanderthal man, How big is Betelgeuse and how old is Ann; But this I shall wonder about till I’m dead— Why do people marry the people they wed?

Women are dear and women are queer Men call them, with a laugh, The female of the species, Or a husband’s better half. They sing their praise in many ways, They flatter them—but, oh, How little they know of Woman Who only women know! Now women are pert and women will flirt, And they’re catty and rude and vain; And sometimes they’re witty and sometimes they’re pretty— And sometimes they’re awfully plain. But Woman is rare beyond compare, The poets tell us so; How little they know of Woman Who only women know! Women are petty and women are fretty, They try to hide their years; They steadily nag and nervously rag, And frequently burst into tears. But Woman is gracious, serene and calm, Above all tricks or arts, Her sympathy’s like a soothing balm To sad and sorrowing hearts. Women are very perverse and contrary, They will contradict you flat; Oh, women I’ll call the devil and all, There’s no denying that! But Woman, oh, men, is beyond our ken, Too angelic for mortals below; How little they know of Woman Who only women know!

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her, Put her in a Pumpkin shell, And there he kept her very well.

The skies, they were ashen and sober, The lady was shivering with fear; Her shoulders were shud’ring with fear. On a dark night in dismal October, Of his most Matrimonial Year. It was hard by the cornfield of Auber, In the musty Mud Meadows of Weir, Down by the dank frog-pond of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted cornfield of Weir. Now, his wife had a temper Satanic, And when Peter roamed here with his Soul, Through the corn with his conjugal Soul, He spied a huge pumpkin Titanic, And he popped her right in through a hole. Then solemnly sealed up the hole. And thus Peter Peter has kept her Immured in Mausoleum gloom, A moist, humid, damp sort of gloom. And though there’s no doubt he bewept her, She is still in her yellow hued tomb, Her unhallowed, Hallowe’en tomb And ever since Peter side-stepped her, He calls her his lost Lulalume, His Pumpkin-entombed Lulalume.

How do I keep thee? Let me count the ways. I bar up every breadth and depth and height My hands can reach, while feeling out of sight For bolts that stick and hasps that will not raise. I keep thee from the public’s idle gaze, I keep thee in, by sun or candle light. I keep thee, rude, as women strive for Right. I keep thee boldly, as they seek for praise, I keep thee with more effort than I’d use To keep a dry-goods shop or big hotel. I keep thee with a power I seemed to lose With that last cook. I’ll keep thee down the well, Or up the chimney-place! Or if I choose, I shall but keep thee in a Pumpkin shell.

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright, Wondrous of texture and hue, Bathed in a soft, sunny light, Pearled with a silvery dew. Fair as a flower to the view, Ripened by summer’s soft heat, Basking beneath Heaven’s blue,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete. Peter consumed day and night, Pumpkin in pie or in stew; Hinted to Cook that she might Can it for winter use, too. Pumpkin croquettes, not a few, Peter would happily eat; Knowing content would ensue,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete. Everything went along right, Just as all things ought to do; Till Peter,—unfortunate wight,— Married a girl that he knew, Each day he had to pursue, His runaway Bride down the street,— So her into prison he threw,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete. L’envoi Lady, a sad lot, ’tis true, Staying your wandering feet; But ’tis the best place for you,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Could I come back to you Peter, Peter, From this old pumpkin that I hate; I would be so tender, so loving, Peter,— Peter, Peter, gracious and great. You were not half worthy of me, Peter, Not half worthy the like of I; Now all men beside are not in it, Peter,— Peter, Peter, I feel like a pie. Stretch out your hand to me, Peter, Peter, Let me out of this Pumpkin, do; Peter, my beautiful Pumpkin Eater, Peter, Peter, tender and true.

Lady of wandering, Blithesome, meandering, Sweet was thy flitting o’er moorland and lea; Emblem of restlessness, Blest be thy dwelling place, Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee. Peter, though bland and good, Never thee understood, Or he had known how thy nature was free; Goddess of fickleness, Blest be thy dwelling place, Oh, to abide in the Pumpkin with thee.

In a great big Mammoth pumpkin Lookin’ eastward to the sea, There’s a wife of mine a-settin’ And I know she’s mad at me. For I hear her calling, “Peter!” With a wild hysteric shout; “Come you back, you Punkin Eater,— Come you back and let me out!” For she’s in a punkin shell, I have locked her in her cell; But it really is a comfy, well-constructed punkin shell; And there she’ll have to dwell, For she didn’t treat me well, So I put her in the punkin and I’ve kept her very well.

Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see, What is this confine either side of me? Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl, Seen sidelong, like a ’possum in a tree,— Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small! Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out; From this gold lush encircling me about; I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall. The crescent moon shines slim,—but I am stout,— Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small! Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams; Ah, Pete,—too sweet to me,—my Pete, it seems Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall; And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,— Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!

Which I wish to remark, That the lady was plain; And for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, She had predilections peculiar, And drove Peter nearly insane. Far off, anywhere, She wandered each day; And though Peter would swear, The lady would stray; And whenever he thought he had got her, She was sure to be rambling away. Said Peter, “My Wife, Hereafter you dwell For the rest of your life In a big Pumpkin Shell.” He popped her in one that was handy, And since then he’s kept her quite well. Which is why I remark, Though the lady was plain, For ways that are dark And tricks that are vain, A husband is very peculiar, And the same I am free to maintain.

Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud; (Ah me; ah me! Hurroo, Hurree!) Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith; Ah me! ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) Wan hope a dolorous Musing saith; (Ah me; ah me! Dum diddle dee!) Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin shell Ah me! ah me! (Sweet squashes, mother!) (Fast and forever! Sooth, ’tis well. (Ah me; ah me! Faloodle dee!)

In the pumpkin, oh, my darling, Think not bitterly of me; Though I went away in silence, Though I couldn’t set you free. For my heart was filled with longing, For another piece of pie; It was best to leave you there, dear, Best for you and best for I.