Introductory material

I like to draw Napoleon best Because one hand is in his vest, The other hand behind his back. (For drawing hands I have no knack.)

If you should ask me, whether Dante Drank Benedictine or Chianti, I should reply, "I cannot say, But I can draw him either way."

The ways of Providence are odd. If Theodore means "The Gift of God," Let us give thanks, at any rate, The Gift was not a duplicate.

I seem to see a Shining One, With eyes that gleam, now fierce, now tender, Through Goggles that reflect the Sun "With more than Oriental Splendor"; I see him sitting on a chest Heavy with padlocks, bolts, and cording, Where Untold Treasures hidden rest, Treasures of Untold Yarns he's hoarding. Oh, Rudyard, please unlock that chest! With hope deferred we're growing hoary; Or was it all an empty jest Your saying, "That's another story"?

When Paderewski is forgot, Our children's children, like as not, Will worship in the Hall of Fame, Some great piano-maker's name.

I love to picture Daniel Frohman In costume of a noble Roman. For Dan has just the style of hair, That Julius Cæsar used to wear.

And now comes Dr. Eliot stating That Hell won't bear investigating. It looks like Charlie's out to bust The Great Hell-Fire Insurance Trust.

In Rome, when Morgan came to town, They nailed the Colosseum down. A great Collector! Once his Fad Was Coins, but when in time he had Collected all the coin in sight, To Europe's Art his thoughts took flight. But let not Europe palpitate For fear of an Art Syndicate. There are more Rembrandts, strange to say, Than ever were in Rembrandt's day; And statues "planted" in the sand Will always equal the demand.

Unless I'm very much misled, Chesterton's easier done than said. I have not seen him, but his looks I can imagine from his books.

I like Marconi best to see Beneath a Macaroni tree Playing that Nocturne in F Sharp By Chopin, on a Wireless Harp.

* For "his" read any.—G. B. S.

I'd best beware how I make free With Brander Matthews L. L. D. Since Prexy Wilson's paved the way He may be President some day.

Here's Sargent doing the Duchess X In pink velours and pea-green checks. "It helps," says he, "to lift your Grace A bit above the commonplace."

'Tis very comforting to know That every other day or so A Book by Bennett will appear To charm the Western Hemisphere. I see him now, with zeal sublime, Pounding from dawn to dinner-time Four typewriters, with hands and feet. When the four novels are complete, He'll fold, and send à grande vitesse His Quadrumanuscript to press.

Will Shakespeare, the Baconians say, Was the Belasco of his day— Others more plausibly maintain He was the double of Hall Caine.

I'm sorry William Taft is out Of Politics; without a doubt Of all the Presidential crew He was the easiest to do.

When Plain Folk, such as you or I, See the Sun sinking in the sky, We think it is the Setting Sun, But Mr. Gilbert Chesterton Is not so easily misled. He calmly stands upon his head, And upside down obtains a new And Chestertonian point of view, Observing thus, how from his toes The sun creeps nearer to his nose, He cries with wonder and delight, "How Grand the SUNRISE is to-night!"

Behold Belasco in his den, Wielding the scissors, paste and pen, And writing with consummate skill A play by W. De Mille.

I once drew Ibsen, looking bored Across a deep Norwegian Fjord, And very nearly every one Mistook him for the midnight sun.

I'm told the Artist who aspires To draw Forbes-Robertson requires A Sargent's brush. Dear me! how sad! I've lost the only one I had.

For Perfect Form there are but few That can compare with Mr. Drew; A Form most fittingly displayed In rôles from London, tailor-made By Messrs. Maughn, Pinero, Jones, In quiet, gentlemanly tones. The Nouveaux-Riches flock, day by day, To learn from John how to display (Without unnecessary gloom) The manners of the drawing-room. This possibly may be the cause (Or one of them) why John Drew draws.

This picture though it is not much Like Zangwill, is not void of worth It has one true Zangwillian touch It looks like nothing else on earth.

George Bernard Shaw—Oh, yes, I know I did him not so long ago. But then, you see, I like to do George Bernard Shaw (George likes it too).

"Shpeaking of Harps, sure me frind Pete Has got the Harp of Tara beat," Said Mr. Dooley. "Div'l a thing That boy can't play upon won shtring. For all the wurrld, to hear him play You'd think 'twas a whole orchestray. Great Shtatesmen come from far and near And shtop their talking, just to hear Him harp upon the latest kinks In politics and social jinks. Niver was such a music sharp, I'd orter know, sure I'm the Harp."

It saddens me to think Saint Paul Such lengthy letters had to scrawl. And so to make his labor lighter I picture him with a typewriter.

Few faces interest me less Than Rockefeller's, I confess. 'Twould vastly better suit my whim To draw his bank account, than him.

From Hiram Maxim's hair you'd think His specialty was spilling ink— You'd never dream he'd spilt more blood Than any one man since the Flood.

Somehow I always like to think Of Georgeade as a Summer Drink, Sparkling and cool, with just a Tang Of Pleasant Effervescent Slang; A Wholesome Tonic, without question, And Cure for Moral Indigestion. In Summer-time, beneath the shade, We find Refreshment in Georgeade. And 'mid the Scorching City's roar We drink him up and call for more. I often wonder what the "Trade" Buys half so precious as Georgeade.

Columbus is an easy one To draw, for when the picture's done, Where is the captious critic who Can say the likeness is not true?

In things like this I've always tried To look upon the Brighter Side; And when I see the Prince, I say "The Crown's worth something anyway."

When Hafiz saw the portrait free, By Monty Flagg, of him and me, He made remarks one can't repeat In any reputable sheet.