Franklin p. Adams-Tobogganing on Parnassus Mobile

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TOBOGGANING ON

PARNASSUS

FRANKLIN P. ADAMS

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TOBERT LESTON TAYLORGUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, BUT FRIENDIf that these vagrant verses make One

heart more glad; if they but bring A sin-gle smile, for that Ones sake I should besatisfied to sing. As Locker said, in phras-

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ing fitter, Pleased if but One should like thetwitter.

If I have eased one heart of pain; If Ihave made one throb or thrill; My labourhas not been in vain. My work has notbeen all for nil, If only One, from Maineto Kansas, Shall say I like his simple stan-zas.

If but a solitary voice Should say These3


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verses polyglot Are not so bad, I shouldrejoice; But oh, my publishers would not!

And I, though shy and unanointed,Should be a little disappointed.

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CONTENTS

Us Poets Rubber-Stamp Humour The Sim-ple Stuff Carpe Diem or Cop The DayThat for Money! Xanthias Jollied Horacethe Wise Jealousy To Be Quite Frank R. S.

V. P. Advice When Horace Came BackNix on the Fluffy Stuff Catullus, Consider-able Kisser V. Catullus Explains The Rich

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Man To-night Those Two Boys Help! ThePassionate Householder to His Love The Ser-vants Our Dumd Animals A Soft SusurrusA Summer Summary A Quatrain To a LightHousekeeper How? Ballade of the Break-fast Table Ornithology To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour (Second Idyl)Notions My Ladyes Eyen To a Lady APerfect Woman Nobly Planned An Ulti-

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matum to Myrtilla Love Gustatory She IsNot Fair To Myrtilla, Again Myrtillas ThirdDegree To Myrtilla Complaining ChristmasCards - To the Grocery Boy To the Jani-tor To the Waiter To the Apartment HouseTelephone Girl To the Barber To the Halland Elevator Boy Ballade of a Hardy An-nual A Plea Footlight MotifsMrs. FiskeFootlight MotifsOlga Nethersole Ballade

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of the Average Reader Poesys Guerdon Sig-nal Service Sporadic Fiction Popular Bal-lad; Never Forget Your Parents Balladeto a Lady (To Annabelle) To a ThesaurusThe Ancient Lays Erring in Company TheLimit Chorus for Mixed Voices The Trans-lated Way And Yet It Is a Gentle Art.Occasionally Jim and Bill When NobodyListens Office Mottoes Metaphysics Heads

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and Tails An Election Night Pantoum I CanNot Pay That Premium Three Authors ToQuotation Melodrama A Poor Excuse, butOur Own Monotonous Variety The Ama-teur Botanist A Word for It The Poem SpeaksBedbooks A New York Childs Garden ofVerses Downward, Come Downward Speak-ing of Hunting The Flat Hunters Way Birdsand Bards A WishAn Apartmental Ditty

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The Monument of Q. H. F.Us PoetsWordsworth wrote some tawdry stuff;

Much of Moore I have forgotten;

Parts of Tennyson are guff;

Bits of Byron, too, are rotten.

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All of Browning isnt great; There areslipshod lines in Shelley; Every one knowsHomers fate; Some of Keats is vermicelli.

Sometimes Shakespeare hit the slide, Notto mention Pope or Milton; Some of Southeysstuff is snide. Some of Spensers simply Stil-ton.

When one has to boil the pot, One cantalways watch the kittle. You may credit it

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or not Now and then I slump a little!Rubber-Stamp HumourIf couples mated but for love; If women

all were perfect cooks; If Hoosier authorswrote no books; If horses always won; Ifpeople in the flat above Were silent as thevery grave; If foreign counts were prone tosave; If tailors did not dun

If automobiles always ran As advertised12


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in catalogues; If tramps were not afraid ofdogs; If servants never left; If comic songswould always scan; If Alfred Austin weresublime; If poetry would always rhyme; Ifauthors all were deft

If office boys were not all cranks Onbase-ball; if the selling price Of meat andcoal and eggs and ice Would stop its madincrease; If women started saying Thanks

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When men gave up their seats in cars; Ifthere were none but good cigars, And bet-ter yet police

If there were no such thing as booze;If wifeys mother never came To visit; ifa foot-ball game Were mild and harmlesssport; If all the Presidential news Were colour-less; if there were men At every mountain,sea-side, glen, River and lake resort

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If every girl were fair of face; If womendid not fear to get Their suits for so-calledbathing wet If all these things were true,This earth would be a pleasant place. Butwhere would people get their laughs? Andwhence would spring the paragraphs? Andwhat would jokers do?

The Simple StuffAD PUERUM

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Horace: Book I, Ode 32. Persicos odi, puer, apparatus .Nix on the Persian pretence! Myrtle for

Quintus H. Flaccus! Wreaths of the lindentree, hence! Nix on the Persian pretence!Waiter, heres seventy cents Come, let mecelebrate Bacchus! Nix on the Persian pre-tence! Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus.

Carpe Diem, or Cop the Day16


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AD LEUCONOENHorace: Book I, Ode 13.Tu ne quoesieris, scire nefas

It is not right for you to know, so donot ask, Leuconoe, How long a life the godsmay give or ever we are gone away; Try notto read the Final Page, the ending colopho-nian, Trust not the gypsys tea-leaves, northe prophets Babylonian. Better to have

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what is to come enshrouded in obscurityThan to be certain of the sort and length ofour futurity. Why, even as I monologue onwisdom and longevity How Time has flown!Spear some of it! The longest life is brevity.

That For Money!AD C. SALLUSTIUM CRISPUMHorace: Book II, Ode 2Nellus argento color est avaris.

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Sallust, I know you of old, How you hatethe sight of gold Idle ingots that encum-ber Mother EarthIve got your number.

Why is Proculeius known From Elmirato Malone? For his money? Dont upsetme! For his love of folksyou get me?

Choke the Rockefeller yen For the clinkof iron men! Happiness it will not mint us,Take it from your Uncle Quintus.

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Fancy food and wealthy drink Raise Gehennawith a gink; Pastry, terrapin, and cheesesBring on gout and swell diseases.

Phraates upon the throne Old King Cyrusused to own Fails to hoodwink or deceiveme, Cyrus was some king, believe me!

Get me right: a mans-size prince Knowsthat money is a quince. When they see theYellow Taffy, Reglar Princes dont go daffy.

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Xanthias JolliedAD XANTHIAM PHOCEUMHorace: Book II, Ode 4.Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori.

Nay, Xanthias, feel unashamed That sheyou love is but a servant. Remember, loversfar more famed Were just as fervent.

Achilles loved the pretty slave Briseis forher fair complexion; And to Tecmessa Ajax

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gave His young affection.Why, Agamemnon at the height Of feast-

ing, triumph, and anointment, Left every-thing to keep, one night, A small appoint-ment.

And are you sure the girl you love Thismaid on whom you have your heart set Islowlythat she is not of The Roman smartset?

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A maiden modest as is she, So full ofsweetness and forbearance, Must be all right;her folks must be Delightful parents.

Her arms and face I can commend, And,as the writer of a poem, I fain would com-pliment, old friend, The limbs below em.

Nay, be not jealous. Stop your fears.My tendencies are far from sporty. Besides,the number of my years Is over forty.

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Horace the WiseAD PYRRHAMHorace: Book I, Ode 5.Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa

What lady-like youth in his wild aber-rations Is putting cologne on his brow? Forwhom are the puffs and the blond transfor-mations? I wonder whos kissing you now.[Footnote: Paraphrasers note: Horace beat

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the modern song writers to this. The trans-lation is literal enoughQuis...gracilis te puer...urget?.]

Tee hee! I must laugh when I think ofhis finish, Not wise to your ways and yourrep. Ha! ha! how his fancy for you willdiminish! I know, for Im Jonathan Hep.

JealousyAD LYDIAMHorace: Book I., Ode 13.

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Quem tu, Lydia, Telephi Cervicem roseam,cerea Telephi

What time thou yearnest for the armsOf Telephus, I fain would twist em; Whenthou dost praise his other charms It justupsets my well-known system; My brain islike a three-ring circus, In short, it gets mycapra hircus .

My reason reels, my cheeks grow pale,26


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My heart becomes unduly spiteful, My versesin the Evening Mail Are far from snappyand delightful. I put a civil question, Ly-ddy: Is that a way to treat ones stiddy?

What mean those marks upon thee, girl?Those prints of brutal osculation? Greatgrief! that lowlife and that churl! ThatTelephus abomination! Can him, O votaryof Venus, Else everything is off between us.

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O triply beatific those Whose state isclassified as married, Untroubled by the green-eyed woes, By such upheavals never harried.Ay, three times happy are the wed ones,Who cleave together till theyre dead ones.

To Be Quite FrankIN CHLORINHorace: Book III, Ode 15. Uxor pauperis Ibyci

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Your conduct, naughty Chloris, is Notjust exactly Horaces Ideal of a lady At theshady Time of life; You mustnt throw yoursoul away On foolishness, like Pholoe Herdays are folly-laden Shes a maiden, Yourea wife.

Your daughter, with propriety, May lookfor male society, Do one thing and anotherIn which mother Shouldnt mix; But revels

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out!R.S.V.P.AD PHYLLIDEMHorace: Book IV Ode II Est mihi nonum superantis annum Phyllis, Ive a keg of fine fermented grape

juice, Alban wine thats been nine years inthe cellar. Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in thegarden, Plenty of parsley.

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See my little shackwhy, youd hardlyknow it. All the rooms are swept, Sunday-like and shiny; Flowers all around, altarsimply famished Hungry for lamb stew.

Neighbours all are coming over to theparty, All the busy boys, all the gigglinggirlies, Whiffs of certain things wafted fromthe kitchen Simply delicious.

Oh, of course. You ask why the fancy32


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fireworks, Why the awning out, why thestylish doings. Well, Ill tell you why. ItsMaecenas birthday 13th of April.

Telephus? Oh, tush! Pass him up com-pletely! Tellys such a swell; Telly doesntlove you; Telly is a trifler; Tellys runninground with Some other fairy.

Phyllie, dont mismate; those that doregret it. Phaetonyou know his unhappy

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story; Poor Bellerophon, too, you must re-member, Pegasus shook him.

If these few remarks, rather aptly cho-sen, Make a hit with you, come, dont makeme jealous. Let me sing you songs of myown composing, Oh, come on over!

AdviceAD ARIUSTUM FUSCUMI

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Horace: Book I, Ode 22. Integer vitae sclerisque purus Take it from me: A guy whos square,

His chances always are the best. Im in theknow, for Ive been there, And thats noancient Roman jest.

What time he hits the hay to rest Theresnothing on his mind but hair, No javelinupon his chest Take it from me, a guy

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whos square.Theres nothing that can throw a scare

Into the contents of his vest; His name isEva I-Dont-Care; His chances always arethe best.

Why, once, when I was way out West,Singing to Lalage, a bear Came up, and Iwas some distressed Im in the know, forIve been there.

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But back he went into his lair, (Cage,corner, den, retreat, nook, nest), And leftme to The Maidens Prayer And thatsno ancient Roman jest.

In Newtonville or Cedar Crest, In Cincin-nati or Eau Claire, Ill warble till I am apest, My Lalageno matter where Takeit from me!

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Fuscus, my friend, take it from me Iknow the world and what its made of Oneon the square has naught to be Afraid of.

The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope.Such deadly things need not alarm him. Why,even arrows dipped in dope Cant harm him!

Hes safe in any clime or land, Desert orriver, hill or valley; Safe in all places on theRand- McNally.

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Why, one day in my Sabine grot, I sangfor Lalage to hear me; A wolf came in andhe did not Come near me!

Ah, set me on the sunless plain, In China,Norway, or Matanzas, Ay, place me any-where from Maine To Kansas.

Still of my Lalage Ill sing, Whereer theFates may chance to drop me; And nobodynor anything Shall stop me.

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When Horace Came BackCARMEN AMOEBAEUMIHorace: Book III, Ode 9.Donec gratus eram tibiHORACEWhen I was your stiddy, my loveliest Ly-

ddy, And you my embraceable she, In joysand diversions, the king of the Persians Had

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nothing on me.LYDIAWhen I was the person you penned all

that verse on, Ere Chloe had caused you tosigh, Not she whose cognomen is Ilia theRoman Was happier than I.

HORACEAh, Chloe the Thracianwhose sweet mod-

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sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fatesspare her Id love to expire.

LYDIATush! Calais claims me and wholly in-

flames me, He pesters me never with rhymes;If they should spare Cally, Id perish to tal lyA couple of times.

HORACESuppose my affection in Lyddys direc-

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tion Returned; that I gave the good-by ToChloe the golden, and back to the olden?I pause for reply.

LYDIACheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairer

Than stars, be you blustery and base, Illlove you, adore you; in brief, I am for youAll over the place.

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HORACEWhat time I was your one best bet And

no one passed the wire before me, Dear Ly-ddy, I cannot forget How you wouldyes,you wouldadore me. To others you wouldtie the can; You thought of me with no aver-sion. In those days I was happier than APersian.

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Correct. As long as you were not Sonuts about this Chloe person, Your flamefor me burned pretty hot Mine was thedoor you pinned your verse on. Your favouritename began with L, While I thought yousurpassed by no man Gladder than Ilia,the well- Known Roman.

HORACEOn Chloe? Yes, Ive got a case; Her

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voice is such a sweet soprano; Her peoplecome from Northern Thrace; You ought tohear her play piano. If she would like mysuicide If shed want me a dead and dumbthing, Me for a glass of cyanide, Or some-thing.

LYDIANow Calais, the handsome son Of old

Ornitus, has me going; He says I am his46


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honey bun, Hes mine, however winds areblowing; I think that he is awful nice, And,if the gods the signal gave him, Id just aslieve die once or twice To save him.

HORACESuppose Im gone on you again, Suppose

Ive got ingrown affection For you; I sortof wonder, then, If youd have any greatobjection. Suppose I pass this Chloe up

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And say:Go roll your hoop, Im rid o ye!Would that drop sweetness in your cup?Eh, Lydia?

LYDIAWhy, saythough hes fair as a star, And

you are like a cork, erratic And lightandthough I know you are As blustery as theAdriatic, I think Id rather live with you Ordie with you, I swear to gracious. So I will

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be your Mrs. Q. Horatius.Nix On the Fluffy StuffAD CYNTHIAMPropertius: Book I, Elegy 2.Quid iuvat ornato procedere, vita, capillo

Et tenues Coa veste movere sinus?Why, my love, the yellow trinkets In

your tresses purer gold? Why the Syrianperfume? Think its Nice to be thus au-

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reoled? Why the silken robes that rustle?Why the pigment on the map? Think youall that fume and fussll Ever charm a chap?

Mother Earth is unaffected Is her beautytherefore less? Is she gray or ill-complected?I should call her some success. Soft themurmur of the river, Bright the shore thatlines the sea Is the universe a flivver? No,take it from me.

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Castor loved the lady Phoebe For nobought or borrowed wile; Hillairawasntshe be- Loved without excessive style? Hip-podamia slaved no fashions All that braver,elder time Is replete with simple passionsDifficult to rhyme.

Nay, my Cynthia, sweet and smile-ish,Take it from your own Propert, Dont essayto be so stylish, Dont attempt the harem

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skirt. I am ever Yours Sincerely, Past theshadow of a doubt, Yours Forever, if youllmerely Cut the frivol out.

Catullus, Considerable Kisser(A Pasteurization of Ode VII.)How many kisses, Lesbia, miss, you ask

would be enough for me? I cannot sum thetotal number; nay, that were too tough forme. The sands that oer Cyrenes shore lie

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sweetly odoriferous, The stars that sprentthe firmament when overly stelliferous Come,Lezzy, please add all of these, until the wholeamount of em Will sorely vex the rubber-necks attempting to keep count of em.

V. Catullus ExplainsODE LXXXV: AD LESBIAMHark thou, my Lesbia, there be none ex-

istent Can truly say she hath been loved by53


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me As thou hast been. No faith is more con-sistent Than that which V. Catullus givesto thee.

How reasonless the state of an emotion!For wert thou faultless, perfect, and sub-lime, I could not like thee; nor would my de-votion And love be less wert thou the Queenof Crime.

The Rich Man54


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The rich man has his motor-car, His coun-try and his town estate. He smokes a fifty-cent cigar And jeers at Fate.

He frivols through the livelong day, Heknows not Poverty her pinch. His lot seemslight, his heart seems gay, He has a cinch.

Yet though my lamp burns low and dim,Though I must slave for livelihood Thinkyou that I would change with him? You bet

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I would!To-night

Love me to-night! Fold your dear armsaround me Hurt meI do but glory in yourmight! Tho your fierce strength absorb,engulf, and drown me, Love me to-night!

The worlds wild stress sounds less thanour own heart-beat Its puny nothingnesssinks out of sight. Just you and I and Love

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alone are left, sweet Love me to-night!Love me to-night! I care not for to-

morrow Look in my eyes, aglow with Lovesown light: Full soon enough will come day-light, and sorrow Love me to-night! BEATRICE M. BARRY, in the BanquetTable .

We cant to-night! Were overworkedand busy; Weve got a lot of paragraphs to

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write; Although your invitation drives usdizzy, We cant to-night!

But, Trixie, we admit were greatly smitwith The heart you pictureincandescent,white. We must confess that you have madea hit with Us here to-night.

O Beatrice! O Tempora! O Heaven!List to our lyre the while the strings wesmite; Where shall you be atwell, say half-

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past seven To-morrow night?Those Two BoysWhen Bill was a lad he was terribly bad.

He worried his parents a lot; Hed lie andhed swear and pull little girls hair; Hisboyhood was naught but a blot.

At play and in school he would frac-ture each rule In mischief from autumnto spring; And the villagers knew when to

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manhood he grew He would never amountto a thing.

When Jim was a child he was not verywild; He was known as a good little boy;He was honest and bright and the teachersdelight To his mother and father a joy.

All the neighbours were sure that hisvirtued endure, That his life would be freeof a spot; They were certain that Jim had

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a great head on him And that Jim wouldamount to a lot.

And Jim grew to manhood and honourand fame And bears a good name; WhileBill is shut up in a dark prison cell Younever can tell.

HelpThe Passionate Householder to his LoveCome, live with us and be our cook,

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And we will all the whimsies brook ThatGerman, Irish, Swede, and Slav And all thedear domestics have.

And you shall sit upon the stoop Whattime we go and cook the soup, And youshall hear, both night and day, Melodiouspianolas play.

And we will make the beds, of course,Youll have two autos and a horse, A lady to

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Marcel your tresses, And all the madameshalf-worn dresses.

Your gowns shall be of lace and silk,Your laving shall be done in milk. Twotrained physicians when you cough, AndMondays, Wednesdays, Fridays off.

When you are mashing Irish spuds Youllwear the very finest duds. If good to youthese prospects look, Come, live with us

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and be our cook.On callers we have put no stops, We

love the iceman and the cops, And no alarmclock with its ticks And bell to ring at half-past six.

O Gretchen, Bridget, Hulda, Mary, Come,be our genius culinary. If good to you theseprospects look, Come, live with us and beour cook.

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The ServantsWith genuflexions to Kiplings The LadiesWeve taken our cooks where weve found

em; Weve answered many an ad; Wevehad our pickin o servants, And most of thelot was bad. Some was Norahs an Bridgets;Tillie she came last fall; Claras and Fanniesand Lenas and Annies, And now weve gotnone at all.

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Now, we dont know much about ser-vants, For, takin em all along, You nevercan tell till youve tried em, And then youare like to be wrong. Theres times whenyoull think that theyre perfect; Therestimes when youll think that theyre bum,But the things youll learn from those thathave gone May help you with those to come.

Norah, she landed from Dublin, Green66


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as acushla machree; Norah was willing andanxious To learn what a servant should be.We told Mrs. Kirk all about her She of-fered her seven more per Now Norah sheworks, as you know, for the Kirks And welearned about servants from her.

Lena we got from an office; Lena wassaving and Dutch Thought that our billswere enormous, And told us we spent far

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too much. Lena decamped with some silver,Jewelry, laces and fur She was loving andkind, with a Socialist mind And we learnedabout servants from her.

Tillie blew in from the Indies, Black asthe middle of night Cooked like a regu-lar Savarin Kitchen was shiny an bright.Everything ran along lovely Untilit wasbound to occur She ran away with a porter

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one day But we learned about servantsfrom her.

Weve taken our cooks where weve foundthem, Yellow and black and white; Somewas better than others, But none of the lotwas right. And the end of its only worryAnd trouble and bother and fuss Whenyou answer an ad., think of those we havehad And learn about servants from us.

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Our Dumd AnimalsWhat time I seek my virtuous couch to

steal Some surcease from the labours of theday, Ere silence like a poultice comes toheal In short, when I prepare to hit thehay; Ere slumbers chains (I quote from Moore)have bound me, I hear a lot of noises allaround me.

Time was when falling off the well-known70


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log Were harder far than falling off to sleep;But that was ere my neighbours gentle dogBegan to think he was defending sheep. Fromtwelve to two his barking and his howlingAccompanies two torn cats nightly yowl-ing.

At two-ten sharp the parrot in the flatAcross the way his monologue essays. Atthree, again, as Gilbert says, the cat; At

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four a milkmans horse, exulted, neighs. Atsix-fifteen, nor does it ever vary, I hear thedulcet tones of a canary.

Each living thing I love; I love the birds;The beasts in field and forest, too, I love,But I have writ these poor, if metric words,To query which, by all the powrs above, Ofall the animalspray tell me, some one Iscalled by any courtesy a dumb one?

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day is hot? Or declare I cant endure Sucha torrid temperature? Be it hotter than theflames South Gehenna Junction claims, If itbe not so to me, What care I how hot it be?

Shall I say I love the town Praised byRobinson and Browne? Shall I say, Insummer heat Old Manhattan cant be beat?Be it luring as a bar, Or my neighboursmotor-car, If I think it is pazziz What care

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I how fine it is?Shall I prate of rural joys Far from civic

smoke and noise? Shall I, like the others,drool But the nights are always cool? If Ihate to rise at six Shall I praise the suburbs?Nix! If the countrys not for me, What careI how good it be?

Town or country, cool or hot, Differsnothing, matters not; For to quote that Ro-

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man cuss, Why dispute de gustibus? Ifto this or that one should Take a fancy, itis good. If these rhymes look good to me,What care I how bad they be?

A QuatrainA quatrain fills a little space, Although

its pretty small, And oftentimes, as in thiscase, It has no point at all.

To a Light Housekeeper76


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(Who hitches laundering articles to thecurtain string and pastes them on the pane.)

Lady, thou that livest Just across theway, If a hang thou givest What the peo-ple say, If a cuss thou carest What a poetthinks Hearken, if thou darest, Most im-modest minx!

Though thy gloves thou tiest, To thecurtain string, Though the things thou dri-

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est Gird me while I sing, Hankies and in-ventions Of the lacy tribe Things I maynot mention, Let alone describe.

These I mutely stand for Though thesight offend, THIS I reprimand for; Take itfrom a friend:

Cease to pin thy tresses To the windowsill, Or Ill tell the presses Honestly, I will.

How?78


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How can I work when you play the pi-ano, Feminine person above? How can Ithink, with your ceaseless soprano Singing:Ah, Love?

How can I dream of a subject aesthetic,Far from the purlieus of prose? How, withthe call of the peripatetic High! High cashcloes!?

How can I write when the children are79


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crying? How can I poetizehow? How can Ihelp imper fect versifying? (There is somenow.)

How can I bathe in the thoughtwaves ofbeauty? How, with my nerves on the slant,Can I perform my poetical duty? Frankly,I cant.

Ballade of the Breakfast TableWhen the Festal Board, as the papers

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say, Groans neath the weight of a lot to eat,At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner, (As abard tri-lingual Im rather neat) At break-fast, then, if I may repeat, This is what getsme into a huff, This is a query I cannot beat:Why dont they ever have spoons enough?

Ive broken my fast with the grave andgay, With hoi polloi and with the elite; Ivebeen all over the U. S. A. From Dorchester

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Crossing to Kearney Street. But aye when Isit in the morning seat Comes to my noticethe self-same bluff, Plenty of food, but inthis they cheat: Why dont they ever havespoons enough?

Take it at breakfast, only to-day: Thiswas the layout, fresh and sweet: Canteloupe,sweet as the new-mown hay;[Footnote: Andabout as edible.] Cerealone of the brands[Footnote:

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To advertisers: This space for sale.] of wheat;Softboiled eggs (weve cut out the meat);Coffee (a claromanilabuff); Napery, china,and glasses complete Why dont they everhave spoons enough?

LENVOIAutocratesses, forgive my heat, But isnt

it time to change that stuff? Small is thebenison I entreat Why dont they ever have

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spoons enough?OrnithologyUnlearned I in ornithology All I know

about the birds Is a bunch of etymology,Just a lot of highflown words. Is the curlewan uxorial Bird? The Latin name for crow?Is the bulfinch grallatorial? I dunno.

Oer my head no golden gloriole Evershall be proudly set For my knowledge of

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the oriole, Eagle, ibis, or egrette. I knowless about the tanager And its hopes andfears and aims Than a busy Broadway man-ager Does of James.

But, despite my incapacity On the birdiesof the air, I am not without sagacity, Be itneer so small a share. This I know, thoughye be scorning at What I know not, thoughye mock, Birdies wake me every morning at

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Four oclock.To AliceSitByTheHourLady in the blue kimono, you that live

across the way, One may see you gazing,gazing, gazing all the livelong day, Idly look-ing out your window from your vantage pointabove. Are you convalescent, lady? Are youworse? Are you in love?

Ever gazing, as you hang there on the86


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little window seat, Into flats across the wayor down upon the prosy street. Cant yourent a pianola? Cant you iron, sew, orcook? Write a letter, bake a pudding, makea bed or read a book?

Tell me of the fascination you indubitablyfind In the High Cash Cloes! mans holler,in the hurdygurdy grind. Are your Span-ish castles blue prints? Are you waiting for

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a knight To descend upon your fastness andto save you from your plight?

Lady in the blue kimono, idle, mollycod-dle dame, Does your doing nothing nevermake you feel the blush of shame? As yousit and stare and ditto, not a single thingto do, Lady in the blue kimono, lady, howI envy you!

To AliceSitByTheHour88


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(Being the second idyl to an idle idol.)Lady in the blue kimono, May we write

of you again? Do not hand us out a No!no! Do not dam the flowing pen. Onceagain a poem at you Crave we leave of youto write Lady idle as a statue, Lady silentas the night!

Lady in the blue kimono, Heavy is ourheart and dumb, Though we weep no tear

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nor show no Sign of sadness, we are glum;For that wrapper, silk or cotton, You eter-nally had on It is gone, but not forgotten.Still the fact is, it is gone.

Lady in the blue kimono, Although deadlyhot the day, Dont you think(alas! we knowno Way to put what we would say!)

Eralthough your smile is pleasant, Won-drous fair, and all that stuff Do you really

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think, at present, It iserahemenough?NotionsMyrtie, my notion of no one to write

about Seems to be any one other than you;Therefore, Myrtilla, Im penning to-nightabout Twelve anapestic good verses and true.

Eke my conception of no girl to gazeupon, O my Myrtilla, includes all the rest,Saving the one that Im spilling this praise

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through ye blessed hours of slepethilk eyenor browne or blue Doe soothe ye poets slum-bers deep: by goddiswoundes thaie doe!

O gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony sochether bee, And whan an eyefulle damoselhath made a hitte wyth mee, Hir eyen bensoe oerpassing bright yt holden mee in thrall,I tosse about ye livelong night, nor can neslepe atte all.

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heit as Laurence Hope Youd not believeit.

YOUD not; but, oh, Another would!For, by and large and altogether, Us potesmust be misunderstood. What lovelyweather!

A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned(The man who wants the perfect wife

should marry a stock-size. She comes cheaper.95


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London Chronicle .)Ah, Myrtilla, woe and dear me! Lack-

adaydee and alas! What is this, I greatlyfear me, That has come to pass?

Craving, as I do, perfection, Loathinganything like flaws, I must raise a slight ob-jection To your building laws.

You are five one-and-a-quarter, And yourgirth is thirty-three Myrtie, youre a little

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shorter Than you ought to be.It is far from my intentions Your pro-

portions to describe, Briefly, Myrtie, yourdimensions Do not seem to jibe.

Farewell, Myrt, for Ethelisa Seems to bemy certain fate, Stupid? Silly? Sure, butshes a Perfect thirty-eight.

An Ultimatum to Myrtilla(Inspired by the shameless styles in hair.)

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Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said And yourtone was earnest, very You would neverdeck your head With this vernal millinery.

Myrt, to mince no words, you lied; Oh,that I should live to know it! You thatare my nearly-bride; I that am your nearly-poet!

For I saw the awful lid You had on at10 this morning; Myrt, it was a merrywid,

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Spite of my decisive warning.Still, I can forgive you that; Though the

thing look neer so silly; I will overlook thehat If you promise this, Myrtillie:

Wear your lacebelows and fluffs; Wearthe awfullest creations Butomit the stylishpuffs And the vogueish transformations.

Myrt, if you inflate your hair I shallwellexcoriate you, And, I positively swear,

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Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you.Love GustatoryMyrtilla, I have seen you eat Have heard

you drink, to be precise Your soup, and,notwithstanding, sweet, The gurgitation wasntnice, I overlooked a tiny fault Like that withjust a grain of salt.

And, sweetest maid in all New York,When all ungracefully you pierce The tooth-

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one will in this Cupid game, But now Iknow Ill never feel Toward you, dear Tillie,quite the same Since I have seen you on thejob Of eating corncorn on the cob.

She Is Not FairShe is not fair to outward view; No

beauty hers of form or face She hath nowitchery, tis true, No grace.

Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind,102


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Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair Hath she.She isI am not blind Not fair.

What makes me love her, then? say you,For such a maid is not my wont. Love her!What makes you think I do? I dont.

To Myrtilla AgainMyrtilla, when the thought of you Ob-

structs my cold, unbiased view, And keepsme from My hard though hum- Ble task, I

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do not murmur nor complain I do not ulu-late nor feign A love for vin Or what is inA flask.

When, as I said in stanza first, My mindis thoroughly immersed With you until Mypulses thrill And throb, I dont, in tonesmore picturesque Than journalistic, slammy desk, And in a fit Of frenzy quit Myjob.

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When, as I may have said before, Yourimage I can not ignore, I do not tear Mythinning hair Nor cuss;

I leave such sentimental show To bardslike Shelley, Keats, and Poe I merely spillSome ink, Myrtil- La, thus.

Myrtillas Third Degree(With deep bows to Adelaide Anne Proc-

tors heirs, administrators and assigns.)105


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Before I trust my Fate to thee, Or placemy hand in thine (This is an easy parody,Without a change of line.) Before I peril allfor thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

Is there, within thy dimmest dreams,This dread ambition, Myrt? Hast thou theghost of a desire To wear a hobble[Footnote:Harem, or whatever is to come in the fu-ture, may be substituted here.] skirt? If so,

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at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all islost.

Look deeper still. Dost underline Mostwords in writing letters? Or Local writeon envelopes? Say, ere I bind my fetters.Let no false pity spare the blow, but in truemercy tell me so.

Once more. Dost thou, in easy speech,Ever let fall those kind? Art thou to nut-

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meg in a pie Unalterably inclined? If aughtof these, maid of my wooing, theres abso-lutely nothing doing.

To Myrtilla ComplainingMyrtie, you weep that the bard has ne-

glected you, Passed you, forgotten you, letyou alone. Bless you, Myrtilla, I never sus-pected you Ever would speak to me, sweet,in that tone.

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Myrtie, you say that my poems are pennedto you Only on days when Ive nothing todo, Otherwise I have no time to attend toyou, Others, you say, are more weighty thanyou.

Sweet, you allege I have not enough timefor you, Yes, and you say that I hold youbut light, Only when pressed do I reel off arhyme for you

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Lady Myrtilla, youve doped it out right.Christmas CardsITO THE GROCERY BOYBefore you send me up that card With

rime and diction far from subtle, Hear whata now rebellious bard Says in a quasi-pre-rebuttal.

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A nickel in a poor boys hat! You,minion of a grubbing grocer, You dare, in-deed, to ask me that? Bold and relentless,say I, No, sir!

You who bring some one elses tea Tous, while ours goes to the neighbours, Andyet you dare demand from me Reward forinefficient labours!

You who but lately made me hit My111


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head upon the dum-dum waiter From meyou get no silver bit. Fie, out upon you,youthful traitor!

Hard is my heart and tight my purse;Deaf is my ear to all your suing. Exceptthis little bit of verse, Theres absolutelynothing doing.

IITO THE JANITOR

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Sullen, surly Scandinave, Smoking on apipe, Valiantly I cast the glave At thee andthy type.

Person of the shakeless grouch Tampererwith the cream, Idler, lounger, sloven, slouchDespot of the steam

Thou who bangest garbage cans In thehollow court, Thou whose children spin tinpans Deeming it is sport

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Tyrant of the tenement, Take thy cardand flee! Not a nickel, not a cent Dost thouget from me.

IIITO THE WAITERO waiter, will you tell me why You think

to get at Christmas time A five-case note,for do not I Slip you each day a dime?

When as I crave Prime Ribs au Jus [Footnote:114


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Well, how do you pronounce it, then?] Andbeg that you will bring them rare, They arewell done. I fume and fuss And yet you donot care.

Haply I order apple pie, But NOT yourcounsel or advice; You rub your hands andtell me: Why, The mince is very nice.

You hide my hat, you hide my coat. Letothers, if they care to, give, But as to this

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here gentle pote Be glad he lets you live.IVTO THE APARTMENT HOUSE TELE-

PHONE GIRLProud, imperious female person That

presideth oer my phone, Hearken while Ido some verse on Thee, and thee alone.

Puffed and pompadoured and ratted, Read-ing Munseys all the day, Pony-coated, otter-

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hatted Listen to my lay:When I beg in desperation, Eight O

Seven Riverside, Why do I get Informa-tion? Is it justified?

WhyI ask it with insistence Whyprepareto be appalled Why $2.85 Long DistanceThat I never called?

When I call thee, They dont answerTells me Central. (Oh, the crime!) Then

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thou sayest, thou Romancer, Been here allthe time!

Tyrant trim and telephonic, Christmasofferings to thee? Pardon if I seem laconic:Not a single c.

VTO THE BARBERPrince of the parlour tonsorial, Knight

of the razor and shears, Who have from118


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time immemorial Snipped it too short roundthe ears

You with your long academical Causesfor thinning on top, Selling me gallons ofchemical Tonic, a brush, and a strop;

You with your sad comicality, You withyour bum badinage Confound your conge-niality! Confound your Facial Massage?

Still, though you shave contragrainious,[Footnote:119


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Well, there ought to be.] Healing the cutwith a lime, Dont I, quite nice and sponta-neous, Daily contribute a dime?

Mountain of foreign servility, Butcher ofchin and of lip. Maugre your marked inabil-ity, Do I not fall for the tip?

Hope you at Christmas for currency, Fiendof tonsorial tricks? Never was greater aberrancyCoarsely I say to you, Nix!

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VITO THE HALL-AND-ELEVATOR-BOYLo, the West Indian! whose untutored

mind To Christmas giving makes me dis-inclined, Who tellest callers I have movedaway And mixest up the morning mail eachday. When for thine elevator car I ringThou telephonest or some other thing; While,when I ask for Byrant Eighty-four, Thourt

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busy somewhere on the seventh floor I wishthee from my soul all Christmas joy, Butnot a cent, O Elevator Boy!

Ballade of a Hardy AnnualMany a jest that refuses to die Bobs up

again as the seasons appear; Deathless ithits us again in the eye Changeless anddull as the calendar year. Musty and mouldyand yellow and sere, Stronger, withal, than

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the sturdiest oak; Ancient and solemn anddeadly and drear Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly, Allthrough the day of the leathery sphere,Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy Allon the theme of the grandmother dear. Bon-nets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer Pleaseus and tickle us quite to the choke. Buton

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this matter our attitudes clear Down withthe grandmother-funeral joke!

Giggle we can at a blueberry pie; Screamat a comedy king or ameer; Simply guffawwhen the jestermen guy Marriage, a thingat which no one should jeer. Things that inothers elicit a tear All of our risibles simplyunyoke; But from this stand were unwill-ing to veer: Down with the grandmother-

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funeral joke!LENVOIBrothers in motley, the season is here;

Small is the boon that we sadly invoke: Butcherit, murder it, jump on its ear! Down withthe grandmother-funeral joke!

A PleaWriters of baseball, attention! When

youre again on the job When, in your rage125


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for invention, You with the language playhob Most of your dope we will pardon,Though of the moth ball it smack; Butcutout the sinister garden, Chop the initialsack.

Rake poor old Rogets Thesaurus Forphrases fantastic and queer; And though onoccasions you bore us, We will refrain froma sneer. We will endeavour to harden Our-

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selves to the rest of your clack, If youll cutout the sinister garden And chop the ini-tial sack.

Singers of words that are scrambled, Say,if you will, that he died, Write, if youmust, that he ambled We shall be lastto deride. But us to the Forest of Arden,Along with the misanthrope Jaques, If youcling to the sinister garden And stick to

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initial sack.Speak of the spheres aberration, Men-

tion the leathery globe, Say he got freetransportation Though that try the pa-tience of Job. But if youre wise youll dis-card en- Cumbrances such as we thwackEspecially sinister garden And the ini-tial sack.

Footlight Motifs128


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IMRS. FISKEStaccato, hurried, nervous, brisk, Cas-

cading, intermittent, choppy, The brittle voiceof Mrs. Fiske Shall serve me now as copy.Assist me, O my Muse, what time I pen abit of Deathless Rhyme!

Time was, when first that voice I heard,Despite my close and tense endeavour, When

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many an important word Was lost and goneforever; Though, unlike others at the play,I never whispered: whadd she say?

Some words she runstogetherso; Someothers are distinctly stated; Some cometoofastand s o m e t o o s l o w And some are syn-copated. And yet no voiceI am sincereExists that I prefer to hear.

For what is called intelligence By ev-130


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ery Mrs. Fiskeian critic As usual is justa sense Of humour, analytic. So any timeIm glad to frisk Two bones to witness Mrs.Fiske.

IIOlga NethersoleI like little Olga, Her plays are so warm;

And if I dont see em, Theyll do me noharm.

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My Puritan training Has kept me fromgoing To dramas in which Little Olga wasshowing.

But I like little Olga, Her art is so warm;And if I dont see her Shell do me no harm.

Ballade of the Average ReaderI try to touch the public taste, For thus

I earn my daily bread. I try to write whatfolks will paste In scrap books after I am

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dead. By Public Craving I am led. (Isooth, a most despotic leader) Yet, thoughI write for Tom and Ned, Ive never seen anaverage reader.

The Editor is good and chaste, But says:(Above the publics head; This is too good;twill go to waste. Write something commonplacerEd.) Write for the average reader, fed Bypre-digested near-foods feeder, But though

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my high ideals have fled, Ive never seenan average reader.

How many lines have been erased! Howmany fancies have been shed! How manyfailures might be traced To thisthis average-reader dread! Ive seen an average singlebed; Ive seen an average garden-weeder;Ive seen an average cotton thread Ive neverseen an average reader .

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and How to Form it, by Arnold Bennett.)What time I pen the Mighty Line Suf-

fused with the spark divine As who shouldsay: By George! Thats fine!

Indignantly do I deny The words of ArnoldBennett. Why, Is this not English verse?say I.

And by the proceeds of that verse Suchas, e. g. , these little terc- Etsis not filled

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the family purse?Do we not live on what I sell, Sonnet,

ballade, and villanelle?

We do, She says, and none too well.Signal ServiceTime-table! Terrible and hard To fig-

ure! At some station lonely We see this signupon the card: [Footnote Asterisk: Train

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20: Stops on signal only.]We read thee wrong; the untrained eye

Does not see always with precision. Thetrain we thought to travel by [Footnote Dag-ger: Runs only on North-west division.]

Again, undaunted, we look at The hiero-glyphs, and as a rule a Small double daggershows us that [Footnote SmallDoubleDag-ger: Train does not stop at Ashtabula.]

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And when we take a certain line OnTues., Wednes., Thurs., Fri., Sat., or Mon-day, Were certain to detect the sign: [FootnoteSectionMark: $10 extra fare ex. Sunday. ]

Heck JunctionHere she comes! Fft! Whiz!A scurryand the train has flitted! Againwe look. We find itviz., [Footnote Dou-bleBar: Train does not stop where timeomitted.]

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Through hieroglyphic seas we wade Printis so cold and so unfeeling. The train wewait at Neverglade [Footnote Paragraph: Con-nects with C. & A. at Wheeling.]

Now hungrily the sheet we scan, Grimywith travel, thirsty, weary, And thennothingis sadder than [Footnote PointingHand: Nodiner on till after Erie.]

Yet, cursed as is every sign, The cussedest140


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No, no, not that! But let me tell Youwhy I scorn your ardent kiss Not that I donot love you well; No, Archibald, the rea-sons this: ( Continued on page 24 .) Turn,turn my leaves, and let me learn Eustaciasfate; I pine for more; Oh, turn and turn andturn and turn!

Becauseand yet I ought not say Thewherefore of my sudden whim. Here Archibald

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looked at Eusta- Cia, and Eustacia lookedat him.

Because, continued she, my headI never knew Eustacias fate, I never knewwhat Stacia said. (Continued on page 58.)

Popular Ballad: Never Forget Your Par-ents

A young man once was sitting Within aswell cafe, The music it was playing sweet

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The people was quite gay. But he alone wassilent, A tear was in his eye A waitress shestepped up to him, and Asked him gentlywhy.

(Change to Minor.)He turned to her in sorrow and At first

he spoke no word, But soon he spoke untoher, for She was an honest girl. He rose upfrom the table In that elegant cafe, And in

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a voice replete with tears To her he thendid say:

CHORUSNever forget your father, Think all he

done for you; A mother is a boys best friend,So loving, kind, and true,

If it were not for them, Im sure I mightbe quite forlorn; And if your parents hadnot have lived You would not have been

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born.A hush fell on the laughing throng, It

made them feel quite bad, For most of themwas people, and Some parents they had had.Both men and ladies did shed tears. Themusic it did cease. For all knew he hadspoke the truth By looking at his face.

(Change to Minor.)The waitress she wept bitterly And oth-

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ers was in tears It made them think of theold home They had not saw in years. Andwhile their hearts was heavy and Their eyesthey was quite red. This brave and honestboy again To them these words he said:

CHORUSNever forget, etc.Ballade to a Lady (To Annabelle.)Pipe to the tip Im handing, Kid; Get

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jerry to the salve I throw; Just paste it inyour merrywid While I pull out the tremolo.This stuff aint any paper snow I never wasa bull con gee Wise up to this and sing itslow: You make an awful splash with me.

My line of bunk is like to skid; (Thesubject is so smoothget joe?) My foun-tain pens an invalid; I cant dope wordslike L. Defoe Puts in describing up a show,

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But, kiddo, you have put the bee On father,surest thing you know. You make an awfulsplash with me.

Yop, Im your little katydid; Just listento my chirp of woe; And now Ive made mylittle bid You get it? Follow me? Right-O!If I could shoot like Eddie Poe, I guess thatyoud be h-e-p, But heres the bet, now copit, bo, You make an awful splash with me.

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LENVOIWell, this is where the stuff I stow, Ac-

cording to old Francois V; Butonce againbefore I blow You make an awful splashwith me.

To a ThesaurusO precious codex, volume, tome, Book,

writing, compilation, work Attend the whileI pen a pome, A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.

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For I would pen, engross, indite, Tran-scribe, set forth, compose, address, Record,submityea, even write An ode, an elegy tobless

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

Thy merit, goodness, value, worth, Ex-152


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Ala Alack! and well-a-day! My casewould then be dour and sad, Likewise dis-tressing, dismal, gray, Pathetic, mournful,dreary, bad.

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

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The Ancient LaysI cannot sing the old songs I sang long

years ago, But I can always hear them Atany vodevil show.

Erring in Company(If I have erred I err in company with

Abraham Lincoln.THEODORE ROOSEVELT.)If eer my rhyming be at fault, If eer I

chance to scribble dope, If that my metre155


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ever halt, I err in company with Pope.An that my grammar go awry, An that

my English be askew, Sooth, I can prove analibi The Bard of Avon did it, too.

If often toward the bottled grape My er-rant fancy fondly turns, Remember, jeeringjackanape, I err in company with Burns.

If now and then I sigh Mine own! Untoanothers wedded wife, Remember I am not

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alone Hast ever read Lord Byrons Life?If frequently I fret and fume, And abso-

lutely will not smile, I err in company withHume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.

If eer I fail in etiquette, And foozle onThe Proper Stuff Regarding manners, dontforget A. Tennysons were pretty tough.

Eke if I err upon the side Of talkingovermuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied,

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In most illustrious company.The LimitWhile I hold as superficial him who has

his young initial Neatly graven on his Turk-ish cigarette, Such a bit of affectation I canview with toleration, Such a folly I forgiveand I forget. Him who rocks the little boat,or him who rides the cyclemotor I dislike alittle more than just enough; But you might

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as well be knowing that the guy who getsme going Is the man who wears his kerchiefin his cuff.

Now Ive builded many a verse on thatextremely stylish person Who insists uponthe hat of emerald hue; I have made a lotof fun of things that honestly were none ofMy blanked businessand I knew that it wastrue. At the shameless subway smoker I

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have been a ceaseless joker- For that nui-sance daily gets me in a huff But the onethat makes me maddest is that pestilentialfaddist Who is carrying his kerchief in hiscuff.

Im a passive, harmless hater of the vari-coloured gaiter That the men of the Rialtowill affect; Of the loud and sassy clother,Im a quiet, modest loather, And to comic

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section weskits I object. But, as I have in-timated, hinted, innuendoed stated, Of thethings that I believe are awful stuff, Noth-ing starts my indignation like the silly affec-tation Of the man who wears his kerchief inhis cuff- E-nough! Of the man who wearshis kerchief in his cuff.

Chorus for Mixed Voices(Being a stenographic report of how it

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sounds from the piazza when a dozen boatloads go out on the lake of a summer evening.)

How can I bear to good old Yale theshades of Upidee Thats where my heart isweep no more in sunny Tennessee How dearto heart grows weary far from meadow grassis blue Above Cayugas waters we will singIm strong for you.

A Spanish cava fare thee well and every-162


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thing so fine Thats where you get your oldblack Joe my darling Clementine The oldfolks would enjoy it on the road to Man-dalay Twas from Aunt Dinahs polly-wolly-woodle all the day.

I hear those good night ladies much obligedbecause were here Afraid to go home inthe with a good song ringing clear Just tellthem that fair Harvard old Nassau is shin-

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ing bright How can I bear to grand old ragwe roll along good night!

The Translated Way(Being a lyric translation of Heines

Du Bist Wie Eine Blume, as it is usuallydone.)

Thou art like to a Flower, So pure andclean thou art; I view thee and much Sad-ness Steals to me in the Heart.

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To me it seems my Hands I Should nowimpose on your Head, praying God to keepyou So fine and clean and pure.

And Yet It Is A Gentle Art!(Parody is a genre frowned upon by your

professors of literature... And yet it is agentle art The Point of View in MayScribners .)

A sweet disorder in the verse That never165


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looks behind Shall profit not who steals mypurse, Let joy be unconfined!

How vainly men themselves amaze! Thestars began to blink, An art that there werefew to praise, Nor any drop to drink.

O sleep, it is a blessed thing Which Imust neer enjoy! There never was a fairerspring Than when I was a boy.

One fond embrace and then we part!166


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Goodby, my lover, good-by! And yet itis a gentle art, Which nobody can deny.

OccasionallyNow and then theres a couple whose

conjugal life Is happy as happy can be; Nowand then theres a man who believes thathis wife Is the One Unsurpassable She; Thereare doubtless in England a great many folksWhose humour is airy and sage; But there

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never is one in American jokes Or on theAmerican stage

Now and then theres an auto that doesntbreak down, Or an angler who catches somefish; Now and then theres a pretty societygown Or a girl that breaks never a dish;There is haply a Croesus who isnt a hoax.Or a jest thats not hoary with age; Butthere never is one in American jokes Or on

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ican stage!Jim and BillBill Jones was cynical and sad; He thought

sincerity was rare; Most people, Bill be-lieved, were bad And few were fair.

He said that cheating was the rule; Thatnearly everything was fake; That nearly all,both knave and fool, Were on the make.

Jim Brown was cheerful as the sun; He170


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thought the world a lovely place, Exhibitingto every one A smiling face.

He thought that every man was fair; Hehad no cause to sob or sigh; He said thateverything was square As any die.

Dear reader, would you rather be LikeJim, not crediting the ill, Joyous in yourserenity, Or right, like Bill?

When Nobody Listens171


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At not at all infrequent spells I hearand so do you The tales that everybodytells And no one listens to.

You talk about excitement. Well Lastsummer, up at Silver Dell, Jim Brown andI took a canoe And paddled out a mile ortwo. When we left shore the sun was outSerenest day, beyond a doubt, I ever saw.When suddenly It thunders, and a heavy

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sea Comes up. Im goin to jump, saysJim. He jumps. I dont know how to swim,And I was scared...

You ought to see My kid. Hes great!He isnt three. But smart? Last night hismother said, As she was putting him to bed,Tom, are you sleepy? Well, the kid Whatdye think he up and did? Laugh? Hon-estly, we nearly died! He said:...

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Last week I had a ride As was a ride!We took my car And ran her over night sofar We had to stop. Just as we came To thisside of North Burlingame, We tore a shoe;the left front wheel Got loose and . . .

Did you ever feel That dogs were hu-man? Well, theres Bruce, My colliebrighterthan the deuce! Just talk in ordinary tonesA joke, he barks, speak sad, he moans, The

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other day I said to him, Here, Bruce, takethis to Uncle Jim, And gave . . .

Weve really got the best And cheap-est flat in town. On West Two-Forty-ThirdStreet. That aint far The subway, thenthe Yonkers car An hour, perhaps a lit-tle more. I leave the house at 7.04 Im inthe office every day At nine oclock. Sixrooms are all We have, if you dont count

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the hall Though it is bigger far than mostThe rooms Ive seen. I hate to boast Aboutmy flat; but . . .

Say, Ive got The greatest, newest, finestplot Dramatic, humorous, and fresh And,though Im not in the profesh, Ill back thislittle play of mine Against Pinero, Fitch, orKlein. Sure fire! A knockout! It cant miss!The plot of it begins like this: The present

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Motto heartening, inspiring, Framed abovemy pretty desk, Never Shelley, Keats, orByring Penned a phrase so picturesque! Butin me no inspiration Rides my low and prosybrow All I think of is vacation When I seethat lucubration:

DO IT NOWWhen I see another sentence Framed upon

a brothers wall, Resolution and repentance178


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Do not flood oer me at all As I read thatnugatory Counsel written years ago, Onlywhen one comes to borry[Footnote: Enteredunder the Pure License of 1906.] Do I heedthat ancient story:

TELL HIM NOMottoes flat and mottoes silly, Proverbs

void of point or wit, KEEP A-PLUGGINWHEN ITS HILLY! LIFES A TIGER:

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CONQUER IT! Office mottoes make meweary And of all the bromide bunch Thereis only one I seri- Ously like, and thats thecheery:

GONE TO LUNCHMetaphysicsA man morose and dull and sad Go

ask him why he feels so bad. Behold! Heanswers it is drink That put his nerves upon

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letters more than personal finance, He islacking in ambition and in force.

If a man but bats his consort oh-so-gentlyon the head, If he throttles her a little roundthe neck, Hes a brute; if hes consideratelyconjugal instead, Everybody calls him Mr.Henry Peck.

Lowers Scyllafrowns Charybdisand thebark is like to sink This the symbolistic

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battle! There! My new overcoats torn!Hark to the honk of the horn! Cut out

that throwing confetti! There! My newovercoats torn Looks like a shred of spaghetti.

Cut out that throwing confetti! Look atthe gentleman, stewed; Looks like a shredof spaghetti Dont get so terribly rude!

Look at the gentleman, stewed! Look atthe glare of the rocket! Dont get so terribly

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rude, Keep your hand out of my pocket!Look at the glare of the rocket! Take

that thing out of my face! Keep your handout of my pocket! This is a shame and dis-grace.

Take that thing out of my face! Curseyou! Be decent to ladies! This is a shameand disgrace, Worse than traditions of Hades.

Curse you! Be decent to ladies! (Heav-187


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ens! that woman is loud.) Worse than tra-ditions of Hades Gaze at the good-naturedcrowd!

I Cannot Pay That PremiumBeside a frugal table, though spotless

clean and white, A loving couple they didsit and all seemed pleasant, quite; They didnot have no servant the things away to take,For he was but a broker who much money

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did not make.(Key changes to minor.)He lit a fifty-cent cigar and then his wife

did say: Your life insurance it will lapse ifit you do not pay. He turned from her insorrow, for breaking was his heart, And ina mezzo barytone to her did say, in part:

CHORUS:I cannot pay that premium, Ill have

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to let it go; It fills me with remorse andsorrow, not to mention woe. Though Imquite strong and healthy, and will outliveyou, perhaps, I cannot pay that premium;Ill have to let it lapse.

The wife she naught did answer, for itcut her to the quick; She washed the dishes,filled the lamp, and likewise trimmed thewick; She took in washing the next day

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and played bridge whist all night, Until shehad enough to pay her husbands premium,quite.

(Key changes to minor)The husband he was thrown next day

from his au-to-mo-bile, And although ratherlonesome it did make his widow feel, It madeher glad to know that she had paid thatprem-i-um, And oftentimes in after years

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these words shed softly hum:CHORUS:I cannot pay that premium, etc.Three AuthorsProlific authors, noble three, I do my

derby off to ye.Selected , dear old chap, who knows

The quantity of verse and prose That youhave signed in all these years! Youve dulled

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how many thousand shears! Youve filled,at a tremendous rate, A million miles ofboiler plate A wreath of laurel for yourbrow! A stirrup-cup to youheres how!

And you, dear Ibid . Ah, you wroteToo many things for me to quote, ThoughBartlett, of quotation fame, Plays up yourunpoetic name More than he did to Avonsbard. Your stuffs on every page, old pard.

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Bouquets to you the writer flings; You wrotea lot of dandy things.

And you, O last, O greatest one, A wordwith you, and I have done Your, dear Exchange ,that ever floats Around with verses, anec-dotes, And jokes. Oh, what a lot you sign(Quite frequently a thing of mine). Why,it would not be very strange If I should seethis signed Exchange .

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O favourite authors, wondrous three, Ido my derby off to ye!

To Quotation(Caused by The Ethics of Misquota-

tion in the November Atlantic Monthly .)Quotation! Brother to the Arts, assister

to the Muse! When Bartlett from his studyheight unfurled thine heaven-born hues, Thequotes were here, the quotes were there, the

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quotes were all around, For Bartlett like apoultice came to blow the heels of sound.

Pernicious habit! One becomes a worsethan senseless block, A bard that no onedares to praise and fewer care to knock; Asentence by a mossy stone, of quaint andcurious lore, An apt quotation is to one andit is nothing more.

Quotation! Ah, thou droppest as the196


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gentle rain from heaven, Thy brow is wetwith honest sweat and the stars on thy headare seven.

Who steals my verse steals trash, for,soothly, he who runs may read, But he whofilches from me Bartlett leaves me poor in-deed.

I fill this cup to Bartlett up, and mayhe rest in peace From Africs sunny foun-

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tains to the happy Isles of Greece. Quo-tation! O my Rod and Staff, my Joy sanslet or end With me abide, O handy guide,philosopher, and friend.

MelodramaRIf you want a receipt for a melodramati-

cal, Thrillingly thundery, popular show, Takean old father, unyielding, emphatical, Driv-

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ing his daughter out into the snow; The loveof a hero, courageous and Hacketty; Hateof a villain in evening clothes; Comic re-lief that is Irish and racketty; Schemes ofa villainess muttering oaths; The bank andthe safe and the will and the forgery Allof them built on traditional norms Villai-ness dark and Lucrezia Borgery Helping thevillain until she reforms; The old mill at

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midnight, a rapid delivery; Violin music, allscary and shivery; Plot that is devilish, aw-ful, nefarious; Heroine frightened, her plightis precarious; Bingo!the rescue!the move-ment goes snappily Exit the villain and allendeth happily!

Take of these elements any you care about,Put em in Texas, the Bowery, or there-about; Put in the powder and leave out the

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grammar, And the certain result is a swellmelodrammer.

A Poor Excuse, But Our Own(Why dont you ever write any child po-

etry? A MOTHER.)My right-hand neighbour hath a child,

A pretty child of five or six, Not more thanother children wild, Nor fuller than the restof tricks At five he rises, shine or rain, And

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noisily plays fire or train.Likewise a girl, aetatis eight, He hath.

Each morning, as a rule, Proudly my neigh-bour will relate How bright Mathilda is atschool. My ardour, less than half of mild,Bids me to comment, Wondrous child!

All through the vernal afternoon My otherneighbours children skate A wild Bacchan-tic rigadoon On rollers; nor does it abate

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Till dark; and then his babies cry Whattime I fain would versify.

Did I but set myself to sing A childrenssong, Id stand revealed A bard that didthe infant thing As well as Riley or GeneField. I could write famous Children Stuff,If theyd keep quiet long enough.

Monotonous Variety(All of them from two stories in a single

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magazine.)She greeted and he volunteered; She

giggled; he asserted; She queried andhe lightly veered; She drawled and heaverted; She scoffed, she laughed andhe averred; He mumbled, parried, anddemurred.

She languidly responded; he Incau-tiously assented; Doretta proffered lazily;

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Will speedily invented; She parried, whis-pered, bade, and mused; He urged,acknowledged, and refused.

She softly added; she alleged; Heconsciously invited; She then corrected;William hedged; She prettily recited;She nodded, stormed, and acquiesced;He promised, hastened, and confessed.

Doretta chided; cautioned Will; She205


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voiced and he defended; She vouch-safed; he continued still; She sneeredand he amended; She smiled, she twit-ted, and she dared He scorned, ex-claimed, pronounced, and flared.

He waived, believed, explained,and tried; Commented she; he mut-tered; She blushed, she dimpled, andshe sighed; He ventured and he stut-

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tered; She spoke, suggested, and pur-sued; He pleaded, pouted, called,and viewed.

O synonymble writers, ye Whose workis so high-pricey. Think ye not that varietyMay haply be too spicy? Meseems that inan elder day They had a thing or two tosay .

The Amateur Botanist207


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A primrose by a rivers brim Primulavulgaris was to him, And it was nothingmore; A pansy, delicately reared, Viola tri-color appeared In true botanic lore.

That which a pink the layman deemsDianthus caryophyllus seems To any flower-

fan; or A sunflower, in that talk of his,Annuus helianthus is, And it is nothing

more.208


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A Word for ItScorn not the sonnet. Well, I reckon

not, I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle,Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or een aquatrain, humble and forgot, An so it mademy Pegasus to trot His morning lap whattime he heard the bell; An so it made thepoem stuff to jell To mix a met.an so itboild the pot.

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Oh, sweet set form that varies not abit! I taste thy joy, not quite unknownto Keats. Scorn? Nay, I love thy finesymmetric grace. In sonnets one knows al-ways where to quit, Unlike in other poemswhere one cheats And strings it out to fillthe yawning space.

The Poem Speaks(Cut this out in either case.)

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Poet, ere you write me, Stem the flowingink; Or that you indite me Pause upon thebrink.

Strummer of the lyre Maker of the tune,Give me a desire Bless me with a boon.

Let me be a rondeau With a sweet re-frain, Or an aliquando Sonnet to the rain;

Let me be a lyric Tenuous as air, Or ana la Viereck Passion song to hair;

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Ballad, epic, quatrain, Coupletay, a lineLet it rain or not rain, Let it storm orshine.

Shape me as you list to, Glorious orsmall; Put a comic twist to Anything at all.

Only give me fame that Never, neverdies, Christen me a name that Reaches tothe skies.

This is my ambition: Not the greatest212


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nerves; there are others who enjoy Trol-lopes quiet humour. Some people find inHenry Jamess tangled syntax the restfuldiversion they seek, and others enjoy Mr.Howellss unexciting realism. The Sun .)

How sleep the brave who sink to rest,Lulled by the waves of dreamy diction, Likethat appearing in the best Of modern fic-tion!

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When sleeplessness the Briton claims,And hits him with her wakeful wallop, Hegoes to Gibbon or to James, Or maybe Trol-lope.

No paltry limit, such as those The craving-slumber Yankee curses He has a wealth ofpoppy prose And opiate verses.

A grain ofought I mention names Andsay whence sleep may be inspired? Is it

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the thing to say of James, He makes metired?

To say a dose of Phillips, or A capsuleof Sinclair or Brady, Is just the thing tomake me snore? Oh, lackadaydee!

Nay! It were churlish to review Andspecify by marked attention Our bedbooks.They are far too nu- Merous to mention.

A New York Childs Garden of Verses216


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(With the usual.)IIn winter I get up at night, And dress

by an electric light. In summer, autumn,ay, and spring, I have to do the self-samething.

I have to go to bed and hear Pianospounding in my ear, And hear the janitorcavort With garbage cans within the court.

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And does it not seem hard to you ThatI should have these things to do? Is it nothard for us Manhat- Tan children in a stuffyflat?

IIIt is very nice to think The world is full

of food and drink; But, oh, my father saysto me They cost all of his salaree.

III218


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When I am grown to mans estate I shallbe very proud and great; Een now I have noreverence, Cause I read comic supplements.

IVNew York is so full of a number of kids

Im sure pretty soon we shall be invalids.VA child should always say whats true,

And speak when he is spoken to; And then,219


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when manhoods age he strikes, He may beboorish as he likes.

Downward, Come Downward(With apologies to the estate of Eliza-

beth Akers Allen.)Downward, come downward, O Cost in

your flight, Soaring like Paulhan or W. Wright!Prices, come down from the limitless sky,Down to the reach of the Ultimate Guy.

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Once you were not quite so far from theground; Once we had lamb chops at 10c. apound. Give us the days ere the cost tooka leap, When things were cheap, mother,when they were cheap.

Backward, flow backward, O Livings Ad-vance, Back from the purlieus of Airy Ro-mance! Back to the days when a porter-house steak Didnt cost half of what people

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could make! Back to the days when a reg-ular egg Didnt drive people to borrow andbeg! Oh, for the days when the hog andthe sheep Were not as diamondswhen theywere cheap.

Speaking of HuntingWhen a button rolls under the bureau

The search is a woeful affair; And the hu-morous weekly describes it but meekly In

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saying the hunter will swear. But what isthat limited anger? The impotent rage of acub! I only grow what you could really callhot When the soap slips under the tub.

Ive sought through a time-tables mazes,And sworn at the men who devise Thatscare and delusion of hopeless confusion,That intricate bundle of lies. But never ahunt that was harder, Be you or professor

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or dub, Than that ill-fated jestI refer tothe quest When the soap falls back of thetub

My paste pot escapes almost daily; Myscissors I never can find; And I am

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