Part 2
“Take us aboard! You can’t afford So cruelly to flout us! We are a pair extremely rare; No ark’s complete without us.”
Down went the gang, and up there sprang Before them, through the curtain Of blinding rain, the oddest twain, Of genus most uncertain.
They’d human shape, yet like the ape Were caudally appended; And, strange to tell, their feet as well, Like apes’, in fingers ended.
Quoth Noah, “Pray, who are you--say? Human, or anthropoidal?” “You takes your choice!” as with one voice They cried; which so annoyed all
The apes on board with one accord They screamed for indignation; ’Twas very clear _they_ would not hear Of any such relation.
Said Noah, “Though you’re rare, I know You’re not for my collection; And though not vain, I must refrain From claiming the connection.”
With small regret, the pair he set On shore mid cheers and hissing, And that’s the way it comes to-day The MISSING LINK is missing.
THE SNAIL’S DREAM
A snail, who had a way, it seems, Of dreaming very curious dreams, Once dreamed he was--you’ll never guess!-- The Lightning Limited Express!
LÈSE MAJESTÉ
(SEE FRONTISPIECE)
The Lion ramps around the cage, The Lady smiles to see him rage. The little Mouse outside the bars Looks on and laughs. “Well, bless my stars!” Quoth he, “to think they call that thing The _King of Beasts_! If _he’s_ a King, Who cannot make the Lady wince, What must _I_ be? When, not long since, Inside the cage I chanced to slip, You should have seen that Lady skip Upon the Lion’s back. ‘Help! Murder! A Mouse!’ she screamed; you should have heard her! And then with brooms the keepers came And drove me out (but, all the same, I got the crumb that I was after). A King indeed! Excuse my laughter!”
THE LOVESICK SCARECROW
A scarecrow in a field of corn, A thing of tatters all forlorn, Once felt the influence of Spring And fell in love--a foolish thing, And most particularly so In his case--_for he loved a crow_!
“Alack-a-day! it’s wrong, I know, It’s wrong for me to love a crow; An all-wise man created me To scare the crows away,” cried he; “And though the music of her ‘Caw’ Thrills through and through this heart of straw,
“My passion I must put away And do my duty, come what may! Yet oh, the cruelty of fate! I fear she doth reciprocate My love, for oft at dusk I hear Her in my cornfield hovering near.
“And once I dreamt--oh, vision blest! That she alighted on my breast. ’Tis very, very hard, I know, But all-wise man decreed it so.” He cried and flung his arm in air, The very picture of despair.
* * * * *
Poor Scarecrow, if he could but know! Even now his lady-love, the Crow, Sits in a branch, just out of sight, With her good husband, waiting night, To pluck from out his sleeping breast His heart of straw to line her nest.
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE
The politest musician that ever was seen Was Montague Meyerbeer Mendelssohn Green. So extremely polite he would take off his hat Whenever he happened to meet with a cat.
“It’s not that I’m partial to cats,” he’d explain; “Their music to me is unspeakable pain. There’s nothing that causes my flesh so to crawl As when they perform a G-flat caterwaul.
“Yet I cannot help feeling--in spite of their din-- When I hear at a concert the first violin Interpret some exquisite thing of my own, If it were not for _cat gut_ I’d never be known.
“And so, when I bow, as you see, to a cat, It isn’t to _her_ that I take off my hat; But to fugues and sonatas that possibly hide Uncomposed in her--well--in her tuneful inside!”
SONG.
_Gather Kittens while you may, Time brings only Sorrow; And the Kittens of To-day Will be Old Cats To-morrow._
THE DOORLESS WOLF
I saw, one day, when times were very good, A newly rich man walking in a wood, Who chanced to meet, all hungry, lean, and sore, The wolf that used to sit outside his door. Forlorn he was, and piteous his plaint. “Help me!” he howled. “With hunger I am faint. It is so long since I have seen a door-- And you are rich, and you have many score. When you’d but one, I sat by it all day; Now you have many, I am turned away. Help me, good sir, once more to find a place. Prosperity now stares me in the face.” The newly rich man, jingling all the while The silver in his pocket, smiled a smile: He saw a way the wolf could be of use. “Good wolf,” said he, “you’re going to the deuce,-- The dogs, I mean,--and that will never do; I think I’ve found a way to see you through.”
“I too have worries. Ever since I met Prosperity I have been sore beset By begging letters, charities, and cranks, All very short in gold and long in thanks. Now, if you’ll come and sit by my front door From eight o’clock each morning, say, till four, Then every one will think that I am poor, And from their pesterings I’ll be secure. Do you accept?” The wolf exclaimed, “I do!” The rich man smiled; the wolf smiled; _I_ smiled, too, And in my little book made haste to scrawl: “Thus affluence makes niggards of us all!”
THE CHARM THAT FAILED
The Hero of my tale Was a serpent--don’t turn pale! My snake was not the “serpent” of Theology, With an apple up his sleeve To tempt some child of Eve, Nor was he versed in deadly Toxicology. No, his fangs were free from guile, And he had a roomy smile. There was no more harmless snake in all Zoölogy. But since no creature known Is perfect, I will own He had one failing--vanity, alas! innate. He was also fond of sport, Though not a cruel sort: His aim was more to charm than to assassinate. He was often heard to say, When feeling rather gay, “I’d like to see the Bird I cannot fascinate!”
_And one day Some laughter-loving Fay His boasting heard, And sent a Bird._
It was sitting, stuffed and stiff, on A thing of straw and chiffon, Ribbands and lace and jet and such like finery, By a milliner begotten And some careless maid forgotten, In stuffed and lonely splendour in the Vinery, When with expectant eye Mr. Serpent, by-and-by, Strolled forth in search of game from out the Pinery.
_And the Bird Never stirred Or said a word._
“Aha!” said Mr. Snake, “Unless I much mistake, Here’s a charming subject for a Trance Hypnotic; Soon I’ll have her in my toils!” And with mysterious coils He advanced with air complacent and despotic. Then he rose up, and let fly A glance from out his eye, And watched for the effect of his narcotic.
_And the Bird Never stirred Or said a word._
Said Mr. Snake, “My spell Seems to work extremely well.” And straightway with Majestic Pride he puffed.
But when an hour had passed And still the Bird stood fast, I must confess he felt a trifle huffed. “There’s something wrong,” said he, “With the Bird--or else with me.” How should he know the wretched thing was stuffed?
_That Bird, Who never stirred Or said a word._
Mr. Snake was sorely troubled, And his efforts he redoubled, And he balanced on the tip end of his tail, Swaying to and fro the while Like a pendulum--a style That hitherto he’d never known to fail.
But not a word she uttered, And not a feather fluttered As he plied his mystic Art without avail. “Confound the bird!” he said, And he stood upon his head And waved his long mysterious tail in air,
And he focussed all the rays Of his esoteric gaze Into one cold and petrifying glare. But the Deadly Glance fell wide; He might as well have tried To hypnotize a table or a chair--
_As that Bird, Who never stirred Or said a word._
“That settles it!” he cried. “I will not be defied!” And he coiled himself to spring--oh, rash proceeding! Like an arrow from a bow He sprang--how should he know The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding? Next moment he lay dead, With a Hat Pin through his head, Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding--
_The Bird Never stirred Or said a Word._
JAPANESQUE
Oh, where the white quince blossom swings I love to take my Japan ease! I love the maid Anise who clings So lightly on my Japan knees; I love the little song she sings, The little love-song Japanese. I _almost_ love the lute’s _tink tunkle_ Played by that charming Jap Anise-- For am I not her old Jap uncle? And is she not my Japan niece?
THE FIRST FIRST OF APRIL
The Infant Earth one April day (The first of April--so they say), When toddling on her usual round, Spied in her path upon the ground A dainty little garland ring Of violets--and _that_ was Spring. She caught the pretty wreath of Spring And all the birds began to sing; But when she thought to hold it tight ’Twas rudely jerked from out her sight; And while she looked for it in vain The birds all flew away again.
Alas! The flowering wreath of Spring Was fastened to a silken string, And Time, the urchin, laughed for glee (He held the other end, you see). And that was long ago, they say, When Time was young and Earth was gay. Now Earth is old and Time is lame, Yet still they play the same old game: Old Earth still reaches out for Spring, And Time--well--Time still holds the string.
THE BOASTFUL BUTTERFLY
(FROM THE ORIENTAL)
Upon the temple dome Of Solomon the wise There paused, returning home, A pair of butterflies.
_He_ did the quite blasé (Did it rather badly), Wherefore--need I say?-- _She_ adored him madly.
Enthusiasm she Did not attempt to curb: “Goodness gracious me! Isn’t this superb!”
_He_ vouchsafed a smile To indulge her whimsy, Surveyed the lofty pile, And drawled, “Not bad--but flimsy.”
“Appearances, though fine, Lead to false deduction; This temple, I opine, Is shaky in construction.
“Think of it, my dear. All this glittering show Would crumble--disappear-- Should I but stamp my toe!
“If I should stamp--like this--” His wife cried, “Heavens! _don’t!_” He answered, with a kiss, “Very well; I won’t.”
Now, every blessed word Said by these butterflies, It chanced, was overheard By Solomon the wise.
He called in angry tone, And bade a Djinn to hie And summon to his throne That boastful butterfly.
The butterfly flew down Upon reluctant wing. Cried Solomon, with a frown, “How dared you say this thing?
“How dared you, fly, invent Such blasphemy as this is?” “Oh, king, I only meant To terrify the missis.”
The insect was so scared The king could scarce restrain A smile. “Begone! you’re spared; _But don’t do it again_!”
So spake King Solomon. The _butterflew_ away. His wife to meet him ran: “Oh, dear, what _did_ he say?”
The butterfly had here A chance to shine, and knew it. Said he: “The king, my dear, Implored me _not to do it_!”
THE TRAGIC MICE
It was a tragic little mouse All bent on suicide Because another little mouse Refused to be his bride.
“Alas!” he squeaked, “I shall not wed! My heart and paw she spurns; I’ll hie me to the cat instead, From whence no mouse returns!”
The playful cat met him half way, Said she, “I feel for you, You’re dying for a mouse, you say, I’m dying for one, too!”
Now when Miss Mouse beheld his doom, Struck with remorse, she cried, “In death we’ll meet!--O cat! make room For one more mouse inside.”
The playful cat was charmed; said she, “I shall be, in a sense, Your pussy catafalque!” Ah me! It was her last offence!
* * * * *
Reader, take warning from this tale, And shun the punster’s trick: _Those mice, for fear lest cats might fail, Had eaten arsenic_!
A THREE SIDED QUESTION
Scene: _A hollow tree in the woods_. Time: _December evening_.
MR. OWL. MR. SPARROW. MR. BEAR.
MR. OWL (_stretching his wings_):
Heigho! It’s dark! How fast the daylight goes! I must have overslept. It’s time I rose And went about my breakfast to prepare. I should keep better hours; I declare, Before I got to bed ’twas broad daylight! That must be why I’m getting up to-night With such a sleepy feeling in my head. Heigho! Heigho! (_Yawns._)
_Enter_ MR. SPARROW.
MR. SPARROW: Why don’t you go to bed, If you’re so very sleepy?--it’s high time! The sun has set an hour ago, and I’m Going home myself as fast as I can trot. Night is the time for sleep.
MR. OWL: The time for what? The time for _sleep_, you say?
MR. SPARROW: That’s what I said.
MR. OWL: Well, my dear bird, your reason must have fled!
MR. SPARROW (_icily_): I do not catch your meaning quite, I fear.
MR. OWL: I mean you’re talking nonsense. Is that clear?
MR. SPARROW (_angrily_): Say that again--again, sir, if you dare! Say it again!
MR. OWL: As often as you care. You’re talking nonsense--stuff and nonsense--there!
MR. SPARROW (_hopping one twig higher up_): You are a coward, sir, and _impolite_!
(_hopping on a still higher twig_)
And if you weren’t beneath me I would fight.
MR. OWL: I _am_ beneath you, true enough, my friend, By just two branches. Will you not descend? Or shall I--
MR. SPARROW (_hastily_): No, don’t rise. Tell me instead What was the nonsense that you thought I said.
MR. OWL: It may be wrong, but if I heard aright, You said the proper time for sleep was night.
MR. SPARROW: That’s what I said, and I repeat it too!
MR. OWL: Then you repeat a thing that is not true. _Day_ is the time for sleep, not _night_.
MR. SPARROW: Absurd! Who’s talking nonsense now?
MR. OWL: Impudent bird! How dare you answer back, you upstart fowl!
MR. SPARROW: How dare you call me upstart--you--you--_Owl_!
MR. OWL: This is too much! I’ll stand no more, I vow! Defend yourself!
MR. BEAR (_looking out of hollow tree_): Come, neighbours, stop that row! What you’re about I’m sure I cannot think. I only know I haven’t had one wink Of sleep. Indeed, I’ve borne it long enough, ’Twould put the mildest temper in a huff; And I am but a bear. Why don’t you go To bed like other folks, I’d like to know? Summer is long enough to keep awake-- Winter’s the time when honest people take Their three months’ sleep.
MR. SPARROW: That settles me! I fly! Dear Mr. Owl and Mr. Bear, good-bye! [_Exit._
MR. OWL: I must go too, to find another wood. Every one’s mad in this queer neighbourhood! It is not safe such company to keep. Good evening, Mr. Bear. [_Exit._
MR. BEAR: _Now_ I shall sleep.
CURTAIN.
THE LEGEND OF THE LILY
Once a Tiger for a freak, Fell in love With a Lily, pure and meek And as timid, white, and weak, As a dove. Yet withal a wee bit chilly, Just enough the Tiger’s silly Pride to pique.
By-and-by the Lily cold, Felt the charm; Learned, though dreadful to behold, That the Tiger, fierce and bold, Meant no harm. And she smiled upon him shyly, Till at length the Tiger wily, Was consoled.
So in time the Beauty grew To adore The Royal Beast who came to woo, Loved him for his golden hue-- For his roar; All for him with blushes burning, To a Tiger-lily turning, Golden too.
But alas, the luckless Lily, Loved in vain; For a painted daffodilly Came between them, and the Lily, Pale with pain, In a dark pool, drooped and pining, Drowned herself, and rose a shining Water-lily.
THE UNTUTORED GIRAFFE
A child at school who fails to pass Examination in his class Of Natural History will be So shaky in Zoölogy, That, should he ever chance to go To foreign parts, he scarce will know The common _Mus Ridiculus_ From _Felis_ or _Caniculus_. And what of boys and girls is true Applies to other creatures, too, As you will cheerfully admit When once I’ve illustrated it.
Once on a time a young Giraffe (Who when at school at school devoured the chaff, And trampled underneath his feet The golden grains of Learning’s wheat) Upon his travels chanced to see A Python hanging from a tree, A thing he’d never met before. All neck it seemed and nothing more; And, stranger still, it was bestrown With pretty spots much like his own. “Well, well! I’ve often heard,” he said, “Of foolish folk who lose their head; But really it’s a funnier joke To meet a head that’s lost its folk. Dear me! Ha! ha! It makes me laugh. Where _has_ he left his other half? If he could find it he would be A really fine Giraffe, like me.”
The Python, waking with a hiss, Exclaimed, “What kind of snake is this? Your spots are really very fine, Almost as good in fact as mine, But with those legs I fail to see How you can coil about a tree. Take away half, and you would make A very decent sort snake-- Almost as fine a snake as I; Indeed, it’s not too late to try.”
A something in the Python’s eye Told the Giraffe ’twas best to fly, Omitting all formality. And afterward, when safe at home, He wrote a very learned tome, Called, “What I Saw beyond the Foam.”
Said he, “The strangest thing one sees Is a Giraffe who hangs from trees, And has--(right here the author begs To state a _fact_) and has _no legs_!”
The book made a tremendous hit. The public all devoured it, Save one, who, minding how he missed Devouring the author--_hissed_.
THE ENCHANTED WOOD
A dark old Raven lived in a tree, With a little Tree-frog for company,
In the midst of a forest so thick with trees Only thin people could walk with ease.
Yet though the forest was dank and dark, The little Tree-frog was gay as a lark;
He piped and trilled the livelong day, While the Raven was just the other way:
He grumbled and croaked from morn till night, And nothing in all the world was right.
The moon was too pale, or the sun too bright; The sky was too blue, or the snow too white;
The thrushes too gay, or the owls too glum; And the squirrels--well, they were too squirrelsome.
And as for the trees, _why_ did they grow In a wood, of all places?--he’d like to know.
A wood is so dark and unhealthy, too, For trees; and besides, they obstruct the view.
And so it went on from morn till night: The Tree-frog piping with pure delight,
And the Raven croaking with all his might That nothing in all the world was right.
Well, in this same wood, it chanced one day The enchanter Merlin lost his way;
And stopping to rest ’neath the very tree Where the Raven and Tree-frog were taking their tea,
He divined of a sudden, by magic lore, A thing I forgot to mention before:
That the forest and all that therein did dwell Owed their present shape to an ancient spell.
Now a spell, though a tiresome job to make, Is the easiest thing in the world to break,
When once you know how to perform the trick, As Merlin did. Waving his magic stick,
He cried, “Let this forest and everything in it Take its former shape!” When lo! in a minute,
In place of the Raven, a stern old sage All robed in black and all bent with age:
And where the little Tree-frog had been Sat a goodly youth all dressed in green;
And around about was a flowery lawn Where the forest had been. Said the sage, with a yawn:
“I must have been dozing--well, to resume-- As I was saying, this world of gloom--”
“Oh, bother the world of gloom--just hear That thrush!” cried the youth; “the first this year!”
A BUNNY ROMANCE
The Bunnies are a feeble folk Whose weakness is their strength. To shun a gun a Bun will run To almost any length.
Now once, when war alarms were rife In the ancestral wood Where the kingdom of the Bunnies For centuries had stood, The king, for fear long peace had made His subjects over-bold, To wake the glorious spirit Of timidity of old, Announced one day he would bestow Princess Bunita’s hand On the Bunny who should prove himself Most timid in the land.
Next day a proclamation Was posted in the wood “To the Flower of Timidity, The Pick of Bunnyhood: His Majesty the Bunny king, Commands you to appear At a tournament--at such a date In such and such a year-- Where his Majesty will then bestow Princess Bunita’s hand On the Bunny who will prove himself Most timid in the land.”
Then every timid Bunny’s heart Swelled with exultant fright At the thought of doughty deeds of fear And prodigies of flight.
For the motto of the Bunnies, As perhaps you are aware, Is “Only the faint-hearted Are deserving of the fair.”
They fell at once to practising, These Bunnies, one and all, Till some could almost die of fright To hear a petal fall.
And one enterprising Bunny Got up a special class To teach the art of fainting At your shadow on the grass.
At length--at length--at length The moment is at hand! And trembling all from head to foot A hundred Bunnies stand.
And a hundred Bunny mothers With anxiety turn gray Lest their offspring dear should lose their fear And linger in the fray.
Never before in Bunny lore Was such a stirring sight As when the bugle sounded To begin the glorious flight! A hundred Bunnies, like a flash, All disappeared from sight Like arrows from a hundred bows-- None swerved to left or right. Some north, some south, some east, some west,-- And none of them, ’tis plain, Till he has gone around the earth Will e’er be seen again. It may be in a hundred weeks, Perchance a hundred years. Whenever it may be, ’tis plain The one who first appears Is the one who ran the fastest; He wins the Princess’ hand, And gains the glorious title of “Most Timid in the Land.”
THE FLOWER CIRCUS