Chapter 2
There was a man in Our Town And Jimson was his name, Who cried, "Our civic government Is honeycombed with shame." He called us neighbors in and said, "By Graft we're overrun. Let's have a general cleaning up, As other towns have done."
The citizens of Our Town Responded to the call; Beneath the banner of Reform We gathered one and all. We sent away for men expert In hunting civic sin, To ask these practised gentlemen Just how we should begin.
The experts came to Our Town And told us how 'twas done. "Begin with Gas and Traction, And half your fight is won. Begin with Gas and Traction; The rest will follow soon." We looked at one another And hummed a different tune.
Said Smith, "Saloons in Our Town Are palaces of shame." Said Jones, "Police corruption Has hurt the town's fair name." Said Brown, "Our lawless children Pitch pennies as they please." Now would it not be wiser To start Reform with these?
The men who came to Our Town Replied, "No haste with these; Begin with Gas--or Water-- The roots of the disease." We looked at one another And hemmed and hawed a bit; Enthusiasm faded then From every single cit.
The men who came to Our Town Expressed a mild surprise, Then they too at each other Looked "with a wild surmise." Jimson had stock in Traction, And Jones had stock in Gas, And Smith and Brown in this and that, So--nothing came to pass.
The profligates of Our Town Pitch pennies as of yore; Police corruption flourishes As rankly as before, Still are our gilded ginmills Foul palaces of shame. Reform is just as distant As when the wise men came.
WHEN THE SIRUP'S ON THE FLAPJACK
When the sirup's on the flapjack and the coffee's in the pot; When the fly is in the butter--where he'd rather be than not; When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth; When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken's in the broth; When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher's on the tray, And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn't on the way; When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese, Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.
BREAD PUDDYNGE
When good King Arthur ruled our land He was a goodly king, And his idea of what to eat Was a good bag puddynge.
The bag puddynge he had in mind Was thickly strewn with plums, With alternating lumps of fat As big as my two thumbs.
"My love," quoth he to Guinevere, "We have a joust to-day-- Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal, And all the brave array.
"Put everything across to-night In guise of goodly fare, And cook us up a bag puddynge That will y-curl our hair."
"I'll curl your hair," said Guinevere, "As tight as tight can be; I'll cook you up a bag puddynge From my new recipee."
. . . . . . . . . .
"Pitch in and eat, my merry men!" That night the King did say; "But save a little room--a bag Puddynge is on the way.
"Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword, A famous feast 'twill be. Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce, From her own recipee."
"Odslife!" cried Launce, "if there is aught I love 'tis this same thing." And he and all the knights did fall Upon that bag puddynge.
One taste, and every holy knight Sat speechless for a space, While disappointment and disgust Were writ in every face.
"Odsbodikins!" Sir Tristram cried, "In all my days, by Jing! I ne'er did taste so flat a mess As this here bag puddynge."
"Odswhiskers, Arthur!" cried Sir Launce, Whose license knew no bounds, "I would to Godde I had this stuff To poultice up my wounds."
King Arthur spat his mouthful out, And sent for Guinevere. "What is this frightful mess?" he roared. "Is this a joke, my dear?"
"Oh, ain't it good?" asked Guinevere, Her face a rosy red. "I thought 'twould make an awful hit: _I made it out of bread!_"
. . . . . . . . . .
When good King Arthur ruled our land He was a goodly king, And only once in all his reign Was made a Bread Puddynge.
MUSCA DOMESTICA
Baby bye, here's a fly, We will watch him, you and I; Lest he fall in Baby's mouth, Bringing germs from north and south. In the world of things a-wing There is not a nastier thing Than this pesky little fly;-- So we'll watch him, you and I.
See him crawl up the wall, And he'll never, never fall; Save that, poisoned, he may drop In the soup or on the chop. Let us coax the cunning brute To the tempting Tanglefoot, Or invite his thirsty soul To the poison-paper bowl.
I believe with six such legs You or I could walk on eggs; But he'd rather crawl on meat With his microbe-laden feet. Eggs would hardly do as well-- He could not get through the shell; Better far, to spread disease, Vegetables, meat, or cheese.
There he goes, on his toes, Tickling, tickling Baby's nose. Heaven knows where he has been, And what filth he's wallowed in. Drat the nasty little wretch! He's the deuce and all to ketch. Ah! He's settled on the wall. Now the thunderbolt shall fall!
Baby bye, see that fly? We will swat him, you and I.
THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR
"_But bending low, I whisper only this:_ _'Love, it is night.'_" --HARRY THURSTON PECK.
Love, it is night. The orb of day Has gone to hit the cosmic hay. Nocturnal voices now we hear. Come, heart's delight, the hour is near When Passion's mandate we obey.
I would not, sweet, the fact convey In any crude and obvious way: I merely whisper in your ear-- "Love, it is night!"
Candor compels me, pet, to say That years my fading charms betray. Tho' Love be blind, I grant it's clear I'm no Apollo Belvedere. But after dark all cats are gray. Love, it is night!
A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING
Now is my season of unrest, Now calls the forest, day and night; And by its pleasant spell obsessed, My wits go soaring like a kite. Forgive me if I be not bright, And pardon if I seem distrait; Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;-- The woods are but a week away.
Palleth upon my soul the jest, Falleth upon my pen a blight. The daily task has lost its zest, And everything is flat and trite. There's nothing humorous in sight; Don't mind if I am dull to-day. For every column is a fight When woods are but a week away.
Woods in the robes of summer dressed-- In greens and grays and browns bedight! A journey on a river's breast, Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!... This end the Voyage of Delight Waits, in a little wood-bound bay, A bark canoe, all trim and tight;-- The woods are but a week away!
_L'Envoi_
Dear Reader, there is much to write; I've many weighty things to say. But who can write when woods invite, And woods are but a week away!
TO THE SUN
(_Variations on a theme by Gilbert._)
Shine on, Old Top, shine on! Across the realms of space Shine on! What though I'm in a sorry case? What though my collar is a wreck, And hangs a rag about my neck? What though at food I can but peck? Never _you_ mind! Shine on!
Shine on, Old Top, shine on! Through leagues of lifeless air Shine on! It's true I've no more shirts to wear, My underwear is soaked, 'tis true, My gullet is a redhot flue-- But don't let that unsettle you! Never _you_ mind! Shine on! [_It shines on._]
WHEN IT IS HOT
"_And Nebuchadnezzar commanded the most mighty men that were in his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, and to cast them into the burning fiery furnace._"
Consider Mr. Shadrach, Of fiery furnace fame: He didn't bleat about the heat Or fuss about the flame. He didn't stew and worry, And get his nerves in kinks, Nor fill his skin with limes and gin And other "cooling drinks."
Consider Mr. Meshach, Who felt the furnace too: He let it sizz nor queried "Is It hot enough for you?" He didn't mop his forehead, And hunt a shady spot; Nor did he say, "Gee! what a day! Believe me, it's some hot."
Consider, too, Abed-nego, Who shared his comrades' plight: He didn't shake his coat and make Himself a holy sight. He didn't wear suspenders Without a coat and vest; Nor did he scowl and snort and howl, And make himself a pest.
Consider, friends, this trio-- How little fuss they made. They didn't curse when it was worse Than ninety in the shade. They moved about serenely Within the furnace bright, And soon forgot that it was hot, With "no relief in sight."
THE SIMPLE, HEARTFELT LAY
Lives of poets oft remind us Not to wait too long for Time, But, departing, leave behind us Obvious facts embalmed in rime.
Poems that we have to ponder Turn us prematurely gray; We are infinitely fonder Of the simple, heartfelt lay.
Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_ is odious, Browning's _Ring and Book_ a bore. Bleat, O bards, in lines melodious,-- Bleat that two and two is four!
Must we hunt for hidden treasures? Nay! We want the heartfelt straight. Minstrel, sing, in obvious measures-- Sing that four and four is eight!
Whitman leads to easy slumbers, Browning makes us hunt the hay. Pipe, ye potes, in simplest numbers, Anything ye have to say.
Q·HORATIVS·FLACCUS B· L· T·SVO·SALVTEM
HAEC·CARMINA·MI·VETVLE·QVAE ME·IVVENE·PARVM·DILIGENTER COMPOSITA·EXCIDERVNT·SENEX REFICIENDA·LIMANDAQVE·IAM DVDVM·EXISTIMO·QVOD·NVNC DEMVM·FACTVM·EST·MIRARIS FORTASSE·CVR·ANGLICE·RE SCRIPSERIM·DESINES·MIRARI CVM·DIXERO·SINE·FVCO·OPOR TERE·POETA·ETIAM·VIVVS·NON SOLVM·ACCOMMODEM·MEA·OPERA AD·NORMAM·RECENTIORVM·TEM PORVM·SED·ETIAM·VTAR·NEMPE EA·LINGVA·QVAE·MAIORE·RE SILIENDI·VT·ITA·DICAM·VI PRAEDITA·VIDEATVR·VELIM SINT·NOVI·VERSVS·TIBI·MVL TO·IVCVNDIORES·QVAM·PRIS CA·EXEMPLA
SCRIBEBAM·HELNGON [=XVII]·KAL·DEC
A NOTE FROM MR. FLACCUS
(_Concerning the verses that follow._)
Dear B. L. T.:
You know my "pomes." Well, old man, I was pretty young when I got them out of my system, and they seem rather raw to me now--I'm getting along, you know; so I've been thinking that I'd do 'em over again, file 'em down, as we used to say. Enclosed is the result of my labors.
I presume you are wondering why I have done them into United States; but you know perfectly well that a poet as much alive as I am to-day must not only keep up with the procession, but choose a thought-vehicle that has good springs to it--"beaucoup resiliency," I s'pose you'd call it.
I hope you will like these new lines of mine better than their prototypes.
Yours regardfully, Q. H. F.
_Helngon, November 15._
I
TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS
"_Integer vitæ scelerisque purus._"
Fuscus, old scout, if a guy's on the level That's all the arsenal he'll have to tote; Up to St. Peter or down to the Devil, No need to carry a gun in his coat.
Prowling around, as you know is my habit, I met a wolf in the forest, and he Beat it for Wolfville and ran like a rabbit. (He was some wolf, too, receive it from me.)
Where I may happen to camp is no matter,-- Paris, Chicago, Ostend or St. Joe,-- Like the old dame in the nursery patter I shall make music wherever I go.
Drop me in Dawson or chuck me in Cadiz, Dump me in Kansas or plant me in Rome,-- I shall keep on making love to the ladies: Where there's a skirt is my notion of home.
II
DUETTO
"_Donec gratus eram._"
HORACE:
What time my Lydia owned me lord No Persian king had much on Horace; And when you blew my bed and board I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss.
LYDIA:
What time you loved no other She, Before this Chloë person signed you, I flourished like a green bay tree; Now I'm the Girl You Left Behind You.
HORACE:
This Chloë dame that takes my eye Has so peculiar an allurance I would not hesitate to die If she could cop my life insurance.
LYDIA:
Well, as for that, I know a gent With whom it's some delight to dally. With me he makes an awful dent; I'd perish once or twice for Cally.
HORACE:
Suppose our former love should go Into a new de luxe edition? Suppose I tie a can to Chlo, And let you play your old position?
LYDIA:
Why, then, you cork, you butterfly, You sweet, philandering, perjured villain, With you I'd love to live and die, Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'.
III
TO PYRRHA
"_Quis multa gracilis._"
What young tin whistle gent, Bedaubed with barber's scent,-- What cheapskate waits on you To woo, O Pyrrha?
For whom the puff and rat And transformation that You bought a year ago Or so, O Pyrrha?
Peeved? Not a bit. Not I I'm sorry for the guy. He draws a lovely lime This time, O Pyrrha!
I've dipped. The wet ain't fine. Hung on the votive line My duds. The gods can see I'm free. Eh, Pyrrha!
IV
TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS
"_My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage._"
Fuscus, take a tip from me: This here job's no bed of roses, Not the cinch it seems to be, Not the pipe that one supposes. What care I, tho', if I may Lallygag with Lalage.
Every day there's ink to spill, Tho' I may not feel like working. Every day a hole to fill; One must plug it--there's no shirking. Oh, that I might all the day Lallygag with Lalage!
People say, "Gee! what a snap, Turning paragraphs and verses. He's the band on Fortune's cap, Gets a barrel of ses-_terces_." Let them gossip, while I play Hide and seek with Lalage.
People hand me out advice: "Hod, you're doing too much drivel. Write us something sweet and nice. Stow the satire, chop the frivol." But we have the rent to pay, Lalage; eh, Lalage?
Ladies shy the saving sense Write me patronizing letters; And there are the writing gents, Always out to knock their betters. What cares Flaccus if he may Lallygag with Lalage!
No, old top, the writing lay's Not a bed of sweet geranium. Brickbats mingle with bouquets Shied at my devoted cranium. Does it peeve yours truly? Nay. Nothing can--with Lalage.
Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: Not a pesky thing can peeve me. Take it, too, from Horace flat, She's some gal, is Lal, believe me. So I coin this word to-day, "Lallygag"--from Lalage.
V
TO SYLVIA
Were I on the Latin lay, Were I turning Odes to-day, You would draw a gem from me, Little maid of mystery!
In an Ode I'd love to spout you; I am simply bug about you. That's the way!--the fairest peach Is the one that's out of reach.
I have toasted in my time Many a peach (and many a lime), All of them, I must confess, Lacking your elusiveness.
Lalage, my well known flame, Was considerable dame; Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.
Syl, if you had lived when they did You'd have had those damsels faded. (That will give you, girl, some notion Of your Flaccus's devotion.)
Yep. If I were doing Odes In my quondam favorite modes, With your image to qui-vive me I'd tear off some Ode, believe me!
A BALLAD OF MISFITS
"_Chacun son métier:_ _Les vaches seront bien gardées._" --LA FONTAINE.
With skill for doing this or that The Lord each man endows. Some men are best for pushing pens, And some for pushing plows; And oh, the many many more That should be tending cows! _Chacun son métier:_ _Les vaches bien gardées._
The ivory-headed serving maid Who poses as a "cook," She hath a very bovine brain, She hath a bovine look. Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine, Oh, prithee get the hook! _Chacun son métier:_ _Les vaches bien gardées._
The papering-and-painting gents Whose work is never done, Who mess around your house until You pine to pull a gun, Who take three mortal days to do What should be done in one;-- _Chacun son métier:_ _Les vaches bien gardées._
The pestilential "pianiste," The screechy singer too, The writer of the stupid book And of the dull review, The actor who is greatest when He takes his exit cue;-- _Chacun son métier:_ _Les vaches bien gardées._
If every one were set to do The task for which he's fit, The writer of these trifling lines Might also have to quit. At tending cows the undersigned Might make an awful hit. _Chacun son métier:_ _Les vaches bien gardées._
AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY
When the hour was come Prince Chun arose, And balanced a shoestring on his nose. "From this some notion you will get," Said he, "of China's deep regret."
Now balancing upon his ear A stein of foaming lager beer, "This attitude," said he, "reveals How very sorry China feels."
Then spinning top-like on his cue, "I can't begin to tell to you The deep remorse we suffer for The death of your Ambassador."
Next, placing on his cue a plate, He said, as it 'gan to gyrate: "Nothing that's happened in his reign Has caused my Emperor so much pain."
Upon his back he did declare, While juggling five balls in the air, "This attitude--the humblest yet-- Expresses personal regret."
Last, spreading out a deck of cards-- "Accept my Emperor's regards. As our intentions were well meant, Pray overlook the incident."
THE DAY OF THE COMET
(_May 18, 1910._)
Here it is--Eighteenth of May! Dawneth now the fatal day When we take the awful veil Of the fearsome comet's tail. Vale, Earth!
What will happen, heaven knows; We can't even guess, suppose, Hazard, speculate, surmise, Hint, conjecture, theorize, Or divine.
Will we merely drill a hole Through the trailing aureole? Or will the prediction dire Of a world destroyed by fire Be fulfilled?
Shall we crook our knees and pray Counting this the Judgment Day? Or preserve a cosmic ca'm, Caring not a cosmic dam What may come?
There's the rub. If we but knew We should know just what to do. Yes is just as good as No To all questions. Here we go!-- Hang on tight!
THE MORNING AFTER
(_May 19, 1910._)
Here we are, friends, whole and hale In or through the comet's tail; And as far as we can say, Matters are about as they Were before.
Everything is much the same As before the comet came. Grasses grow and waters run-- Nothing new beneath the sun-- Same old sphere.
Life is drab or life is gay, Thorny path or primrose way; All is common, all is strange; "Down the ringing grooves of change" Spins the world.
Change but of a humdrum kind. What we vaguely had in mind Was some new sensation or Thrill we never felt before. Vain desire!
Nothing's added to the stock: Same old shiver, same old shock. Round about the sun we'll go In the same old status quo. Awful bore!
A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION
Isolde, in the story old, When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, And Death were fairer to behold, To Tristan gives "the cup that clears." Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: Unknowing, each the potion sips.... Comes echoing through the ghostly years "Give me the philtre of thy lips!"
Ah, that like Tristan I were bold! My soul into the future peers, And passion flags, and heart grows cold, And sicklied resolution veers. I see the Sister of the Shears Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips.... Still falls upon my inward ears, "Give me the philtre of thy lips!"
Hero of lovers, largely soul'd! Imagination thee enspheres With song-enchanted wood and wold And casements fronting magic meres. Tristan, thy large example cheers The faint of heart; thy story grips!-- My soul again that echo hears, "Give me the philtre of thy lips!"
_L'Envoi_
Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears! He stakes all who Elysium clips. What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!-- Give me the philtre of thy lips!
TO WHAT BASE USES!
"_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead of in the morning._" --NEWPORT ITEM.
This is the forest primeval.
This the spruce with the glorious plume That grew in the forest primeval.
This is the lumberman big and browned Who felled the spruce tree to the ground That grew in the forest primeval.
This is the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the husky lumberjack who chopped The lofty spruce and its branches lopped That grew in the forest primeval.
This is the publisher bland and rich Who bought the roll of paper which Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks That grew in the forest primeval.
This is the youth with the writing tool Who does the daily Newport drool That helps to make the publisher rich Who ordered the stock of paper which Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote That grew in the forest primeval.
This is the lady far from slim Who changed the hour of her daily swim And excited the youth with the writing tool Who does the Newport drivel and drool For the prosperous publisher bland and fat Who ordered the virgin paper that Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede Who did a foul and darksome deed When he swung his ax with vigor and vim And smote the spruce tree tall and trim That grew in the forest primeval.
This is the shop girl Mag or Liz Who daily devours what news there is Concerning the lady far from slim Who changed the time of her ocean swim And excited the youth with the writing tool Who does the daily Newport drool For the pursy publisher bland and rich Who bought the innocent paper which Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce That came to a most ignoble use-- The lofty spruce with the glorious plume-- The giant spruce that used to loom In the heart of the forest primeval.
HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS