Chapter 10
The polar bear will make a rug Almost as white as snow; But if he gets you in his hug, He rarely lets you go. And Polar ice looks very nice, With all the colors of a pris-sum; But, if you'll follow my advice, Stay home and learn your catechissum.
_A.T. Quiller-Couch_.
OF BAITING THE LION
Remembering his taste for blood You'd better bait him with a cow; Persuade the brute to chew the cud Her tail suspended from a bough; It thrills the lion through and through To hear the milky creature moo.
Having arranged this simple ruse, Yourself you climb a neighboring tree; See to it that the spot you choose Commands the coming tragedy; Take up a smallish Maxim gun, A search-light, whisky, and a bun.
It's safer, too, to have your bike Standing immediately below, In case your piece should fail to strike, Or deal an ineffective blow; The Lion moves with perfect grace, But cannot go the scorcher's pace.
Keep open ear for subtle signs; Thus, when the cow profusely moans, That means to say, the Lion dines. The crunching sound, of course, is bones; Silence resumes her ancient reign-- This shows the cow is out of pain.
But when a fat and torpid hum Escapes the eater's unctuous nose, Turn up the light and let it come Full on his innocent repose; Then pour your shot between his eyes, And go on pouring till he dies.
Play, even so, discretion's part; Descend with stealth; bring on your gun; Then lay your hand above his heart To see if he is really done; Don't skin him till you know he's dead Or you may perish in his stead!
Years hence, at home, when talk is tall, You'll set the gun-room wide agape, Describing how with just a small Pea-rifle, going after ape You met a Lion unaware, And felled him flying through the air.
_Owen Seaman_.
THE FROG
Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog," Or likewise, "Uncle James," Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong," Or "Billy-Bandy-knees;" The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these.
No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair, At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).
_Hilaire Belloc_.
THE YAK
As a friend to the children commend me the yak, You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string.
A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich, He will buy you the creature--or else he will not, (I cannot be positive which).
_Hilaire Belloc_.
THE PYTHON
A python I should not advise, It needs a doctor for its eyes, And has the measles yearly.
However, if you feel inclined To get one (to improve your mind, And not from fashion merely),
Allow no music near its cage; And when it flies into a rage Chastise it most severely.
I had an Aunt in Yucatan Who bought a Python from a man And kept it for a pet.
She died because she never knew These simple little rules and few;-- The snake is living yet.
_Hilaire Belloc_.
THE BISON
The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain) The Door-mat you see on his head Is not, as some learned professors maintain, The opulent growth of a genius' brain; But is sewn on with needle and thread.
_Hilaire Belloc_.
THE PANTHER
Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young, In thy country far over the sea, 'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mamma, And had several mouthfuls of thee!
Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide The depths of his badgerly soul? And think of the tapir when flashes the lamp O'er the fast and the free-flowing bowl.
Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine Ever put up his bactrian back; And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag, Nor venture to give her the sack.
Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope To have such a stomach as it? And when the proud day of your bridal shall come, Do give the poor birdie a bit.
Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget To have it on Tuesday to tea; But butter the crumpets on only one side, Save such as are eaten by thee.
Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal In the light of thy love have a share; And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail, And have lots of larks in its lair.
Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird, And humor its wishes and ways; And when the poor elephant suffers from bile, Then tenderly lace up his stays!
_Anonymous_.
THE MONKEY'S GLUE
When the monkey in his madness Took the glue to mend his voice, 'Twas the crawfish showed his sadness That the bluebird could rejoice.
Then the perspicacious parrot Sought to save the suicide By administering carrot, But the monkey merely died.
So the crawfish and the parrot Sauntered slowly toward the sea, While the bluebird stole the carrot And returned the glue to me.
_Goldwin Goldsmith_.
THERE WAS A FROG
There was a frog swum in the lake, The crab came crawling by: "Wilt thou," coth the frog, "be my make?" Coth the crab, "No, not I." "My skin is sooth and dappled fine, I can leap far and nigh. Thy shell is hard: so is not mine." Coth the crab, "No, not I." "Tell me," then spake the crab, "therefore, Or else I thee defy: Give me thy claw, I ask no more." Coth the frog, "That will I." The crab bit off the frog's fore-feet; The frog then he must die. To woo a crab it is not meet: If any do, it is not I.
_From Christ Church MS., I. 549_.
THE BLOATED BIGGABOON
The bloated Biggaboon Was so haughty, he would not repose In a house, or a hall, or _ces choses_, But he slept his high sleep in his clothes-- 'Neath the moon. The bloated Biggaboon Pour'd contempt upon waistcoat and skirt, Holding swallow-tails even as dirt-- So he puff'd himself out in his shirt, Like a b'loon.
_H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_.
WILD FLOWERS
"Of what are you afraid, my child?" inquired the kindly teacher. "Oh, sir! the flowers, they are wild," replied the timid creature.
_Peter Newell_.
TIMID HORTENSE
"Now, if the fish will only bite, we'll have some royal fun." "And do fish bite? The horrid things! Indeed, I'll not catch one!"
_Peter Newell_.
HER POLKA DOTS
She played upon her music-box a fancy air by chance, And straightway all her polka-dots began a lively dance.
_Peter Newell_.
HER DAIRY
"A milkweed, and a buttercup, and cowslip," said sweet Mary, "Are growing in my garden-plot, and this I call my dairy."
_Peter Newell_.
TURVEY TOP
'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawn That into a doze I chanced to drop, And thence awoke in the gray of dawn, In the wonder-land of Turvey Top.
A land so strange I never had seen, And could not choose but look and laugh-- A land where the small the great includes, And the whole is less than the half!
A land where the circles were not lines Round central points, as schoolmen show, And the parallels met whenever they chose, And went playing at touch-and-go!
There--except that every round was square And save that all the squares were rounds-- No surface had limits anywhere, So they never could beat the bounds.
In their gardens, fruit before blossom came, And the trees diminished as they grew; And you never went out to walk a mile, 'Twas the mile that walked to you.
The people there are not tall or short, Heavy or light, or stout or thin, And their lives begin where they should leave off, Or leave off where they should begin.
There childhood, with naught of childish glee, Looks on the world with thoughtful brow; 'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow, And cry, "We have done with it now!"
A singular race! what lives they spent! Got up before they went to bed! And never a man said what he meant, Or a woman meant what she said.
They blended colours that will not blend, All hideous contrasts voted sweet; In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd, And considered it rather neat.
They didn't believe in the wise and good, Said the best were worst, the wisest fools; And 'twas only to have their teachers taught That they founded national schools.
They read in "books that are no books," Their classics--chess-boards neatly bound; Those their greatest authors who never wrote, And their deepest the least profound.
Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land, A curious people, as you will own; But are there none of the race abroad, Are no specimens elsewhere known?
Well, I think that he whose views of life Are crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd, Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes-- Sees himself and believes it God,
Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill, Curses a world he cannot mend; Who measures life by the rule of wrong And abuses its aim and end,
The man who stays when he ought to move, And only goes when he ought to stop-- Is strangely like the folk in my dream, And would flourish in Turvey Top.
_Anonymous_.
WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT
I dreamt it! such a funny thing-- And now it's taken wing; I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing?
It had a Dragon; with a tail; A tail both long and slim, And ev'ry day he wagg'd at it-- How good it was of him!
And so to him the tailest Of all three-tailed Bashaws, Suggested that for reasons The waggling should pause;
And held his tail--which, parting, Reversed that Bashaw, which Reversed that Dragon, who reversed Himself into a ditch.
* * * * *
It had a monkey--in a trap-- Suspended by the tail: Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd, And his countenance was pale.
And he had danced and dangled there; Till he grew very mad: For his tail it was a handsome tail And the trap had pinched it--bad.
The trapper sat below, and grinn'd; His victim's wrath wax'd hot: He bit his tail in two--and fell-- And killed him on the spot.
* * * * *
It had a pig--a stately pig; With curly tail and quaint: And the Great Mogul had hold of that Till he was like to faint.
So twenty thousand Chinamen, With three tails each at least, Came up to help the Great Mogul, And took him round the waist.
And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands; And so it came to pass, That twenty thousand Chinamen Sat down upon the grass.
* * * * *
It had a Khan--a Tartar Khan-- With tail superb, I wis; And that fell graceful down a back Which was considered his.
Wherefore all sorts of boys that were Accursed, swung by it; Till he grew savage in his mind And vex'd, above a bit:
And so he swept his tail, as one Awak'ning from a dream; And those abominable ones Flew off into the stream.
Likewise they hobbled up and down, Like many apples there; Till they subsided--and became Amongst the things that were.
* * * * *
And so it had a moral too, That would be bad to lose; "Whoever takes a Tail in hand Should mind his p's and queues."
I dreamt it!--such a funny thing! And now it's taken wing; I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing?
_H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_.
THE DINKEY-BIRD
In an ocean, 'way out yonder (As all sapient people know), Is the land of Wonder-Wander, Whither children love to go; It's their playing, romping, swinging, That give great joy to me While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing In the Amfalula-tree!
There the gum-drops grow like cherries, And taffy's thick as peas,-- Caramels you pick like berries When, and where, and how you please: Big red sugar-plums are clinging To the cliffs beside that sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.
So when children shout and scamper And make merry all the day, When there's naught to put a damper To the ardor of their play; When I hear their laughter ringing, Then I'm sure as sure can be That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.
For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras And staccatos are so sweet-- His roulades, appogiaturas, And robustos so complete, That the youth of every nation-- Be they near or far away-- Have especial delectation In that gladsome roundelay.
Their eyes grow bright and brighter, Their lungs begin to crow, Their hearts get light and lighter, And their cheeks are all aglow; For an echo cometh bringing The news to all and me. That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.
I'm sure you'd like to go there To see your feathered friend-- And so many goodies grow there You would like to comprehend! _Speed, little dreams, your winging To that land across the sea Where the Dickey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-Tree_!
_Eugene Field_.
THE MAN IN THE MOON
Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon, "My! Sakes! What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon! But people that's been up to see him like Me, And calls on him frequent and intimutly, Might drop a few hints that would interest you Clean! Through! If you wanted 'em to-- Some actual facts that might interest you!"
"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; Whee! Whimm! Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to _dream_ even he looks at the sun,-- So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise-- My! Eyes! But isn't he wise-- To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?"
"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-- Whee! Whing! What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,-- There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,-- He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in,-- Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! Whang! Ho! Why certainly so!-- It might be a dimple turned over, you know!"
"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee, Gee! Whizz! What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan, Whing! Whann! What a marvellous man! What a very remarkably marvellous man!"
"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man, "Gits! So! Sullonesome, you know! Up there by himself since creation began!-- That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,-- Till--well, if it wasn't for _Jimmy-cum-Jim_, Dadd! Limb! I'd go pardners with him! Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"
_James Whitcomb Riley_.
THE STORY OF THE WILD HUNTSMAN
This is the Wild Huntsman that shoots the hares; With the grass-green coat he always wears; With game-bag, powder-horn and gun, He's going out to have some fun. He finds it hard without a pair Of spectacles, to shoot the hare.
He put his spectacles upon his nose, and said, "Now I will shoot the hares and kill them dead." The hare sits snug in leaves and grass, And laughs to see the green man pass. Now as the sun grew very hot, And he a heavy gun had got, He lay down underneath a tree And went to sleep as you may see. And, while he slept like any top, The little hare came, hop, hop, hop,-- Took gun and spectacles, and then Softly on tiptoe went off again. The green man wakes, and sees her place The spectacles upon her face. She pointed the gun at the hunter's heart, Who jumped up at once with a start. He cries, and screams, and runs away. "Help me, good people, help! I pray." At last he stumbled at the well, Head over ears, and in he fell. The hare stopped short, took aim, and hark! Bang went the gun!--she missed her mark! The poor man's wife was drinking up Her coffee in her coffee-cup; The gun shot cup and saucer through; "Oh dear!" cried she, "what shall I do?" Hiding close by the cottage there, Was the hare's own child, the little hare. When he heard the shot he quickly arose, And while he stood upon his toes, The coffee fell and burned his nose; "Oh dear," he cried, "what burns me so?" And held up the spoon with his little toe.
_Dr. Heinrich Hoffman_.
THE STORY OF PYRAMID THOTHMES
Thothmes, who loved a pyramid, And dreamed of wonders that it hid, Took up again one afternoon, His longest staff, his sandal shoon, His evening meal, his pilgrim flask, And set himself at length the task, Scorning the smaller and the small, To climb the highest one of all.
The sun was very hot indeed, Yet Thothmes never slacked his speed Until upon the topmost stone He lightly sat him down alone To make himself some pleasant cheer And turned to take his flask of beer, For he was weary and athirst. Forth from the neck the stopper burst And rudely waked the sleeping dead. In terror guilty Thothmes fled As rose majestic, wroth and slow, The Pharaoh's Ka of long ago. "Help! help!" he cried, "or I am lost! Oh! save me from old Pharaoh's ghost!"
Till, uttering one fearful yell, He stumbled at the base and fell Where Anubis was at his side, And, by the god of death, he died.
The wife of Thothmes learned his tale First from the "Memphis Evening Mail," And called her son, and told their woe; "Alas!" said she, "I told him so! Oh, think upon these awful things And mount not on the graves of kings! A pyramid is strange to see, Though only at its base you be."
_Anonymous_.
THE STORY OF CRUEL PSAMTEK
Here is cruel Psamtek, see. Such a wicked boy was he! Chased the ibis round about, Plucked its longest feathers out, Stamped upon the sacred scarab Like an unbelieving Arab, Put the dog and cat to pain, Making them to howl again. Only think what he would do-- Tease the awful Apis too! Basking by the sacred Nile Lay the trusting crocodile; Cruel Psamtek crept around him, Laughed to think how he had found him, With his pincers seized his tail, Made the holy one to wail; Till a priest of Isis came, Called the wicked boy by name, Shut him in a pyramid, Where his punishment was hid. --But the crocodile the while Bore the pincers up the Nile-- Here the scribe who taught him letters, And respect for all his betters, Gave him many a heavy task, Horrid medicines from a flask, While on bread and water, too, Bitter penance must he do.
The Crocodile is blythe and gay, With friends and family at play, And cries, "O blessed Land of Nile, Where sacred is the crocodile, Where no ill deed unpunished goes, And man himself rewards our foes!"
_Anonymous_.
THE CUMBERBUNCE
I strolled beside the shining sea, I was as lonely as could be; No one to cheer me in my walk But stones and sand, which cannot talk-- Sand and stones and bits of shell, Which never have a thing to tell.
But as I sauntered by the tide I saw a something at my side, A something green, and blue, and pink, And brown, and purple, too, I think. I would not say how large it was; I would not venture that, because It took me rather by surprise, And I have not the best of eyes.
Should you compare it to a cat, I'd say it was as large as that; Or should you ask me if the thing Was smaller than a sparrow's wing, I should be apt to think you knew, And simply answer, "Very true!"
Well, as I looked upon the thing, It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?" And then I knew its name at once-- It plainly was a Cumberbunce.
You are amazed that I could tell The creature's name so quickly? Well, I knew it was not a paper-doll, A pencil or a parasol, A tennis-racket or a cheese, And, as it was not one of these, And I am not a perfect dunce-- It had to be a Cumberbunce!
With pleading voice and tearful eye It seemed as though about to cry. It looked so pitiful and sad It made me feel extremely bad. My heart was softened to the thing That asked me if it, please, could sing. Its little hand I longed to shake, But, oh, it had no hand to take! I bent and drew the creature near, And whispered in its pale blue ear, "What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can! Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"
The Cumberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its little head, In tones of awful longing, said:
"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies, And why the sea is wet, Of jelly-fish and conger-eels, And things that I forget. And I would hum a plaintive tune Of why the waves are hot As water boiling on a stove, Excepting that they're not!"
"And I would sing of hooks and eyes, And why the sea is slant, And gayly tips the little ships, Excepting that I can't! I never sang a single song, I never hummed a note. There is in me no melody, No music in my throat."
"So that is why I do not sing Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"
I looked in innocent surprise, My wonder showing in my eyes. "Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried, "Did you come walking at my side And ask me if you, please, might sing, When you could not warble anything?"
"I did not ask permission, sir, I really did not, I aver. You, sir, misunderstood me, quite. I did not ask you if I _might_. Had you correctly understood, You'd know I asked you if I _could_. So, as I cannot sing a song, Your answer, it is plain, was wrong. The fact I could not sing I knew, But wanted your opinion, too."
A voice came softly o'er the lea. "Farewell! my mate is calling me!"
I saw the creature disappear, Its voice, in parting, smote my ear--
"I thought all people understood The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"
_Paul West_.
THE AHKOND OF SWAT
Who, or why, or which, or _what_, Is the Ahkond of Swat?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat, The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot, The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or Trot, The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat, or a Cot, The Ahkond of Swat?