Part 10

Well, Jack and Jill—God knows the life they led (The poet never told us, more’s the pity) Pent up in some damp kennel of their own, Beneath the hillside; but it once befell That Jack and Jill, niece, cousin, uncle, aunt (Some one of all the brood), would wash and scour, Rinse out a cess-pit, swab the kennel floor, And water (_liquor vitae_, Lawson calls, But I—I hold by whisky. Never mind; I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, sir, And missed the scrap o’ blue at buttonhole), Spring water was the needful at the time, So they must climb the hill for ’t. Well and good. We all climb hills, I take it, on some quest, Maybe for less than stinking (I forgot! I mean than wholesome) water.... Ferret out The rotten bucket from the lumber shed, Weave ropes and splice the handle—off they go To where the cold spring bubbles up i’ the cleft, And sink the bucket brimful in the spate. Then downwards—hanging back? (You bet your life The girl’s share fell upon Jack’s shoulders.) Down, Down to the bottom—all but—trip, slip, squelch! And guggle-guggle goes the bucketful Back to the earth, and Jack’s a broken head, And swears amid the heather does our Jack. (A man would swear who watched both blood and bucket,

One dripping down his forehead, t’ other fled _Clinkety-tinkle_, to the stones below, A good half-hour’s trudge to get it back.) Jack, therefore, as I said, exploded straight In brimstone-flavored language. You, of course, Maintain he bore it calmly—not a bit. A good bucolic curse that rent the cliffs And frightened for a moment quaking Jill Out of the limp, unmeaning girl’s tee-hee That womankind delight in.... Here we end The first verse—there’s a deal to study in ’t.

So much for Jack—but here’s a fate above, A cosmic force that blunders into right, Just when the strained sense hints at revolution Because the world’s great fly-wheel runs aslant— And up go Jill’s red kibes. (You think I’m wrong; And Fate was napping at the time; perhaps You’re right.) We’ll call it Devil’s agency That sent the shrieking sister on her head, And knocked the tangled locks against the stones. Well, down went Jill, but wasn’t hurt. Oh, no! The Devil pads the world to suit his own, And packs the cards according. Down went Jill Unhurt. And Jack trots off to bed, poor brute, Fist welted into eyeball, mouth agape For yelling,—your bucolic always yells, And out of his domestic pharmacy Rips forth the cruet-stand, upsets the cat, And ravages the store-room for his balm. _Eureka!_—but he didn’t use that word— A pound of candles, corpse-like, side by side, Wrapped up in his medicament. Out, knife! Cut string, and strip the shrouding from the lot! Steep swift and jam it on the gaping cut; Then bedward—cursing man and friends alike.

Now back to Jill. She wasn’t hurt, I said, And all the woman’s spite was up in arms. So Jack’s abed. She slips, peeks through the door, And sees the split head like a luggage-label, Halved, quartered, on the pillow. “Ee-ki-ree, Tee-hee-hee-hee,” she giggles through the crack, Much as the Roman ladies grinned—don’t smile— To see the dabbled bodies in the sand,

Appealing to their benches for a sign. Down thumbs, and giggle louder—so did Jill. But mark now! Comes the mother round the door, Red-hot from climbing up the hill herself, And caught the graceless giggler. Whack! flack! whack! Here’s Nemesis whichever way you like! She didn’t stop to argue. Given a head Broken, a woman chuckling at the door, And here’s your circumstantial evidence complete. Whack! while Jack sniffs and sniggers from the bed. I like that horny-handed mother o’ Jill. The world’s best women died, sir, long ago. Well, Jack’s avenged; as for the other, gr-r-r-r! _Rudyard Kipling._

THE JAM-POT

THE Jam-pot—tender thought! I grabbed it—so did you. “What wonder while we fought Together that it flew In shivers?” you retort.

You should have loosed your hold One moment—checked your fist. But, as it was, too bold You grappled and you missed. More plainly—you were sold.

“Well, neither of us shared The dainty.” That your plea? “Well, neither of us cared,” I answer.... “Let me see. How have your trousers fared?” _Rudyard Kipling._

IMITATION OF ROBERT BROWNING

BIRTHDAYS? yes, in a general way; For the most if not for the best of men. You were born (I suppose) on a certain day, So was I; or perhaps in the night, what then?

Only this: or at least, if more You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak; There is truth to be found on the unknown shore, And many will find where few will seek.

For many are called and few are chosen, And the few grow many as ages lapse. But when will the many grow few; what dozen Is fused into one by Time’s hammer-taps?

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook,— It was wanton to hurl it there, you say,— And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook (Yet the stream runs cooler) is washed away.

That begs the question; many a prater Thinks such a suggestion a sound “stop thief!” Which, may I ask, do you think the greater, Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

And if it were not so? Still you doubt? Ah! yours is a birthday indeed, if so. That were something to write a poem about, If one thought a little. I only know.

_P. S._

There’s a Me Society down at Cambridge, Where my works, _cum notis variorum_, Are talked about; well, I require the same bridge That Euclid took toll at as Asinorum.

And, as they have got through several ditties I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall, I’ve composed the above, and a stiff one it is, A bridge to stop asses at, once for all. _J. K. Stephen._

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

(_From her Point of View_)

WHEN I had firmly answered “No,” And he allowed that that was so, I really thought I should be free For good and all from Mr. B., And that he would soberly acquiesce. I said that it would be discreet That for awhile we should not meet; I promised that I would always feel A kindly interest in his weal; I thanked him for his amorous zeal; In short, I said all I could but “yes.”

I said what I’m accustomed to; I acted as I always do. I promised he should find in me A friend,—a sister, if that might be; But he was still dissatisfied. He certainly was most polite; He said exactly what was right, He acted very properly, Except indeed for this, that he insisted on inviting me To come with him for “one more last ride.”

A little while in doubt I stood: A ride, no doubt, would do me good; I had a habit and a hat Extremely well worth looking at; The weather was distinctly fine. My horse, too, wanted exercise, And time, when one is riding, flies; Besides, it really seemed, you see, The only way of ridding me Of pertinacious Mr. B.; So my head I graciously incline.

I won’t say much of what happened next; I own I was extremely vexed. Indeed I should have been aghast If any one had seen what passed; But nobody need ever know That, as I leaned forward to stir the fire, He advanced before I could well retire; And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm, The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm, An embrace in which I found no charm; I was awfully glad when he let me go.

Then we began to ride; my steed Was rather fresh, too fresh indeed, And at first I thought of little, save The way to escape an early grave, As the dust rose up on either side. My stern companion jogged along On a brown old cob both broad and strong. He looked as he does when he’s writing verse, Or endeavoring not to swear and curse, Or wondering where he has left his purse; Indeed it was a sombre ride.

I spoke of the weather to Mr. B., But he neither listened nor spoke to me. I praised his horse, and I smiled the smile Which was wont to move him once in a while. I said I was wearing his favorite flowers, But I wasted my words on the desert air, For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare. I wonder what he was thinking about. As I don’t read verse, I shan’t find out. It was something subtle and deep, no doubt, A theme to detain a man for hours.

Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S. So nearly induced me to whisper “yes;” And here it was that the next but one Proposed on horseback, or would have done, Had his horse not most opportunely shied; Which perhaps was due to the unseen flick He received from my whip; ’t was a scurvy trick, But I never could do with that young man,— I hope his present young woman can. Well, I must say, never, since time began, Did I go for a duller or longer ride.

He never smiles and he never speaks; He might go on like this for weeks; He rolls a slightly frenzied eye Towards the blue and burning sky, And the cob bounds on with tireless stride. If we aren’t home for lunch at two

I don’t know what papa will do; But I know full well he will say to me, “I never approved of Mr. B.; It’s the very devil that you and he Ride, ride together, forever ride.” _J. K. Stephen._

UP THE SPOUT

I.

HI! Just you drop that! Stop, I say! Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend’s wrist? Where that spined sand’s lined band’s the bay— Lined blind with true sea’s blue, as due— Promising—not to pay?

II.

For the sea’s debt leaves wet the sand; Burst worst fate’s weight’s in one burst gun? A man’s own yacht, blown—What? off land? Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer! Reef points, though—understand?

III.

I’m blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed! Love’s doves make break life’s ropes, eh? Tropes! Faith’s brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road; Hope’s gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged— Clogged, water-logged, her load!

IV.

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away. No show now how best plough sea’s brow, Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day, Clear sheer wave’s sheen of green, I mean, With twinkling wrinkles—eh?

V.

Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles light Shells’ bells—boy’s joys that hap to snap! It’s just sea’s fun, breeze done, to spite God’s rods that scourge her surge, I’d urge— Not proper, is it—quite?

VI.

See, fore and aft, life’s craft undone! Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea’s lark! That gray cold sea’s old sprees, begun When men lay dark i’ the ark, no spark, All water—just God’s fun!

VII.

Not bright, at best, his jest to these Seemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin! When for mirth’s yell earth’s knell seemed please Some dumb new grim great whim in him Made Jews take chalk for cheese.

VIII.

Could God’s rods bruise God’s Jews? Their jowls Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face! None heard, ’tis odds, his—God’s—folk’s howls. Now, how must I apply, to try This hookiest-beaked of owls?

IX.

Well, I suppose God knows—I don’t. Time’s crimes mark dark men’s types, in stripes Broad as fen’s lands men’s hands were wont Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud With birds’ words—No! he won’t!

X.

One never should think good impossible. Eh? say I’d hide this Jew’s oil’s cruse— His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible By spy—spring’s air takes there no care To wave the heath-flower’s glossy bell!

XI.

But gold bells chime in time there, coined— Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—‘Read my screed!’ Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined (Through new craft’s stealth) with health and wealth— At once all three purloined!

XII.

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt, (Miss this chance, glance untried aside?) John’s shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout! Let yet the door gape, store on floor And not a soul about?

XIII.

Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I’m Weak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know! But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime. Shrink? Think! Love’s dawn in pawn—you spawn Of Jewry! Just in time! _Algernon Charles Swinburne._

AFTER WHITMAN

AN AMERICAN, ONE OF THE ROUGHS, A KOSMOS

NATURE, continuous Me! Saltness, and vigorous, never torpi-yeast of Me! Florid, unceasing, forever expansive; Not Schooled, not dizened, not washed and powdered; Strait-laced not at all; far otherwise than polite; Not modest, nor immodest; Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt; Ultimate yet unceasing; capricious though determined; Speak as thou listeth, and tell the askers that which they seek to know. Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible. Never mind! utter thy wild commonplaces; Yawp them loudly, shrilly; Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos. Answer in precise terms of barbaric vagueness The question that the Fun editor hath sparked through Atlantic cable To W..T W..TM.N, the speaker of the pass-word primeval; The signaller of the signal of democracy; The seer and hearer of things in general; The poet translucent; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined; Each tag and part of whom is a miracle. (Thirteen pages of MS. relating to Mr. W..t W..tm.n are here omitted.) Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not; That is not, being past; that is, being eternal; If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question. _Anonymous._

CAMERADOS

EVERYWHERE, everywhere, following me; Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows; Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle; Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges; Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit; Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible; Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring Paumanok; What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing. Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me; Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature; And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over. Whatever they want I give; though it be something else, they shall have it. Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionnaire, And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same, Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes, Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders, Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad whenever they hear it; Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it: Everywhere, everywhere. _Bayard Taylor._

IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN

WHO am I? I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;— Or otherwise! Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara! Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh! I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot! Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close. We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine cañons of the future! We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble babble—die! Serve them right. What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman? Start not! ’Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query; ’Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald, No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess-work. I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language. I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country). I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him. He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first! I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City. I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers; Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream. I sing all—I eat all—I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem’s Antibilious Pills. No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature’s poet. I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails. It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean. It is a great and glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds! And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman; This must be so, for he says it himself. There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun. There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head. Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman, Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the name _Judy_. _Judy._

IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN

THE clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest-holder, The whistle of the railway guard despatching the train to the inevitable collision, The maiden’s monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal, The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural; All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your ribs re-echo with. But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player. _J. K. Stephen._

THE POET AND THE WOODLOUSE

SAID a poet to a woodlouse, “Thou art certainly my brother; I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole; And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother, In the colors shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul.

“Yea,” the poet said, “I smell thee by some passive divination, I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house; What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion, Had the æons thought of making thee a man and me a louse.

“The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion, Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test, Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question, And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best.

“Man the fleshly marvel always feels a certain kind of awe stick To the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight; Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic, On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate.”

“Notwithstanding which, O poet,” spake the woodlouse, very blandly, “I am likewise the created,—I the equipoise of thee; I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lie The inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.

“I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences, And the air I breathe is colored with apocalyptic blush; Ripest-budded odors blossom out of dim chaotic stenches, And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.

“I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings, Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee; And earth’s soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs, Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.

“And I sacrifice, a Levite; and I palpitate, a poet; Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things? Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of her heroic; Earth’s worst spawn, you said, and cursed me? Look! approve me! I have wings.

“Ah, men’s poets! men’s conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like, And the world’s wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod; We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight, And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.

“For he grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles, Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunder-storms, Shimmers up the non-existence round the churning feet of angels; And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.

“Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us; Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong? For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos, Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.

“Eyes once purged from homebred vapors through humanitarian passion See that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism; Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration, Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.

“Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode, Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink; All eternities hang round him like an old man’s clothes collapsèd, While he makes his mundane music—AND HE WILL NOT STOP, I THINK.” _Algernon Charles Swinburne._

AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY

THREE LITTLE FISHERS

THREE little fishers trudged over the hill, Over the hill in the sun’s broad glare, With rods and crooked pins, to the brookby the mill, While three fond mothers sought them everywhere. For boys will go fishing, though mothers deny. Watching their chance they sneak off on the sly To come safely back in the gloaming.