Part 16
“RUN down and get the doctor--quick!” Cried Jack Bean with a whoop; “Run, Dan; for mercy’s sake, be quick! Our baby’s got the croup.” But Daniel shook his solemn head, His sanctimonious brow, And said: “I cannot go, for I Must read my Bible now; For I have regular hours to read The Scripture for my spirit’s need.”
Said Silas Gove to Pious Dan, “Our neighbour, ’Rastus Wright, Is very sick; will you come down And watch with him to-night?” “He has my sympathy,” says Dan, “And I would sure be there, Did I not feel an inward call To spend the night in prayer. Some other man with Wright must stay; Excuse me, while I go and pray.”
“Old Briggs has fallen in the pond!” Cried little ’Bijah Brown; “Run, Pious Dan, and help him out, Or else he sure will drown!” “I trust he’ll swim ashore,” said Dan, “But now my soul is awed, And I must meditate upon The goodness of the Lord; And nothing merely temporal ought To interrupt my holy thought.”
So Daniel lived a pious life, As Daniel understood, But all his neighbours thought he was Too pious to be good; And Daniel died, and then his soul, On wings of hope elate, In glad expectancy flew up To Peter’s golden gate. “Now let your gate wide open fly; Come, hasten, Peter! Here am I.”
“I’m sorry, Pious Dan,” said he, “That time will not allow; But you must wait a space, for I Must read my Bible now.” So Daniel waited long and long, And Peter read all day. “Now, Peter, let me in,” he cried. Said Peter, “I must pray; And no mean temporal affairs Must ever interrupt my prayers.”
Then Satan, who was passing by, Saw Dan’s poor shivering form, And said, “My man, it’s cold out here; Come down where it is warm.” The angel baby of Jack Bean, The angel ’Rastus Wright, And old Briggs, a white angel, too, All chuckled with delight; And Satan said, “Come, Pious Dan, For you are just my style of man.” _Samuel Walter Foss._
THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES
I
HE was the Chairman of the Guild Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs; He was chief Mentor of the Lodge Of the Oracular Oligarchs; He was the Lord High Autocrat And Vizier of the Sons of Light, And Sultan and Grand Mandarin Of the Millennial Men of Might.
He was Grand Totem and High Priest Of the Independent Potentates; Grand Mogul of the Galaxy Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates; The President of the Dandydudes, The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee; The Leader of the Clubtown Band And Architects of Melody.
II
She was Grand Worthy Prophetess Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark; Of Vestals of the Third Degree She was Most Potent Matriarch; She was High Priestess of the Shrine Of Clubtown’s Culture Coterie, And First Vice-President of the League Of the Illustrious G. A. B.
She was the First Dame of the Club For teaching Patagonians Greek, She was Chief Clerk and Auditor Of Clubtown’s Anti-Bachelor Clique; She was High Treasurer of the Fund For Borrioboolaghalians, And the Fund for Sending Browning’s Poems To Native-born Australians.
III
Once to a crowded social _fête_ Both these much-titled people came, And each perceived, when introduced, They had the self-same name. Their hostess said, when first they met: “Permit me now to introduce My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse To Mrs. Clabberhuse.”
“’Tis very strange,” said she to him, “Such an unusual name!-- A name so very seldom heard, That we should bear the same.” “Indeed, ’tis wonderful,” said he, “And I’m surprised the more, Because I never heard the name Outside my home before.
“But now I come to look at you,” Said he, “upon my life, If I am not indeed deceived, You are--you are--my wife.” She gazed into his searching face, And seemed to look him through; “Indeed,” said she, “it seems to me You are my husband, too.
“I’ve been so busy with my clubs, And in my various spheres, I have not seen you now,” she said, “For over fourteen years.” “That’s just the way it’s been with me; These clubs demand a sight”-- And then they both politely bowed, And sweetly said “Good-night.” _Sam Walter Foss._
WEDDED BLISS
“O COME and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen; “I love to soar, but then I want my mate to rest Forever in the nest!” Said the Hen, “I cannot fly, I have no wish to try, But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!” They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone.
“O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep; “My love for you is deep! I slay--a Lion should, But you are mild and good!” Said the Sheep, “I do no ill-- Could not, had I the will; But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.” They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.
“O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam; “You are not wise, but I am. I know sea and stream as well; You know nothing but your shell.” Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion, But my love is all devotion, And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!” They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone. _Charlotte Perkins (Stetson) Gilman._
A CONSERVATIVE
THE garden beds I wandered by, One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly A-sitting on a thorn-- A black and crimson butterfly, All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I: “What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore, With garden fair and sunlight free, And flowers in goodly store?” But he only turned away from me, And burst into a roar.
Cried he: “My legs are thin and few, Where once I had a swarm; Soft, fuzzy fur--a joy to view-- Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform.”
At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, “You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly.”
“I do not want to fly,” said he; “I only want to squirm.” And he dropped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: “I do not want to be a fly; I want to be a worm.”
O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this-- The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis. _Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman._
SAME OLD STORY
HISTORY, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say; Men are only habit’s slaves; we see it every day. Life has done its best for me--I find it tiresome still; For nothing’s everything at all, and everything is nil. Same old get-up, dress, and tub; Same old breakfast; same old club; Same old feeling; same old blue; Same old story--nothing new!
Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health; Woman? She’ll be true to you--as long as you have wealth; Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike; But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike. Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes; Same old kisses; same old sighs; Same old chaff you; same adieu; Same old story--nothing new!
Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays; Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood’s days; Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears, Starving, homeless, in the snow--with diamonds in her ears. Same stern father making “bluffs”; Leading man all teeth and cuffs; Same soubrettes, still twenty-two; Same old story--nothing new!
Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy! Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy; Talked about that “kiddy,” and became a dreadful bore-- Just as if a baby never had been born before. Same old crying, only more; Same old business, walking floor; Same old “kitchy--coochy--coo!” Same old baby--nothing new!
_Harry B. Smith._
HEM AND HAW
HEM and Haw were the sons of sin, Created to shally and shirk; Hem lay ’round, and Haw looked on, While God did all the work.
Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig, For both had the dull, dull mind; And whenever they found a thing to do, They yammered and went it blind.
Hem was the father of bigots and bores; As the sands of the sea were they; And Haw was the father of all the tribe Who criticise to-day.
But God was an artist from the first, And knew what he was about; While over his shoulder sneered these two, And advised him to rub it out.
They prophesied ruin ere man was made: “Such folly must surely fail!” And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord, He’s better without a tail?”
And still in the honest working world, With posture and hint and smirk, These sons of the devil are standing by While man does all the work.
They balk endeavour and baffle reform, In the sacred name of law; And over the quavering voice of Hem Is the droning voice of Haw.
_Bliss Carman._
THE SCEPTICS
IT was the little leaves beside the road.
Said Grass: “What is that sound So dismally profound, That detonates and desolates the air?” “That is St. Peter’s bell,” Said rain-wise Pimpernel; “He is music to the godly, Though to us he sounds so oddly, And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer.”
Then something very like a groan Escaped the naughty little leaves.
Said Grass: “And whither track These creatures all in black, So woebegone and penitent and meek?” “They’re mortals bound for church,” Said the little Silver Birch; “They hope to get to heaven, And have their sins forgiven, If they talk to God about it once a week.”
And something very like a smile Ran through the naughty little leaves.
Said Grass: “What is that noise That startles and destroys Our blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?” “That’s folk a-praising God,” Said the tough old cynic Clod; “They do it every Sunday, They’ll be all right on Monday; It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired.”
And laughter spread among the little leaves. _Bliss Carman._
THE EVOLUTION OF A “NAME”
WHEN Hill, the poet, first essayed To push the goose’s quill, Scarce any name at all he made: (’Twas simply “A. H. Hill.”)
But as success his efforts crowned, Rewarding greater skill, His name expanded at a bound: (It was “A. Hiller Hill.”)
Now that his work, be what it may, Is sure to “fill the bill,” He has a name as wide as day: (“Aquilla Hiller Hill.”) _Charles Battell Loomis._
“THE HURT THAT HONOUR FEELS”
SUGGESTED BY THE ATTITUDE OF THE FRENCH PRESS ON THE FASHODA QUESTION
THAT man is surely in the wrong, And lets his angry passions blind him, Who, when a person comes along Behind him,
And hits him hard upon the cheek (One whom he took to be his brother), Declines to turn and let him tweak The other.
It should be his immediate care, By delicate and tactful dealings, To ease the striker’s pain, and spare His feelings;
Nor should he, for his private ends, Make any personal allusion Tending to aggravate his friend’s Confusion.
For there are people built this way: They may have scratched your face, or bent it, Yet, if you reason with them, they Resent it!
Their honour, quickly rendered sore, Demands that you should suffer mutely, Lest they should feel it even more Acutely.
I knew a man of perfect tact; He caught a burglar once, my man did; He took him in the very act, Red-handed;
What kind of language then occurred? How did he comment on the jemmy? Did he employ some brutal word Like “demme”?
Or kick the stranger then and there, Or challenge him to formal battle? Or spring upon the midnight air His rattle?
Certainly not! He knew too much; He knew that, as a bud is blighted, Your burglar’s honour, at a touch, Feels slighted.
He saw, as men of taste would see, That others’ pride should be respected; Some people cannot bear to be Detected.
Therefore his rising wrath he curbed, Gave him a smile as warm as may be, Thanked him because he’d not disturbed The baby;
Apologized for fear his guest Might deem him casual or surly For having rudely gone to bed So early.
The night was still not very old, And, short as was the invitation, Would he not stay and share a cold Collation?
So was his tact not found at fault; So was he spared, by tasteful flattery, What might have ended in assault Or battery.
Soft language is the best--how true! This doctrine, which I here rehearse, ’ll Apply to nations: it is u- -niversal!
Thus England should not take offence When from behind they jump upon her; She must not hurt their lively sense Of honour.
For plain opinions, put in speech, Might lead to blows, which might be bloody, A lesson which the press should teach And study! _Owen Seaman._
JOHN JENKINS
JOHN JENKINS, in an evil day, felt suddenly inclined To perpetrate a novel of an unobtrusive kind; It held no “Strange Adventures” or “Mysterious Events,” To terrify its readers with exciting accidents. “I have never,” said John Jenkins, “in my uneventful life, Taken part in revolutions or in sanguinary strife; My knowledge of historic days is lamentably scant, But the present will afford me the material I want.” In fact, the rash resolve with which this foolish man set out, Was just to deal with matters that he really knew about. He studied all his characters with sympathy sincere; He wrote, rewrote, and laboured at his chapters for a year; He found a trusting publisher--one wonders much at that-- For this, his first production, fell quite absolutely flat.
The critics were benign indeed: “A harmless little tale,” Was what they mostly called it. “While the reader cannot fail,” Another wrote, “to credit it with fluency and grace, Its fault is that it’s really so extremely commonplace.” A third condemned it roundly as “A simple, shameless sham” (Finding that alliteration often does for epigram). And as John Jenkins wearily perused each fresh review, He shook his head, and cried, “Oh, this will never, never do!”
Undaunted by catastrophe, John Jenkins tried again, And wrote his second novel in a very different strain; In one short month he finished what the critic at a glance Pronounced a fine example of the latter-day Romance. His characters now figured in that period sublime Which, with convenient vagueness, writers call “The Olden Time.”
They said “Oddsbobs,” “Grammercy,” and other phrases sweet, Extracted from old English as supplied in Wardour Street. Exciting was their wooing, constant battles did they wage, And some one murdered some one else on every other page; Whereat the critics flung their caps, and one and all agreed, “Hail to the great John Jenkins! This is True Romance indeed!”
And so John Jenkins flourishes, and scribbles wondrous fast A string of such “romances,” each exactly like the last; A score of anxious publishers for his assistance seek; His “Illustrated Interview” you meet with every week. Nay, more; when any question, difficult and intricate, Perplexes the intelligence of ministers of State, The country disregards them all, and where they fear to tread, Adventurous John Jenkins rushes boldly in instead, And kindly (in the intervals of literary cares) Instructs a grateful nation how to manage its affairs! So, for all youthful authors who are anxious to succeed, The moral of John Jenkins is--well, he who runs may read. _Anthony C. Deane._
A CERTAIN CURE
WHEN I look at my diligent neighbours, Each wholly convinced in his mind That the fruit of his personal labours Will be the reform of mankind, When I notice the bland satisfaction That brightens the features of each-- Commendably prudent in action, Though mighty in speech--
Observing by dint of persistence What wide reputation they gain, The clew to a happy existence Is rendered increasingly plain, Because the self-satisfied feeling I covet may quickly be had By any one owning (or stealing) A suitable fad.
Shall I hotly oppose Vivisection? Grow warm on the Drainage of Flats? Or strive for the Better Protection Of Commons, Cathedrals, or Cats? Perhaps in orations that thrill, I For freedom (and fever) will fight-- A portion of small-pox bacilli Is simply our right!
However, the choice is a detail; Whatever the fad be about, To trade in it, wholesale and retail, To preach it, in season and out, And so to be reckoned a leader (Although there be little to lead), Yes, that’s, O incredulous reader, The way to succeed!
You find that existence is hollow, The fight for position is hard. A remedy? Yes, if you’ll follow This way, to the fad-monger’s yard: Come, here is a hobby--astride it You settle; I tighten the girth-- So-off, and good-luck to you! Ride it For all it is worth! _Anthony C. Deane._
THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED EPIC
HERE, my Amanda, let us seat ourselves; Here let us banish sorrow from our minds, By contemplating the delightful view Which stretches all around us. And what joy To be reminded thus, though far from town, Of that which glorifies our native land, Our British Trade! Gaze first at yonder wood: On every tree is tastefully inscribed In scarlet letters, “Use Niagara Soap!” Turn to those meadows (at no distant date But one uninteresting plain of grass), Each bears a dozen hoardings, striking, bright, Decked in resplendent variegated hues, Telling the reader that Excelsior Pills Cure influenza; that Brown’s Tea is best, And costs no more than one-and-six the pound; And that the purchaser, who fain would quaff Smith’s special brand of Sherry, must beware Of spurious imitations. On that hill A grand gigantic sky-sign testifies To Johnson’s Hair Renewer; and beyond You catch a glimpse of ocean, where the boats Proclaim the message, painted on their sails: “Robbinson’s Boots are Warranted to Wear!” Oh, does not such a view delight the heart? Yea, soon the time will come when every inch Of England shall display advertisements; When newly taught, the birds shall add their notes To the glad chorus, “Buy Pomponia Paste!” The nightingale shall sing, and all the glade Echo her music--“Buy Pomponia Paste!” How great a debt of thankfulness we owe To these the benefactors of our time, Who both contribute to the human race Productions to our ancestors unknown, And also glorify each rural scene By the announcements of their excellence! And how we pity those of olden time Who praised the country, but so little knew What beauty could be added to the scene By the artistic advertiser’s aid, To whom the hills, the meadows, and the woods Brought no glad message, such as we receive, Of Soaps and Sugars, Pens, Pianos, Pills!
_Anthony C. Deane._
PARADISE
A HINDOO LEGEND
A HINDOO died--a happy thing to do When twenty years united to a shrew. Released, he hopefully for entrance cries Before the gates of Brahma’s Paradise. “Hast been through Purgatory?” Brahma said. “I have been married,” and he hung his head. “Come in, come in, and welcome, too, my son! Marriage and Purgatory are as one.” In bliss extreme he entered heaven’s door, And knew the peace he ne’er had known before.
He scarce had entered in the Garden fair, Another Hindoo asked admission there. The self-same question Brahma asked again: “Hast been through Purgatory?” “No; what then?” “Thou canst not enter!” did the god reply. “He that went in was no more there than I.” “Yes, that is true, but he has married been, And so on earth has suffered for all sin.” “Married? ’Tis well; for I’ve been married twice!” “Begone! We’ll have no fools in Paradise!” _George Birdseye._
HOCH! DER KAISER
DER Kaiser of dis Vaterland Und Gott on high all dings command-- Ve two. Ach! don’t you understand? Myself--und Gott.
Vile some men sing der power divine, Mein soldiers sing “Der Wacht am Rhine,” Und drink deir health in Rhenish wine Of Me--und Gott.
Dere’s France, she swaggers all aroundt; She’s ausgespielt, of no account; To much ve tink she don’t amount; Myself--und Gott.
She vill not dare to fight again; But if she shouldt, I’ll show her blain Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine Are mein--by Gott!
Dere’s grandma dinks she’s nicht small beer; Mit Boers und such she interfere; She’ll learn none owns dis hemisphere But me--und Gott!
She dinks, good Frau, fine ships she’s got, Und soldiers mit der scarlet goat. Ach! Ve could knock dem! Pouf! like dot, Myself--mit Gott!
In dimes of peace brebare for wars; I bear de spear und helm of Mars, Und care not for a tousand Czars, Myself--mit Gott!
In fact, I humour efery vhim, Mit aspect dark und visage grim; Gott pulls mit me, und I mit Him, Myself--und Gott! _Rodney Blake._
ON A MAGAZINE SONNET
“SCORN not the sonnet,” though its strength be sapped, Nor say malignant its inventor blundered; The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrapped Had otherwise been covered with a hundred. _Russell Hilliard Loines._
EARTH