Chapter 2

By the time he was twenty Jack had such a plenty Of books and paternal advice, Though seedy and needy, Indeed he was greedy For vengeance, whatever the price! In the editor's seat Of a critical sheet He found the revenge that he sought; And, with sterling appliance of Mind, wrote defiance of All of the giants of Thought.

He'd thunder and grumble At high and at humble Until he became, in a while, Mordacious, pugnacious, Rapacious. Good gracious! They called him the Yankee Carlyle! But he never took rest On his quarrelsome quest Of the giants, both mighty and small. He slated, distorted them, Hanged them and quartered them, Till he had slaughtered them All.

And this is _The Moral_ that lies in the verse: If you have a go farther, you're apt to fare worse. (When you turn it around it is different rather:-- You're not apt to go worse if you have a fair father!)

How Rudeness and Kindness Were Justly Rewarded

Once on a time, long years ago (Just when I quite forget), Two maidens lived beside the Po, One blonde and one brunette. The blonde one's character was mild, From morning until night she smiled, Whereas the one whose hair was brown Did little else than pine and frown. (_I_ think one ought to draw the line At girls who always frown and pine!)

The blonde one learned to play the harp, Like all accomplished dames, And trained her voice to take _C_ sharp As well as Emma Eames; Made baskets out of scented grass, And paper-weights of hammered brass, And lots of other odds and ends For gentleman and lady friends. (_I_ think it takes a deal of sense To manufacture gifts for gents!)

The dark one wore an air of gloom, Proclaimed the world a bore, And took her breakfast in her room Three mornings out of four. With crankiness she seemed imbued, And everything she said was rude: She sniffed, and sneered, and, what is more, When very much provoked, she swore! (_I_ think that I could never care For any girl who'd learned to swear!)

One day the blonde was striding past A forest, all alone, When all at once her eyes she cast Upon a wrinkled crone, Who tottered near with shaking knees, And said: "A penny, if you please!" And you will learn with some surprise This was a fairy in disguise! (_I_ think it must be hard to know A fairy who's incognito!)

The maiden filled her trembling palms With coinage of the realm. The fairy said: "Take back your alms! My heart they overwhelm. Henceforth at every word shall slip A pearl or ruby from your lip!" And, when the girl got home that night,-- She found the fairy's words were right! (_I_ think there are not many girls Whose words are worth their weight in pearls!)

It happened that the cross brunette, Ten minutes later, came Along the self-same road, and met That bent and wrinkled dame, Who asked her humbly for a sou. The girl replied: "Get out with you!" The fairy cried: "Each word you drop, A toad from out your mouth shall hop!" (_I_ think that nothing incommodes One's speech like uninvited toads!)

And so it was, the cheerful blonde Lived on in joy and bliss, And grew pecunious, beyond The dreams of avarice! And to a nice young man was wed, And I have often heard it said No other man who ever walked Most loved his wife when most she talked! (_I_ think this very fact, forsooth, Goes far to prove I tell the truth!)

The cross brunette the fairy's joke By hook or crook survived, But still at every word she spoke An ugly toad arrived, Until at last she had to come To feigning she was wholly dumb, Whereat the suitors swarmed around, And soon a wealthy mate she found. (_I_ think nobody ever knew The happier husband of the two!)

_The Moral_ of the tale is: Bah! _Nous avons changé tout celà._ No clear idea I hope to strike Of what _your_ nicest girl is like, But she whose best young man _I_ am Is not an oyster, nor a clam!

How Beauty Contrived to Get Square with the Beast

Miss Guinevere Platt Was so beautiful that She couldn't remember the day When one of her swains Hadn't taken the pains To send her a mammoth bouquet. And the postman had found, On the whole of his round, That no one received such a lot Of bulky epistles As, waiting his whistles, The beautiful Guinevere got!

A significant sign That her charm was divine Was seen in society, when The chaperons sniffed With their eyebrows alift: "Whatever's got into the men?" There was always a man Who was holding her fan, And twenty that danced in details, And a couple of mourners, Who brooded in corners, And gnawed their mustaches and nails.

John Jeremy Platt Wouldn't stay in the flat, For his beautiful daughter he missed: When he'd taken his tub, He would hie to his club, And dally with poker or whist. At the end of a year It was perfectly clear That he'd never computed the cost, For he hadn't a penny To settle the many Ten thousands of dollars he'd lost!

F. Ferdinand Fife Was a student of life: He was coarse, and excessively fat, With a beard like a goat's, But he held all the notes Of ruined John Jeremy Platt! With an adamant smile That was brimming with guile, He said: "I am took with the face Of your beautiful daughter, And wed me she ought ter, To save you from utter disgrace!"

Miss Guinevere Platt Didn't hesitate at Her duty's imperative call. When they looked at the bride All the chaperons cried: "She isn't so bad, after all!" Of the desolate men There were something like ten Who took up political lives, And the flower of the flock Went and fell off a dock, And the rest married hideous wives!

But the beautiful wife Of F. Ferdinand Fife Was the wildest that ever was known: She'd grumble and glare, Till the man didn't dare To say that his soul was his own. She sneered at his ills, And quadrupled his bills, And spent nearly twice what he earned; Her husband deserted, And frivoled, and flirted, Till Ferdinand's reason was turned.

He repented too late, And his terrible fate Upon him so heavily sat, That he swore at the day When he sat down to play At cards with John Jeremy Platt. He was dead in a year, And the fair Guinevere In society sparkled again, While the chaperons fluttered Their fans, as they muttered: "She's getting exceedingly plain!"

_The Moral_: Predicaments often are found That beautiful duty is apt to get round: But greedy extortioners better beware For dutiful beauty is apt to get square!

How a Fair One no Hope to His Highness Accorded

She has slid down the channels Of history's annals Disguised as the child of a king, But that is a glib And iniquitous fib, For she never was any such thing: They called her the Fair One with Golden Locks, And it's true she had lovers who swarmed in flocks, But the rest is ironic; Her business chronic Was selling hair-tonic By bottle and box!

From the dawn till the gloaming She used to sit combing Her hair in a languorous way. And her suitors would stop To look into the shop, And stand there the rest of the day. She filled them with mute, but with deep despair, For she never glanced up, with a smile, to where They stood about, crushing Each other, and blushing: She simply kept brushing Her beautiful hair.

But a prince who was passing, Engaged in amassing Some facts on American life, Was suddenly struck By the fact that his luck Might give him that girl for a wife! His rashness he didn't attempt to excuse, He entered the shop and he stated his views. Remarking, "My jewel, I'm confident you will Not wish to be cruel Enough to refuse.

"Most winsome of creatures," He told her, "your features Have led me to candidly say That no other beside Would I have for a bride: We'll be married a week from to-day! I belong to a long and a titled line, And the least of your wishes I won't decline; Next month I will usher My wife into Russia:-- Sweet comber and brusher, Consider you're mine!"

She looked at him squarely, Considered him fairly, Her glance was as keen as a knife, Then she turned up her nose, And, with icy repose, She answered: "Well, not on your life! You're not on the paper the only blot! Do you think I come twelve in a parcel--what? _Me_ pose as your dearie? Oh, go and chase Peary! You're making me weary. Now git!"

(He got!)

The crowd that had waited Outside was elated So much by the prince's mischance, That they greeted with jeers And ironical cheers, The end of his little romance. They said: "Did it hurt when the ground you hit?" They searched for some mark where the prince had lit, And as he looked colder, They only grew bolder, And tapped on his shoulder With: "Tag! You're It!"

The lengthy discussion That sensitive Russian Compiled on the U. S. A. Was read by the maid, As she carelessly played With her beautiful hair one day. "The talk you hear in that primitive land," He wrote, "nobody can understand." "Somebody who guffed him," She said, "has stuffed him, And easily bluffed him To beat the band!"

_The Moral_: The people across the brine Are exceedingly strong on Auld Lang Syne, But they're lost in the push when they strike a gang That is strong on American new line slang!

How Thomas a Maid from a Dragon Released

Though Philip the Second Of France was reckoned No coward, his breath came short When they told him a dragon As big as a wagon Was waiting below in the court! A dragon so long, and so wide, and so fat, That he couldn't get in at the door to chat: The king couldn't leave him Outside and grieve him, He had to receive him Upon the mat,

The dragon bowed nicely, And very concisely He stated the reason he'd called: He made the disclosure With frigid composure. King Philip was simply appalled! He demanded for eating, a fortnight apart, The monarch's ten daughters, all dear to his heart. "And now you'll produce," he Concluded, "the juicy And succulent Lucie By way of start!"

King Philip was pliant, And far from defiant --"And servile," no doubt you retort!-- But if _you_ struck a snag on A bottle-green dragon, Who filled up two-thirds of your court, And curled up his tail on your new tin roof, And made your piazza groan under his hoof, Would you threaten and thunder, Or just knuckle under Completely, I wonder, If put to proof?

By way of a truce, he Brought out little Lucie And watched her conducted away, But all of the others Were out with their brothers! Thus gaining a little delay, He promised through heralds sent west and east, His crown, and his kingdom, and last, not least, His daughter so sightly To any one knightly Who'd come and politely Wipe out that beast!

For love of the charmer, Arrayed in his armor, Each suitor for glory who yearned, Would gallantly hasten, The dragon to chasten, But none of them ever returned! When the dragon had eaten some sixteen score He hung up this sign on his cavern door, Whereat he lay pronely In majesty lonely:

+------------------------------+ |_There's Standing Room Only | | For Three Knights More!_| +------------------------------+

A slim adolescent, His beard only crescent, Rode up at this stage of the game To where the old sinner Lay gorged with his dinner, And breathing out torrents of flame. He gathered a tip from the flaunting sign, And took his position the fourth in line, Until, as foreboded, By food incommoded, The dragon exploded At half-past nine.

The king was delighted At first when he sighted The victor, but then in dismay Regretted his promise. The stripling was Thomas, His Majesty's _valet-de-pied_! He asked him at once: "Will you compromise?" But Thomas looked straight in his master's eyes, And answered severely: "I see your game clearly, And scorn it sincerely. Hand out the prize!"

Not long did he linger Before on the finger Of Lucie he fitted a ring: A month or two later They made him dictator, In place of the elderly king: He was lauded by pulpit, and boomed by press, And no one had ever a chance to guess, Beholding this hero Who ruled like a Nero, His valor was zero, Or something less.

_The Moral:_ And still from Nice to Calais Discretion's the better part of-- --_valets!_

_How a Beauty was Waked and Her Suitor was Suited_

Albeit wholly penniless, Prince Charming wasn't any less Conceited than a Croesus or a modern millionaire: Though often in necessity, No one would ever guess it. He Was candidly insolvent, and he frankly didn't care! Of the many debts he made Not a one was ever paid, But no one ever pressed him to refund the borrowed gold: While he recklessly kept spending, People gladly kept on lending, For the fact they knew a title Was requital Twenty-fold! (He lived in sixteen sixty-three, This smooth unblushing article, Since when, as far as I can see, Men haven't changed a particle!)

In Charming's principality There was a wild locality, Composed of sombre forest, and of steep and frowning crags, Of pheasant and of rabbit, too; And here it was his habit to Go hunting with his courtiers in the keen pursuit of stags. But the charger that he rode So mercurially strode That the prince on one occasion left the others in the lurch, And the falling darkness found him, With no vassals left around him, Near a building like an abbey, Or a shabby Ruined church. His Highness said: "I'll ring the bell And stay till morning in it!" (He Took Hobson's choice, for no hotel There was in the vicinity.)

His ringing was so vehement That any one could see he meant To suffer no refusal, but, in spite of all the din, There was no answer audible, And so, with courage laudable, His Royal Highness turned the knob, and stoutly entered in. Then he strode across the court, But he suddenly stopped short When he passed within the castle by a massive oaken door: There were courtiers without number, But they all were plunged in slumber, The prince's ear delighting By uniting In a snore. The prince remarked: "This must be Philadelphia, Pennsylvania!" (And so was born the jest that's still The comic journal's mania!)

With torpor reprehensible, Numb, comatose, insensible, The flunkeys and the chamberlains all slumbered like the dead, And snored so loud and mournfully, That Charming passed them scornfully And came to where a princess lay asleep upon a bed. She was so extremely fair That His Highness didn't care For the risk, and so he kissed her ere a single word he spoke:-- In a jiffy maids and pages, Ushers, lackeys, squires, and sages, As fresh as if they'd been at least A week awake, Awoke, And hastened, bustled, dashed and ran Up stairways and through galleries: In brief, they one and all began Again to earn their salaries!

Aroused from her paralysis, As if in deep analysis Of him who had awakened her, the princess met his eye: Her glance at first was critical, And sternly analytical. And then she dropped her lashes and she gave a little sigh. As he watched her, wholly dumb, She observed: "You doubtless come For one of two good reasons, and I'm going to ask you which. Do you mean my house to harry, Or do you propose to marry?" He answered: "I may rue it, But I'll do it, If you're rich!" The princess murmured with a smile: "I've millions, at the least, to come!" The prince cried: "Please excuse me, while I go and get the priest to come!"

_The Moral_: When affairs go ill The sleeping partner foots the bill.

_How Jack Found that Beans May go Back on a Chap_

Without the slightest basis For hypochondriasis A widow had forebodings which a cloud around her flung, And with expression cynical For half the day a clinical Thermometer she held beneath her tongue.

Whene'er she read the papers She suffered from the vapors, At every tale of malady or accident she'd groan; In every new and smart disease, From housemaid's knee to heart disease, She recognized the symptoms as her own!

She had a yearning chronic To try each novel tonic, Elixir, panacea, lotion, opiate, and balm; And from a homoeopathist Would change to an hydropathist, And back again, with stupefying calm!

The closets of her villa Were full of sarsaparilla, Ammonia, digitalis, bronchial troches, soda mint. Restoratives hirsutical, And soaps to clean the cuticle, And iodine, and peptonoids, and lint.

She was nervous, cataleptic, And anemic, and dyspeptic: Though not convinced of apoplexy, yet she had her fears. She dwelt with force fanatical Upon a twinge rheumatical, And said she had a buzzing in her ears!

Now all of this bemoaning And this grumbling and this groaning The mind of Jack, her son and heir, unconscionably bored. His heart completely hardening, He gave his time to gardening, For raising beans was something he adored.

Each hour in accents morbid This limp maternal bore bid Her callous son affectionate and lachrymose good-bys. She never granted Jack a day Without some long "Alackaday!" Accompanied by rolling of the eyes.

But Jack, no panic showing, Just watched his beanstalk growing, And twined with tender fingers the tendrils up the pole. At all her words funereal He smiled a smile ethereal, Or sighed an absent-minded "Bless my soul!"

That hollow-hearted creature Would never change a feature: No tear bedimmed his eye, however touching was her talk. She never fussed or flurried him, The only thing that worried him Was when no bean-pods grew upon the stalk!

But then he wabbled loosely His head, and wept profusely, And, taking out his handkerchief to mop away his tears, Exclaimed: "It hasn't got any!" He found this blow to botany Was sadder than were all his mother's fears.

_The Moral_ is that gardeners pine Whene'er no pods adorn the vine. Of all sad words experience gleans The saddest are: "It _might_ have beans." (I did not make this up myself: 'Twas in a book upon my shelf. It's witty, but I don't deny It's rather Whittier than I!)

_How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted_

A poet had a cat. There is nothing odd in that-- (I _might_ make a little pun about the _Mews_!) But what is really more Remarkable, she wore A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes. And I doubt me greatly whether E'er you heard the like of that: Pointed shoes of patent-leather On a cat!

His time he used to pass Writing sonnets, on the grass-- (I _might_ say something good on _pen_ and _sward_!) While the cat sat near at hand, Trying hard to understand The poems he occasionally roared. (I myself possess a feline, But when poetry I roar He is sure to make a bee-line For the door.)

The poet, cent by cent, All his patrimony spent-- (I _might_ tell how he went from _werse_ to _werse_!) Till the cat was sure she could, By advising, do him good So addressed him in a manner that was terse: "We are bound toward the scuppers, And the time has come to act, Or we'll both be on our uppers For a fact!"

On her boot she fixed her eye, But the boot made no reply-- (I _might_ say: "Couldn't speak to save _its sole_!") And the foolish bard, instead Of responding, only read A verse that wasn't bad upon the whole: And it pleased the cat so greatly, Though she knew not what it meant, That I'll quote approximately How it went:--

"If I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree"-- (I _might_ put in: "I think I'd just as _leaf_!") "Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough"-- Well, he'd plagiarized it bodily, in brief! But that cat of simple breeding Couldn't read the lines between, So she took it to a leading Magazine.

She was jarred and very sore When they showed her to the door. (I _might_ hit off the _door_ that was _a jar_!) To the spot she swift returned Where the poet sighed and yearned, And she told him that he'd gone a little far. "Your performance with this rhyme has Made me absolutely sick," She remarked. "I think the time has Come to kick!"

I could fill up half the page With descriptions of her rage-- (I _might_ say that she went a bit _too fur_!) When he smiled and murmured: "Shoo!" "There is one thing I can do!" She answered with a wrathful kind of purr. "You may shoo me, and it suit you, But I feel my conscience bid Me, as tit for tat, to boot you!" (Which she did.)

_The Moral_ of the plot (Though I say it, as should not!) Is: An editor is difficult to suit. But again there're other times When the man who fashions rhymes Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot!

_How Much Fortunatus Could Do with a Cap_

Fortunatus, a fisherman Dane, Set out on a sudden for Spain, Because, runs the story, He'd met with a hoary Mysterious sorcerer chap, Who, trouble to save him, Most thoughtfully gave him A magical traveling cap. I barely believe that the story is true, But here's what that cap was reported to do.

Suppose you were sitting at home, And you wished to see Paris or Rome, You'd pick up that bonnet, You'd carefully don it, The name of the city you'd call, And the very next minute By Jove, you were in it, Without having started at all! One moment you sauntered on upper Broadway, And the next on the Corso or rue de la Paix!