Part 3

Tell me! what's your capacity Compared to your voracity? _I_ guess 'T is less. And so I strike these attitudes And tender you these platitudes;-- Not wishing wealth, or spurning it, Not hoarding it, or burning it Is equal to the earning it. Life's race is in the riding it, Not in the word deciding it. And after all is said and uttered The keenest taste is bread-and-buttered.

(And yet--and yet--my palate aches For pallid pie and pasty cakes!)

QUALIFIED.

I love to see my friend succeed; I love to praise him; yes, indeed! And so, no doubt, do you. But will you tell me why it is The praise we parcel out as his So often goes askew, And ends by running in the rut Of "if," "except" or "but"?

"Boggs is a clever chap. His trade Is doubling yearly, and he's made A fortune all right, but----" "Sharp is elected. Well, I say! He'll hit a high mark yet, some day, If----" (here one eye is shut). "Such acting! Why, I laughed and wept! Fobb's art is great--except."

"Miss Hautton has such queenly grace. And then her figure and her face! She'd be a beauty if----" "And Mrs. Follol entertains With so much taste and so much pains; But----" (here a little sniff). "And Mrs. Caste has ever kept The narrow path--except."

I wish some man were great and good That I might praise him all I could And never add a "but." I would that some would value me And never hint what I would be "If"--but why cavil? Tut! Eternal justice still is kept And Heaven is good--except!

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Do you lazily nurse your knee and muse? Do you contemplate your conquering thews With a critical satisfaction? But yesterday's laurels are dry and dead And to-morrow's triumph is still ahead; To-day is the day for action.

Yesterday's sun: is it shining still? To-morrow's dawn: will its coming fill To-day, if to-day's light fail us? Not so. The past is forever past; To-day's is the hand which holds us fast, And to-morrow may never hail us.

The present and only the present endures, So it's hey for to-day! for to-day is yours For the goal you are still pursuing. What you have done is a little amount; What you will do is of lesser account, But the test is, what are you doing?

THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR.

McUmphrey's a fellow who's lengthy on lungs. Backed up by the smoothest of ball-bearing tongues, And his topic--himself--is worth talking about, But he works it so much he has frazzled it out. He never will give me my half of a chance To chip in my own little, clever romance In the first person singular. Yes, and they say, He offended you, too, in a similar way.

Cousin Maud tells her illnesses, ancient and recent, In a most minute way which is almost indecent! Vivisecting herself, with some medical chatter, She serves us her portions--as if on a platter, Never noting how I am but waiting to stir My dregs of diseases to offer to her. And I hear (such a joke!) that your chronic gastritis Stands silent forever before her nephritis.

Mrs. Henderson's Annie goes out every night, And Bertha, before her, was simply a fright, While Agnes broke more than the worth of her head, And Maggie--well, some things are better unsaid. Such manners to talk of her help--when she knows My wife's simply aching to tell of _our_ woes! And I hear that she never lets you get a start On your story of Rosy we all know by heart.

You'd hardly believe that I've heard Bunson tell The Flea-Powder Frenchman and Razors to Sell, The One-Legged Goose and that old What You Please-- And even, I swear it, The Crow and the Cheese. And he sprang that old yarn of He Said 't was His Leg, When you wanted to tell him Columbus's Egg, While I wanted to tell my own whimsical tale (Which I recently wrote) of The Man in the Whale!

THE CHOICE.

The little it takes to make life bright, If we open our eyes to get it! And the trifle which makes it black as night, If we close our lids and let it! Behold, as the world goes whirling by, It is gloomy, or glad, as it fits your eye.

As it fits your eye, and I mean by that You find what you look for mostly; You can feed your happiness full and fat, You can make your miseries ghostly, Or you can forget every joy you own By coveting something beyond your zone.

In the storms of life we can fret the eye Where the guttering mud is drifted, Or we can look to the world-wide sky Where the Artist's scenes are shifted. Puddles are oceans in miniatures, Or merely puddles; the choice is yours.

We can strip our niggardly souls so bare That we haggle a penny between us; Or we can be rich in a common share Of the Pleiades and Venus. You can lift your soul to its outermost look, Or can keep it packed in a pocketbook.

We may follow a phantom the arid miles To a mountain of cankered treasure, Or we can find, in a baby's smiles, The pulse of a living pleasure. We may drink of the sea until we burst, While the trickling spring would have quenched our thirst.

THE SAVING CLAUSE.

Kerr wrote a book, and a good book, too; At least I[A] managed to read it through Without finding very much room for blame, And a good many other folks did the same. But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you read?" Or: "How do you like?" I[A] only said: "Very good, very good! and I'm glad enough; For his other writings are horrible stuff."

Banks wrote a play, and it had a run. (That's a good deal more than ever I've[A] done.) The interest held with hardly a lag From the overture to the final tag. But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you seen?" Or: "What do you think?" I[A] looked serene And remarked: "Oh, a pretty good thing of its kind, But I guess Mr. Shakespeare needn't mind!"

Phelps made a machine; 't was smooth as grease. (I[A] couldn't invent its smallest piece In a thousand years.) It was tried and tried, Until everybody was satisfied. But when any one asked me[A]: "Will it pay?"-- "Is it really good?"--I[A] could only say: "It's a marvelous thing! Why, it almost thinks! And Phelps is a wonder--too bad he drinks!"

[Footnote A: (Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")]

BETWEEN TWO THIEVES.

Sure! I am one who disbelieves In thieves; At which you interrupt to cry "Aye, aye, and I." Hmf! you're so sudden to agree. Suppose we see.

I know a thief. No matter whether I ought to know a thief, or not. Perhaps "we went to school together;" That old excuse is worked a lot. One day he "copped a rummy's leather," Which means--I hate to tell you what. It's such a vulgar thing to steal A drunkard's purse to buy a meal. "Hey, pal," said he, "come help me dine; I've hit a pit and got the swag; To-day, Delmonico's is mine; To-morrow once again a vag. Come on and tell me all the stunts Of all the boys who knew me--once."

"Did I go with him?" I did not. Would you have gone? Could you be bought By dinners--when the trail was hot And any hour he might be caught? I know a thief, whose operations Are colored by a kindly law. Your income and a beggar's rations Contribute to his cunning claw; Cities and counties, courts and nations Pay portion to his monstrous maw.

He gave a dinner not long since In honor of some played-out Prince. The decorations, ah, how chaste! And how delicious was the wine! For Mrs. Thief has perfect taste And Mr. Thief knows how to dine. And so the world has long agreed Quite to forgive, forget--and feed. But really I was shocked to see How many decent folks could be Induced to come and bow the knee; I think you were my _vis-a-vis_.

Yes, yes, I quite despise him, too, Like you; And (though it's not a thing to brag) I somehow like the vag. But, oh, the difference one perceives Between two thieves!

THE SPECTATOR.

Look at the man with the crown Weighing him down. Plumed and petted, Galled and fretted! Why do you eye him askance With a quiver of hate in your glance? Why not conceive him as human, Nursed at the breast of a woman, Growing, mayhap, as he could, Not as he would? How are you sure you would be Better and wiser than he?

Look at the woman whose eye Follows you by. Silked and satined, Scented, fattened! Why does the half smile slip Into a sneer on your lip? You pity her? Ah, but the fashion Of your complacent compassion. Pity her! yet you have said, "Better the creature were dead. What is there left here for her But to err?" Thus would you make the world right, Hiding its ills from your sight.

Look at the man with the pack Breaking his back. Ragged, squalid, Wretched, stolid. And you are sorry, you say, (Much as you are at a play.) But do you say to him, "Brother, Twin-born son of our mother What were the word, or the deed Fitting your need?" Or, as he slouches by, Do you breathe "God be praised, I am I?"

THE SQUEALER.

Of course some people are born so bright That no matter what one may say, or write, The theme is old and the lesson is trite, Which is what you may say, as these lines unreel And I mildly suggest it is better to feel Than to squeal.

Everybody knows that? Yes, it's certain they do, Everybody, that is, with exception of two, Of whom I am one and the other is you. But for us the lesson is still remote, Although we commit it and cite it and quote It by rote.

But still when you thrill with the thudding thump From the fist of the fellow you tried to bump And the world looks hard at the swelling lump, There's a strong temptation to open your door And invite the public to hear you roar That you're sore.

And again, tho' 'tis plain as the printed page:-- "Keep your hand on the lever and watch the gauge When the fire-pot's full and the boilers rage," How often the steam-pressure grows and grows And before the engineer cares or knows, Up she goes.

So why should you fret if I send you to school Again to consider the sapient rule That Wisdom is Silence and Speech is a Fool. Close up! and a year from to-day you will kneel And thank the good Lord that you knew how to feel And not squeal.

DISTANCE AND DISENCHANTMENT.

He was playing New York, and on Broadway at that; I was playing in stock, in Chicago. I heard that his Hamlet fell fearfully flat; He heard I was fierce, as Iago. Each looked to the other exceedingly small; We were too far apart, that is all. You, too, if your vision is ever reflective, Have noticed your rival is small in perspective.

I heard him in Memphis (a chance matinee); He heard me (one Sunday) in Dallas. His critics, I swore, never witnessed the play; He vowed mine were prompted by malice. A pleasanter fellow I cannot recall. We were closer together; that's all. And your rival, too, if you once see him clearly, Is clever, or how could he rival you, nearly?

In Seattle they said he was greater than Booth, (Or in Portland, perhaps; I've forgotten); I said 'twas ungracious to speak the plain truth, But his work in the first act was rotten. I had only intended to speak of the thrall Of his wonderful fifth act; that's all. But when a man's praised far ahead of his talents, I guess you say something to even the balance.

In Atlanta I heard a remark that he made And again in Mobile, Alabama;-- That he hardly thought Shakespeare was meant to be played Like a ten-twenty-thirt' melodrama. Oh, well, there was one honey-drop in the gall; The fellow was jealous; that's all. And you, too, have found, when a friendship is broken, That his words are worse than the ones you have spoken.

FAMILY RESEMBLANCE.

I used to boost the P. and P., Designed to run from sea to sea, From Portland, Ore., to Portland, Me., But which, as all the maps agree, Begins somewhere in Minnesota And peters out in North Dakota. You gibed because I used to mock Its streaks of rust and rolling-stock, Its schedule and its G. P. A. (Who took your Annual away,) But lately you seem much inclined To own a sudden change of mind. Ah, me, You're much like other folks, I see.

I much admired the book reviews Of Quillip of the Daily News. I laughed to see him put the screws On some sprig of the late Who's-Whos, Tear off his verbiage and skin him To show the little there was in him. You said the book he wrote himself Lay stranded on the dealer's shelf And wasn't worthy a critique; (Just what he said of mine last week). Perhaps your reasoning was strong And you were right and I was wrong. Heigho! I'm very much like you, I know.

O'Brien's zeal ran almost daft In its antipathy to graft. He raked the practice fore and aft; Lord! how his sulphurous breath would waft "Eternal and infernal tarmint To ivery grasping, grafting, varmint." The worst of these upon the planet, He said, were those who wanted granite In public buildings,--"yis, begorry!" (O'Brien owns a sandstone quarry.) Of course I'd hate to see it tested, But would he be less interested In civic virtue--uninvested? Oh, dear! O'Brien's much like us, I fear.

NEED.

Don't you remember how you and I Held a property nobody wanted to buy In San Jose, Until one day A man came along from Franklin, Pa.? And didn't we jump till we happened to find The chap wasn't going it wholly blind, But all the rest of the block was bought And he simply had to have our lot. Well, didn't our land go up in price Till double the figures would scarce suffice?

And don't we sometimes figure and fret How he got the best of us, even yet?

Don't you remember the perfect plan You had, which needed another man To make it win, To jump right in And everlasting make things spin? And you said I had the requisite dash And also the trifle of hoarded cash. Was I glad to get in? Well, yes, indeed! Until I saw the compelling need Which had brought you to me, and then, "Ho! ho! None of that for me, nay, not for Joe."

And I'm always provoked when I think you made The plan get along without my aid.

Don't you remember the time we met At Des Moines, or was it at Winterset? But anyway, you Were feeling blue And tickled to see me through and through. And "Come, let's open a bottle of--ink," Said you, "and see if it's good to drink." But weren't you sorry because you spoke When I had to tell you I was "broke"? Oh, you lent me the saw-buck, I know, but still I fancied your ardor had taken a chill.

And you've never been able to quite forget That once I was "broke," and in your debt.

BETTER.

There's only one motto you need To succeed: "Better." To other man's winning? Then you Must do Better. From the baking of bread To the breaking a head, From rhyming a ballad To sliming a salad, From mending of ditches To spending of riches, Follow the rule to the uttermost letter: "Better!"

Of course you may say but a few Can do Better; And you're going to strive So that all may thrive Better. And it's right you are To follow the star, Set in the heavens, afar, afar; But still with your eyes On the skies It is wise To be riding a mule, Or guiding a school, Thatching a hovel Or hatching a novel, Foretelling weather, Or selling shoe-leather; And remember you must Be doing it just A wee dust Better.

And 'tis quite As right For you to cite That the author might, Or ought, to write A heavenly sight Better! For which sharp word I am much your debtor, Knowing none other could file my fetter Better.

FORGET WHAT THE OTHER MAN HATH.

What do I care for your four-track line? I have a country path; And this is the message I've taken for mine:-- "Forget what the other man hath."

What do I care for your giant trees? I'd rather whittle a lath, And my motto helps me to take my ease;-- "Forget what the other man hath."

What do I care for your Newport beach? A tub's as good for a bath. And I keep my solace in constant reach:-- "Forget what the other man hath."

What do I care for your automobile? I'm saving repairs and wrath, My proverb goes well with an old style wheel;-- "Forget what the other man hath."

What do I care if you scorn my rime? For this is its aftermath;-- It sounds so well I shall try, (sometime,) To "forget what the other man hath!"

THE WHET.

The day that I loaf when I ought to employ it Has, somehow, the flavor which makes me enjoy it. So the man with no work He may joyously shirk I envy no more than I do the Grand Turk. He most is in need of a holiday, who, In this workaday world, has no duty to do.

The dollar you waste when you ought not to spend it Buys something no plutocrat's millions could lend it, For if once you exhaust All your care of the cost, Full half of the pleasure of purchase is lost, So I trust you are one who is wise in discerning The value of spending is most in the earning.

My little success which was nearest complete Was that which I tore from the teeth of defeat, And the man who can hit With his wisdom and wit Without any effort, I envy no whit. The genius whose laurels grow always the greenest Finds pleasure in plenty, but misses the keenest.

WHAT SORT ARE YOU?

"How much do you want for your A. Street lot?" Said a real estate man to me. I looked as if I were lost in thought And then I replied: "Let's see;-- Black's sold last year at fifty the foot And without using algebra that should put My figure at sixty now, I guess, Or a trifle more, or a trifle less." I was anxious to sell at fifty straight, Or I might have been glad of forty-eight. Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true; What sort of a bluff are you?

"And what do you think of these railroad rates?" The man with a bald brow said, "For you have travelled through all the states And have heard a good deal and read." "The railroad lines," I wisely replied "Are the lines with which our trade is tied, And the wretches who take their rebates set New knots in the bonds under which we fret." But, now I remember, I once rode free And forgot that the road rebated me! Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, its true; How much of a bluff are you?

"You've been to hear 'Siegfried' and found it fine?" Cried a classical friend one day. "I'm sure your impressions accord with mine, But I want your own words and way. And, oh, "the tone-color beats belief," And, oh, "dynamics," and oh, "motif," And "chiar-oscura, how finely abstruse," And oh, la-la-la, and oh, well, what's the use? For the only thing I understood in the play Was that dippy, old dragon of _papier-mache_. Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true; What style of a bluff are you?

"And the senator should, you believe, be returned?" Said a newspaper-man to me. "He's as rotten a rascal as ever burned," I said. "May I quote?" asked he. "Oh, no," I replied, "if you're going to quote, Just remark that his friends are regretting to note That the exigencies of the party case Indicate that he shouldn't re-enter the race." For the senator sometime may possibly be Interviewed by a newspaper-man about me. No, none of these cases may quite fit you, But what sort of a bluff _are_ you?

THE CRITICS.

As a matter of fact, I am sure I can act, And so, When I go, To the show, Not the art of an Irving Seems wholly deserving, And though Booth were the star He'd have many a jar, If he heard the critique Which I frequently speak, As you Do, Too.

Written deep in my heart Is a knowledge of art, For why? I've an eye Like a die. And where Raphael's paint Has bedizened some saint, I note his perspective Is sadly defective, And you? O, I know When you've looked on Corot The same Blame Came.

And the world would have gained If my voice had been trained, For my ear Is severe, As I hear De Reszke and Patti. (I've heard 'em sing "ratty!") And the crowd has yelled "Bis!" When a call for police Should have shortened the score. Was there ever a more Absurd Word Heard?

And I feel, now and then, I could handle a pen, For indeed, As I heed What I read, I observe many faults; Homer nods, Shakespere halts, Dante's sad, Pope is trite, Poe's mechanic, Holmes light, Yet so easy to do Is the thing, even you Might Write Quite Bright!

PLUG.

As you haven't asked me for advice, I'll give it to you now: Plug! No matter who or what you are, or where you are, the how Is plug. You may take your dictionary, unabridged, and con it through, You may swallow the Britannica and all its retinue, But here I lay it f. o. b.--the only word for you Is plug.

Are you in the big procession, but away behind the band? Plug! On the cobble, or asphaltum, in the mud or in the sand, Plug! Oh, you'll hear the story frequently of how some clever man Cut clean across the country, so that now he's in the van; You may think that you will do it, but I don't believe you can, So plug!