Chapter 2
Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow; I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble state, And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree, Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.
My pedigree is noble--they used my grandsire's skin To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within-- Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear! Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole, All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole-- We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things.
And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh, Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night That nary 'coon could wollop him in a stand-up barrel fight; We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzourians know That ary 'coon can beat a dog if the 'coon gets half a show! But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n!
Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days-- I cannot get acclimated or used to German ways; The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine! The 'coon that's been used to stanch democratic cheer Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer! No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, But send _me_ back from whence I came and let me grub for worms!
They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons And wonder what I am--alas! there are no German 'coons! For, if there were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree, A symbol of democracy that's woolly, blythe and free. And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, For _I_ have tasted liberty--these others, _they_ have not! So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels!
Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill, To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest, Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest; Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy Filley's gall; And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.
THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE.
The women folk are like to books-- Most pleasing to the eye, Whereon if anybody looks He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale-- Those that record no dates, And such editions as regale The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade And size they may be found-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice, I'd choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal.
As plump and pudgy as a snipe-- Well worth her weight in gold, Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife, How should I keep and con? How like a dream should speed my life Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health she would not care To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a jeu d'esprit-- But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse, when to verse inclined-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this, What happiness abounds! Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes!
EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE.
'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met, And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender My thoughts go back in Time's dull track To you, sweet pink of female gender! I shall not say--though others may-- That time all human joy enhances; But the same old thrill comes to me still With memories of your songs and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter days Invite my praise, but never get it; I still am true to yours and you-- My record's made--I'll not upset it! The pranks they play, the things they say-- I'd blush to put the like on paper; And I'll avow they don't know how To dance, so awkwardly they caper!
I used to sit down in the pit And see you flit like elf or fairy Across the stage, and I'll engage No moonbeam sprite were half so airy. Lo! everywhere about me there Were rivals reeking with pomatum, And if perchance they caught a glance In song or dance, how did I hate 'em!
At half-past ten came rapture--then Of all those men was I most happy, For wine and things and food for kings And tete-a-tetes were on the tapis. Did you forget, my fair soubrette, Those suppers in the Cafe Rector-- The cozy nook where we partook Of sweeter draughts than fabled nectar?
Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways Knew every phase of harmless folly! Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! Gone are they all beyond recall, And I, a shade--a mere reflection-- Am forced to feed my spirits' greed Upon the husks of retrospection.
And lo! to-night the phantom light That as a sprite flits on the fender Reveals a face whose girlish grace Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; And all the while the old time smile Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled, As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled.
THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP.
Now lithe and listen, gentles all, Now lithe ye all and hark Unto a ballad I shall sing About Buena Park.
Of all the wonders happening there The strangest hap befell Upon a famous April morn, As you I now shall tell.
It is about the Taylor pup And of his mistress eke, And of the pranking time they had That I would fain to speak.
FITTE THE FIRST.
The pup was of a noble mein As e'er you gazed upon; They called his mother Lady And his father was a Don.
And both his mother and his sire Were of the race Bernard-- The family famed in histories And hymned of every bard.
His form was of exuberant mold, Long, slim and loose of joints; There never was a pointer-dog So full as he of points.
His hair was like a yellow fleece, His eyes were black and kind, And like a nodding, gilded plume His tail stuck up behind.
His bark was very, very fierce And fierce his appetite, Yet was it only things to eat That he was prone to bite.
But in that one particular He was so passing true That never did he quit a meal Until he had got through.
Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash, Joint, chop, or chicken limb-- So long as it was edible, 'Twas all the same to him!
And frequently when Hunger's pangs Assailed that callow pup, He masticated boots and gloves Or chewed a door-mat up.
So was he much beholden of The folk that him did keep; They loved him when he was awake And better still asleep.
FITTE THE SECOND.
Now once his master lingering o'er His breakfast coffee-cup, Observed unto his doting spouse: "You ought to wash the pup!"
"That shall I do this very day," His doting spouse replied; "You will not know the pretty thing When he is washed and dried.
"But tell me, dear, before you go Unto your daily work, Shall I use Ivory soap on him, Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?"
"Odzooks, it matters not a whit-- They all are good to use! Take Pearline, if it pleases you-- Sapolio, if you choose!
"Take any soap, but take the pup And also water take, And mix the three discreetly up Till they a lather make.
"Then mixing these constituent parts, Let nature take her way," With such advice that sapient sir Had nothing more to say.
Then fared he to his daily toil All in the Board of Trade, While Mistress Taylor for that bath Due preparations made.
FITTE THE THIRD.
She whistled gayly to the pup And called him by his name, And presently the guileless thing All unsuspecting came.
But when she shut the bath-room door And caught him as catch-can, And dove him in that odious tub, His sorrows then began.
How did that callow, yellow thing Regret that April morn-- Alas! how bitterly he rued The day that he was born!
Twice and again, but all in vain He lifted up his wail; His voice was all the pup could lift, For thereby hangs this tale.
'Twas by that tail she held him down And presently she spread The creamery lather on his back, His stomach and his head.
His ears hung down in sorry wise, His eyes were, oh! so sad-- He looked as though he just had lost The only friend he had.
And higher yet the water rose, The lather still increased, And sadder still the countenance Of that poor martyred beast!
Yet all this time his mistress spoke Such artful words of cheer As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!" And "There's a patient dear!"
At last the trial had an end, At last the pup was free; She threw awide the bath-room door-- "Now get you gone!" quoth she.
FITTE THE FOURTH.
Then from that tub and from that room He gat with vast ado; At every hop he gave a shake And--how the water flew!
He paddled down the winding stairs And to the parlor hied, Dispensing pools of foamy suds And slop on every side.
Upon the carpet then he rolled And brushed against the wall, And, horror! whisked his lathery sides On overcoat and shawl.
Attracted by the dreadful din, His mistress came below-- Who, who can speak her wonderment-- Who, who can paint her woe!
Great smears of soap were here and there-- Her startled vision met With blots of lather everywhere, And everything was wet!
Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek Like one about to die; "Get out--get out, and don't you dare Come in till you are dry!"
With that she opened wide the door And waved the critter through; Out in the circumambient air With grateful yelp he flew.
FITTE THE FIFTH.
He whisked into the dusty street And to the Waller lot Where bonny Annie Evans played With charming Sissy Knott.
And with these pretty little dears He mixed himself all up-- Oh, fie upon such boisterous play-- Fie, fie, you naughty pup!
Woe, woe on Annie's India mull, And Sissy's blue percale! One got the pup's belathered flanks, And one his soapy tail!
Forth to the rescue of those maids Rushed gallant Willie Clow; His panties they were white and clean-- Where are those panties now?
Where is the nicely laundered shirt That Kendall Evans wore, And Robbie James' tricot coat All buttoned up before?
The leaven, which, as we are told, Leavens a monstrous lump, Hath far less reaching qualities Than a wet pup on the jump.
This way and that he swung and swayed, He gamboled far and near, And everywhere he thrust himself He left a soapy smear.
FITTE THE SIXTH.
That noon a dozen little dears Were spanked and put to bed With naught to stay their appetites But cheerless crusts of bread.
That noon a dozen hired girls Washed out each gown and shirt Which that exuberant Taylor pup Had frescoed o'er with dirt.
That whole day long the April sun Smiled sweetly from above On clothes lines flaunting to the breeze With emblems mothers love.
That whole day long the Taylor pup This way and that did hie Upon his mad, erratic course Intent on getting dry.
That night when Mr. Taylor came His vesper meal to eat, He uttered things my pious pen Would liefer not repeat.
Yet still that noble Taylor pup Survives to romp and bark And stumble over folks and things In fair Buena Park.
Good sooth, I wot he should be called Buena's favorite son Who's sired of such a noble sire And damned by every one.
LONG METER.
All human joys are swift of wing For heaven doth so allot it That when you get an easy thing You find you haven't got it.
Man never yet has loved a maid, But they were sure to part, sir; Nor never lacked a paltry spade But that he drew a heart, sir!
Go, Chauncey! it is plain as day You much prefer a dinner To walking straight in wisdom's way-- Go to, thou babbling sinner.
The froward part that you have played To me this lesson teaches: To trust no man whose stock in trade Is after-dinner speeches.
TO DE WITT MILLER.
Dear Miller: You and I despise The cad who gathers books to sell 'em, Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth Or stately folios garbed in vellum.
But when one fellow has a prize Another bibliophile is needing, Why, then, a satisfactory trade Is quite a laudable proceeding.
There's precedent in Bristol's case The great collector--preacher-farmer; And in the case of that divine Who shrives the soul of P.D. Armour.
When from their sapient, saintly lips The words of wisdom are not dropping, They turn to trade--that is to say, When they're not preaching they are swapping!
So to the flock it doth appear That this a most conspicuous fact is: That which these godly pastors do Must surely be a proper practice.
Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed, On which De Vinne's art is lavished; Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing Is simply waiting to be ravished!
And you have that for which I pine As you should pine for this fair creature: Come, now, suppose we make a trade-- You take this gem, and send the Beecher!
Surely, these graceful, tender songs (In samite garb with lots of gilt on) Are more to you than those dull tome? Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton!
FRANCOIS VILLON.
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly? _He_ would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away, And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay! But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie; "Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!" He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane-- "Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!" And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high; _He_ in his meager, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den-- He with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men! His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!-- "Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!"
* * * * *
So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality-- If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
LYDIA DICK.
When I was a boy at college, Filling up with classic knowledge, Frequently I wondered why Old Professor Demas Bently Used to praise so eloquently "Opera Horatii."
Toiling on a season longer Till my reasoning power got stronger, As my observation grew, I became convinced that mellow, Massic-loving poet fellow Horace knew a thing or two
Yes, we sophomores figured duly That, if we appraised him truly, Horace must have been a brick; And no wonder that with ranting Rhymes he went a-gallivanting Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!
For that pink of female gender Tall and shapely was, and slender, Plump of neck and bust and arms; While the raiment that invested Her so jealously suggested Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of her that fired him-- Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair-- These things baffle my description; I should have a fit conniption If I tried--so I forbear!
May be Lydia had her betters; Anyway, this man of letters Took that charmer as his pick; Glad--yes, glad I am to know it! I, a fin de siecle poet, Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady I fall thinking of that lady And the pranks she used to play; And I'm cheered--for all we sages Joy when from those distant ages Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder With good reason why in thunder Learned professors, dry and prim, Find such solace in the giddy Pranks that Horace played with Liddy Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices In those ancient singing voices, And our hearts beat high and quick, To the cadence of old Tiber Murmuring praise of roistering Liber And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still, Digentia, downward flowing, Prattleth to the roses blowing By the dark, deserted grot; Still, Soracte, looming lonely, Watcheth for the coming only Of a ghost that cometh not.
THE TIN BANK.
Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say That a bank of tin is far the best, And I know of one that has stood for years In a pleasant home away out west. It has stood for years on the mantelpiece Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate-- A wonderful bank, as you'll concede When you've heard the things I'll now relate.
This bank was made of McKinley tin, Well soldered up at sides and back; But it didn't resemble tin at all, For they'd painted it over an iron black. And that it really was a bank 'Twas an easy thing to see and say, For above the door in gorgeous red Appeared the letters B-A-N-K!
The bank had been so well devised And wrought so cunningly that when You put your money in at the hole It couldn't get out of that hole again! Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing A secret spring was hid away, But _where_ it was or _how it_ worked-- Excuse me, please, but I will not say.
Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow, Came pretty children oftentimes, And, standing up on stool or chair, Put in their divers pence and dimes. Once Uncle Hank came home from town After a cycle of grand events, And put in a round, blue, ivory thing, He said was good for 50 cents!
The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink, And larger grew the precious sum Which grandma said she hoped would prove A gracious boon to heathendom! But there were those--I call no names-- Who did not fancy any plan That did not in some wise involve The candy and banana man.
Listen; once when the wind went "Yooooooo!" And the raven croaked in the tangled tarn-- When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew Out of her lair in the haunted barn-- There came three burglars down the road-- Three burglars skilled in arts of sin, And they cried: "What's this? Aha! Oho!" And straightway tackled the bank of tin.
They burgled from half-past ten p.m., Till the village bell struck four o'clock; They hunted and searched and guessed and tried-- But the little tin bank would not unlock! They couldn't discover the secret spring! So, when the barn-yard rooster crowed, They up with their tools and stole away With the bitter remark that they'd be blowed!
Next morning came a sweet-faced child And reached her dimpled hand to take A nickel to send to the heathen poor And a nickel to spend for her stomach's sake. She pressed the hidden secret spring, And lo! the bank flew open then With a cheery creak that seemed to say: "I'm glad to see you; come again!"
If you were I, and if I were you, What would we keep our money in? In a downtown bank of British steel, Or an at-home bank of McKinley tin? Some want silver and some want gold, But the little tin bank that wants the two And is run on the double standard plan-- Why, that is the bank for me and you!
IN NEW ORLEANS
'Twas in the Crescent city not long ago befell The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell; So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-- No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem Of blowing twenty dollars in by 9 o'clock a.m.
Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid, But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in!
In Royal Street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop, And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop: To stop was hesitation--in a moment I was lost-- That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost: I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem-- And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of 8 a.m.!
Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen; A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, With its curious depression into which the gravy flows; Two dainty silver salters--oh, there was no resisting them.-- And I'd blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.
With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed, Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need; Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps, A gown--the gown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps! These and ten thousand other specters harrow and condemn The man who's blowing in twenty by 9 o'clock a.m.
Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) In asking one this question: "What did you buy it for?" Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade before the act, Before one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact-- Before one's fallen victim to the Tempter's strategem And blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.?
Ah, me! now the deed is done, how penitent I am! I was a roaring lion--behold a bleating lamb! I've packed and shipped those precious things to that most precious wife Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, While he, who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth, Is far away, and means to keep his distance--for his health!
THE PETER-BIRD.
Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, From the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. So let me tell you the tale, when, where and how it all happened, And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.