Chapter 2

That light, that white, that weird, uncanny substance we call snow Is slowly sifting through the bare branches--and ever and anon My thoughts sift with the drifting snow, and I am full of pale regret. Yes, full of pale regret and other things--you know what I mean. And why? Because the snow must go; the time has came to part. Yes, it cannot wait much longer--like the flakes my thoughts are melting 'Tis here, 'tis there, in fact, 'tis everywhere--the snow I mean. Like the thick syrup which covers buckwheat cakes it lies.

The man who says he don't regret its passing also lies. And wilt thou never come again? Yes, thou ilt never come again. Alas! How well I remember thee! 'Twas but yesterday, methinks. When a great daub of snow fell from a nearby housetop And when I ventured--poor foolish mortal that I was--to look, Caught me fairly in the mouth (an awful swat) and nearly smothered me. There is another little trick of thine, most lovely snow-- It is but a proof of thine affection to cling around our necks, But still we swear--we cannot help it, Snow. Now it is "Skidoo," or "23 for you." Oh, cursed inconstancy of man!

THE SAD TURKEY GOBBLER.

O a fat turkey gobbler once sat on a limb And he sighed at the wind, and the wind sighed at him. But the grief of the gobbler one could not diminish, For it was Thanksgiving and he saw his finish. So the heart of the gobbler was heavy as lead And he muttered the words of the poet who said: "Backward, turn backward, O Time in thy flight, Make me a boy again, just for to-night!"

SPRIG HAS CUB.

Sprig, Sprig--Oh lovely Sprig! Oh, hast thou cub to stay? Add wilt the little birdies sig Throughout the livelog day? What bessage dost thou brig to be, Fair Lady of by dreabs-- Dost whisper of the babblig brook Ad fishig poles ad streabs?

Those happy days have cub agaid, The sweetest of the year, Whed bad cad raise ad appetite Ad wholesub thirst for beer. I've often thought id wudder, Sprig, Of how the lily grows, But the thig that's botherig be dow Is how to sprig dew clothes.

Sprig, Sprig--Oh lovely Sprig! By thoughts are all of you I saw a robid yesterday-- How strange it seebs--ad dew! I've got a dreadful cold, Fair Sprig, Or else I'd sig to thee Ad air frob Beddelssohd, perhaps, Or "The Shade of the Old Apple Tree."

THE HOT WEATHER FIEND.

Ah, somewhere in another world There is a warmer spot, Where the fire is burning always. And always it is hot; And always fiends are shouting, And always flames are blue, And always Satan's asking: "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?"

WHEN THE LID WAS ON.

They were seated there in silence Each one busy with a frown, It was midnight in the city, And the lid was on the town. They had all been playing poker 'Mid the rattle of the chink, When a gloom fell o'er the party, For they couldn't buy a drink, But a little fellow whispered As he held a poker hand, "Can't we get as drunk on water As we can upon the land?" Then we kicked the little rascal, And we spoke without a frown, And we anchored safe in harbor When the lid was on the town.

THE DOODLE BUG.

Why that's a doodle bug, my child Who lives alone, remote and wild. His domicile's a hole in the ground And when at home he's easily found. The only plan allowed by law Is to lure him forth upon a straw, For the doodle bug is a misanthrope And otherwise is sure to elope.

GRIT.

I hate the fellow who sits around And knocks the livelong day-- Who tells of the work he might have done; If things had come his way. But I love the fellow who pushes ahead And smiles at his work or play-- You can wager when things do come around, They will come his way--and stay.

THE NEXT MORNING.

What a difference in the morning When you try to raise your head; When your eyelids seem so heavy You could swear they were of lead; When your tongue is thickly coated And you have an awful thirst; When you drink so much cold water That you feel about to burst; When you lift your hand towards heaven And solemnly do say: "I'm going to 'cut out' drinking And I'll swear off right to-day."

A WONDERFUL FEAT.

I never walk along the street Because I haven't any feet; Nor is this strange when I repeat That I am but a garden beet.

APRIL FOOL.

'Twas on the f-f-f-first of April D-D-Day, W-w-w-when Nature s-s-smiled and all w-w-was gay, And I--w-w-why I was in a w-w-whirl, 'C-c-cause I w-w-was w-w-walking w-w-with my g-g-girl.

We w-w-wandered through a leafless w-w-wood W-w-where many giant oak-t-t-trees s-s-stood, And p-p-paused beside a d-d-dark g-g-green pool And sat d-d-down on a rustic s-s-stool.

T-t-then out I s-s-spoke in accents b-b-bold, And all m-m-my l-love for her I t-t-told. She answered w-w-with a sweet, s-s-hy g-g-glance That pierced m-m-my h-h-heart like C-C-Cupid's l-lance.

I seized her in a t-t-tight embrace, And s-s-showered k-k-kisses on her f-f-face, And t-t-told her that I'd g-g-give my l-life If she would only b-b-be my w-w-wife.

"Please k-k-keep your l-l-life," the m-m-maid replied "F-f-for I w-w-will gladly b-b-be your b-b-bride, And y-y-you" she s-s-said, in t-t-tones quite c-c-cool, "W-w-why you c-c-can b-b-be my April F-F-Fool."

BRUTAL MARY.

Mary had a little lamb, The lamb was always buttin' So Mary killed the little lamb And turned him into mutton.

YOU COULDN'T HARDLY NOTICE IT AT ALL.

There was a girl in our town Who dearly loved to flirt, But the home folks never noticed it at all. The women in the neighborhood All said she was too pert, But she never even noticed them at all.

One night a young man came to call Who was considered slow, But when he got alone with her, He turned the lights down low. He begged her for a little kiss, She softly murmured "No," But you couldn't hardly notice it at all.

THE ALARM CLOCK.

With a clatter and a jangle, And a wrangle and a screech, How the old alarm clock wheezes As it sneezes out of reach! How you groan and yawn and stretch In the chilly morning air, As you pull the blankets tight, With your head clear out of sight-- How you swear!

A NEW VERSION.

Old Mother Hubbard She went to the cupboard, To find a nice bone for her dog. But when she got there The cupboard was bare, And now they are both on the hog.

OH SCISSORS!

I knew a young man so conceited That a glance at his face made you heated. One night, playing whist, He was slapped on the wrist, Because some one said that he cheated.

HE APED HER.

An impudent Barbary ape Once tried on a lady's new cape. As he gave a big grin, The lady came in, And--his children are still wearing crepe.

TAKE UP THE HOUSEHOLD BURDEN.

Take up the household burden, No iron rule of kings, But make your family understand That you are running things, Don't storm around and bluster, And don't get mad and swear If in the soup is floating-- A rag and a hank of hair.

Take up the household burden In patience to abide, To curse the irate grocer And make your wife confide By open speech and simple And hundred times made plain How she has sought to profit In spending all you gain.

Take up the household burden-- The little baby boy, And walk the floor in anguish And don't let it annoy. For when the kid seems sleepy And you are feeling "sold," There comes a cry from baby boy That makes your blood run cold.

Take up the household burden And try and be a man, Just simply grin and bear it And do the best you can. Come now and try your manhood And let the future go, And listen to your elders-- They've tried it and they know.

VITASCOPE PICTURES.

A young girl stands Upon the sands, And waves her hands-- Flirtation.

A fresh young man With shoes of tan, Looks spick and span-- Expectation.

They walk the beach, She seems a peach Just out of reach-- Vexation.

Ah what is this? A sound of bliss A kiss, a kiss-- Elation.

A father lean Upon the scene, Looks awful mean-- (Curtain.)

AN IRISH TOAST.

Here's to dear Ould Ireland, Here's to the Irish lass, Here's to Dennis and Mike and Pat, Here's to the sparkling glass. Here's to the Irish copper, He may be green all right, But you bet he's Mickie on the spot Whenever it comes to a fight. Here's to Robert Emmet, too, And here's to our dear Tom Moore. Here's to the Irish shamrock, Here's to the land we adore.

MY LIFE AND DEATH.

(By A. Turkey Gobbler.)

I'm just a turkey gobbler, But I've got a word to say And I'd like to say it quickly Before I pass away, For I will get it in the neck Upon Thanksgiving Day.

I cannot keep from thinking Of poor Marie Antoinette, She lost her head completely, But this is what I'll get-- They'll knock the stuffin' out o' me Without the least regret.

I've just a few days left now Before I meet my fate, For every turkey gets the axe, The little and the great. There never was a turkey born Who didn't fill a plate.

Only three days left now, Goodness, how time flies! It brings a sadness to my heart And teardrops to my eyes. Does every turkey feel that way Three days before he dies?

This is a very cruel world (I'm talking sober facts), For I was only raised to be The victim of an axe-- The butt of all your silly jokes, And all your funny cracks.

And when you sit down Thursday How happy you will be, Every person gathered there Will eat enough for three. I'll be the guest of honor 'Cause that dinner is on ME.

L'ENVOI.

I'm the ghost of that poor gobbler Who used to be so great, They took my poor, neglected bones And piled them on a plate. Reader, shed a kindly tear For my unhappy fate.

This is the common lot of all Upon the world's great chart; We've got to leave a pile of bones-- The stupid and the smart. Even when Napoleon died He left a Bonaparte.

We are merely puppets Moving on a string, And when we think that we are IT, The axe will fall--"Gezing!" O, Grave, where is thy victory? O, Death, where is thy sting?

IF I WERE CITY EDITOR.

(After Ben King, Dedicated to E. Jesse Conway.)

If I were City Editor And you should come to my cold desk and choke, And say, "Old man I'm actually dead broke." I say, if I were City Editor, And you should come in deepest grief and woe And say, "Oh Lordy let me have the dough," I might arise with slow and solemn wink And lecture you upon the curse of drink.

If I were City Editor And you should come to my hotel and reel, Clasping my beer to quench the thirst you feel, I say if I were City Editor And you should come in trembling and in fear And even hint about licking up that beer, I'd hit you just one swat, and then, I guess I'd have to order one more bier.

TRANSCENDENTALISM.

What is transcendentalism? Merely sentimentalism With a dash of egotism Somewhat mixed with mysticism. Not at all like Socialism, Nor a bit like Atheism, Hinges not on pessimism, Treats of man's asceticism, Quite opposes anarchism. Can't you name another "Ism?" Yes, it's transcendentalism.

THE EPIC OF THE HOG.

(Man's Inhumanity to Hogs Makes Countless Thousands Squeal.)

I lived upon a little farm, A happy hog was I, I never dreamed of any harm Nor ever thought to die.

All day I wallowed in the mud, And ate the choicest slops. I watched the brindles chew their cud-- The farmer tend his crops.

Upon the hottest days I'd go And flounder in the river-- I thought that hogs might come and go, But I would live forever.

Then finally I waxed so fat That I could hardly walk, And then the farmers gather 'round And all began to talk.

I couldn't understand a word, All I did was grunt; You see that's all a hog can do-- It is his only stunt.

But finally they took me out And put me on a train. I really couldn't move about And squealed with might and main.

I grunted, grunted as I flew And moved in vain endeavor, But even then I thought it true That I would live forever.

And so we came to Packingtown Where there were hogs galore, I never saw so many hogs In all my life before.

Then we had to shoot the chutes And climb a flight of stairs, We never had a chance to stop Or time to say our prayers.

Loud-squealing hogs above, below They formed a seething river, For men may come and men may go But hogs go on forever.

And then I saw an iron wheel Which stood alone in state, And then I heard an awful squeal-- A hog had met his fate.

A devilish chain upon the wheel Had seized him by the leg; It was no use to kick and squeal, It was no use to beg.

I longed in deepest grief and woe To leave that brimming river; If once into that room you go Your fate is sealed forever.

Farewell, Farewell, a long farewell, Around the room I spin, And then a fellow with a knife Smites me below the chin.

L'Envoi.

Dear reader I was just a hog, But O it's awful hard To die disgraced, and then to be-- Turned into "Pure Leaf Lard."

IN KENTUCKY.

(A Response to Judge Mulligan's Famous Toast.)

The moonlight may be softest In Kentucky, And summer days come oftest In Kentucky, But friendship is the strongest When the money lasts the longest Or you sometimes get in wrongest In Kentucky.

Sunshine is the brightest In Kentucky, And a right is often rightest In Kentucky, While plain girls are the fewest, They work their eyes the truest, They leave a fellow bluest In Kentucky.

All debts are treated lightest In Kentucky, So make your home the brightest In Kentucky, If you have the social entree You need never think of pay, Or, at least, that's what they say In Kentucky.

Orators are the proudest In Kentucky, And they always talk the loudest In Kentucky. While boys may be the fliest, Their money is the shyest, They carry bluffs the highest In Kentucky.

Pedigrees are longest In Kentucky, Family trees the strongest In Kentucky. For blue blood is a pride, But, if you've ever tried You'll find 'sporting blood' inside In Kentucky.

Society is exclusive In Kentucky, So do not be intrusive In Kentucky. If you want the right of way, And have the coin to pay, You'll be in the swim to stay In Kentucky.

The race track's all the money In Kentucky, But don't you go there, sonny In Kentucky. For, while thoroughbreds are fleetest, They get your coin the neatest, And leave you looking seediest In Kentucky.

Short-skates are the thickest In Kentucky, They spot a sucker quickest In Kentucky. They'll set up to a drink, Get your money 'fore you think, And you get the "dinky dink" In Kentucky.

If you want to be fraternal In Kentucky, Just call a fellow "Colonel" In Kentucky, Or, give a man a nudge And say, "How are you, Judge?" For they never call that "fudge" In Kentucky.

But when you have tough luck In Kentucky, In other words "get stuck" In Kentucky, Just raise your voice and holler And you'll always raise a dollar, While a drink is sure to follow In Kentucky.

'Tis true that birds sing sweetest In Kentucky, That women folk are neatest In Kentucky, But there are things you shouldn't tell About our grand old State--and, well-- Politics is h----l In Kentucky.

IN DEEPER VEIN.

The Incubus.

The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard, As I wandered through the woodland near the stream, With slow and heavy tread Through a city of the dead, When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.

My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuck Is started by the clamor of the chase, And I halted all atremble In the vain hope to dissemble, Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.

'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December, The frozen winds were bitter in their cry And I muttered half aloud To that white and silent crowd: "'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."

And then as if in answer to my whisper, Came a voice of some foul fiend from Hell: "No longer live say I, 'Tis better far to die And let the falling snow-flakes sound the knell."

Perched upon a tombstone sat the creature Grewsome as an unquenched, burning lust. Sitting livid there With an open-coffin stare-- A stare that seemed the mocking of the just.

And in my thoughts the dreadful thing is sitting-- Sitting there with eyelids red and blear, And see it there I will 'Til my restless soul is still And the earth-clods roll and rumble on my bier.

TO CLARA MORRIS.

In days gone by, the poets wrote Sweet verses to the ladies fair; Described the nightingale's clear note, Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.

To dare all for a woman's smile Or breathe one's heart out in a rose-- Such trifles now are out of style, The scented manuscript must close.

Yet Villon wrote his roundelays, And that sweet singer Horace; But I will sing of other days In praise of Clara Morris.

Youth is but the joy of life, Not the eternal moping; We get no happiness from strife Nor yet by blindly groping.

All the world's a stage you know The men and women actors; A little joy, a little woe-- These are but human factors.

The mellow days still come and go, The earth is full of beauty; If we would only think it so, Life is not all a duty.

And you are young in heart not years, Is this not true because You mingle happiness with tears And do not look for flaws?

Your silver hair is but the snow That drifts above the roses, And though the years may come and go They can but scatter posies.

REQUIESCAT.

(Mrs. Jefferson Davis, widow of the President of the Southern Confederacy died October 16, 1906.)

Oh weep fair South, and bow thy head For one is gone beyond recall! Cast flowers on the sainted dead Who sleeps beneath a funeral pall. To the sound of muffled drum, To the sound of muffled drum.

She saw a noble husband's fame Grow more enduring with the years, And in the land his honored name Loom brighter through a mist of tears, But the sound of muffled drum! O the sound of muffled drum!

Our fate is but to meet and part Upon Life's dark and troubled sea, Yet recollection stirs the heart, Of men in gray who used to be, But the sound of muffled drum! O the sound of muffled drum!

Brave South, 'tis but a moment's pause E'er on that dim and distant shore, The heroes of thy Fallen Cause Will meet again to part no more To the sound of muffled drum. To the sound of muffled drum.

CRABBED.

A college professor one day Was fishing in Chesapeake Bay; Said a crab to his mate, "Let's kick off the bait, This business is too old to pay."

LIFE.

The list is long, the stories read the same; Strong mortal man is but a flesh-hued toy; Some have their ending in a life of shame; Others drink deeply from the glass of joy; Some see the cup dashed dripping from their lip Or drinking, find the wine has turned to gall, While others taste the sweets they fain would sip And then Death comes--the sequel to it all.

TO POE.

You lived in a land horror-haunted, And wrote with a pen half-divine; You drank bitter sorrow, undaunted And cast precious pearls before swine.

TO A CHILD AT CHRISTMAS TIME.

May the day that gave Christ birth Bring you boundless joy and mirth, Fill the golden hours with gladness, Raise no thought to cause you sadness.

[1]THE WAR OF THE RATS AND MICE.