Chapter 4
Who should come up the road one day But the doctor-man in his two-wheel shay! And he whoaed his horse and he cried "Ahoy! I have brought you folks a bow-leg boy! Such a cute little boy! Such a funny little boy! Such a dear little bow-leg boy!"
He took out his box and he opened it wide, And there was the bow-leg boy inside! And when they saw that cunning little mite, They cried in a chorus expressive of delight: "What a cute little boy! What a funny little boy! What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
Observing a strict geometrical law, They cut out his panties with a circular saw; Which gave such a stress to his oval stride That the people he met invariably cried: "What a cute little boy! What a funny little boy! What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
They gave him a wheel and away he went Speeding along to his heart's content; And he sits so straight and he pedals so strong That the folks all say as he bowls along: "What a cute little boy! What a funny little boy! What a dear little bow-leg boy!"
With his eyes aflame and his cheeks aglow, He laughs "aha" and he laughs "oho"; And the world is filled and thrilled with the joy Of that jolly little human, the bow-leg boy-- The cute little boy! The funny little boy! The dear little bow-leg boy!
If ever the doctor-man comes _my_ way With his wonderful box in his two-wheel shay, I'll ask for the treasure I'd fain possess-- Now, honest Injun! can't you guess? Why, a cute little boy-- A funny little boy-- A dear little bow-leg boy!
THE STRAW PARLOR
Way up at the top of a big stack of straw Was the cunningest parlor that ever you saw! And there could you lie when aweary of play And gossip or laze in the coziest way; No matter how careworn or sorry one's mood No worldly distraction presumed to intrude. As a refuge from onerous mundane ado I think I approve of straw parlors, don't you?
A swallow with jewels aflame on her breast On that straw parlor's ceiling had builded her nest; And she flew in and out all the happy day long, And twittered the soothingest lullaby song. Now some might suppose that that beautiful bird Performed for her babies the music they heard; _I_ reckon she twittered her repertoire through For the folk in the little straw parlor, don't you?
And down from a rafter a spider had hung Some swings upon which he incessantly swung. He cut up such didoes--such antics he played Way up in the air, and was never afraid! He never made use of his horrid old sting, But was just upon earth for the fun of the thing! I deeply regret to observe that so few Of these good-natured insects are met with, don't you?
And, down in the strawstack, a wee little mite Of a cricket went chirping by day and by night; And further down, still, a cunning blue mouse In a snug little nook of that strawstack kept house! When the cricket went "chirp," Miss Mousie would squeak "Come in," and a blush would enkindle her cheek! She thought--silly girl! 't was a beau come to woo, But I guess it was only the cricket, don't you?
So the cricket, the mouse, and the motherly bird Made as soothingsome music as ever you heard And, meanwhile, that spider by means of his swings Achieved most astounding gyrations and things! No wonder the little folk liked what they saw And loved what they heard in that parlor of straw! With the mercury up to 102 In the shade, I opine they just sizzled, don't you?
But once there invaded that Eden of straw The evilest Feline that ever you saw! She pounced on that cricket with rare promptitude And she tucked him away where he'd do the most good; And then, reaching down to the nethermost house, She deftly expiscated little Miss Mouse! And, as for the Swallow, she shrieked and withdrew-- I rather admire her discretion, don't you?
Now listen: That evening a cyclone obtained, And the mortgage was all on that farm that remained! Barn, strawstack and spider--they all blew away, And nobody knows where they're at to this day! And, as for the little straw parlor, I fear It was wafted clean off this sublunary sphere! I really incline to a hearty "boo-hoo" When I think of this tragical ending, don't you?
A PITEOUS PLAINT
I cannot eat my porridge, I weary of my play; No longer can I sleep at night, No longer romp by day! Though forty pounds was once my weight, I'm shy of thirty now; I pine, I wither and I fade Through love of Martha Clow.
As she rolled by this morning I heard the nurse girl say: "She weighs just twenty-seven pounds And she's one year old to-day." I threw a kiss that nestled In the curls upon her brow, But she never turned to thank me-- That bouncing Martha Clow!
She ought to know I love her, For I've told her that I do; And I've brought her nuts and apples, And sometimes candy, too! I'd drag her in my little cart If her mother would allow That delicate attention To her daughter, Martha Clow.
O Martha! pretty Martha! Will you always be so cold? Will you always be as cruel As you are at one-year-old? Must your two-year-old admirer Pine as hopelessly as now For a fond reciprocation Of his love for Martha Clow?
You smile on Bernard Rogers And on little Harry Knott; You play with them at peek-a-boo All in the Waller Lot! Wildly I gnash my new-cut teeth And beat my throbbing brow, When I behold the coquetry Of heartless Martha Clow!
I cannot eat my porridge, Nor for my play care I; Upon the floor and porch and lawn My toys neglected lie; But on the air of Halsted street I breathe this solemn vow: "Though _she_ be _false_, _I_ will be true To pretty Martha Clow!"
THE DISCREET COLLECTOR
Down south there is a curio-shop Unknown to many men; Thereat do I intend to stop When I am south again; The narrow street through which to go-- Aha! I know it well! And may be you would like to know-- But no--I will not tell!
'T is there to find the loveliest plates (The bluest of the blue!) At such surprisingly low rates You'd not believe it true! And there is one Napoleon vase Of dainty Sevres to sell-- I'm sure you'd like to know that place-- But no--I will not tell!
Then, too, I know another shop Has old, old beds for sale, With lovely testers up on top Carved in ornate detail; And there are sideboards rich and rare, With fronts that proudly swell-- Oh, there are bargains waiting there, But where I will not tell!
And hark! I know a bottle-man Smiling and debonair, And he has promised me I can Choose of his precious ware! In age and shape and color, too, His dainty goods excel-- Aha, my friends, if you but knew-- But no! I will not tell!
A thousand other shops I know Where bargains can be got-- Where other folk would like to go Who have what I have not. I let them hunt; I hold my mouth-- Yes, though I know full well Where lie the treasures of the south, I'm not a going to tell!
A VALENTINE
Your gran'ma, in her youth, was quite As blithe a little maid as you. And, though her hair is snowy white, Her eyes still have their maiden blue, And on her cheeks, as fair as thine, Methinks a girlish blush would glow If she recalled the valentine She got, ah! many years ago.
A valorous youth loved gran'ma then, And wooed her in that auld lang syne; And first he told his secret when He sent the maid that valentine. No perfumed page nor sheet of gold Was that first hint of love he sent, But with the secret gran'pa told-- "I love you"--gran'ma was content.
Go, ask your gran'ma, if you will, If--though her head be bowed and gray-- If--though her feeble pulse be chill-- True love abideth not for aye; By that quaint portrait on the wall, That smiles upon her from above, Methinks your gran'ma can recall The sweet divinity of love.
Dear Elsie, here's no page of gold-- No sheet embossed with cunning art-- But here's a solemn pledge of old: "I love you, love, with all my heart." And if in what I send you here You read not all of love expressed, Go--go to gran'ma, Elsie dear, And she will tell you all the rest!
THE WIND
(THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing-- Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession.
"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses-- Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing; Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes-- She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!"
"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!"
"Straight from my wooing I come--my lips are bedewed with her kisses-- My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!"
(THE SONG)
The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose, And he wooeth his love to wed: Sweet is his song The Summer long As he kisseth her lips so red; And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought When the Summer of love is sped!
(AGAIN THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter.
"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamentations?"
Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate garden Come I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!"
"Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and loving, It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing displeasure."
The Wind maketh ever more moan and ever it giveth this answer: "My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of the Summer-- I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow of Winter; I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her loveliness lieth And the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that forever outcrieth!"
(AGAIN THE SONG)
The Wind he waileth the red, red Rose When the Summer of love is sped-- He waileth above His lifeless love With her shroud of snow o'erspread-- Crieth such things as a true heart brings To the grave of its precious dead.
A PARAPHRASE
Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, in Heaven the same; Give us this day our daily bread, and may our debts to heaven-- As we our earthly debts forgive--by Thee be all forgiven; When tempted or by evil vexed, restore Thou us again, And Thine be the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever; amen.
WITH BRUTUS IN ST. JO
Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best; Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone, So he hired an "acting manager," a gruff old man named Krone-- A stern, commanding man with piercing eyes and flowing beard, And his voice assumed a thunderous tone when Jack and I appeared; He said that Julius Caesar had been billed a week or so, And would have to have some armies by the time he reached St. Jo!
O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight, When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night! O happy days, when sounded in the public's rapturous ears The creak of pasteboard armor and the clash of wooden spears! O happy times for Jack and me and that one other supe That then and there did constitute the noblest Roman's troop! With togas, battle axes, shields, we made a dazzling show, When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
We wheeled and filed and double-quicked wherever Brutus led, The folks applauding what we did as much as what he said; 'T was work, indeed; yet Jack and I were willing to allow 'T was easier following Brutus than following father's plough; And at each burst of cheering, our valor would increase-- We tramped a thousand miles that night, at fifty cents apiece! For love of Art--not lust for gold--consumed us years ago, When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
To-day, while walking in the Square, Jack Langrish says to me: "My friend, the drama nowadays ain't what it used to be! These farces and these comedies--how feebly they compare With that mantle of the tragic art which Forrest used to wear! My soul is warped with bitterness to think that you and I-- Co-heirs to immortality in seasons long gone by-- Now draw a paltry stipend from a Boston comic show, We, who were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!"
And so we talked and so we mused upon the whims of Fate That had degraded Tragedy from its old, supreme estate; And duly, at the Morton bar, we stigmatized the age As sinfully subversive of the interests of the Stage! For Jack and I were actors in the halcyon, palmy days Long, long before the Hoyt school of farce became the craze; Yet, as I now recall it, it was twenty years ago That we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
We were by birth descended from a race of farmer kings Who had done eternal battle with grasshoppers and things; But the Kansas farms grew tedious--we pined for that delight We read of in the _Clipper_ in the barber's shop by night! We would be actors--Jack and I--and so we stole away From our native spot, Wathena, one dull September day, And started for Missouri--ah, little did we know We were going to train as soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
Our army numbered three in all--Marc Antony's was four; Our army hankered after fame, but Marc's was after gore! And when we reached Philippi, at the outset we were met With an inartistic gusto I can never quite forget. For Antony's overwhelming force of thumpers seemed to be Resolved to do "them Kansas jays"--and that meant Jack and me! My lips were sealed but that it seems quite proper you should know That Rome was nowhere in it at Philippi in St. Jo!
I've known the slow-consuming grief and ostentatious pain Accruing from McKean Buchanan's melancholy Dane; Away out West I've witnessed Bandmann's peerless hardihood, With Arthur Cambridge have I wrought where walking was not good; In every phase of horror have I bravely borne my part, And even on my uppers have I proudly stood for Art! And, after all my suffering, it were not hard to show That I got my allopathic dose with Brutus at St. Jo!
That army fell upon me in a most bewildering rage And scattered me and mine upon that histrionic stage; My toga rent, my helmet gone and smashed to smithereens, They picked me up and hove me through whole centuries of scenes! I sailed through Christian eras and mediaeval gloom And fell from Arden forest into Juliet's painted tomb! Oh, yes, I travelled far and fast that night, and I can show The scars of honest wounds I got with Brutus in St. Jo!
Ah me, old Davenport is gone, of fickle fame forgot, And Barrett sleeps forever in a much neglected spot; Fred Warde, the papers tell me, in far woolly western lands Still flaunts the banner of high Tragic Art at one-night stands; And Jack and I, in Charley Hoyt's Bostonian dramas wreak Our vengeance on creation at some eensty dolls per week. By which you see that public taste has fallen mighty low Since we fought as Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!
THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS
There were two little skeezucks who lived in the isle Of Boo in a southern sea; They clambered and rollicked in heathenish style In the boughs of their cocoanut tree. They didn't fret much about clothing and such And they recked not a whit of the ills That sometimes accrue From having to do With tailor and laundry bills.
The two little skeezucks once heard of a Fair Far off from their native isle, And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't go there To take in the sights for awhile. Now old King Fan Was a good-natured man (As good-natured monarchs go), And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a bore, He hadn't the heart to say "No."
So the two little skeezucks sailed off to the Fair In a great big gum canoe, And I fancy they had a good time there, For they tarried a year or two. And old King Fan at last began To reckon they'd come to grief, When glory! one day They sailed into the bay To the tune of "Hail to the Chief!"
The two little skeezucks fell down on the sand, Embracing his majesty's toes, Till his majesty graciously bade them stand And salute him nose to nose. And then quoth he: "Divulge unto me What happenings have hapt to you; And how did they dare to indulge in a Fair So far from the island of Boo?"
The two little skeezucks assured their king That what he surmised was true; That the Fair would have been a different thing Had it only been held in Boo! "The folk over there in no wise compare With the folk of the southern seas; Why, they comb out their heads And they sleep in beds Instead of in caverns and trees!"
The two little skeezucks went on to say That children (so far as they knew) Had a much harder time in that land far away Than here in the island of Boo! They have to wear clo'es Which (as every one knows) Are irksome to primitive laddies, While, with forks and with spoons, they're denied the sweet boons That accrue from free use of one's paddies!
"And now that you're speaking of things to eat," Interrupted the monarch of Boo, "We beg to inquire if you happened to meet With a nice missionary or two?" "No, that we did not; in that curious spot Where were gathered the fruits of the earth, Of that special kind Which Your Nibs has in mind There appeared a deplorable dearth!"
Then loud laughed that monarch in heathenish mirth And loud laughed his courtiers, too, And they cried: "There is elsewhere no land upon earth So good as our island of Boo!" And the skeezucks, tho' glad Of the journey they'd had, Climbed up in their cocoanut trees, Where they still may be seen with no shirts to keep clean Or trousers that bag at the knees.
PAN LIVETH
They told me once that Pan was dead, And so, in sooth, I thought him; For vainly where the streamlets led Through flowery meads I sought him-- Nor in his dewy pasture bed Nor in the grove I caught him. _"Tell me," 'twas so my clamor ran-- "Tell me, oh, where is Pan?"_
But, once, as on my pipe I played A requiem sad and tender, Lo, thither came a shepherd-maid-- Full comely she and slender! I were indeed a churlish blade With wailings to offend 'er-- _For, surely, wooing's sweeter than A mourning over Pan!_
So, presently, whiles I did scan That shepherd-maiden pretty, And heard her accents, I began To pipe a cheerful ditty; And so, betimes, forgot old Pan Whose death had waked my pity; _So--so did Love undo the man Who sought and pined for Pan!_
He was _not_ dead! I found him there-- The Pan that I was after! Caught in that maiden's tangling hair, Drunk with her song and laughter! I doubt if there be otherwhere A merrier god or dafter-- _Nay, nor a mortal kindlier than Is this same dear old Pan!_
Beside me, as my pipe I play, My shepherdess is lying, While here and there her lambkins stray As sunny hours go flying; They look like me--those lambs--they say, And that I'm not denying! _And for that sturdy, romping clan, All glory be to Pan!_
Pan is not dead, O sweetheart mine! It is to hear his voices In every note and every line Wherein the heart rejoices! He liveth in that sacred shrine That Love's first, holiest choice is! _So pipe, my pipe, while still you can, Sweet songs in praise of Pan!_
DR. SAM
TO MISS GRACE KING
Down in the old French quarter, Just out of Rampart street, I wend my way At close of day Unto the quaint retreat Where lives the Voodoo Doctor By some esteemed a sham, Yet I'll declare there's none elsewhere So skilled as Doctor Sam _With the claws of a deviled crawfish, The juice of the prickly prune, And the quivering dew From a yarb that grew In the light of a midnight moon!_
I never should have known him But for the colored folk That here obtain And ne'er in vain That wizard's art invoke; For when the Eye that's Evil Would him and his'n damn, The negro's grief gets quick relief Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam. _With the caul of an alligator, The plume of an unborn loon, And the poison wrung From a serpent's tongue By the light of a midnight moon!_
In all neurotic ailments I hear that he excels, And he insures Immediate cures Of weird, uncanny spells; The most unruly patient Gets docile as a lamb And is freed from ill by the potent skill Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam; _Feathers of strangled chickens, Moss from the dank lagoon,_ _And plasters wet With spider sweat In the light of a midnight moon!_
They say when nights are grewsome And hours are, oh! so late, Old Sam steals out And hunts about For charms that hoodoos hate! That from the moaning river And from the haunted glen He silently brings what eerie things Give peace to hoodooed men:-- _The tongue of a piebald 'possum, The tooth of a senile 'coon, The buzzard's breath that smells of death, And the film that lies On a lizard's eyes In the light of a midnight moon!_
WINFREDA
(A BALLAD IN THE ANGLO-SAXON TONGUE)
When to the dreary greenwood gloam Winfreda's husband strode that day, The fair Winfreda bode at home To toil the weary time away; "While thou art gone to hunt," said she, "I'll brew a goodly sop for thee."
Lo, from a further, gloomy wood, A hungry wolf all bristling hied And on the cottage threshold stood And saw the dame at work inside; And, as he saw the pleasing sight, He licked his fangs so sharp and white.
Now when Winfreda saw the beast, Straight at the grinning wolf she ran, And, not affrighted in the least, She hit him with her cooking pan, And as she thwacked him on the head-- "Scat! scat!" the fair Winfreda said.
The hills gave answer to their din-- The brook in fear beheld the sight. And all that bloody field within Wore token of Winfreda's might. The wolf was very loath to stay-- But, oh! he could not get away.
Winfreda swept him o'er the wold And choked him till his gums were blue, And till, beneath her iron hold, His tongue hung out a yard or two, And with his hair the riven ground Was strewn for many leagues around.
They fought a weary time that day, And seas of purple blood were shed, Till by Winfreda's cunning lay That awful wolf all limp and dead; Winfreda saw him reel and drop-- Then back she went to brewing sop.
So when the husband came at night From bootless chase, cold, gaunt, and grim, Great was that Saxon lord's delight To find the sop dished up for him; And as he ate, Winfreda told How she had laid the wolf out cold.
The good Winfreda of those days Is only "pretty Birdie" now-- Sickly her soul and weak her ways-- And she, to whom we Saxons bow, Leaps on a bench and screams with fright If but a mouse creeps into sight.
LYMAN, FREDERICK, AND JIM
(FOR THE FELLOWSHIP CLUB)
Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day, Set out in a great big ship-- Steamed to the ocean adown the bay Out of a New York slip. "Where are you going and what is your game?" The people asked those three. "Darned if we know; but all the same Happy as larks are we; And happier still we're going to be!" Said Lyman And Frederick And Jim.
The people laughed "Aha, oho! Oho, aha!" laughed they; And while those three went sailing so Some pirates steered that way. The pirates they were laughing, too-- The prospect made them glad; But by the time the job was through Each of them pirates, bold and bad, Had been done out of all he had By Lyman And Frederick And Jim.
Days and weeks and months they sped, Painting that foreign clime A beautiful, bright vermilion red-- And having a ---- of a time! 'T was all so gaudy a lark, it seemed As if it could not be, And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed Of sailing that foreign sea, But I'll identify you these three-- Lyman And Frederick And Jim.