Part 2

Said the world, “My dear sir, you are right, there’s no crime Like dullness--henceforth I will try To be clever--forgive me! I’m taking your time, Perhaps we’ll meet later! Good-bye!”

LATER.

“You are cold, Father World, and harden’d forsooth,” Cried the man, “and exceeding wise, And for any offensive remarks of my youth I beg to apologize.”

THE POET’S PROPOSAL.

“Phyllis, if I could I’d paint you As I see you sitting there, You distracting little saint, you, With your aureole of hair. If I only _were_ an artist, And such glances could be caught, You should have the very smartest Picture frame that can be bought!

“Phyllis, since I can’t depict your Charms, or give you aught but fame, Will you be yourself the picture? Will you let me be the frame? Whose protecting clasp may bind you Always--”

“Nay,” cried Phyllis; “hold, Or you’ll force me to remind you Paintings _must_ be framed with gold!”

_Scene._ A hollow tree in the woods.

_Time._ December evening.

MR. OWL. MR. SPARROW. MR. BEAR.

MR. OWL (_stretching his wings_): Heigho! It’s dark! How fast the daylight goes! I must have over-slept. It’s time I rose And went about my breakfast to prepare. I should keep better hours; I declare, Before I got to bed ’t was broad daylight! That must be why I’m getting up to-night With such a sleepy feeling in my head. Heigho! Heigho! (_Yawns._)

_Enter_ MR. SPARROW.

MR. SPARROW: Why don’t you go to bed, If you’re so very sleepy?--it’s high time! The sun has set an hour ago, and I’m Going home myself as fast as I can trot. Night is the time for sleep.

MR. OWL: The time for _what_? The time for _sleep_, you say?

MR. SPARROW: That’s what I said.

MR. OWL: Well, my dear bird, your reason must have fled!

MR. SPARROW (_icily_): I do not catch your meaning quite, I fear.

MR. OWL: I mean you’re talking nonsense. Is that clear?

MR. SPARROW (_angrily_): Say that again--again, sir, if you dare! Say it again!

MR. OWL: As often as you care. You’re talking nonsense--stuff and nonsense--there!

MR. SPARROW (_hopping one twig higher up_): You are a coward, sir, and _impolite_! (_Hopping on a still higher twig_) And if you were n’t beneath me I would fight.

MR. OWL: I _am_ beneath you, true enough, my friend, By just two branches. Will you not descend? Or shall I--

MR. SPARROW (_hastily_): No, don’t rise. Tell me instead What was the nonsense that you thought I said.

MR. OWL: It may be wrong, but if I heard aright, You said the proper time for sleep was night.

MR. SPARROW: That’s what I said, and I repeat it too!

MR. OWL: Then you repeat a thing that is not true. _Day_ is the time for sleep, not _night_.

MR. SPARROW: Absurd! Who’s talking nonsense now?

MR. OWL: Impudent bird! How dare you answer back, you upstart fowl!

MR. SPARROW: How dare you call me upstart--you--you--_Owl_!

MR. OWL: This is too much! I’ll stand no more, I vow! Defend yourself!

MR. BEAR (_looking out of hollow tree_): Come, neighbors, stop that row! What you’re about I’m sure I cannot think. I only know I have n’t had one wink Of sleep. Indeed, I’ve borne it long enough. ’T would put the mildest temper in a huff;

And I am but a bear. Why don’t you go To bed like other folks, I’d like to know? Summer is long enough to keep awake-- Winter’s the time when honest people take Their three months’ sleep.

MR. SPARROW: That settles me! I fly! Dear Mr. Owl and Mr. Bear, good-by! [_Exit._

MR. OWL: I must go too, to find another wood. Every one’s mad in this queer neighborhood! It is not safe such company to keep. Good evening, Mr. Bear. [_Exit._

MR. BEAR: _Now_ I shall sleep.

CURTAIN.

THE SNAIL’S DREAM.

A snail, who had a way, it seems, Of dreaming very curious dreams, Once dreamed he was--you’ll never guess!-- The Lightning Limited Express!

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.

Beneathe an ancient oake one daye A holye friar kneeled to praye; Scarce hadde he mumbled Aves three, When lo! a voice within the tree! Straighte to the friar’s hearte it wente, A voice as of some spirit pente Within the hollow of the tree, That cried, “Good father, sette me free!”

Quoth he, “This hath an evil sounde.” Ande bente him lower to the grounde. But ever tho’ he prayed, the more The voice hys pytie didde implore, Untyl he raised hys eyes ande there Behelde a mayden ghostlie faire. Thus to the holy manne she spoke:

“_Within the hollow of this oak, Enchanted for a hundred yeares, Have I been bounde--yet vain my teares; Notte anything can breake the banne Till I be kiss’d by holye manne._”

“Woe’s me!” thenne sayd the friar; “if thou Be sente to tempt me breake my vowe; Butte whether mayde or fiende thou be, I’ll stake my soul to sette thee free.” The holye manne then crossed hym thrice, And kissed the mayde--when in a trice She vanished-- “Heaven forgive me now!” Exclaimed the friar--“my broken vowe.

“If I have sinned--I sinned to save Another fromme a living grave.” Thenne downe upon the earth he felle, And prayed some sign that he might telle If he were doomed for-evermore; When lo! the oake, alle bare before, Put forth a branch of palest greene, And fruited everywhere betweene With waxen berries, pearlie white, A miracle before hys sight.

* * * * *

The holye friar wente hys waye And told hys tale-- And from thatte daye It hath been writ that anye manne May blamelesse kiss what mayde he canne Nor any one shall say hym “no” Beneath the holye mistletoe.

HYDE AND SEEKE.

One day beneathe a willowe tree, Love met a mayde moste faire to see; “Come play at hyde and seeke,” cried he. “With alle my hearte!”--quoth she.

“I’m it!” Love cries, and rounde hys eyes A scarfe the maiden bindeth, And inne and oute and rounde aboute Ye willowe trees he windeth-- Yette ne’er the maiden findeth.

Stille inne and oute and rounde aboute, And stille no maiden meetinge; Till, piqued, ye rogue unbinds hys eyes, And, perched upon a branch, espies Ye mayde retreatinge; “Fie! Fie!” cries Love--“you’re cheetinge!”

“Now, you,” quothe he, “must seeke for me!” She binds her eyes, assentinge, And inne and oute and rounde aboute, Seeks she for Love relentinge--

But Love, they say--alas, ye day! Has spread his wings and flown away, And left ye mayde lamentinge, And left ye mayde repentinge.

IN THE CAFÉ.

1 P. M.

He sits before me as I write, And talks of this and that, And all my thoughts are put to flight By his infernal chat. I came to write a tender rhyme To Phyllis or to Mabel, And chose in this retired café The most secluded table. He came before I’d time to fly, And ere I could refuse, Had filled the very chair that I Was keeping for the muse! Then came the deluge--down it came In one unceasing pour-- Of science, crops, photography, Religion, soups, and war.

1.30--Forsooth the flood of words that flows From this secluded table Will soon be great enough to swamp A dozen towers of Babel. 2.30--And still he stays, and still the flood Is rising as before; 3-- The world is now a sea of words 3.30-- Without a sign of shore.

* * * * *

6-- Great Scott! He’s going! “No, _must_ you go? _Don’t_ tear yourself away! What have I written? Oh, some trash-- A sort of Fairy-lay, Of how a dreadful ogre Caught a luckless youth one day, And drowned him in a flood of--well, If you _must_ go--_good_ day!”

ENVOY.

_Phyllis--or Mabel! pray forgive-- I had to pay him out; I’ll write that tender rhyme to you Some other day, no doubt._

THE LEGEND OF THE LILY.

Once a Tiger for a freak, Fell in love With a Lily, pure and meek And as timid, white, and weak As a dove. Yet withal a wee bit chilly, Just enough the Tiger’s silly Pride to pique.

By and by the Lily cold, Felt the charm; Learned, tho’ dreadful to behold, That the Tiger, fierce and bold, Meant no harm. And she smiled upon him shyly, Till at length the Tiger wily Was consoled.

So in time the Beauty grew To adore The Royal Beast who came to woo, Loved him for his golden hue-- For his roar; All for him with blushes burning, To a Tiger-lily turning, Golden too.

But alas, the luckless Lily Loved in vain; For a painted daffodilly Came between them, and the Lily, Pale with pain, In a dark pool, drooped and pining, Drowned herself, and rose a shining Water-lily.

A child at school who fails to pass Examination in his class Of Natural History will be So shaky in Zoölogy, That, should he ever chance to go To foreign parts, he scarce will know The common _Mus Ridiculus_ From _Felis_ or _Caniculus_. And what of boys and girls is true Applies to other creatures, too, As you will cheerfully admit When once I’ve illustrated it.

Once on a time a young Giraffe (Who when at school devoured the chaff, And trampled underneath his feet The golden grains of Learning’s wheat) Upon his travels chanced to see A Python hanging from a tree, A thing he’d never met before. All neck it seemed and nothing more; And, stranger still, it was bestrown With pretty spots much like his own. “Well, well! I’ve often heard,” he said, “Of foolish folk who lose their head; But really it’s a funnier joke To meet a head that’s lost its folk.

“Dear me! Ha! ha! It makes me laugh. Where _has_ he left his other half? If he could find it he would be A really fine Giraffe, like me.”

The Python, waking with a hiss, Exclaimed, “What kind of snake is this? Your spots are really very fine, Almost as good in fact as mine, But with those legs I fail to see How you can coil about a tree. Take away half, and you would make A very decent sort of snake-- Almost as fine a snake as I; Indeed, it’s not too late to try.”

A something in the Python’s eye Told the Giraffe ’t was best to fly, Omitting all formality. And afterward, when safe at home, He wrote a very learned tome, Called, “What I Saw beyond the Foam.” Said he, “The strangest thing one sees Is a Giraffe who hangs from trees, And has--(right here the author begs To state a _fact_) and has _no legs_!”

The book made a tremendous hit. The public all devoured it, Save one, who, minding how he missed Devouring the author--_hissed_.

A dark old Raven lived in a tree, With a little Tree-frog for company,

In the midst of a forest so thick with trees Only thin people could walk with ease.

Yet though the forest was dank and dark, The little Tree-frog was gay as a lark;

He piped and trilled the livelong day, While the Raven was just the other way:

He grumbled and croaked from morn till night, And nothing in all the world was right.

The moon was too pale, or the sun too bright; The sky was too blue, or the snow too white;

The thrushes too gay, or the owls too glum; And the squirrels--well, they were too squirrelsome.

And as for the trees, _why_ did they grow In a wood, of all places?--he’d like to know.

A wood is so dark and unhealthy, too, For trees; and besides, they obstruct the view.

And so it went on from morn till night: The Tree-frog piping with pure delight,

And the Raven croaking with all his might That nothing in all the world was right.

Well, in this same wood, it chanced one day The enchanter Merlin lost his way;

And stopping to rest ’neath the very tree Where the Raven and Tree-frog were taking their tea,

He divined of a sudden, by magic lore, A thing I forgot to mention before:

That the forest and all that therein did dwell Owed their present shape to an ancient spell.

Now a spell, though a tiresome job to make, Is the easiest thing in the world to break,

When once you know how to perform the trick, As Merlin did. Waving his magic stick,

He cried, “Let this forest and everything in it Take its former shape!” When lo! in a minute,

In place of the Raven, a stern old sage All robed in black and all bent with age;

And where the little Tree-frog had been Sat a goodly youth all dressed in green;

And around about was a flowery lawn Where the forest had been. Said the sage, with a yawn:

“I must have been dozing--well, to resume-- As I was saying, this world of gloom--”

“Oh, bother the world of gloom--just hear That thrush!” cried the youth; “the first this year!”

A BUNNY ROMANCE.

The Bunnies are a feeble folk Whose weakness is their strength. To shun a gun a Bun will run To almost any length.

Now once, when war alarms were rife In the ancestral wood Where the kingdom of the Bunnies For centuries had stood, The king, for fear long peace had made His subjects over-bold, To wake the glorious spirit Of timidity of old, Announced one day he would bestow Princess Bunita’s hand On the Bunny who should prove himself Most timid in the land.

Next day a proclamation Was posted in the wood “To the Flower of Timidity, The Pick of Bunnyhood: His Majesty the Bunny king, Commands you to appear At a tournament--at such a date In such and such a year-- Where his Majesty will then bestow Princess Bunita’s hand On the Bunny who will prove himself Most timid in the land.”

Then every timid Bunny’s heart Swelled with exultant fright At the thought of doughty deeds of fear And prodigies of flight.

For the motto of the Bunnies As perhaps you are aware, Is “Only the faint-hearted Are deserving of the fair.”

They fell at once to practising, These Bunnies, one and all, Till some could almost die of fright To hear a petal fall. And one enterprising Bunny Got up a special class To teach the art of fainting At your shadow on the grass.

At length--at length--at length The moment is at hand! And trembling all from head to foot A hundred Bunnies stand. And a hundred Bunny mothers With anxiety turn gray Lest their offspring dear should lose their fear And linger in the fray.

Never before in Bunny lore Was such a stirring sight As when the bugle sounded To begin the glorious flight! A hundred Bunnies, like a flash, All disappeared from sight Like arrows from a hundred bows-- None swerved to left or right. Some north, some south, some east, some west,-- And none of them, ’t is plain, Till he has gone around the earth Will e’er be seen again.

It may be in a hundred weeks, Perchance a hundred years. Whenever it may be, ’t is plain The one who first appears Is the one who ran the fastest; He wins the Princess’ hand, And gains the glorious title of “Most Timid in the Land.”

THE FLOWER CIRCUS.

The flowers in the dell Once gave a circus show; And as I know them well, They asked if I would go As their especial guest. “Quite charmed!” said I, and so Put on my very best Frock-coat and shiny hat,

And my embroidered vest And wonderful cravat; In fact, no end of style, For it is, as you know, But once in a great while The flowers give a show.

They gave me a front seat, The very nicest there-- A bank of violets sweet And moss and maidenhair. ’T was going to be a treat-- I felt it in the air.

As martial music crashed From a trained trumpet-vine, Into the ring there dashed A beauteous columbine! With airy grace she strode Her wild horse-chestnut steed.

I held my breath, she rode With such terrific speed. They brought a cobweb ring, And lightly she jumped through it. (A very dangerous thing; How _did_ she learn to do it?)

I cried, “Brava! Encore!” Until she’d jumped through nine, Each higher than before. (I tell you, it was fine!)

Then Jack-in-pulpit--who From out his lofty place Announced what each would do-- Cried, “Next there comes a race.”

Two Scarlet Runners flew Three times the ring around, And with a crown of dew The winner’s head was crowned.

A booby race, for fun, Came next (the prize was cheaper). Trailing Arbutus won Over Virginia Creeper.

Then came the world-famed six, The Johnny-jump-up Brothers, Who did amazing tricks, Each funnier than the others.

A Spider, in mid-air (Engaged at great expense), On tight-thread gossamer Danced with a skill immense!

A dashing young Green Blade Who quickly followed suit, An exhibition made Of how young blades can shoot.

There were Harebell ringers, too, Who played delightful tunes, And trained Dog-violets, who Did antics, like buffoons. All these and more were there-- Too many for narration; But nothing could compare With the last “Great Sensation.”

I never shall forget, Though I should live an age, The sight of Mignonette Within the Lion’s cage. Sweet smiling Mignonette! Not one bit scared--for why on Earth should she fear her pet, Her dear, tame Dandelion?

THE FATUOUS FLOWER.

Once on a time a Bumblebee Addressed a Sunflower. Said he: “Dear Sunflower, tell me is it true What everybody says of you?”

Replied the Sunflower: “Tell me, pray, How should _I_ know what people say? Why should I even care? No doubt ’T is some ill-natured tale without A word of truth; but tell me, Bee, What _is_ it people say of me?” “Oh, no!” the Bee made haste to add; “’T is really not so very bad. I got it from the Ant. She said She’d _heard_ the Sun had turned your head,

And that whene’er he walks the skies You follow him with all your eyes From morn till eve--” “Oh, what a shame!” Exclaimed the Sunflower, aflame, “To say such things of me! They _know_ The very opposite is so.

“They know full well that it is _he_-- The _Sun_--who always follows me. _I_ turn away my head until I fear my stalk will break; and still He tags along from morn till night, Starting as soon as it is light, And never takes his eyes off me Until it is too dark to see! They really ought to be ashamed. Soon they’ll be saying I was named For him, when well they know ’t was he Who took the name of Sun from me.”

The Sunflower paused, with anger dumb. The Bee said naught, but murmured, “_H’m!_” ’T was very evident that he Was much impressed--this Bumblebee. He spread his wings at once and flew To tell some other bees he knew, Who, being also much impressed, Said, “_H’m!_” and flew to tell the rest.

And now if you should chance to see, In field or grove, a Bumblebee, And hear him murmur, “_H’m!_” then you Will know what he’s alluding to.

A LOVE STORY.

He was a Wizard’s son, She an Enchanter’s daughter; He dabbled in Spells for fun, Her father some magic had taught her.

They loved--but alas! to agree Their parents they could n’t persuade. An Enchanter and Wizard, you see, Were natural rivals in trade-- And the market for magic was poor-- There was scarce enough business for two So what started rivalry pure Into hatred and jealousy grew.

Now the lovers were dreadfully good; But when there was really no hope, After waiting as long as they could, What else could they do but elope? They eloped in a hired coupé; And the youth, with what magic he knew-- Made it go fully five miles a day. (Such wonders can sorcery do!)

Then the maiden her witcheries plied, And enchanted the cabman so much, When they got to the end of their ride Not a cent of his fare would he touch! Now they’re married and live to this day In a nice little tower, alone, For the building of which, by the way, Their parents provided the stone.

Then the parents relented? Oh, no! They pursued with the fury of brutes, But arrived just too late for the show, Through a leak in their seven-league boots; And finding their children were wed, Into such a wild rage they were thrown, They rushed on each other instead And each turned the other to stone.

Then the lovers, since lumber was high, And bricks were as then quite unknown, As soon as their tears were quite dry-- They quarried their parents for stone.

And now in a nice little tower, In Blissfulness tinged with Remorse, They live like as not to this hour-- (Unless they have got a divorce).

MORAL.

_Crime, Wickedness, Villany, Vice, And Sin only misery bring; If you want to be Happy and Nice, Be good and all that sort of thing._

YE KNYGHTE-MARE.

A POST-MORT-D’ARTHURIAN LEGEND.

Ye log burns low, ye feaste is donne, Twelve knyghtes of ye Table Rounde Slyde down fromme ye benches, one by one, And snore upon ye ground.

Ye log to a dimme blue flame has died, When ye doore of ye banquet halle Is opened wide, and in there glyde Twelve spectral Hagges ande Talle.