Part 3

Ye log burns dimme, and eke more dimme, Loud groans each knyghtlie gueste, As ye ghoste of his grandmother, gaunt and grimme, Sitts on each knyghte hys cheste.

Ye log in pieces twaine doth falle, Ye daye beginnes to breake, Twelve ghostlie grandmothers glyde from ye hall, And ye twelve goode knyghtes awake.

Ande ever whenne Mynce Pye was placed On ye table frome thatte daye, Ye Twelve knyghtes crossed themselves in haste Ande looked ye other waye.

METAPHYSICS.

Why and Wherefore set one day To hunt for a wild Negation. They agreed to meet at a cool retreat On the Point of Interrogation.

But the night was dark and they missed their mark, And, driven well-nigh to distraction, They lost their ways in a murky maze Of utter abstruse abstraction.

Then they took a boat and were soon afloat On a sea of Speculation, But the sea grew rough, and their boat, though tough, Was split into an Equation.

As they floundered about in the waves of doubt Rose a fearful Hypothesis, Who gibbered with glee as they sank in the sea, And the last they saw was this:

On a rock-bound reef of Unbelief There sat the wild Negation; Then they sank once more and were washed ashore At the Point of Interrogation.

In a very lonely tower, So the legend goes to tell, Pines a Princess in the power Of a dreadful Dragon’s spell.

There she sits in silent state, Always watching--always dumb, While the Dragon at the gate Eats her suitors as they come--

King and Prince of every nation Poet, Page, and Troubadour, Of whatever rank or station-- Eats them up and waits for more.

Every Knight that hears the legend Thinks he’ll see what he can do, Gives his sword a lovely edge, and-- Like the rest is eaten too!

All of which is very pretty, And romantic, too, forsooth; But, somehow, it seems a pity That they should n’t know the truth.

If they only knew that really There is no Princess to gain-- That she’s an invention merely Of the crafty Dragon’s brain.

Once it chanced he’d missed his dinner For perhaps a day or two; Felt that he was getting thinner, Wondered what he’d better do.

Then it was that he bethought him How in this romantic age (Reading fairy tales had taught him) Rescuing ladies was the rage.

So a lonely tower he rented, For a trifling sum per year, And this thrilling tale invented, Which was carried far and near;

Far and near throughout the nations, And the Dragon ever since, Has relied for daily rations, On some jolly Knight or Prince.

And while his romantic fiction To a chivalrous age appeals, It’s a very safe prediction: He will never want for meals.

His Majesty the King of Beasts, Tired of fuss and formal feasts, Once resolved that he would go On a tour incognito. But a suitable disguise Was not easy to devise; Kingly natures do not care Other people’s things to wear.

The very thought filled him with shame. “No, I will simply change my name,” Said he, “and go just as I am, And call myself a Woolly Lamb.”

And so he did, and as you’ll guess, He had a measure of success. Disguised in name alone, he yet Took in ’most every one he met.

The first was Mister Wolf, who said, “Your Majesty--” “Off with his head!” The angry monarch roared. “I am, I’d have you know, a Woolly Lamb.”

Then Mistress Lamb, who, being near, Had heard, addressed him: “Brother dear--” “Odds cats!” the lion roared. “My word! Such insolence I never heard!”

His rage was a terrific sight (It almost spoiled his appetite). And so it went, until one day He met Sir Fox, who stopped to say (Keeping just far enough away, Yet in a casual, off-hand way, As if he did n’t care a fig), “Good-morning to you, Thingumjig.”

To-day we think it _infra dig_, To use such words as Thing um jig; But what is now a vulgar word In those days never had been heard. Sir Fox himself invented it This great emergency to fit.

The King of Beasts, quite unprepared For this reception, simply stared.

Of course he was not going to show There was a word he did not know. He bowed, and with his haughtiest air Resumed his walk; but everywhere He went his subjects, small and big, Took up the cry of Thingumjig. It followed him where’er he went; He did n’t dare his rage to vent. Suppose it were a compliment? His anger then would only show Here was a word he did not know! The only course for him ’t was clear, Was to pretend he did not hear.

And this he did until, at length, Long fasting so impaired his strength He gave his tour up in despair, Mid great rejoicing everywhere.

THE FUGITIVE THOUGHT.

When scribbling late one night I happened to alight On the happiest thought I’d thought For many a year. I hailed it with delight But ere I’d time to write My pencil had contrived To disappear.

Where _could_ the thing have gone? I searched and searched upon The table, and beneath it And behind it. I pushed my books about, Turned my pockets inside out, But the more I looked The more I could n’t find it!

Then I searched and searched again On the table, but in vain, And I fussed and fumed And felt about the floor. And I rose up in my wroth, And I shook the tablecloth, And turned my pockets Inside out once more!

“This will not do,” I said, “I _must not_ lose my head!” So I went and tore the cushions From my chair, Shook all my rugs and mats, And shoes and coats and hats, And crawled beneath the Sofa in despair!

Then I said, “I _must_ keep cool!” So I took my two-foot rule And I poked among the Ashes in the grate. And I paced my room in rage, Like a wild beast in a cage, In a furious, frightful, frantic, Frenzied state!

At last, upon my soul, I lost my self-control And indulged in language Quite unfit to hear; Till out of breath--I gasped And clutched my head--and grasped That pencil calmly resting on My ear!

Yes, I found that pencil stub! But my thought--Aye, there’s the rub In vain I try to call it Back again. It has fled beyond recall, And what is worst of all ’T will turn up in some Other fellow’s brain!

So I denounce forthwith Any future Jones or Smith Who thinks _my thought_--a Plagiarist of the worst. I shall know my thought again When I hear it, and it’s plain It _must_ be mine because _I thought it first_!

THE CUSSED DAMOZEL.

A lover sate alone All by the Golden Gate, And made exceedynge moan Whiles he hys Love didde wait.

To him One coming prayed Why he didde weepe. Said he, “I weepe me for a maid Who cometh notte to mee.”

“Alas! I waite likewise My Love these many years; Meseems ’t would save our eyes If we should pool our tears.”

And so they weeped full sore A twelvemonth and a daye, Till they could weepe no more, For notte a tear hadde they.

Whenas they came to see They could not weepe alway, Each of hys Faire Ladyee ’Gan sing a rondelay.

“My Love hath golden hair,” Sang one, “and like the wine The red lips of my Fair.” The other sang, “_So’s mine_.”

“My Love is wondrous wise,” Sang one, “and wondrous fine And wondrous dark her eyes.” The other sang, “_So’s mine_.”

“My Love is wondrous proud, And her name is Geraldyne.” “Thou liest!” shrieked aloud The other. “_She is mine!_”

“She plighted ere I died Eternal troth to me.” “Good lack,” the other cried, “E’en so she plighted me!”

“Beside my bier she swore She would be true to me, For aye and evermore, Unto eternityee.”

The twain didde then agree, In their most grievous plight, To fly to earth and see The which of them was right.

Alack and well-a-daye! A-well-a-daye alack! Eft soons they flew away, Eft sooners flew they back.

For when they had come there They were not fain to stay, To Geraldyne the Faire Her silver weddyng daye.

A GAS-LOG REVERIE.

As I sit, inanely staring In the Gas-log’s lambent flame, Far away my fancy’s faring To a land without a name,-- To the country of Invention, Where I roam in ecstasy, Where all things are mere pretension, Nothing what it seems to be.

Folded in a calm serenic, On a jute-bank I recline, Where, mid moss of hue arsenic, Millinery flowers entwine. Cambric blooms--glass-dew beshowered, Gay with colors aniline, Ever eagerly devoured By the mild, condensed milch kine.

Now the scene idyllic changes From the meadows aniline, And my faltering fancy ranges Down a dismal, deep decline,

Scene of some age past upheaval, Where no foot of man has fared, To a Gas-log grove primeval, Where I find me, mute, and scared Of--I know not--Goblins, Banshees, And the ancient Gas-trees toss Gnarled and flickering giant branches, Hoary with asbestos moss.

Now I come to where are waving Painted palms, precisely planned, Rearing trunks of cocoa shaving, By electric zephyrs fanned, Soothing me with sound seraphic Till I sink into a swoon, Dreaming cineomatographic Dreams beneath an arc-light moon.

Once Cupid, he Went on a spree And made a peck of trouble, “Ah ha!” cried he, “Two hearts I see!” Alack, the rogue saw double.

There was but one; What has he done? How could he be so stupid? Into one heart _Two_ arrows dart-- O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!

In truth ’t is sweet When “two hearts beat As one”--but what to do When in one heart Two arrows smart And _one heart beats as two_?

ALL ABOARD!

Scene: a railway station.

Just two minutes more! O Tempus, stand still, Stand still, I implore, One moment, until I have time to reflect On what I would say. Give me time to collect My senses, I pray, Until I have said What my courage was mounting To say, when instead I was stupidly counting The moments that fled! O Tempus! you’re flying! A plague on this parting, This sighing, goodbying, This smiling and smarting; A plague too upon This--Heavens! it’s starting! Good bye!-- There, she’s gone!

KILLING TIME.

The air was full of shouts and cries, Of shrill “Ha-ha’s,” and “Ho’s,” and “Hi’s,” And every kind of whistle, And the sky was dark with flying things-- Golf-sticks, balls, engagement-rings, Novels, rackets, and billiard-cues, Cameras, fishing-rods, and shoes, And every sort of missile.

The ground was black with a seething mass Of people of every kind and class-- Matrons, men, and misses, Ladies and gentlemen, old and new, Lads and lasses, and children too, Elderly men with elderly wives-- Hustling and bustling for their lives. “I wonder what all this is?”

Said I: “I fear that it may be Another case for the S. P. C. ’T will bear investigation.” I dropped my book and joined the race, And struggling into the foremost place, Behold, the object of the chase Was an aged man with wrinkled face! I was filled with indignation.

His frame was bent and his knees aknock, His head was bald but for one lock, And I cried with anger thrilling, “This thing must stop; ’t is a disgrace An aged gentleman to chase.” Then everybody laughed in my face. “This,” they cried, “is a different case; It’s only ‘Time’ we’re killing.”

Then it was I observed two things That grew from his shoulders--two big wings! And I joined in the people’s laughter. Tho’ killing is often out of place, A circumstance may alter a case. So I took my pad and pencil-case, And for want of a missile, in its place I tossed these verses after.

+------------------------------------+ | _The Mermaid Culture Club request | | That you will kindly be | | On such and such a day their guest | | At something after three._ | +------------------------------------+

I wrote at once that “I should be Most charmed,” and donn’d my best Dress diving-suit,--a joy to see,-- And at their club-house ’neath the sea Arrived at “something after three” Promptly (unpunctuality Is something I detest). The President, a mermaid fair, Sat by a coral table, And read an essay with an air Intelligent and able Upon--but you will never guess The subject--it was nothing less Than _sunshades_ and _umbrellas_. I really did my very best To keep from laughing--as their guest. That it was hard must be confessed When next the meeting was addressed On _shoes_, and which would wear the best-- _Tan slippers or prunellas_. Then came (it did look like a joke) Essays on _bonnet_, _hat_, and _toque_: Said I, “They must be mocking.” And when at length a mermaid rose, And read a thesis to expose The latest novelty in _hose_, I felt my reason rocking. But when at last the thing was o’er, And I was back again on shore, I fell to moralizing. And as remembrance came to me Of other clubs _not_ in the sea, Of essays read by ladies fair Upon the “why” and “whence” and “where,” Said I, “It’s not surprising.”

A SONG.

Upon a time I had a Heart, And it was bright and gay; And I gave it to a Lady fair To have and keep alway.

She soothed it and she smoothed it And she stabbed it till it bled; She brightened it and lightened it And she weighed it down with lead.

She flattered it and battered it And she filled it full of gall; Yet had I Twenty Hundred Hearts, Still should she have them all.

ANGEL’S TOYS.

I’ve often wondered--have n’t you?-- What all the little angels do To while eternity away, When grown-up angels sing and play Upon their harps with golden strings, And lutes and violas and things. What do they do? What do they play To while eternity away? After much pondering profound, Perhaps an answer I have found-- I give it you for what it’s worth. The people now upon this earth, Who neither quite deserve to go Above hereafter, nor below-- The prig, the poser, and the crank; The snob, who thinks of naught but rank; The gossip and the fool--in short, All nuisances of every sort-- Will change into amusing toys For little angel girls and boys. The braggart will confer a boon By changing to a toy balloon; The snob tuft-hunter and the bore To shuttlecock and battledore Will turn; the highfalutin wights The angel boys will fly as kites; The gossip then will cease his prattle, And be an angel baby’s rattle; The prig--but you have got me there. Whether in heaven, or elsewhere, ’T is quite impossible to see What kind of use the prig can be; By what inscrutable design, Or by what accident divine, Or what impenetrable jest He was evolved, can ne’er be guessed.

THE REFORMED TIGRESS.

A lady on the lonely shore Of a dull watering place Once met a Tigress weeping sore, Tears streaming down her face.

And knowing well that safety lay In not betraying fear, She asked in quite a friendly way, “What makes you weep, my dear?”

The Tigress brushed a tear aside; “I want a man!” she wailed. “A man! they’re scarce!” the lady cried; “I fear the crop has failed!

There is but one in miles, and oh, I fear that he is wed!” The Tigress smiled. “I am, you know, A man eater,” she said.

“You eat them!” cried the maid, then ceased In horror and amaze, Then sat her down to show the beast The error of her ways.

“Men are so scarce,” she urged, “I fear There are n’t enough to go Around--now is it right, my dear, That you should waste them so?

I weep to think of all the men You’ve spoiled ere now,” said she. “And if you eat the rest, why, then What will be left for me?”

The hours flew by; she took no rest Till twilight, when at last The contrite beast with sobs confessed Repentance for the past.

“Go,” said the maid, “take my advice; I know what’s best for you; It’s cheap and filling at the price; Go seek the oyster stew!”

The Tigress lies unto this day Upon an oyster bed. The Lady--so the gossips say-- Is shortly to be wed.

TWO LADIES.

TO C. D. G. AND A. B. W.

Two ladies, not _real_ ladies (no offence-- I don’t mean “not real ladies” in _that_ sense), But pictured fancies they--who dwelt between The pages of a weekly magazine. Though often in the selfsame week they met, They were n’t exactly in the selfsame set, And could not know each other. One, I think, Was done in wash; the other, pen and ink. The wash lady (again there’s no offence-- I use “wash” in its pure artistic sense) Was a brunette, vivacious, charming wholly; Neither too slim, nor yet too rolly-poly. A dazzling smile had this enchanting creature; Indeed, her most predominating feature Was a continuous show of glittering pearl; And on her forehead hung a little curl-- A most distracting little curl; and last, She had a very slight Hebraic cast. Gray eyes the other had, serene and clear; A cold and distant manner; yet I fear Her looks belied her, for she oft was seen Lounging about the beach, or ’mid the green, Of the conservatory’s dim retreat, Always some chappie nestling at her feet. A first-rate fellow she, and looked her best When in a golf or walking costume dressed; In short, the other’s opposite in all, And fearfully and wonderfully tall. One day, by chance, each occupied a place On the same page, exactly face to face, In such a way ’t was possible no more For either one the other to ignore. Then in an instant burst into a flame The fire that had been smouldering.

“How came You here?” they both exclaimed, as with one voice. (Here I use asterisks, though not from choice But type has limits, and must play the dunce; When two young ladies both converse at once.) **--!--***?**!!!!!!*****!!***??---- --!!*********!!-----!----!-----*** ***--!!!!!----!--!--!! I left them to their scenes. Next day I found the page in _smithereens_, And I reflected, “It is very sad That two nice girls should get so awfully mad About a thing for which, had they but known, Two artists were responsible alone.”

TO THE WOLF AT THE DOOR.

O Wolf, I do not dread thee as of yore, Time was when I would tremble in my shoes At sight of thee--when lo! my pity’ng Muse Brought me wherewith to drive thee from the door. And since at last, O Wolf, my waning store Has lured thee back, she will not now refuse My invocation. So I cannot choose But cry, “Help! Wolf!” that she may come once more. Mine is a Muse that listens with disdain To any call save that of appetite; And till thou earnest all my prayers were vain, For while my purse was full, my brain was light. Therefore, O Wolf, I welcome thee again To speed the Muse--that I may dine to-night.

THE FALL OF J. W. BEANE.

A GHOST STORY.

In all the Eastern hemisphere You would n’t find a knight, a peer, A viscount, earl or baronet, A marquis or a duke, nor yet A prince, or emperor, or king, Or sultan, czar, or anything That could in family pride surpass J. Wentworth Beane of Boston, Mass. His family tree could far outscale The bean-stalk in the fairy tale; And Joseph’s coat would pale before The blazon’d coat-of-arms he bore, The arms of his old ancestor, One Godfrey Beane, “who crossed, you know, About two hundred years ago.” He had it stamped, engraved, embossed, Without the least regard to cost, Upon his house, upon his gate, Upon his table-cloth, his plate, Upon his knocker, and his mat, Upon his watch, inside his hat; On scarf-pin, handkerchief, and screen, And cards; in short, J. Wentworth Beane Contrived to have old Godfrey’s crest On everything that he possessed. And lastly, when he died, his will Proved to contain a codicil Directing that a sum be spent To carve it on his monument.

But if you think this ends the scene You little know J. Wentworth Beane. To judge him by the common host Is reckoning without his ghost. And it is something that befell His ghost I chiefly have to tell.