Part 2

But he was not the sort that say, “Oh, woe is mine--alack-a-day!” He lived for Hope, and in some way Was bound to find it. “What matter! Let them go,” he’d say; “Each to his taste--henceforth I’ll play And sing to Birds alone, for they Don’t seem to mind it.”

And so he journeyed many a day, Till now at last his darkening way Lies thro’ a forest dim and gray; Yet, nothing daunted, Though hoary branches bar the way, And twisted roots his steps betray, And ghostly voices seem to say The place is haunted.

Singing a Carol blithe and gay, He presses on, nor does he stay, Until at last the light of day His sight surprises. And now a little winding way Leads, through a meadow pink with May, To where, not half a mile away, A Palace rises.

He wandered on, his thoughts astray, Framing a little Roundelay And weaving garlands of the May (For whom not guessing), Until before him suddenly There loomed a gateway grim and gray, Whose dark doors yielded to the sway Of his light pressing.

And lo! a garden gleaming, gay With flowers in dazzling array, And fountains flashing silver spray, And bowers shady; And on an emerald bank there lay A creature fairer than the day, Yet sadder than a moonlight ray-- A wondrous lady.

Abashed the Poet turned away, When a low voice entreated, “Stay! Read me that little Roundelay I heard you singing.” It was as though upon him lay A spell that forced him to obey, And he recited it straightway In voice clear ringing.

A dreamy, languid, far-away Expression dims her eyes as they, Like violets at droop of day, Are closing--closing. The Poet ends his Roundelay, And turns to hear what she may say, And finds to his complete dismay The Princess dozing.

Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray! The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day! The spell is broken--Rise, I pray, Oh, sweet song-maker.” ’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray: I make you Laureate this day; My daughter’s hand, too, by the way, Is yours--don’t wake her.”

A MODERN DIALOGUE

Scene--_On Manhattan Island_. _Time--To-day. Hour--Ten-thirty. Persons of the play_:

SIBYL. _A dream of beauty, half-awake, In filmy disarray--about to take Her morning tub. In speech with her the while Is_ ROBERT. _He is dressed in riding style._

SIBYL--Why, Bob, it’s _you_! They got your name all wrong. I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

BOB--Only six minutes by my watch--it’s true A minute seems a year, awaiting you! But Time is merciful and I rejoice That I am still alive to hear your voice.

SIBYL--A very pretty speech, for you, indeed. But what extenuation can you plead For waking ladies at the break of day From peaceful slumbers, sir!

BOB-- Oh, come, I say! It’s half past ten!

SIBYL-- Well, it was nearly three Before I got to bed!

BOB-- Good gracious me! I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late. Why, I was riding in the Park at eight And looked for you. I own I felt abused; Last night you said----

SIBYL-- I beg to be excused From keeping foolish promises, when made At two A.M., by moonlight. I’m afraid My memory’s no better than a sieve. So you expected me? The Lord forgive Your trusting soul!

BOB-- It is His _métier_!

SIBYL--Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

BOB--Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear! ’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire, Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way, If you have nothing on, what do you say To breakfasting with Peg and me at noon At the Casino?

SIBYL-- Well, that’s rather soon; I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

BOB--Come as you are, you know that I adore Your ladyship in any sort of gown; Besides, there’s not another soul in town. Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

SIBYL--Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for me This is a telephone and not that new Invention one can talk and _see_ through, too! What’s that you said?

BOB-- I didn’t speak at all I only _thought_.

SIBYL-- Well, _don’t_! Suppose we call The breakfast half past one instead of noon?

BOB (_joyously_)-- Then you will come?

SIBYL-- I swear!

BOB-- Not by the moon?

SIBYL (_laughing_)-- No, you may count on me. Now I must fly. One-thirty--don’t forget--Good-by!

BOB-- Good-by!

(_They ring off._)

THE HEART OF ICE

Now whither are you flying And on what game intent, Cupid? There’s no denying On mischief you are bent. What is the use of trying To look so innocent?

What means your empty quiver? Did heart of some coquette Your golden arrows shiver? Or did you, boy, upset Your darts in Lethe’s river, Or break them in a pet?

What is it you’re concealing, My patience to annoy? A heart you have been stealing, Or some such foolish toy? Come, now--no double-dealing! Out with it--Cupid, boy!

“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly, “A thing wherewith to hew Cold hearts” (he hinted slyly That such a heart I knew). “’Tis recommended highly-- An ice-pick--what say you?”

Gravely I shake my finger At Cupid--“’Tis indeed The very thing to bring her To reason, boy, so speed! Fly, Cupid! Do not linger-- Jove grant you may succeed!”

THE JUDGMENT OF BISHOP VALENTINE

One tyme a Youthe of faire degree Didde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me, She was as coye as anye flow’r, She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r. Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle, Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle. To Bishop Valentine thenne hies Ye Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse, Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe. Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe. “Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease. I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.” Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath, “Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.” Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!” And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.

* * * * * Lady, anent this suit of mine In search of precedents, I waded Through ancient lore, and found this fine Old Judgment, in a parchment faded. If you will ponder the last line And be by wise example aided, We, too, will make Saint Valentine Our Judge, and--compromise, as they did.

THE BACHELOR GIRL

Here’s to the Bachelor Girl Who fain her charms would cloister. She is a precious pearl That will not leave the oyster. She is a proud sweet-pea That scorns to be a vine, And lean upon a tree Or round a stick entwine. “What! lean upon a stick! Oh, no! I’m not that sort-- I will grow branches thick And be my own support!” Beware, O pearl of price, Lest you be cast to swine; O proud sweet-pea, think twice Ere you refuse to twine! O Bachelor Girl, we drink Confusion to your plan; Beware, lest Fate shall link You to a Spinster Man! O change, ere ’tis too late, The choker tall and silly, The tweeds--the hat we hate, For something soft and frilly! Take off the stockings blue, (We will avert our gaze), Then will we drink to you Long life--and happy days!

We’ve drunk to everything we know, From Lang Syne to The Ladies; Now, one more Toast before we go-- Mephisto, Prince of Hades! When sober we are wont, ’tis true, To bury, not to praise him; But let us give the De’il his due, And toast him while we raise him. For tho’ his company we’re taught To shun, there’s no denying Mephisto never yet was caught Beneath false colors flying. He wears his coat and plume of red With candor so unswerving We must applaud, although ’tis said He took some points from Irving. Think of the Stage, think of the Church, Without their villain ruddy, If Old Nick left them in the lurch Without an understudy! As well “Othello” played without The Gentleman of Color, Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out: Could anything be duller? A world from all temptation free Would sadly lack in flavor; And what would Untried Virtue be But Salt without its savor? To pawn his soul the sinner goes More than half-way to meet him, Yet when Mephisto would foreclose He does his best to cheat him. In Church to-day we sound his Knell, To-morrow at a revel We fall to raising him--and--well, We treat him like the Devil. So let us toast our Foe of Foes, Long may we live to rout him. Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knows What would we do without him. And, good Mephisto, do not spurn Our Toast with mocking laughter, Nor yet the compliment return-- By Toasting _us_ hereafter!

A CORNER IN CURLS

Once on a time when Men were Bold And Women Fair--to be precise-- A Princess lived whose Hair was Gold Beyond the Dreams of Avarice;

Beauty she had and Wealth untold, Besides a Fabulous Amount Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold, And Suitors more than she could count.

Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers Fair Had been as leaves upon the Trees They still were far too few to wear The Rings they offered, on their Knees.

In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships The Suitors came in Flocks untold, Happy to kiss her Finger-tips And beg from her a Lock of Gold.

For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s Dart Impervious, and would not share The smallest atom of her Heart, She was most lavish with her Hair.

To all who craved the Golden Boon She gave, until one Night her Maid Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon Will not have Hair enough to braid!”

Next day the Court was in a state, The usual audience was refused, A Notice hung upon the Gate-- “_The Princess begs to be Excused._”

Daily the Throng of Suitors grew And clamored madly at the door, Until at length they formed a queue Extending for a mile or more.

The Chancellor was in despair. “Princess, it comes to this,” he said, “That either you must lose your hair Or I must surely lose my head!”

The Princess turned away her face. “Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore; It will be hard to fill your place-- You were a first-rate Chancellor!

“But do not grieve--I have a plan To keep your head and save my Pride.” Then to the marble gate she ran, Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:

“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold, This mint of Curls--lo, I present A share to each of you--behold My Notes of Curl--at five per cent!”

A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats; The panic passed--and months flew by. The Princess issued Tons of Notes, When lo!--a Bolt from out the Sky--

A message came, brought by a Churl: “_Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru, Has bought up all your Notes of Curl, And all your Notes are falling Due!_”

The Princess grew distraught with fears By Day. At night she tossed in Bed, Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears Hung by a Hair above her Head.

At last the Fatal Morning came, And with it came Pont Morgan, too, With Awful Shears to press his claim, And an Enormous Retinue.

“The Law is Just!” the People cried; “And She the Penalty must pay!” The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide, When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud, And clad in Silken Cap and Gown, Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd, And struck the Awful Scissors down.

“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere You touch a Hair of that Fair Head; For know you not that Every Hair Is numbered--as the Prophet said?

“Show me the Notes--see, here is writ A number plain across each Bond, And you may only draw for it The numbered Hair to correspond.

“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw A Single Hair from that Gold Head; If it be wrong--then by the Law Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”

“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!” The People cried with mad uproar. The Sultan turned a deadly white, And fell in Fits upon the Floor.

“O Lady, whosoe’er you be, Claim what you will in all my Land!” The Princess cried. “I am,” said he, “Not Maid, but Man--I claim your Hand.”

“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be Your Bride--for in Creation’s Plan I never dreamed to find,” said she, “A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”

THE HYDRANT-HEADED MONSTER

Being an epistle to Paul. From Temperance

It comes! The monster rearing high, Against the lurid western sky, Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads, While o’er the shuddering land it sheds A dreary pall of waste and woe And chilling streams of H_{2}O. Now saints defend us, one and all, And most especially Saint Paul, Thou patron saint of Honest Fighting And Common Sense and Letterwriting, Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,” Bade Timothy the wine cup take; Stay now this Water Fiend’s advance And save thy servant Temperance, Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurse Of Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse, Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth, And so asphyxiate the Earth.

TO MY TOY CANARY

Wee saffron sage, Make-believe bird, fluffy, absurd, In mimic cage Through beady eyes you scrutinize A Noisy Age.

You boast no “Tree,” No painted shell your Natal Cell, Your Pedigree, Neatly displayed, reads simply, “Made In Germany.”

What do I care Tho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed-- Since on Plain Air You gayly feast? Of that at least I have to spare.

You do not pour From your wide bill a gladsome trill, Thanks be, therefore! The best of tune, repeated, soon Becomes a bore!

You simply stare When I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name); You do not care For William Hohenzollern, tho’ His name you bear.

What would you say If William the Unsilent, he Should come your way? And fume, and pout, and storm--and shout, “Lèse-Majesté!”

’Twould vex his pride To see you hold that Gift of Gold To him denied-- “Silence,” the sole and only rôle He has not tried.

Fear not his grim, Imperial ire; no torture dire, No dungeon dim, Your fate shall be: This land is free-- At least from him.

Wee saffron sage, Pipe all day long your silent song While by your cage, Musing, I let my soul forget The Noisy Age.

THE HAND OF TIME

She dreams beneath lamplight pale, Like Beauty in the fairy-tale Of Messrs. Grimm. And as I gaze, behold, a Thing, A shape, a face white, menacing, Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ring Of figures dim.

Now o’er the figures dark I see A hand which moves relentlessly, Remorseless, black. The hand of Time--and through me flit The Solemn words by Omar writ, “Not all your piety nor wit Can lure it back.”

She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose Like petals of a pearly rose After the rain. And as she notes, with startled eye, The Station Clock, I hear her cry, “It’s twenty minutes past--oh, my! I’ve missed my train.”

_ENVOI_

“_Oh, Winter, must you leave so soon?” Said Spring as Winter turned to go. “If only you could stay till June, And help to make my garden grow._”

_So back again that night he goes To see the flowers, how they grow. Poor things, they looked so cold, he throws O’er them a coverlet--of snow._

_Next morning Spring was full of woe To find her flowers frozen--dead. “The Fool I never thought he’d go And take me at my word,” she said._

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg 9: ‘too and fro’ replaced by ‘to and fro’. Pg 24: ‘for Ade halloo’ has not been changed, but probably meant to be ‘for Aide halloo’. Pg 94: ‘H^2O’ (with superscript) replaced by ‘H_{2}O’ (subscript).

End of Project Gutenberg's The Fairy Godmother-in-law, by Oliver Herford