Part 2

The Funnyland chimneys are all So large and exceedingly tall, That Santa Claus shook In his shoes when he took A look at the distance to fall; Then he altered his plan Like a wise little man And didn’t climb chimneys at all. But in dooryards of every degree He planted a curious tree; And now every year When Christmas is near The fruit is a wonder to see. There are dollies and trolleys and rows Of silky and satiny clothes; And candles and strings Of tinsel, and rings For the fingers and bells for the toes.

There are serpents and sugary hearts; Tin soldiers and cinnamon tarts; While bicycles grow On the branches below With wagons and wabbly carts. There are ducks that you squeeze and they squawk; And green polly-parrots that talk; And filberts and figs, And cottony pigs That you pull by a string and they walk. On Christmas Eve children go out To the Santa Claus tree with a shout, And put baskets below The things that they know That they couldn’t be happy without.

Then Santa Claus comes in the night When there isn’t a person in sight; And he chuckles with glee As he climbs every tree And shakes it with all of his might. Things rustle and rattle and flop, And loosen and tumble and drop, Till the children awake With the noise that they make And the baskets are full to the top.

Just think of the wide-open eyes Of children awaiting surprise! They tumble and twist And sit up and insist That the sun has forgotten to rise. Then all, when the windows grow gray, Run out in their bedtime array, And the frolic begins;-- They would like to be twins To double the joy of the day.

When slanting moonbeams touch the hills, And shadows fill the glen; When people all are fast asleep, The little maids and men From Fairyland come sliding down The moonbeams in a row, With tuneful laugh and merry jest And faces all aglow; As children in the winter lands Toboggan on the snow. The moonlight gleams on gauzy wings And glints from precious stones; And caps are crowned with little bells With silvery tinkling tones, Each Fairy wears a cob-web dress, And through this filmy guise The mischief shows in every move And sparkles in their eyes.

And some with bags of happy dreams Go softly stealing where The island children lie asleep, And while they’re unaware Untie the bags, and lo, the doors Of wonderland stand wide! I hope, my child, you’ve been sometimes Where dream-bags were untied.

The crooked gnomes, with peaked hats And faces ill to see, Come swiftly riding night-mares too, And with an elfish glee They gallop over children who Ate fruitcake after tea. I hope, my child, you do not know About the things they see.

One fairy stole a pepper-box And flew above the bay, And scattered clouds of pepper where The sleeping Tiboons lay. The Tiboons sneezed, the islands shook, And chimneys tumbled down. The people thought a foe had come To cannonade the town. The King got up and trembled so He joggled off his crown. My child, if Tiboons chance to live In any neighboring bay, You’d better lock the pepper up Whenever you’re away.

One night with fairy mandolins They played such ’witching strains, A kind of dancing madness ran Through every hearer’s veins; The players passed the Palace Gate; The King and Queen and all The people of the household came A-dancing through the hall. They hadn’t time to don their dress Who heard the music’s call. They danced the streets, and all who heard The music lilt along, Came tripping lightly at the sound To join the merry throng; Till all the people in the isle, In sleeping clothes arrayed, Were dancing in the moonlight night In motley masquerade. They danced and whirled beside the bay Where Tiboons by the score, Who’d heard the merry mandolins, Were skipping on the shore. One Tiboon gave his flipper to His Majesty the King, And there together on the sand They “cut a pigeon-wing.” The Fairies laughed until they cried, ’Twas such a funny thing!

At dawn the Fairies flew away; The dancing stopped--ah me! The weariness and burning shame Were very sad to see. A sort of Sunday quiet filled The isle from shore to shore; But Fairyland resounded with A most hilarious roar. My child, when slanting moonbeams fall Around your house, beware, Lest Fairies with their mandolins Should catch you unaware.

A MARSH LYRIC

With humble apologies to the Shade of Edward Lear.

He went to hunt on the marsh, he did; A middle-aged man was he; In spite of all his friends could say, On a foggy morn of a Winter’s day To the mushy marsh went he. And everyone said who saw him go; “O, he’ll surely stick in the slough below, For the mud is deep and the tide is strong And happen what may it’s extremely wrong For a man of forty three.”

Slime and slough, slime and slough, In the marsh where the wild ducks swim; Their heads are green and their bills are blue But there wasn’t a duck for him!

The water came into his boots, it did; The water and mud came in; But he called aloud, “My boots will do To hold my feet and the water too,” As he held his chattering chin. And he found a fish and a soft-shell clam And he said: “How extremely wise I am; Though the marsh is broad and the sloughs are long, I shall never think I was rash or wrong To come where the fog blows in.”

Slime and slough, slime and slough, In the marsh where the wild ducks swim; Their heads are green and their bills are blue But there wasn’t a duck for him!

He went to the shore of the bay, he did To the shore where the tules grow; And he shot at a hawk and a brown marsh-owl, And a rail and a teal and a feathery fowl Whose name he didn’t know. He shot at a snipe and a wild goose gray, And a spoonbill duck that didn’t stay, And a fat mud-hen and a butter-ball; And he shot three times at a heron tall, And a pelican big and slow.

Slime and slough, slime and slough, In the marsh where the wild ducks swim; Their heads are green and their bills are blue But there wasn’t a duck for him!

The birds all laughed out loud, they did; To see the hunter there; And they said: “It’s just no end of fun When a middle-aged man with a great big gun Shoots ragged holes in the air.” And the wild gray goose kept laughing till The tears in streams ran down his bill; For there’s fun so funny, the ducks agree That even the biggest goose can see; But the hunter was unaware.

Slime and slough, slime and slough, In the marsh where the wild ducks swim; Their heads are green and their bills are blue But there wasn’t a duck for him!

Toward night the man came back, he did, With movements sad and slow. And they said: “He’s been to the briny bay; And he wasn’t drowned in the usual way; But he hasn’t a bird to show.” They gave him toast and some tule tea, And drank long life that they couldn’t foresee; And everyone said: “Some other day We too will hunt by the foggy bay Where the slimy sloughs o’erflow.”

Slime and slough, slime and slough, In the marsh where the wild ducks swim; Their heads are green and their bills are blue But there wasn’t a duck for him!

THE BOY AND THE BASILISK

Of all the fearsome, ugly things With arms or legs or fins or wings, That haunt the earth or seas or skies, The Basilisk with fiery eyes For fearsomeness took every prize. His home, within a barren glen, Was shunned by beasts and birds and men. It didn’t matter; what cared he For senseless sociability.

Daily the Basilisk would take A trip down to a boiling lake Of brimstone which he drank until He had to crawl with care or spill. He thought hot brimstone just the thing With small blue flames for garnishing. He swallowed it without a wink; It served him both for food and drink. Then stretched upon the blistering shore He slept, and lo, a sulphurous snore Resounded loud and long and slow From Zululand to Borneo. None knew who heard this fearsome roar Of what the future held in store.

When in his most goodnatured mood, He basked content and filled with food, His mildest glance would kill a tree, Or split a rock or boil the sea. ’Twere wisdom then to shun his path If he were roused to righteous wrath.

The Imp who kept the boiling lake Supplied with sulphur, by mistake Sent all the stock another way; The surface settled every day; And then--the lake went wholly dry. It was a fearful hungry cry With which, in no placating mood, The Basilisk set out for food.

With anxious haste he left the glen And sought the homes of beasts and men; For, lacking brimstone, he could stand ’Most any food that came to hand. In fact he could, as you can guess, Stand anything but emptyness. For forty feet to left and right He blasted everything in sight. He spied upon a distant steep A peaceful flock of grazing sheep. He hustled up, this monster grim, For mutton was the meat for him!

As he approached with hungry gaze, Each sheep burned up with sulphurous blaze; And coming to the place he found Just piles of ashes on the ground. Now when a monster seeking food Finds ashes, the resulting mood Is apt to be a thing to dread; In fact he turned a fiery red. He would have turned white hot but he Feared burning up spontaneously. He could have raged and gnashed his jaws; He could have scratched with all his claws; He had a long and mighty tail, He could have lashed it like a flail. What was the use, no thing in sight Was left whereon to vent his spite. Why should he make a grand-stand play With grand-stands all so far away? The Basilisk was not too dense To temper rage with common sense. He reasoned thus: “Since I destroy By gazing, things I’d fain enjoy, The one conclusion that I find Is--I must starve or go it blind.” He shut his eyelids with a snap And started out across the map.

He gobbled here a flock of sheep, And there he found some cows asleep. By working overtime he could Obtain a modest livlihood. Sometimes he made a meal of men, He could get on with eight or ten. A load of wheat, a bale of hay, A bunch of bushes by the way, All these sufficed to partly fill The need of his digestive mill.

Sometimes when hunger would abate From fullness, he would meditate; And burning curiosity Would fill his bosom full, for he Was fain to see the landscape where He sought his humble daily fare. But when he chanced to crack his eye All things in sight would blaze and fry; And thus he failed of his desire To see the country free from fire. And also, when he tried to see, No man in range had time to flee. Perhaps ’twere better just to burn And have one’s ashes in an urn, Than to be gobbled up and risk One’s self inside the Basilisk.

This Monster with his hungry wrath Left death and ruin in his path; And as he went on pasturing, He neared the palace of the King. The King had heard how, far away, The Basilisk made disarray By skuffing up the landscape’s face And swallowing the populace. If this continued, it was plain He’d have no reason left to reign. Though far above the common mob, He didn’t like to lose his job. ’Twas now a far more serious thing, The populace might lose their King! So he sent out a hurry call; The Council hustled to the hall, And talked and talked and talked some more; And then--a Basiliskian roar Reverberated near and far; It made the palace windows jar! Then silence fell and everyone Forgot to talk and wished to run. (’Tis hoped the reader won’t mind this Irrelevant parenthesis. Each King or Queen or Potentate Or man who runs a town or state, Should have a Basilisk to stalk Around the place for stopping talk.)

Responding to the King’s command, A man whose voice could drown a band, Came up and stood before the throne. The King passed out his megaphone And said: “Go forth by every way Unto my kingdom’s bound and say, ‘Hear ye, hear ye, the King declares That he who kills this beast or scares His hungry ugliness away To lands where he’ll be sure to stay, Shall be a knight and have a key That fits the royal treasury.’” The man went forth straightway and tried His voice upon the countryside. The Basilisk, in great surprise, Woke up and almost blinked his eyes; He wished so much to see who kept This racket going while he slept. At last before he noticed it, His eyelids opened just a slit; A little blaze, a little whir-- The King had lost his messenger! “Alas the day!” bewailed the King, “I see my finish in this thing. The Council can convene no more For fear the Basilisk may roar. The soldiers are of no avail; You can’t expect them not to quail When thinking of the awful risk In war against the Basilisk.”

Just then, a half grown Boy alone Came in and walked up to the throne, And said: “Your Majesty, I heard Your proclamation. I am stirred To undertake to overwhelm The beast that now despoils the realm.” The King considered for a while And raised his hand to hide a smile. But though His Royal Highness smiled, ’Most any plan however wild, Seemed in this dire emergency Worth trying; therefore a decree Went forth at once to authorize This Boy’s unusual enterprise. “Farewell, my Boy,” called out the King, “And may you overcome the thing!” “Prepare” said he, “a burial urn To hold this youth on his return.”

The Boy took neither bow nor spear, Nor any other warlike gear. A basket, broom and tin dustpan Were carried by a serving man. Two others carried on before A mirror large as any door. Thus they went forth along the way Frequented by this beast of prey. With mirror set and polished clear, The party waited in the rear. The Monster came; they could not see, But hearing made them wish to flee. He blindly stumbled up before The mirror; then he heard a roar; He stopped; his eyelids slowly raised; His eyes, uncovered, fairly blazed; He saw himself; he winked--too late! His mirrored glance had sealed his fate. A great black smoke, a flame, a boom, Some ashes swept up with a broom! The fearsome Basilisk had died, Against his will, by suicide. His ashes occupied the urn Prepared against the Boy’s return.

And when the Boy grew up he chose The Princess for his bride and rose To occupy the throne in state When Basilisks were out of date.

RETRIBUTION

Cupid tired of the twang Of his bow-string said; “I will try a boomerang In the arrow’s stead.”

Pliant to his cunning art Far the weapon whirled; Touched a throbbing human heart; Changed its little world.

Boomerangs come back, and this Hit the careless elf; Lo, into love’s baleful bliss Cupid fell himself.

WHY THE SEA IS SALT

AN OLD STORY.

Long ago the water was fresh that now is salt in the seven seas.

Once on a time upon a moor There lived a man who grew so poor That though he toiled with all his might From early morn till late at night, He found it harder every day To keep the hunger wolf away.

One Christmas eve in deep despair He found the cupboards all were bare. His wife and children hungry-eyed Their dumb reproaches strove to hide; But all in vain, their deep distress Caused him to groan in helplessness. All hopelessly he turned about To seek what fate might hand him out.

His old godmother years ago Had helped him when his funds were low; But she had been for many a day Godmothering so far away, That thoughtlessly she’d failed to heed This godson’s present, direful need. But now by chance with beaming smile She met him e’er he’d gone a mile.

She said, “Come, shorten up your face; The world’s a very pleasant place!” Alas, her cheer could not avail; He told her all his woeful tale. She brought out from her ample cloak A side of bacon brown with smoke, And said, “Take this and keep on straight Until you reach an iron gate; It is the gate of hell--repress Your tendency to nervousness, The Devil never would admit A man like you into the pit; But with the bacon you can go Into the anteroom of woe. Now everybody knows full well That bacon’s very scarce in hell; And any of the Devil’s kind Would sell his soul for bacon rind.[2] Just look behind the entrance door; You’ll see a mill upon the floor. Don’t come away from there until You trade that bacon for the mill.”

And so it happened in detail; The man’s persistence did prevail; He took the mill with him, while hell Was filled with frying bacon smell.

The man’s godmother made him stay A minute on his homeward way, That he might gain the needed skill To operate the magic mill. With hands above the mill outspread She bade him listen well and said:--

“Grind, mill grind The thing that’s in my mind; Grind, mill grind.”

Round went the mill, a “coach and four” Stood ready with an open door.

“Stay, mill stay, No more I pray, Stay, mill stay.”

So said the dame; and lo, the mill Stopped instantly and stood stock still. (Imagine how ’twould be today If she had let it grind away!)

The man turned round with thankful pride To ask the dame to have a ride; But she had vanished; with a thrill He lifted up the precious mill, Stepped in the coach and banged the door As if he’d done it oft before. (He took with grace, like you or me, An unaccustomed luxury.)

He reached his home and bolted in; The mill ground with a merry din, A table, chairs, and linen laid By butler and a serving maid; A shining set of silver plate, And food and drink enough to sate A hungry family, and then-- The mill was asked to grind again. ’Twas Christmas eve and all with glee Asked of the mill a Christmas tree.

Then for each happy, weary head It ground a grateful downy bed; And then, ah me, such restful sleep! For sweet and pleasant dreams too deep.

But one small daughter woke in fright, (I’m sure her supper wasn’t light.)

And while she lay there scared and still, She said the rhyme to start the mill. Now nightmares of most every kind Just then filled up her little mind. The mill began and from its spout Assorted nightmares galloped out. They kept on coming out until The father woke and stopped the mill. Alas, the nightmares still were there, Neighing and stamping everywhere. The man called on the mill to grind A driver of the nightmare kind; And when one came he stopped the mill. The driver drove the nightmares till There wasn’t one that you could find; And as he followed on behind He cracked his whip with leathern thong And drove them back where they belong. So quiet was restored and then They all went back to sleep again.

The next day saw a busy mill; It ground a mansion on a hill, With all things else they could require To make the land of heart’s desire.

Then, since the man was wise, behold, It ground the cellars full of gold. And then the mill was put away And never turned for many a day.

* * * * *

A Captain of a freighting ship, Who sailed with salt, trip after trip, Heard of the magic mill; said he, “I’d never have to sail the sea If I could get that mill, ah well, I’ll ask the man if he will sell.” “I’d never sell the mill,” said he, “I’ll give it to you willingly.” The Captain scarce could trust his ears; For he had had the gravest fears That mills like this would come so high That he could never hope to buy. In haste he took the mill away; He feared that if he made delay The man might chance to change his mind. He’d learned the rhyme to make it grind, But his mad haste would not permit His learning how to make it quit. He reached the ship and sailed away; And when they passed beyond the bay He set the mill--the story’s told-- Where hatches opened to the hold. Then said the rhyme to make it grind While only salt was in his mind. The salt streamed forth, the Captain smiled; Not very long was he beguiled; The hold was filled up to the top; The Captain told the mill to stop. It ground right on without a check; The salt was piling on the deck. His sword in anger then he drew And cut the fiendish thing in two. Each half kept grinding more and more; The salt came faster than before. It sank the ship and all were drowned; But still the mill keeps turning ’round And grinding salt; so that must be The way the salt came in the sea.

[2]

The critics here will stop and tell How devils haven’t souls to sell.

OVERDONE

Time was old and on his way Slowly toiled; it seemed the day Ne’er would end; it seemed the Sun Crawled the course he used to run.

But Love came, and when I showed How Time lagged, he took a goad, With its sharpened point of steel Touched old Time upon his heel. The laggard urged the tardy Sun And like a boy began to run.

Stay, old Time, I pray thee stay! Why this haste? Why make the day All too short? Why make the Sun Fly the course he used to run?

THE WEST WIND

The King and Queen of the Esquimaux Came forth from the royal palace to go On a ringing sledge with a great dog team ’Neath the clear still stars and the fitful gleam Of the northern lights, on a long night ride To the Pole and back, for the Queen was a bride, And this was their wedding tour, heigh-ho! For the ride of the royal Esquimaux!

The King was proud and the Queen was fair, Though you wouldn’t have known it had you been there; For they wore white fur from top to toe, And you couldn’t tell t’other from which although The King felt taller, though ’twas hard to see, While the Queen was taller--horizontally. At any rate when ready to ride The King couldn’t reach round his royal bride.