Chapter 3
"No, no, not that! But let me tell You why I scorn your ardent kiss-- Not that I do not love you well;" No, Archibald, the reason's this: (_Continued on page 24_.) Turn, turn my leaves, and let me learn Eustacia's fate; I pine for more; Oh, turn and turn and turn and turn!
"Because--and yet I ought not say The wherefore of my sudden whim." Here Archibald looked at Eusta- Cia, and Eustacia looked at him.
"Because," continued she, "my head--" I never knew Eustacia's fate, I never knew what 'Stacia said. _(Continued on page 58.)_
Popular Ballad: "Never Forget Your Parents"
A young man once was sitting Within a swell cafe, The music it was playing sweet-- The people was quite gay. But he alone was silent, A tear was in his eye-- A waitress she stepped up to him, and Asked him gently why.
(Change to Minor.)
He turned to her in sorrow and At first he spoke no word, But soon he spoke unto her, for She was an honest girl. He rose up from the table In that elegant cafe, And in a voice replete with tears To her he then did say:
CHORUS
Never forget your father, Think all he done for you; A mother is a boy's best friend, So loving, kind, and true,
If it were not for them, I'm sure I might be quite forlorn; And if your parents had not have lived You would not have been born.
A hush fell on the laughing throng, It made them feel quite bad, For most of them was people, and Some parents they had had. Both men and ladies did shed tears. The music it did cease. For all knew he had spoke the truth By looking at his face.
(Change to Minor.)
The waitress she wept bitterly And others was in tears It made them think of the old home They had not saw in years. And while their hearts was heavy and Their eyes they was quite red. This brave and honest boy again To them these words he said:
CHORUS
Never forget, etc.
Ballade to a Lady (To Annabelle.)
Pipe to the tip I'm handing, Kid; Get jerry to the salve I throw; Just paste it in your merrywid While I pull out the tremolo. This stuff ain't any paper snow-- I never was a bull con gee-- Wise up to this and sing it slow: You make an awful splash with me.
My line of bunk is like to skid; (The subject is so smooth--get joe?) My fountain pen's an invalid; I can't dope words like L. Defoe Puts in describing up a show, But, kiddo, you have put the bee On father, surest thing you know. You make an awful splash with me.
Yop, I'm your little katydid; Just listen to my chirp of woe; And now I've made my little bid-- You get it? Follow me? Right-O! If I could shoot like Eddie Poe, I guess that you'd be h-e-p, But here's the bet, now cop it, bo, You make an awful splash with me.
L'ENVOI
Well, this is where the stuff I stow, According to old Francois V; But--once again before I blow-- You make an awful splash with me.
To a Thesaurus
O precious codex, volume, tome, Book, writing, compilation, work Attend the while I pen a pome, A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.
For I would pen, engross, indite, Transcribe, set forth, compose, address, Record, submit--yea, even write An ode, an elegy to bless--
To bless, set store by, celebrate, Approve, esteem, endow with soul, Commend, acclaim, appreciate, Immortalize, laud, praise, extol.
Thy merit, goodness, value, worth, Expedience, utility-- O manna, honey, salt of earth, I sing, I chant, I worship thee!
How could I manage, live, exist, Obtain, produce, be real, prevail, Be present in the flesh, subsist, Have place, become, breathe or inhale.
Without thy help, recruit, support, Opitulation, furtherance, Assistance, rescue, aid, resort, Favour, sustention and advance?
Ala Alack! and well-a-day! My case would then be dour and sad, Likewise distressing, dismal, gray, Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad.
* * *
Though I could keep this up all day, This lyric, elegiac, song, Meseems hath come the time to say Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long!
The Ancient Lays
I cannot sing the old songs I sang long years ago, But I can always hear them At any vodevil show.
Erring in Company
("If I have erred I err in company with Abraham Lincoln."--THEODORE ROOSEVELT.)
If e'er my rhyming be at fault, If e'er I chance to scribble dope, If that my metre ever halt, I err in company with Pope.
An that my grammar go awry, An that my English be askew, Sooth, I can prove an alibi-- The Bard of Avon did it, too.
If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns, Remember, jeering jackanape, I err in company with Burns.
If now and then I sigh "Mine own!" Unto another's wedded wife, Remember I am not alone-- Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life?
If frequently I fret and fume, And absolutely will not smile, I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.
If e'er I fail in etiquette, And foozle on The Proper Stuff Regarding manners, don't forget A. Tennyson's were pretty tough.
Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied, In most illustrious company.
The Limit
While I hold as superficial him who has his young initial Neatly graven on his Turkish cigarette, Such a bit of affectation I can view with toleration, Such a folly I forgive and I forget. Him who rocks the little boat, or him who rides the cyclemotor I dislike a little more than just enough; But you might as well be knowing that the guy who gets me going Is the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.
Now I've builded many a verse on that extremely stylish person Who insists upon the hat of emerald hue; I have made a lot of fun of things that honestly were none of My blanked business--and I knew that it was true. At the shameless subway smoker I have been a ceaseless joker---- For that nuisance daily gets me in a huff-- But the one that makes me maddest is that pestilential faddist Who is carrying his kerchief in his cuff.
I'm a passive, harmless hater of the vari-coloured gaiter That the men of the Rialto will affect; Of the loud and sassy clother, I'm a quiet, modest loather, And to comic section weskits I object. But, as I have intimated, hinted, innuendoed stated, Of the things that I believe are awful stuff, Nothing starts my indignation like the silly affectation Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff---- E-nough! Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.
Chorus for Mixed Voices
(Being a stenographic report of how it sounds from the piazza when a dozen boat loads go out on the lake of a summer evening.)
How can I bear to good old Yale the shades of Upidee That's where my heart is weep no more in sunny Tennessee How dear to heart grows weary far from meadow grass is blue Above Cayuga's waters we will sing I'm strong for you.
A Spanish cava fare thee well and everything so fine That's where you get your old black Joe my darling Clementine The old folks would enjoy it on the road to Mandalay 'Twas from Aunt Dinah's polly-wolly-woodle all the day.
I hear those good night ladies much obliged because we're here Afraid to go home in the with a good song ringing clear Just tell them that fair Harvard old Nassau is shining bright How can I bear to grand old rag we roll along good night!
The Translated Way
(Being a "lyric" translation of Heine's "Du Bist Wie Eine Blume," as it is usually done.)
Thou art like to a Flower, So pure and clean thou art; I view thee and much Sadness Steals to me in the Heart.
To me it seems my Hands I Should now impose on your Head, praying God to keep you So fine and clean and pure.
"And Yet It Is A Gentle Art!"
(Parody is a genre frowned upon by your professors of literature... And yet it is a gentle art-- "The Point of View" in May _Scribner's_.)
A sweet disorder in the verse That never looks behind Shall profit not who steals my purse, Let joy be unconfined!
How vainly men themselves amaze! The stars began to blink, An art that there were few to praise, Nor any drop to drink.
O sleep, it is a blessed thing Which I must ne'er enjoy! There never was a fairer spring Than when I was a boy.
One fond embrace and then we part! Good--by, my lover, good-by! And yet it is a gentle art, Which nobody can deny.
Occasionally
Now and then there's a couple whose conjugal life Is happy as happy can be; Now and then there's a man who believes that his wife Is the One Unsurpassable She; There are doubtless in England a great many folks Whose humour is airy and sage; But there never is one in American jokes Or on the American stage
Now and then there's an auto that doesn't break down, Or an angler who catches some fish; Now and then there's a pretty society gown Or a girl that breaks never a dish; There is haply a Croesus who isn't a hoax. Or a jest that's not hoary with age; But there never is one in American jokes Or on the American stage.
Now and then there's a poet with closely cropped hair, Or a sporting man quiet in dress; Now and then there's a lady from Boston who's fair, Now and then there's a fetterless press; Now and then there's a laugh that a jester may coax, A librettist may put on his page-- But they're terribly rare in American jokes, And--oh, the American stage!
Jim and Bill
Bill Jones was cynical and sad; He thought sincerity was rare; Most people, Bill believed, were bad And few were fair.
He said that cheating was the rule; That nearly everything was fake; That nearly all, both knave and fool, Were on the make.
Jim Brown was cheerful as the sun; He thought the world a lovely place, Exhibiting to every one A smiling face.
He thought that every man was fair; He had no cause to sob or sigh; He said that everything was square As any die.
Dear reader, would you rather be Like Jim, not crediting the ill, Joyous in your serenity, Or right, like Bill?
When Nobody Listens
_At not at all infrequent spells I hear--and so do you-- The tales that everybody tells And no one listens to._
"You talk about excitement. Well Last summer, up at Silver Dell, Jim Brown and I took a canoe And paddled out a mile or two. When we left shore the sun was out-- Serenest day, beyond a doubt, I ever saw. When suddenly It thunders, and a heavy sea Comes up. 'I'm goin' to jump,' says Jim. He jumps. I don't know how to swim, And I was scared..."
"You ought to see My kid. He's great! He isn't three. But smart? Last night his mother said, As she was putting him to bed, 'Tom, are you sleepy?' Well, the kid-- What d'ye think he up and did? Laugh? Honestly, we nearly died! He said:..."
"Last week I had a ride As was a ride! We took my car And ran her over night so far We had to stop. Just as we came To this side of North Burlingame, We tore a shoe; the left front wheel Got loose and . . . "
"Did you ever feel That dogs were human? Well, there's Bruce, My collie--brighter than the deuce! Just talk in ordinary tones-- A joke, he barks, speak sad, he moans, The other day I said to him, 'Here, Bruce, take this to Uncle Jim,' And gave . . . "
"We've really got the best And cheapest flat in town. On West Two-Forty-Third Street. That ain't far-- The subway, then the Yonkers car-- An hour, perhaps a little more. I leave the house at 7.04-- I'm in the office every day At nine o'clock. Six rooms are all We have, if you don't count the hall-- Though it is bigger far than most The rooms I've seen. I hate to boast About my flat; but . . . "
"Say, I've got The greatest, newest, finest plot-- Dramatic, humorous, and fresh-- And, though I'm not in the profesh, I'll back this little play of mine Against Pinero, Fitch, or Klein. Sure fire! A knockout! It can't miss! The plot of it begins like this: The present time--that's what they've got To have--and then a modern plot. Jack Hammond, hero, loves a girl: Extremely jealous of an earl. The earl, however... "
Why contin- Ue types that flourish _adinfin_?
_O tuneless chimes! O worn-out bells! I hear--and so do you-- The tales that everybody tells But no one listens to._
Office Mottoes
Motto heartening, inspiring, Framed above my pretty *desk, Never Shelley, Keats, or Byring* Penned a phrase so picturesque! But in me no inspiration Rides my low and prosy brow-- All I think of is vacation When I see that lucubration:
DO IT NOW
When I see another sentence Framed upon a brother's wall, Resolution and repentance Do not flood o'er me at all As I read that nugatory Counsel written years ago, Only when one comes to borry[Footnote: Entered under the Pure License of 1906.] Do I heed that ancient story:
TELL HIM NO
Mottoes flat and mottoes silly, Proverbs void of point or wit, "KEEP A-PLUGGIN' WHEN IT'S HILLY!" "LIFE'S A TIGER: CONQUER IT!" Office mottoes make me weary And of all the bromide bunch There is only one I seri- Ously like, and that's the cheery:
GONE TO LUNCH
Metaphysics
A man morose and dull and sad-- Go ask him why he feels so bad. Behold! He answers it is drink That put his nerves upon the blink.
Another man whose smile and jest Disclose a nature of the best-- What keeps his heart and spirit up? Again we learn it is the cup.
The moral to this little bit Is anything you make of it. Such recondite philosophy Is far away too much for me.
Heads and Tails
If a single man is studious and quiet, people say He is grouchy, he is old before his time; If he's frivolous and flippant, if he treads the primrose way, Then they mark him for a wild career of crime.
If a man asserts that So-and-So is beautiful or sweet, He is daffy on the proposition, Girl; If he's weary in the evening and he keeps his subway seat, He's immediately branded as a churl.
If he buys a friend a rickey not for any special cause, He is captain of the lush-and-spendthrift squad; If, before he spends a million, he will think a bit and pause, There's a popular impression he's a wad.
If a man attends to business and looks to every chance, He is mercenary, money-mad, and coarse; If he thinks of art and letters more than personal finance, He is lacking in ambition and in force.
If a man but bats his consort oh-so-gently on the head, If he throttles her a little round the neck, He's a brute; if he's considerately conjugal instead, Everybody calls him Mr. Henry Peck.
Lowers Scylla--frowns Charybdis--and the bark is like to sink-- This the symbolistic moral of my rhyme-- If Opinion trims your sails and if you care what people think You will have a most unhappy sort of time.
An Election Night Pantoum
Gaze at the good-natured crowd, List to the noise and the rattle! Heavens! that woman is loud-- Loud as the din of a battle.
List to the noise and the rattle! Hark to the honk of the horn Loud as the din of a battle! There! My new overcoat's torn!
Hark to the honk of the horn! Cut out that throwing confetti! There! My new overcoat's torn-- Looks like a shred of spaghetti.
Cut out that throwing confetti! Look at the gentleman, stewed; Looks like a shred of spaghetti-- Don't get so terribly rude!
Look at the gentleman, stewed! Look at the glare of the rocket! Don't get so terribly rude, Keep your hand out of my pocket!
Look at the glare of the rocket! Take that thing out of my face! Keep your hand out of my pocket! This is a shame and disgrace.
Take that thing out of my face! Curse you! Be decent to ladies! This is a shame and disgrace, Worse than traditions of Hades.
Curse you! Be decent to ladies! (Heavens! that woman is loud.) Worse than traditions of Hades Gaze at the "good-natured" crowd!
I Cannot Pay That Premium
Beside a frugal table, though spotless clean and white, A loving couple they did sit and all seemed pleasant, quite; They did not have no servant the things away to take, For he was but a broker who much money did not make.
(Key changes to minor.)
He lit a fifty-cent cigar and then his wife did say: "Your life insurance it will lapse if it you do not pay." He turned from her in sorrow, for breaking was his heart, And in a mezzo barytone to her did say, in part:
CHORUS:
"I cannot pay that premium, I'll have to let it go; It fills me with remorse and sorrow, not to mention woe. Though I'm quite strong and healthy, and will outlive you, perhaps, I cannot pay that premium; I'll have to let it lapse."
The wife she naught did answer, for it cut her to the quick; She washed the dishes, filled the lamp, and likewise trimmed the wick; She took in washing the next day and played bridge whist all night, Until she had enough to pay her husband's premium, quite.
(Key changes to minor)
The husband he was thrown next day from his au-to-mo-bile, And although rather lonesome it did make his widow feel, It made her glad to know that she had paid that prem-i-um, And oftentimes in after years these words she'd softly hum:
CHORUS:
"I cannot pay that premium," etc.
Three Authors
Prolific authors, noble three, I do my derby off to ye.
_Selected_, dear old chap, who knows The quantity of verse and prose That you have signed in all these years! You've dulled how many thousand shears! You've filled, at a tremendous rate, A million miles of "boiler plate"-- A wreath of laurel for your brow! A stirrup-cup to you--here's how!
And you, dear _Ibid_. Ah, you wrote Too many things for me to quote, Though Bartlett, of quotation fame, Plays up your unpoetic name More than he did to Avon's bard. Your stuff's on every page, old pard. Bouquets to you the writer flings; You wrote a lot of dandy things.
And you, O last, O greatest one, A word with you, and I have done Your, dear _Exchange_, that ever floats Around with verses, anecdotes, And jokes. Oh, what a lot you sign (Quite frequently a thing of mine). Why, it would not be very strange If I should see this signed--_Exchange_.
O favourite authors, wondrous three, I do my derby off to ye!
To Quotation
(Caused by "The Ethics of Misquotation" in the November _Atlantic Monthly_.)
Quotation! Brother to the Arts, assister to the Muse! When Bartlett from his study height unfurled thine heaven-born hues, The quotes were here, the quotes were there, the quotes were all around, For Bartlett like a poultice came to blow the heels of sound.
Pernicious habit! One becomes a worse than senseless block, A bard that no one dares to praise and fewer care to knock; A sentence by a mossy stone, of quaint and curious lore, An apt quotation is to one and it is nothing more.
Quotation! Ah, thou droppest as the gentle rain from heaven, Thy brow is wet with honest sweat and the stars on thy head are seven.
Who steals my verse steals trash, for, soothly, he who runs may read, But he who filches from me Bartlett leaves me poor indeed.
I fill this cup to Bartlett up, and may he rest in peace-- From Afric's sunny fountains to the happy Isles of Greece. Quotation! O my Rod and Staff, my Joy sans let or end With me abide, O handy guide, philosopher, and friend.
Melodrama
R
If you want a receipt for a melodramatical, Thrillingly thundery, popular show, Take an old father, unyielding, emphatical, Driving his daughter out into the snow; The love of a hero, courageous and Hacketty; Hate of a villain in evening clothes; Comic relief that is Irish and racketty; Schemes of a villainess muttering oaths; The bank and the safe and the will and the forgery-- All of them built on traditional norms-- Villainess dark and Lucrezia Borgery Helping the villain until she reforms; The old mill at midnight, a rapid delivery; Violin music, all scary and shivery; Plot that is devilish, awful, nefarious; Heroine frightened, her plight is precarious; Bingo!--the rescue!--the movement goes snappily-- Exit the villain and all endeth happily!
Take of these elements any you care about, Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout; Put in the powder and leave out the grammar, And the certain result is a swell melodrammer.
A Poor Excuse, But Our Own
(Why don't you ever write any child poetry? --A MOTHER.)
My right-hand neighbour hath a child, A pretty child of five or six, Not more than other children wild, Nor fuller than the rest of tricks-- At five he rises, shine or rain, And noisily plays "fire" or "train."
Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight, He hath. Each morning, as a rule, Proudly my neighbour will relate How bright Mathilda is at school. My ardour, less than half of mild, Bids me to comment, "Wondrous child!"
All through the vernal afternoon My other neighbour's children skate A wild Bacchantic rigadoon On rollers; nor does it abate Till dark; and then his babies cry What time I fain would versify.
Did I but set myself to sing A children's song, I'd stand revealed A bard that did the infant thing As well as Riley or 'Gene Field. I could write famous Children Stuff, If they'd keep quiet long enough.
Monotonous Variety
(All of them from two stories in a single magazine.)
She "greeted" and he "volunteered"; She "giggled"; he "asserted"; She "queried" and he "lightly veered"; She "drawled" and he "averted"; She "scoffed," she "laughed" and he "averred"; He "mumbled," "parried," and "demurred."
She "languidly responded"; he "Incautiously assented"; Doretta "proffered lazily"; Will "speedily invented"; She "parried," "whispered," "bade," and "mused"; He "urged," "acknowledged," and "refused."
She "softly added"; "she alleged"; He "consciously invited"; She "then corrected"; William "hedged"; She "prettily recited"; She "nodded," "stormed," and "acquiesced"; He "promised," "hastened," and "confessed."
Doretta "chided"; "cautioned" Will; She "voiced" and he "defended"; She "vouchsafed"; he "continued still"; She "sneered" and he "amended"; She "smiled," she "twitted," and she "dared" He "scorned," "exclaimed," "pronounced," and "flared."
He "waived," "believed," "explained," and "tried"; "Commented" she; he "muttered"; She "blushed," she "dimpled," and she "sighed"; He "ventured" and he "stuttered"; She "spoke," "suggested," and "pursued"; He "pleaded," "pouted," "called," and "viewed."
O synonymble writers, ye Whose work is so high-pricey. Think ye not that variety May haply be too spicy? Meseems that in an elder day They had a thing or two to _say_.
The Amateur Botanist
A primrose by a river's brim _Primula vulgaris_ was to him, And it was nothing more; A pansy, delicately reared, _Viola tricolor_ appeared In true botanic lore.
That which a pink the layman deems _Dianthus caryophyllus_ seems To any flower-fan; or A sunflower, in that talk of his, _Annuus helianthus_ is, And it is nothing more.
A Word for It
"Scorn not the sonnet." Well, I reckon not, I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle, Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot, An so it made my Pegasus to trot His morning lap what time he heard the bell; An so it made the poem stuff to jell-- To mix a met.--an so it boil'd the pot.
Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit! I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats. "Scorn?" Nay, I love thy fine symmetric grace. In sonnets one knows always where to quit, Unlike in other poems where one cheats And strings it out to fill the yawning space.
The Poem Speaks
(Cut this out in either case.)
Poet, ere you write me, Stem the flowing ink; Or that you indite me Pause upon the brink.
Strummer of the lyre Maker of the tune, Give me a desire-- Bless me with a boon.
Let me be a rondeau With a sweet refrain, Or an aliquando Sonnet to the rain;
Let me be a lyric Tenuous as air, Or an a la Viereck Passion song to hair;
Ballad, epic, quatrain, Couplet--ay, a line-- "Let it rain or not rain, Let it storm or shine."