11095	----	[Illustration: Front Cover] FUN & NONSENSE By Willard Bonte [Illustration: Frontispiece] [Illustration: By Willard Bonte] INTRODUCTION Fun and Nonsense are a pair Of merry little twins, And when they come to visit us They bring their friends, the Grins. They're coming now to visit you. This page we'll call the door. To open wide, just turn the leaf. Why, we have met before! [Illustration: Introduction] THE BARBER Said Chocolate Drop the Barber, "Why, bless my ugly soul! I'll ask that stick of peppermint To be my Barber pole." [Illustration: The Barber] THE REFUSAL "Dear, sweet Lady Cracker, My passions you know." "And I scorn them, Judge Wafer, As you're lacking in dough." [Illustration: The Refusal] A HOPELESS CASE "What is the use?" quoth the Whitewash Brush, "I'll comb my hair no more; For try as I will to make it lie, It still stays pompadour." [Illustration: A Hopeless Case] THE GREENHORN A lettuce walking out one day, Lost his head, so lost his way; A Pumpkin happened on the scene, And said it came from being green. [Illustration: The Greenhorn] OLD MR. MATCH Old Mr. Match gave his head a good scratch, And his face lighted up with a smile; "It is getting quite dark, but with my cheery spark I will lengthen the day for awhile." [Illustration: Old Mr. Match] THOUGHTS UNSTRUNG "Alas! I fear my mind doth wander. As o'er this narrative I ponder; I usually know what I have read, But this time I have lost the Thread." [Illustration: Thoughts Unstrung] THE MISER The Pocketbook has money, On that subject he is daft; But when one strikes him for a loan He answers, "I am strapped." [Illustration: The Miser] DR. KEY'S ANSWER "Shine?" inquired the Monkey Wrench Of Stately Doctor Key; "No!" replied that haughty soul. "No Monkey-shines for me." [Illustration: Dr. Key's Answer] THE CHASE Mr. Brush on his steed, dashing with speed, Was asked if he had time to spare; Said he, with a smile, "I'll be back in a while, But at present I'm hunting the hair." [Illustration: The Chase] A RISING DOCTOR "Dr. Yeast-Cake, it's hard for me to speak, As I haven't risen for more than a week." "Take this, Mr. Roll, and never you fear; You'll rise before morning, so be of good cheer." [Illustration: A Rising Doctor] THE SAILOR BOLD Pilot Von Pretzel's a crusty old salt Who wears a rich shade of tan; Which he did not acquire at sea, by the way, But in a warm baking-pan. [Illustration: The Sailor Bold] OVERHEARD IN THE CORN-FIELD Said young Mr. Pumpkin, To old Mr. Squash, "Do you think Mr. Corn overhears What we say when we talk Of his self-conscious stalk, And his moving Miss Melon to tears?" "I cannot decide," Mr. Squash then replied, "But I've had my suspicions for years; Because he's so tall He can lean over all; Then look at the size of his ears." [Illustration: Overheard in the Corn-field] TWINS "There go the Scissor twins. Cutting as ever. Some think them sharp. But few think them clever." [Illustration: Twins] A SHARP LOVER "I dread you much, my little miss, You're such a dainty thing, I fear although quite sharp myself, You've got me on the string." [Illustration: A Sharp Lover] THE GREEDY LITTLE PITCHERS "Now, my pretty little dears, Little Pitchers have big ears; But never let me hear it said That your mouths are big instead." [Illustration: The Greedy Little Pitchers] OBLIGING MR. HAMMER Old Mr. Hammer Was so very, very good, That he gave Mr. Shingle Nail A drive through the wood. [Illustration: Obliging Mr. Hammer] THE MALICIOUS BRUSH When poor little Hand-Glass Was loudly berated For casting reflections, The Brush was elated. [Illustration: The Malicious Brush] THE WISE PEN There was a Pen in our town And he was wondrous wise; He knew just when to cross his T's And when to dot his I's; But one small thing he did not know, A simple thing at that; He did not know 'twas nice to wipe His feet off, on the mat. [Illustration: The Wise Pen] 
20353	----	The Best Nonsense Verses, Chosen by Josephine Dodge Daskam EVANSTON WILLIAM S. LORD 1902 Copyright 1901 WILLIAM S. LORD PUBLISHER'S NOTE The publisher desires to acknowledge the courtesy of authors and publishers in granting permission to reprint the verses contained in this book. To Mr. Guy Wetmore Carryl, whose "Fables for the Frivolous" are published by Messrs. Harper & Brothers; to Mr. Charles E. Carryl, whose verses appeared originally in _St. Nicholas_; to Mr. Oliver Herford, whose "Child's Primer of Natural History" is published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons; to the same author for the selection from "Alphabet of Celebrities," published by Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co.; and Messrs. Harper & Brothers, the publishers of du Maurier's "A Legend of Camelot;" and to Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., who publish an edition of Lear's Nonsense Books. CONTENTS Page Father William Lewis Carroll 7 The Walrus and the Carpenter Lewis Carroll 9 The Hunting of the Snark, Extracts Lewis Carroll 14 Jabberwocky Lewis Carroll 19 The Jumblies Edward Lear 21 The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo Edward Lear 25 Nonsense Verses Edward Lear 30 Gentle Alice Brown W.S. Gilbert 33 Emily, John, James and I W.S. Gilbert 37 Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen W.S. Gilbert 41 The Sycophantic Fox and the Gullible Raven Guy Wetmore Carryl 45 Red Ridinghood Guy Wetmore Carryl 47 A Nautical Ballad Charles E. Carryl 50 The Plaint of the Camel Charles E. Carryl 52 Child's Natural History Oliver Herford 54 Alphabet of Celebrities Oliver Herford 56 Nonsense Verses Gelett Burgess 57 Vers Nonsensiques George du Maurier 59 Nonsense Verses W.S. Gilbert 60 Varia Anonymous 61 BEST NONSENSE VERSES FATHER WILLIAM "You are old, father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white: And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain: But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple." "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak; Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife: And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!" [_Lewis Carroll_ THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!" The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand: They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said "That they could get it clear!" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. "O Oysters come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things; Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat: For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said, "Do you admire the view?" "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. [_Lewis Carroll_ THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK--Extracts "Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again The five unmistakable marks By which you may know, wheresoever you go, The warranted genuine Snarks. "Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp: Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp. "Its habit of getting up late you'll agree That it carries too far, when I say That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea, And dines on the following day. "The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines, Which it constantly carries about, And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes-- A sentiment open to doubt. "The fifth is ambition. It next will be right To describe each particular batch: Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite, From those that have whiskers, and scratch. "For although common Snarks do no manner of harm, Yet I feel it my duty to say Some are Boojums--" The Bellman broke off in alarm, For the Baker had fainted away. * * * * * They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice-- They roused him with mustard and cress-- They roused him with jam and judicious advice-- They set him conundrums to guess. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!" And excitedly tingled his bell. There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, Scarcely even a howl or a groan, As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe In an antediluvian tone. "My father and mother were honest, though poor--" "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste, "If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark. We have hardly a minute to waste!" "I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, "And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark. "A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) Remarked, when I bade him farewell--" "Oh, skip your dear uncle," the Bellman exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell. "He remarked to me then," said the mildest of men, "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right; Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens And it's handy for striking a light. "'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap-- "'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away And never be met with again!' "It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, When I think of my uncle's last words: And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl Brimming over with quivering curds! "It is this, it is this--" "We have had that before!" The Bellman indignantly said. And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread! "I engage with the Snark--every night after dark-- In a dreamy delirious fight: I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, And I use it for striking a light: "But if ever I met with a Boojum, that day, In a moment (of this I am sure), I shall softly and suddenly vanish away-- And the notion I cannot endure!" * * * * * The Bellman looked uffish and wrinkled his brow. "If only you'd spoken before! It's excessively awkward to mention it now, With the Snark, so to speak, at the door! "We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe, If you never were met with again-- But surely, my man, when the voyage began, You might have suggested it then? "It's excessively awkward to mention it now-- As I think I've already remarked." And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh, "I informed you the day we embarked. "You may charge me with murder--or want of sense-- (We are all of us weak at times) But the slightest approach to a false pretence Was never among my crimes! "I said it in Hebrew--I said it in Dutch-- I said it in German and Greek: But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much) That English is what you speak!" [_Lewis Carroll_ JABBERWOCKY. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought. So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through, and through, The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves And the mome raths outgrabe. [_Lewis Carroll_ THE JUMBLIES 1 They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to sea. And when the sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig; In a sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. 2 They sailed away in a sieve, they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. And everyone said who saw them go, "Oh! won't they be soon upset, you know? For the sky is dark, and the voyage long; And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. 3 The water it soon came in, it did: The water it soon came in: So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat; And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery jar; And each of them said, "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we are rash or wrong. While round in our sieve we spin." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue: And they went to sea in a sieve. 4 And all night long they sailed away: And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of the coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballoo! How happy we are When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! And all night long, in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail In the shade of the mountains brown." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue: And they went to sea in a sieve. 5 They sailed to the Western sea, they did-- To a land all covered with trees; And they bought an owl, and a useful cart, And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, And a hive of silvery bees; And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, And no end of Stilton cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue: And they went to sea in a sieve. 6 And in twenty years they all came back,-- In twenty years or more; And every one said, "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore." And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, "If we only live, We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, To the hills of the Chankly Bore." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a sieve. [_Edward Lear_ THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO 1 On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle,-- These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 2 Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,-- "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 3 "Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, "I am tired of living singly,-- On this coast so wild and shingly,--- I'm a-weary of my life; If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 4 "On this Coast of Coromandel Shrimps and watercresses grow, Prawns are plentiful and cheap," Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "You shall have my chairs and candle, And my jug without a handle! Gaze upon the rolling deep (Fish is plentiful and cheap): As the sea, my love is deep!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 5 Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- "Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! I would be your wife most gladly!" (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) "But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! 6 "Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,-- Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.) Dorking fowls delights to send, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle, And your jug without a handle,-- I can merely be your friend! Should my Jones more Dorkings send, I will give you three, my friend! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! 7 "Though you've such a tiny body, And your head so large doth grow,-- Though your hat may blow away, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy, Yet I wish that I could modi- fy the words I needs must say! Will you please to go away? That is all I have to say, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!" 8 Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle. "You're the Cove," he said, "for me; On your back beyond the sea, Turtle, you shall carry me!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 9 Through the silent roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. With a sad primeval motion Toward the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well. Holding fast upon his shell, "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!" Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 10 From the Coast of Coromandel Did that Lady never go, On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On the little heap of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. [_Edward Lear_ NONSENSE VERSES 1 There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard." 2 There was an old man of Hong Kong, Who never did anything wrong; He lay on his back, with his head in a sack, That innocuous old man of Hong Kong. 3 There was an Old Man who supposed That the street door was partially closed; But some very large Rats ate his coats and his hats, While that futile Old Gentleman dozed. 4 There was a Young Lady of Norway, Who casually sat in a doorway; When the door squeezed her flat, she exclaimed "What of that?" This courageous Young Lady of Norway. 5 There was an old person of Bow, Whom nobody happened to know; So they gave him some soap, and said coldly, "We hope You will go back directly to Bow!" 6 There was an Old Man on some rocks, Who shut his wife up in a box: When she said, "Let me out," he exclaimed, "Without doubt You will pass all your life in that box!" 7 There was an old man who said, "How Shall I flee from this horrible Cow? I will sit on this stile, and continue to smile, Which may soften the heart of that Cow." 8 There was an old man who said "Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush!" When they said, "Is it small?" he replied, "Not at all; It is four times as big as the bush!" 9 There was a young person in green, Who seldom was fit to be seen; She wore a long shawl, over bonnet and all, Which enveloped that person in green. 10 There was an old person of Ware, Who rode on the back of a bear; When they asked, "Does it trot?" he said, "Certainly not! He's a Moppsikon Floppsikon bear!" [_Edward Lear_ GENTLE ALICE BROWN It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing. As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!" And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode). But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed-- The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. "Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not? To discover that I was a most disreputable lot! Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?" "I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!" The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear-- And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear-- It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece. "Girls will be girls--you're very young and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find; We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six." "Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet! "A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes-- I've noticed at my window as I've sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!" "For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band! "This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many, many years they've kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours! "The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?" The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. "I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two; Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do, A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small." He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed. And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. [_W.S. Gilbert_ EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I A Derby Legend Emily Jane was a nursery maid-- James was a bold Life Guard, And John was constable, poorly paid (And I am a doggerel bard). A very good girl was Emily Jane, Jimmy was good and true, And John was a very good man in the main (And I am a good man, too). Rivals for Emmie were Johnny and James, Though Emily liked them both; She couldn't tell which had the strongest claims (And I couldn't take my oath). But sooner or later you're certain to find Your sentiments can't lie hid-- Jane thought it was time that she made up her mind (And I think it was time she did). Said Jane, with a smirk and a blush on her face, "I'll promise to wed the boy Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!" (Which I would have done, with joy). From Johnny escaped an expression of pain, But Jimmy said, "Done with you! I'll take you with pleasure, my Emily Jane!" (And I would have said so too). Johnny lay on the ground, and he roared like mad (For Johnny was sore perplexed), And he kicked very hard at a very small lad (Which I often do, when vexed). For John was on duty next day with the Force, To punish all Epsom crimes; Some people will cross when they're clearing the course (I do it myself, sometimes). * * * * * The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads, On maidens with gamboge hair, On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads (For I, with my harp, was there). And Jimmy went down with his Jane that day And John by the collar or nape Seized everybody who came in his way (And I had a narrow escape). He noticed his Emily Jane with Jim, And envied the well made elf; And people remarked that he muttered "Oh, dim!" (I often say "dim!" myself). John dogged them all day, without asking their leaves; For his sergeant he told, aside, That Jimmy and Jane were notorious thieves (And I think he was justified). But James wouldn't dream of abstracting a fork, And Jenny would blush with shame At stealing so much as a bottle or cork (A bottle I think fair game). But, ah! there's another more serious crime! They wickedly strayed upon The course, at a critical moment of time (I pointed them out to John). The crusher came down on the pair in a crack-- And then, with a demon smile, Let Jenny cross over, but sent Jimmy back (I played on my harp the while). Stern Johnny their agony loud derides With a very triumphant sneer-- They weep and they wail from the opposite sides (And I shed a silent tear). And Jenny is crying away like mad, And Jimmy is swearing hard; And Johnny is looking uncommonly glad (And I am a doggerel bard). But Jimmy he ventured on crossing again The scenes of our Isthmian Games-- John caught him and collared him, giving him pain (I felt very much for James). John led him away with a victor's hand, And Jimmy was shortly seen In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand (As many a time I've been). And Jimmy, bad boy, was imprisoned for life, Though Emily pleaded hard; And Johnny had Emily Jane to wife (And I am a doggerel bard). [_W.S. Gilbert_ ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan Was the son of an elderly laboring man, You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight, And p'raps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right. From the bonnie blue Forth to the hills of Deeside, Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde, There wasn't a child or woman or man Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan. No other could wake such detestable groans, With reed and with chanter--with bag and with drones: All day and all night he delighted the chiels With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels. He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, And the neighboring maidens would gather around To list to his pipes and to gaze in his een, Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen. All loved their M'Clan, save a Sassenach brute, Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot! He dressed himself up in a Highlander way, Though his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay. Torbay had incurred a good deal of expense To make him a Scotchman in every sense: But this is a matter, you'll readily own, That isn't a question of tailors alone. A Sassenach chief may be bonily built, He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt; Stick a skean in his hose--wear an acre of stripes-- But he cannot assume an affection for pipes. Clonglocketty's pipings all night and all day Quite frenzied poor Pattison Corby Torbay; The girls were amused at his singular spleen, Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen. "Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus, my lad, With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad; If you really must play on that cursed affair, My goodness! play something resembling an air." Boiled over the blood of Macphairson M'Clan-- The clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man; For all were enraged at the insult, I ween-- Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen. "Let's show," said M'Clan, "to this Sassenach loon That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune. Let's see," said M'Clan, as he thoughtfully sat, "'In My Cottage' is easy--I'll practice at that." He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will, For a year, seven months, and a fortnight until (You'll hardly believe it) M'Clan, I declare, Elicited something resembling an air. It was wild--it was fitful--as wild as the breeze-- It wandered about into several keys; It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware, But still it distinctly suggested an air. The Sassenach screamed and the Sassenach danced, He shrieked in his agony--bellowed and pranced; And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene, Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen. "Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around; And fill a' yer lugs wi' the exquisite sound, An air frae the bagpipes--beat that if ye can! Hurrah for Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan!" The fame of his piping spread over the land; Respectable widows proposed for his hand, And maidens came flocking to sit on the green-- Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen. One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore He'd stand it no longer--he drew his claymore, And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste), Divided Clonglocketty close to the waist. Oh! loud were the wailings for Angus M'Clan-- Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man-- The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene, Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen. It sorrowed poor Pattison Corby Torbay To find them "take on" in this serious way. He pitied the poor little fluttering birds, And solaced their souls with the following words:-- "Oh, maidens," said Pattison, touching his hat, "Don't snivel, my dears, for a fellow like that; Observe, I'm a very superior man, A much better fellow than Angus M'Clan." They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears," And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears, A pleasanter gentleman never was seen-- Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen. [_W.S. Gilbert_ THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND THE GULLIBLE RAVEN A raven sat upon a tree, And not a word he spoke, for His beak contained a bit of Brie, Or, maybe, it was Roquefort: We'll make it any kind you please, At all events, it was a cheese. Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb A hungry fox sat smiling; He saw the raven watching him, And spoke in words beguiling. "_J'admire_," said he "_ton beau plumage_," (The which was simply persiflage.) Two things there are, no doubt you know, To which a fox is used; A rooster that is bound to crow, A crow that's bound to roost, And whichsoever he espies He tells the most unblushing lies. "Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand You're more than merely natty, I hear you sing to beat the band And Adelina Patti. Pray render with your liquid tongue A bit from 'Götterdämmerung.'" This subtle speech was aimed to please The crow, and it succeeded: He thought no bird in all the trees Could sing as well as he did. In flattery completely doused He gave the "Jewel Song" from "Faust." But gravitation's law, of course, As Isaac Newton showed it, Exerted on the cheese its force. And elsewhere soon bestowed it, In fact, there is no need to tell What happened when to earth it fell. I wish to add that when the bird Took in the situation He said one brief, emphatic word, Unfit for publication. The fox was greatly startled, but He only sighed and answered "Tut." The Moral is: A fox is bound To be a shameless sinner. And also: When the cheese comes round You know it's after dinner. But (what is only known to few) The fox is after dinner, too. [_Guy Wetmore Carryl_ RED RIDINGHOOD Most worthy of praise were the virtuous ways Of Little Red Riding Hood's ma, And no one was ever more cautious and clever Than Little Red Riding Hood's pa. They never misled, for they meant what they said, And frequently said what they meant: They were careful to show her the way she should go, And the way that they showed her, she went. For obedience she was effusively thanked, And for anything else she was carefully spanked. It thus isn't strange that Red Riding Hood's range Of virtues so steadily grew, That soon she won prizes of different sizes, And golden enconiums, too. As a general rule she was head of her school, And at six was so notably smart That they gave her a check for reciting The Wreck Of the Hesperus wholly by heart. And you all will applaud her the more, I am sure, When I add that the money she gave to the poor. At eleven this lass had a Sunday-school class, At twelve wrote a volume of verse, At fourteen was yearning for glory, and learning To be a professional nurse. To a glorious height the young paragon might Have climbed, if not nipped in the bud, But the following year struck her smiling career With a dull and a sickening thud! (I have shad a great tear at the thought of her pain, And must copy my manuscript over again!) Not dreaming of harm, one day on her arm A basket she hung. It was filled With drinks made of spices, and jellies, and ices, And chicken-wings, carefully grilled, And a savory stew, and a novel or two She persuaded a neighbor to loan, And a Japanese fan, and a hot water-can. And a bottle of _eau de cologne_, And the rest of the things that your family fill Your room with whenever you chance to be ill. She expected to find her decrepit but kind Old grandmother waiting her call, Exceedingly ill. Oh, that face on the pillow Did not look familiar at all! With a whitening cheek she started to speak, But her peril she instantly saw: Her grandma had fled and she'd tackled instead Four merciless paws and a maw! When the neighbors came running the wolf to subdue He was licking his chops--and Red Riding Hood's, too! At this horrible tale some readers will pale, And others with horror grow dumb, And yet it was better, I fear, he should get her:-- Just think what she might have become! For an infant so keen might in future have been A woman of awful renown, Who carried on fights for her feminine rights, As the Mare of an Arkansas town, Or she might have continued the sin of her 'teens And come to write verse for the Big Magazines! _The Moral_ The Moral: There's nothing much glummer Than children whose talents appal. One much prefers those that are dumber, And as for the paragons small-- If a swallow cannot make a summer. It can bring on a summary fall! [_Guy Wetmore Carryl_ A NAUTICAL BALLAD A capital ship for an ocean trip, Was the "Walloping Window-blind"; No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain's mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he'd been in his bunk below. "The boatswain's mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain's boots, In the teeth of the booming gale. "The captain sat in a commodore's hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such; For the diet he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Prepared with sugar and glue. "All nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Rumbletumbunders roar. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the cinnamon-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea. "On rubgub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubgub tree." [_Charles E. Carryl_ THE PLAINT OF THE CAMEL "Canary-birds feed on sugar and seed, Parrots have crackers to crunch: And, as for the poodles, they tell me the noodles Have chickens and cream for their lunch. But there's never a question About MY digestion-- Anything does for me! "Cats, you're aware, can repose in a chair, Chickens can roost upon rails; Puppies are able to sleep in a stable, And oysters can slumber in pails. But no one supposes A poor Camel dozes-- Any place does for me! "Lambs are enclosed where it's never exposed, Coops are constructed for hens: Kittens are treated to houses well heated, And pigs are protected by pens. But a Camel comes handy Wherever it's sandy-- Anywhere does for me! "People would laugh if you rode a giraffe, Or mounted the back of an ox; It's nobody's habit to ride on a rabbit, Or try to bestraddle a fox. But as for a Camel, he's Ridden by families-- Any load does for me! "A snake is as round as a hole in the ground, And weasels are wavy and sleek; And no alligator could ever be straighter Than lizards that live in a creek, But a Camel's all lumpy And bumpy and humpy-- Any shape does for me!" [_Charles E. Carryl_ CHILD'S NATURAL HISTORY _Geese_ Ev-er-y child who has the use Of his sen-ses knows a goose. Sees them un-der-neath the tree Gath-er round the goose-girl's knee, While she reads them by the hour From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er. How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend! But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend What Scho-pen-hau-er's driving at? Oh, not at all; but what of that? Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she; And, for that matter, nor does he. _A Seal_ See, children, the Furbearing Seal; Ob-serve his mis-di-rect-ed zeal; He dines with most ab-ste-mi-ous care On Fish, Ice Water and Fresh Air A-void-ing cond-i-ments or spice For fear his fur should not be nice And fine and soft and smooth and meet For Broad-way or for Re-gent Street, And yet some-how I often feel (Though for the kind Fur-bear-ing Seal I harbor a Re-spect Pro-found) He runs Fur-bear-ance in the ground. _The Ant_ My child, ob-serve the use-ful Ant, How hard she works each day. She works as hard as ad-a-mant (That's very hard, they say). She has no time to gall-i-vant; She has no time to play. Let Fido chase his tail all day; Let Kitty play at tag; She has no time to throw away, She has no tail to wag; She scurries round from morn till night; She nev-er nev-er sleeps; She seiz-es ev-ery-thing in sight, She drags it home with all her might, And all she takes she keeps. _The Yak_ This is the Yak, so negligee; His coif-fure's like a stack of hay; He lives so far from Any-where, I fear the Yak neglects his hair. And thinks, since there is none to see, What mat-ter how un-kempt he be: How would he feel if he but knew That in this Picture-book I drew His Phys-i-og-no-my un-shorn, For children to de-ride and scorn? [_Oliver Herford_ [From "A Child's Primer of Natural History." Copyright, 1899, by Oliver Herford, Chas. Scribner's Sons, Publishers] ALPHABET OF CELEBRITIES E is for Edison, making believe He's invented a clever contrivance for Eve, Who complained that she never could laugh in her sleeve. O is for Oliver, casting aspersion On Omar, that awfully dissolute Persian, Though secretly longing to join the diversion. R's Rubenstein, playing that old thing in F To Rollo and Rembrandt, who wish they were deaf. S is for Swinburne, who, seeking the true, The good, and the beautiful, visits the Zoo, Where he chances on Sappho and Mr. Sardou, And Socrates, all with the same end in view. W's Wagner, who sang and played lots, For Washington, Wesley and good Dr. Watts; His prurient plots pained Wesley and Watts, But Washington said he "enjoyed them in spots." [_Oliver Herford_ NONSENSE VERSES 1 The Window has Four little Panes: But One have I; The Window-Panes are in its sash,-- I wonder why! 2 My Feet they haul me 'round the House: They hoist me up the Stairs; I only have to steer them and They ride me everywheres. 3 Remarkable truly, is Art! See--Elliptical wheels on a Cart! It looks very fair In the Picture up there; But imagine the Ride when you start! 4 I'd rather have fingers than Toes; I'd rather have Ears than a Nose: And as for my hair, I'm glad it's all there, I'll be awfully sad when it goes! 5 I wish that my Room had a floor; I don't so much care for a Door, But this walking around Without touching the ground Is getting to be quite a bore! [_Gelett Burgess_ VERS NONSENSIQUES I am gai. I am poet. I dvell Rupert Street, at the fifth. I am svell. And I sing tralala And I love my mamma, And the English, I speaks him quite well! 2 "Cassez-vous, cassez-vous, cassez-vous, O mer, sur vos froids gris cilloux!" Ainsi traduisit Laure Au profit d'Isadore (Bon jeune homme, et son futur epoux.) 3 Il existe une espinstere a Tours Un peu vite, et qui portait toujours Un ulster peau-de-phoque, Un chapeau bilicoque, Et des nicrebocquers en velours. 4 Un marin naufrage (de Doncastre) Pour priere, au milieu du desastre Repetait a genoux Ces mots simples et doux:-- "Scintellez, scintellez, petit astre!" [_George du Maurier_ NONSENSE VERSES 1 There was a small boy of Quebec, Who was buried in snow to his neck: When they said, "Are you friz?" He replied, "Yes I is-- But we don't call this cold in Quebec!" [_Rudyard Kipling_ 2 There was an old man of St. Bees, Who was stung in the arm by a wasp: When they asked, "Does it hurt?" He replied, "No it doesn't, But I thought all the while 'twas a Hornet!" [_W.S. Gilbert_ VARIA. 1 There was an old man of Tarentum Who gnashed his false teeth till he bent 'em; And when asked for the cost Of what he had lost, Said, "I really can't tell, for I rent 'em!" 2 A lady there was of Antigua, Who said to her spouse, "What a pig you are!" He answered, "My queen Is it manners you mean, Or do you refer to my figure?" 3 There were three young women of Birmingham, And I know a sad story concerning 'em; They stuck needles and pins In the right rev'rend shins Of the Bishop engaged in confirming 'em! 
22818	----	[Illustration] AN =A=LPHA=B=ET OF =C=ELEBRITIES Oliver Herford BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY =1899= COPYRIGHT 1899 BY =SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY= =(INCORPORATED)= ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL =THE HEINTZEMANN PRESS= BOSTON U.S.A. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |In this text = has been used to indicate text coloured orange.| +--------------------------------------------------------------+ An Alphabet of Celebrities =A='s =A=lbert Edward, well meaning but flighty, Who invited King =A=rthur, the blameless and mighty, To meet =A=lcibiades and =A=phrodite. [Illustration] =B= is for =B=ernhardt, who fails to awaken Much feeling in =B=ismarck, =B=arabbas, and =B=acon. [Illustration] =C= is =C=olumbus, who tries to explain How to balance an egg--to the utter disdain Of =C=onfucius, =C=arlyle, =C=leopatra, and =C=ain. [Illustration] =D='s for =D=iogenes, =D=arwin, and =D=ante, Who delight in the dance Of a =D=arling Bacchante. [Illustration] =E= is for =E=dison, making believe He's invented a clever contrivance for =E=ve, Who complained that she never could laugh in her sleeve. [Illustration] =F= is for =F=ranklin, who fearfully shocks The feelings of =F=enelon, =F=aber, and =F=ox. [Illustration] =G= is =G=odiva, whose great bareback feat She kindly but firmly declines to repeat, Though =G=ounod and =G=oldsmith implore and entreat. [Illustration] =H= is for =H=andel, who pours out his soul Through the bagpipes to =H=owells and =H=omer, who roll On the floor in an ecstasy past all control. [Illustration] =I= is for =I=bsen, reciting a play While =I=rving and =I=ngersoll hasten away. [Illustration] =J= is for =J=ohnson, who only says "Pish!" To =J=onah, who tells him his tale of a fish. [Illustration] =K= is the =K=aiser, who kindly repeats Some original verses to =K=ipling and =K=eats. [Illustration] =L= is =L=afontaine, who finds he's unable To interest =L=uther and =L=iszt in his fable, While =L=oie continues to dance on the table. [Illustration] =M= is =M=acduff, who's prevailed upon =M=ilton And =M=ontaigne and =M=anon to each try a kilt on. [Illustration] =N= is =N=apoleon, shrouded in gloom, With =N=ero, =N=arcissus, and =N=ordau, to whom He's explaining the manual of arms with a broom. [Illustration] =O= is for =O=liver, casting aspersion On =O=mar, that awfully dissolute Persian, Though secretly longing to join the diversion. [Illustration] =P= is for =P=eter, who hollers "No! No!" Through the keyhole to =P=aine, =P=aderewski, and =P=oe. [Illustration] =Q= is the =Q=ueen, so noble and free-- _For further particulars look under V._ [Illustration] =R='s =R=ubenstein, playing that old thing in F To =R=ollo and =R=embrandt, who wish they were deaf. [Illustration] =S= is for =S=winburne, who, seeking the true, the good, and the beautiful, visits the Zoo, Where he chances on =S=appho and Mr. =S=ardou, And =S=ocrates, all with the same end in view. [Illustration] =T= is for =T=alleyrand toasting Miss =T=ruth, By the side of her well, in a glass of vermouth, And presenting Mark =T=wain as the friend of his youth. [Illustration] =U= is for =U=ndine, pursuing =U=lysses And =U=mberto, who flee her damp, death-dealing kisses. [Illustration] =V= is =V=ictoria, noble and true-- _For further particulars look under Q._ [Illustration] =W='s =W=agner, who sang and played lots for =W=ashington, =W=esley, and good Doctor =W=atts. His prurient plots pained =W=esley and =W=atts, But =W=ashington said he "enjoyed them in spots." [Illustration] =X= is =X=antippe, who's having her say, And frightening the army of =X=erxes away. [Illustration] =Y= is for =Y=oung, the great Mormon saint, Who thinks little =Y=um =Y=um and =Y=vette so quaint, He has to be instantly held in restraint. [Illustration] =Z= is for =Z=ola, presenting _La Terre_ To =Z=enobia the brave and =Z=uleika the fair, Whose blushes they artfully conceal with their hair. [Illustration] This =Alphabet of Celebrities= written & pictured by Oliver Herford with a border & initial letters by Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue and end papers & cover design by E. B. Bird is printed for Small Maynard & Company at the Heintzemann Press in Boston U. S. A. in the month of November =MDCCCXCIX= [Illustration] [Illustration] 
27175	----	[Illustration] THE BAD CHILD'S BOOK OF BEASTS Verses by H. BELLOC Pictures by B. T. B. DUCKWORTH, 3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN Child! do not throw this book about; Refrain from the unholy pleasure Of cutting all the pictures out! Preserve it as your chiefest treasure. Child, have you never heard it said That you are heir to all the ages? Why, then, your hands were never made To tear these beautiful thick pages! Your little hands were made to take The better things and leave the worse ones. They also may be used to shake The Massive Paws of Elder Persons. And when your prayers complete the day, Darling, your little tiny hands Were also made, I think, to pray For men that lose their fairylands. _Made and Printed in Great Britain by The Camelot Press Limited, London and Southampton_ DEDICATION To Master EVELYN BELL Of Oxford Evelyn Bell, I love you well. [Illustration] INTRODUCTION I CALL you bad, my little child, Upon the title page, Because a manner rude and wild Is common at your age. The Moral of this priceless work (If rightly understood) Will make you--from a little Turk-- Unnaturally good. Do not as evil children do, Who on the slightest grounds Will imitate the Kangaroo, With wild unmeaning bounds: [Illustration] Do not as children badly bred, Who eat like little Hogs, And when they have to go to bed Will whine like Puppy Dogs: Who take their manners from the Ape, Their habits from the Bear, Indulge the loud unseemly jape, And never brush their hair. But so control your actions that Your friends may all repeat. 'This child is dainty as the Cat, And as the Owl discreet.' [Illustration] The Yak [Illustration] As a friend to the children commend me the Yak. You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, [Illustration] Or lead it about with a string. [Illustration] The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know! [Illustration] [Illustration] Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich He will buy you the creature-- or else he will _not_. (I cannot be positive which.) [Illustration] The Polar Bear The Polar Bear is unaware Of cold that cuts me through: For why? He has a coat of hair. I wish I had one too! [Illustration] The Lion The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the waste, He has a big head and a very small waist; But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim, And a good little child will not play with him. [Illustration] The Tiger The Tiger on the other hand, is kittenish and mild, He makes a pretty playfellow for any little child; And mothers of large families (who claim to common sense) Will find a Tiger well repay the trouble and expense. [Illustration] The Dromedary The Dromedary is a cheerful bird: I cannot say the same about the Kurd. [Illustration] The Whale [Illustration] The Whale that wanders round the Pole Is not a table fish. You cannot bake or boil him whole Nor serve him in a dish; [Illustration] [Illustration] But you may cut his blubber up And melt it down for oil. And so replace the colza bean (A product of the soil). [Illustration] These facts should all be noted down And ruminated on, By every boy in Oxford town Who wants to be a Don. [Illustration] The Camel [Illustration] "The Ship of the Desert." The Hippopotamus [Illustration] I shoot the Hippopotamus with bullets made of platinum, Because if I use leaden ones his hide is sure to flatten 'em. [Illustration] The Dodo [Illustration] The Dodo used to walk around, And take the sun and air. The sun yet warms his native ground-- [Illustration] The Dodo is not there! [Illustration] The voice which used to squawk and squeak Is now for ever dumb-- [Illustration] Yet may you see his bones and beak All in the Mu-se-um. The Marmozet The species Man and Marmozet Are intimately linked; The Marmozet survives as yet, But Men are all extinct. [Illustration] The Camelopard [Illustration] The Camelopard, it is said By travellers (who never lie), He cannot stretch out straight in bed Because he is so high. The clouds surround his lofty head, His hornlets touch the sky. [Illustration] How shall I hunt this quadruped? I cannot tell! Not I! (A picture of how people try And fail to hit that head so high.) I'll buy a little parachute (A common parachute with wings), I'll fill it full of arrowroot And other necessary things, And I will slay this fearful brute With stones and sticks and guns and slings. [Illustration] (A picture of how people shoot With comfort from a parachute.) [Illustration] The Learned Fish [Illustration] This learned Fish has not sufficient brains To go into the water when it rains. The Elephant [Illustration] When people call this beast to mind, They marvel more and more At such a +_LITTLE_+ tail behind, So _LARGE_ a trunk before. [Illustration] [Illustration] The Big Baboon [Illustration] The Big Baboon is found upon The plains of Cariboo: He goes about with nothing on (A shocking thing to do). [Illustration] [Illustration] But if he dressed respectably And let his whiskers grow, How like this Big Baboon would be To Mister So-and-so! [Illustration] The Rhinoceros [Illustration] Rhinoceros, your hide looks all undone, You do not take my fancy in the least: You have a horn where other brutes have none: Rhinoceros, you are an ugly beast. [Illustration] The Frog [Illustration] Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As 'Slimy skin,' or 'Polly-wog,' Or likewise 'Ugly James,' Or 'Gap-a-grin,' or 'Toad-gone-wrong,' Or 'Bill Bandy-knees': The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these. [Illustration] No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair; At least so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare). [Illustration] [Illustration] Oh! My! * * * * * Transcriber's Note: The original edition was well-illustrated. The illustrations were scattered amongst the poetry. For ease of readability, the poems have been put back together with every effort of retaining the original style. For the poem titled "The Elephant," a word in small-capitals is denoted by +. As usual, italics are indicated by _. 
27182	----	MORE PEERS Verses by H. BELLOC Pictures by B. T. B. [Illustration] LONDON: DUCKWORTH & CO. Printed in Great Britain at _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth_. William Brendon & Son, Ltd. CONTENTS PAGE I. Edward, first EARL OF ROEHAMPTON in the County of Surrey, deceased 5 II. Archibald, fifteenth Baron CALVIN of Peebles in North Britain 11 III. Henry de la Tour Albert St. John Chase, commonly known as LORD HENRY CHASE 12 IV. Thomas, second Baron HEYGATE of Bayswater in the County of London 15 V. Percy, first EARL OF EPSOM, in the County of Surrey 16 VI. Arthur Weekes, commonly known as LORD FINCHLEY, Eldest Son and Heir of Charles, first Baron Hendon 22 VII. Ali-Baba, first (and last) Baron ALI-BABA of Salonika 24 VIII. George Punter, commonly known as LORD HIPPO, Eldest Son and Heir of Peter, sixth Earl of Potamus 27 IX. Baron UNCLE TOM of Maarfontein in the Britains Over Seas 36 X. William, eighth EARL LUCKY, subsequently fifth Duke of Bradford 39 XI. Christopher, sixth Baron CANTON 45 XII. Alcibiades, third Baron ABBOTT of Brackley in Southamptonshire 47 Lord Roehampton [Illustration] During a late election Lord Roehampton strained a vocal chord From shouting, very loud and high, To lots and lots of people why The Budget in his own opin- -Ion should not be allowed to win. He [Illustration] sought a Specialist, who said: "You have a swelling in the head: Your Larynx is a thought relaxed And you are greatly over-taxed." "I am indeed! On every side!" The Earl (for such he was) replied [Illustration] In hoarse excitement.... "Oh! My Lord, You jeopardize your vocal chord!" Broke in the worthy Specialist. "Come! Here's the treatment! I insist! To Bed! to Bed! And do not speak A single word till Wednesday week, When I will come and set you free (If you are cured) and take my fee." On Wednesday week the Doctor hires A Brand-new Car with Brand-new Tyres And Brand-new Chauffeur all complete For visiting South Audley Street. * * * * * But what is this? No Union Jack Floats on the Stables at the back! No Toffs escorting Ladies fair Perambulate the Gay Parterre. A 'Scutcheon hanging lozenge-wise And draped in crape appals his eyes Upon the mansion's ample door, To which he wades through [Illustration] heaps of Straw,[A] And which a Butler [A] This is the first and only time That I have used this sort of Rhyme. [Illustration] drowned in tears, On opening but confirms his fears: "Oh! Sir!--Prepare to hear the worst!... Last night my kind old master burst. And what is more, I doubt if he Has left enough to pay your fee. The Budget----" With a dreadful oath, The Specialist, [Illustration] denouncing both The Budget _and_ the House of Lords, Buzzed angrily Bayswaterwards. * * * * * And ever since, as I am told, Gets it beforehand; and in gold. Lord Calvin Lord Calvin thought the Bishops should not sit As Peers of Parliament. [Illustration] And _argued_ it! In spite of which, for years, and years, and years, They went on sitting with their fellow-peers. Lord Henry Chase What happened to Lord Henry Chase? He got into a [Illustration] Libel Case! _The Daily Howl_ had said that he-- But could not prove it perfectly To Judge or Jury's satisfaction: His Lordship, therefore, [Illustration] won the action. But, as the damages were small, [Illustration] He gave them to a Hospital. Lord Heygate [Illustration] LORD HEYGATE had a troubled face, His furniture was commonplace-- The sort of Peer who well might pass For someone of the middle class. I do not think you want to hear About this unimportant Peer, So let us leave him to discourse About LORD EPSOM and his horse. Lord Epsom [Illustration] A Horse, Lord Epsom did bestride With mastery and quiet pride. He dug his spurs into its hide. The Horse, [Illustration] discerning it was pricked, Incontinently [Illustration] bucked and kicked, A thing that no one could predict! Lord Epsom clearly understood The High-bred creature's nervous mood, [Illustration] As only such a horseman could. Dismounting, [Illustration] [Illustration] he was heard to say That it was kinder to delay His pleasure to a future day * * * * * He had the Hunter led away. Lord Finchley [Illustration] Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric Light Himself. [Illustration] It struck him dead: And serve him right! It is the business of the wealthy man To give employment to the artisan. Lord Ali-Baba Lord Ali-Baba was a Turk Who hated every kind of work, And would repose for hours at ease With [Illustration] Houris seated on his knees. A happy life!--Until, one day [Illustration] Mossoo Alphonse Effendi Bey (A Younger Turk: the very cream And essence of the New Regime) Dispelled this Oriental dream By granting him a place at Court, High Coffee-grinder to the Porte, Unpaid:-- [Illustration] In which exalted Post His Lordship yielded up the ghost. Lord Hippo Lord Hippo suffered fearful loss [Illustration] By putting money on a horse Which he believed, if it were pressed, Would run far faster than the rest: For someone who was in the know [Illustration] Had confidently told him so. But [Illustration] on the morning of the race It only took [Illustration] the _seventh_ place! [Illustration] Picture the Viscount's great surprise! He scarcely could believe his eyes! He sought the Individual who Had laid him odds at 9 to 2, Suggesting as a useful tip That they should enter Partnership And put to joint account the debt Arising from his foolish bet. [Illustration] But when the Bookie--oh! my word, I only wish you could have heard The way he roared he did not think, And hoped that they might strike him pink! Lord Hippo simply turned and ran From this infuriated man. Despairing, maddened and distraught He utterly collapsed and sought His sire, [Illustration] the Earl of Potamus, And brokenly addressed him thus: "Dread Sire--to-day--at Ascot--I ..." His genial parent made reply: Come! Come! Come! Come! Don't look so glum! Trust your Papa and name the sum.... WHAT? [Illustration] ... _Fifteen hundred thousand?_... Hum! However ... stiffen up, you wreck; Boys will be boys--so here's the cheque! Lord Hippo, feeling deeply--well, More grateful than he cared to tell-- Punted the lot on Little Nell:-- And got a telegram at dinner To say [Illustration] that he had backed the Winner! Lord Uncle Tom Lord Uncle Tom was different from What other nobles are. For they are yellow or pink, I think, But he was black as tar. [Illustration] He had his Father's debonair And rather easy pride: But his complexion and his hair [Illustration] Were from the mother's side. He often mingled in debate And latterly displayed [Illustration] Experience of peculiar weight Upon the Cocoa-trade. But now He speaks no more. The BILL Which he could not abide, It preyed upon his mind until He sickened, paled, and died. Lord Lucky Lord Lucky, by a curious fluke, Became a most important duke. From living in a vile Hotel [Illustration] A long way east of Camberwell He rose, in less than half an hour, To riches, dignity and power. It happened in the following way:-- The Real Duke went out one day To shoot with several people, one [Illustration] Of whom had never used a gun. This gentleman (a Mr. Meyer Of Rabley Abbey, Rutlandshire), As he was scrambling through the brake, [Illustration] Discharged his weapon by mistake, And plugged about an ounce of lead Piff-bang into his Grace's Head---- Who naturally fell down dead. His heir, Lord Ugly, roared, "You Brute! [Illustration] Take that to teach you how to shoot!" Whereat he volleyed, left and right; But being somewhat short of sight, His right-hand Barrel only got The second heir, Lord Poddleplot; The while the left-hand charge (or choke) Accounted for another bloke, Who stood with an astounded air Bewildered by the whole affair --And was the third remaining heir. After the [Illustration] Execution (which Is something rare among the Rich) Lord Lucky, while of course he needed Some [Illustration] help to prove their claim, succeeded. --But after his succession, though All this was over years ago, He only once indulged the whim Of asking Meyer to lunch with him. Lord Canton The reason that [Illustration] the Present Lord Canton Succeeded lately to his Brother John Was that his Brother John, the elder son, Died rather suddenly at forty-one. The insolence of an Italian guide [Illustration] Appears to be the reason that he died. Lord Abbott Lord Abbott's coronet was far too small, So small, that as he sauntered down White Hall Even the youthful Proletariat (Who probably mistook it for a Hat) Remarked on its exiguous extent. [Illustration] Here is a picture of the incident. 
27176	----	MORE BEASTS FOR WORSE CHILDREN [Illustration] MORE BEASTS (For WORSE CHILDREN) VERSES BY H.B. PICTURES BY B.T.B. LONDON: DUCKWORTH AND CO. 3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN. DEDICATION. To Miss ALICE WOLCOTT BRINLEY, Of Philadelphia. [Illustration] MORE BEASTS FOR WORSE CHILDREN INTRODUCTION The parents of the learned child (His father and his mother) Were utterly aghast to note The facts he would at random quote On creatures curious, rare and wild; And wondering, asked each other: [Illustration] "An idle little child like this, How is it that he knows What years of close analysis Are powerless to disclose? Our brains are trained, our books are big, And yet we always fail To answer why the Guinea-pig Is born without a tail. [Illustration] Or why the Wanderoo[A] should rant In wild, unmeaning rhymes, Whereas the Indian Elephant Will only read _The Times_. [Illustration] [Illustration] Perhaps he found a way to slip Unnoticed to the Zoo, And gave the Pachyderm a tip, Or pumped the Wanderoo. Or even by an artful plan Deceived our watchful eyes, And interviewed the Pelican, Who is extremely wise." [Illustration] "Oh! no," said he, in humble tone, With shy but conscious look, "Such facts I never could have known But for this little book." The Python [Illustration] A Python I should not advise,-- It needs a doctor for its eyes, And has the measles yearly. [Illustration] However, if you feel inclined To get one (to improve your mind, And not from fashion merely), Allow no music near its cage; And when it flies into a rage Chastise it, most severely. [Illustration] [Illustration] I had an aunt in Yucatan Who bought a Python from a man And kept it for a pet. She died, because she never knew These simple little rules and few;-- [Illustration] The Snake is living yet. The Welsh Mutton [Illustration] The Cambrian Welsh or Mountain Sheep Is of the Ovine race, His conversation is not deep, But then--observe his face! The Porcupine [Illustration] What! would you slap the Porcupine? Unhappy child--desist! Alas! that any friend of mine Should turn Tupto-philist.[B] [Illustration] To strike the meanest and the least Of creatures is a sin, How much more bad to beat a beast With prickles on its skin. [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [A] Sometimes called the "Lion-tailed or tufted Baboon of Ceylon." [B] From [Greek: tuptô]=I strike; [Greek: phileô]=I love; one that loves to strike. The word is not found in classical Greek, nor does it occur among the writers of the Renaissance--nor anywhere else. The Scorpion [Illustration] The Scorpion is as black as soot, He dearly loves to bite; He is a most unpleasant brute To find in bed, at night. The Crocodile [Illustration] Whatever our faults, we can always engage That no fancy or fable shall sully our page, So take note of what follows, I beg. This creature so grand and august in its age, In its youth is hatched out of an egg. [Illustration] And oft in some far Coptic town The Missionary sits him down To breakfast by the Nile: The heart beneath his priestly gown Is innocent of guile; [Illustration] When suddenly the rigid frown Of Panic is observed to drown His customary smile. [Illustration] Why does he start and leap amain, [Illustration] And scour the sandy Libyan plain [Illustration] Like one that wants to catch a train, [Illustration] Or wrestles with internal pain? [Illustration] Because he finds his egg contain-- Green, hungry, horrible and plain-- An Infant Crocodile. The Vulture [Illustration] The Vulture eats between his meals, And that's the reason why He very, very rarely feels As well as you and I. [Illustration] His eye is dull, his head is bald, His neck is growing thinner. Oh! what a lesson for us all To only eat at dinner! The Bison [Illustration] The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain) The Door-mat you see on his head [Illustration] Is not, as some learned professors maintain, The opulent growth of a genius' brain; [Illustration] But is sewn on with needle and thread. The Viper [Illustration] Yet another great truth I record in my verse, That some Vipers are venomous, some the reverse; A fact you may prove if you try, [Illustration] By procuring two Vipers, and letting them bite; [Illustration] With the _first_ you are only the worse for a fright, [Illustration] But after the _second_ you die. The Llama [Illustration] The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy hairy goat, With an indolent expression and an undulating throat Like an unsuccessful literary man. [Illustration] And I know the place he lives in (or at least--I think I do) It is Ecuador, Brazil or Chili--possibly Peru; You must find it in the Atlas if you can. [Illustration] The Llama of the Pampasses you never should confound (In spite of a deceptive similarity of sound) With the Lhama who is Lord of Turkestan. [Illustration] For the former is a beautiful and valuable beast, But the latter is not lovable nor useful in the least; And the Ruminant is preferable surely to the Priest Who battens on the woful superstitions of the East, The Mongol of the Monastery of Shan. The Chamois [Illustration] The Chamois inhabits Lucerne, where his habits (Though why I have not an idea-r) Give him sudden short spasms On the brink of deep chasms, And he lives in perpetual fear. The Frozen Mammoth [Illustration] This Creature, though rare, is still found to the East Of the Northern Siberian Zone. [Illustration] It is known to the whole of that primitive group That the carcass will furnish an excellent soup, Though the cooking it offers one drawback at least (Of a serious nature I own): [Illustration] If the skin be _but punctured_ before it is boiled, Your confection is wholly and utterly spoiled. [Illustration] And hence (on account of the size of the beast) The dainty is nearly unknown. The Microbe [Illustration] The Microbe is so very small You cannot make him out at all, But many sanguine people hope To see him through a microscope. His jointed tongue that lies beneath A hundred curious rows of teeth; His seven tufted tails with lots Of lovely pink and purple spots, [Illustration] On each of which a pattern stands, Composed of forty separate bands; His eyebrows of a tender green; All these have never yet been seen-- But Scientists, who ought to know, Assure us that they must be so. . . . Oh! let us never, never doubt What nobody is sure about! 
26478	----	Transcriber's Note: Table of Contents added. * * * * * [Illustration: THE WALLYPUG IN LONDON By G. E. FARROW.] THE WALLYPUG IN LONDON [Illustration: HIS MAJESTY ARRIVES AT WINDSOR. SEE PAGE 143] THE WALLYPUG IN LONDON BY G. E. FARROW AUTHOR OF "THE WALLYPUG OF WHY," "THE MISSING PRINCE," ETC ILLUSTRATED BY ALAN WRIGHT METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON 1898 CONTENTS CHANT ROYAL PREFACE I HIS MAJESTY AND SUITE ARRIVE II THE NEXT DAY'S ADVENTURES III SUNDRY SMALL HAPPENINGS IV LOST V AN 'AT HOME' AND THE ACADEMY VI THE JUBILEE VII MORE ADVENTURES VIII HIS MAJESTY IS INTERVIEWED IX THE WALLYPUG'S OWN X THE WALLYPUG GOES TO WINDSOR XI HIS MAJESTY AT THE SEASIDE XII THE DEPARTURE CHANT ROYAL ADDRESSED TO HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA IN COMMEMORATION OF 22ND JUNE, 1897 VICTORIA! by grace of God our Queen, To thee thy children truest homage pay. Thy children! ay, for Mother thou hast been, And by a mother's love thou holdest sway. Thy greatest empire is thy Nation's heart, And thou hast chosen this the better part. Behold, an off'ring meet thy people bring; Hark! to the mighty world-sound gathering From shore to shore, and echoing o'er the sea, Attend! ye Nations while our paeans ring-- Victoria's children sing her Jubilee. The grandest sight the world hath ever seen Thy kingdom offers. Clothed in fair array, The Majesty of Love and Peace serene, While hosts unnumbered loyalty display, Striving to show, by every loving art, The day for them can have no counterpart. Lo! sixty years of joy and sorrowing For Queen and People, either borrowing From other sympathy, in woe or glee, Hath knit their hearts to thine, wherefore they sing-- Victoria's children sing her Jubilee. With royal dignity and gracious mien Thine high position thou hast graced alway; No cloud of discord e'er hath come between Thy nation and thyself; the fierce white ray That beats upon thy throne bids hence depart The faintest slander calumny can dart. Thy fame is dear alike to churl and king, And highest honour lies in honouring The Sovereign to whom we bend the knee; "God save the Queen," one strain unvarying-- Victoria's children sing her Jubilee. What prophet, or what seer, with vision keen, Reading the message of a far-off day, The wonders of thy reign could have foreseen, Or known the story that shall last for aye? A page that History shall set apart; Peace and Prosperity in port and mart, Honour abroad, and on resistless wing A steady progress ever-conquering. Thy glorious reign, our glorious theme shall be, And gratitude in every heart upspring-- Victoria's children sing her Jubilee. Behold, ye tyrants, and a lesson glean How subjects may be governed. Lo! the way A Woman teaches who doth ne'er demean Her office high. Hark! how her people pray For blessings on the head that doth impart So wise a rule. For them no wrongs do smart, No cruelties oppress, no insults sting, Nor does a despot hand exaction wring; Though governed, Britain's subjects still are free. Gaze then--ye unwise rulers wondering-- Victoria's children sing her Jubilee. ENVOY. Queen Mother, love of thee doth ever spring Within thy children's hearts, a priceless thing, Nor pomp nor state that falleth unto thee Can ever rival this grand carolling-- Victoria's children sing her Jubilee. G. E. FARROW [Illustration: PREFACE] MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, You will no doubt be surprised to find this book commencing with a perfectly serious poem, and one which probably some of you will find a little difficulty in understanding. When you have grown older, however, and happen to look at this little book again, you will be glad to be reminded of the historic event which the poem commemorates. Now, about ourselves, when I asked in my last book, _The Missing Prince_, for letters from my little readers, I had no idea that I had so many young friends, and I can hardly tell you how delighted I have been at receiving such a number of kind letters from all parts of the world. I do hope that I have answered everyone, but really there have been so many, and if by mistake any should have been overlooked, I hope my little correspondents will write again and give me an opportunity of repairing the omission. Such charming little letters, and all, I am happy to find, really written by the children themselves, which makes them doubly valuable to me. And how funny and amusing some of them were to be sure! And what capital stories some of you have told me about your pets. Some pathetic incidents too; as, for instance, that of 'Shellyback,' the tortoise, whose little owner wrote a few months after her first letter to say that poor 'Shellyback' was dead. I have been very happy to notice how fond you all seem of your pets, for I have always found that children who make friends with animals invariably have kind and good hearts. And the poor dumb creatures themselves are always so ready to respond to any little act of kindness, and are so grateful and affectionate, that I am sure it adds greatly to one's happiness in life to interest oneself in them. One of my correspondents, aged eight, has embarrassed me very much indeed by suggesting that I should "wait for her till she grows up," as she should "so like to marry a gentleman who told stories." I hope she didn't mean that I did anything so disgraceful; and besides, as it would take nearly twenty-five years for her to catch up to me, she _might_ change her mind in that time, and then what would become of me. Some of my letters from abroad have been very interesting. One dear little girl at Darjeeling, in India, wrote a very nice descriptive letter, and concluded by asking me to write "something about the stars," and speaking of new stories brings me to another subject that I wish to talk to you about. You know that I spoke in my last book about writing a school story, and one about animals. Well, when I found that so many of you wanted to hear "more about the Wallypug," I was obliged to put these two books aside in order to gratify your wishes. I hope that you will be as interested in hearing about his Majesty this time as you were last. You will be sure to notice that the pictures are by another artist, but Mr. Harry Furniss has been away from England for some months, and so it has been impossible for him to illustrate this volume. Some other time, perhaps, Dorothy and he will give us more of their work; but in the meantime Mr. Alan Wright has been very interested in drawing pictures for this book, and I hope you will be pleased with his efforts. Now, about writing to me next time. When I asked you to address me under care of my publishers, I did not realize that in the course of business I might find it necessary to change them sometimes, and so to avoid any possibility of confusion, will you please in future address all letters to MR. G. E. FARROW, c/o Messrs. A. P. WATT & SON, Hastings House, Norfolk Street, Strand. What am I to do with all the beautiful Christmas and New Year's cards which I have received? Will you be vexed if, after having enjoyed receiving them as I have done so much, I give them to the poor little children at the hospitals to make scrap books with? I happen to know how much they value and appreciate gifts of this kind, and by allowing me to bestow them in this way, your pretty presents will be giving a double happiness. Well, I must conclude this rather long letter now, or I shall be accused of being tedious; but really it gives me almost as much pleasure to write to you, as it does to receive your letters. Good-bye. Don't forget that many of you have promised to write to me again, and that I am always more than glad to welcome any new friends. Believe me, dear Children, Yours affectionately, G. E. FARROW [Illustration: The Wallypug in London.] CHAPTER I HIS MAJESTY AND SUITE ARRIVE A most extraordinary thing has happened; the Wallypug has been to London! But there, I am forgetting that possibly you have never read _The Wallypug of Why_, in which case you will, of course, know nothing about his Majesty, and so I had better explain to you who, and what, he is. To begin with, then, he is a kind of king of a place called Why, which adjoins the mysterious kingdom of Zum. I am afraid, though, that if you searched your atlases for a very long while you might not find either of these places, for the geographers are so undecided as to their exact position that they have not shown them on the maps at all. Some little friends of mine, named Girlie and Boy, have been there, however, and I can tell you, if you like, the way they went. This is the way to Why: Just go to bed and shut your eyes And count one hundred, one by one; Perhaps you'll find to your surprise That you're at Why when this is done. I say _perhaps_, because this only happens when you have been particularly good all day, and _sometimes_ boys and girls are not quite as good as they--but there, I won't say what I was going to, for I am quite sure that it would not apply to you. This is the way to Zum: Not when the moon is at its full, But just a tiny boat-shaped thing, You _may_ see Pierrot sitting there And hear the little fellow sing. If so, just call him, and he'll come And carry you away to Zum. There, now, I've told you the way to go to both places, so that, if you wish to, you can go there whenever you please. I am telling you all this because one day in the spring Girlie and Boy, who live in another part of London, came to see me, and we had been talking about these things for about the hundredth time, I should think: for these children are never tired of telling me of all the strange things which happened to them when they journey to these wonderful places. In fact they were just arguing as to which was the most interesting place to go to, Why or Zum, when my housekeeper, Mrs. Putchy, came to the door with the unwelcome news that the carriage had come for my little friends, and that it was time to say good-bye. After they had gone I sat staring into the fire wondering where Why could be, and if there was really such a person as the Wallypug, when my little dog Dick, who had been lying on the rug before the fire, suddenly jumped up, and barking excitedly, ran to the other end of the study, where a picture, which I had bought the day before at an auction sale, stood leaning against the wall. Now this picture had been sold very cheap, because no one could tell at all what it was about, it was so old and dusty, and the colours were so dark and indistinct. I had bought it hoping that it might prove valuable, and there it stood till it could be sent to be cleaned and restored. Imagine my surprise then, when, on following Dick across the study, I discovered that the colours in the picture had all become bright, and were working one into the other in the most remarkable way, red running into green, and blue into yellow, while a little patch of black in the centre of the picture was whirling round and round in quite a distracting manner. What could it all mean? I stared and wondered, till, out of the confusion, there gradually grew shapes which bore some resemblance to human beings, and, presently, I could recognize quite distinctly, first a young man in knee breeches, smiling in a particularly self-satisfied way, and escorting a large fish, who was walking upright, with slippers on his tail, and who wore a waistcoat and necktie. Then an amiable-looking old gentleman, carrying a wand, who was followed by a curious little person, wearing a crown and carrying an orb and sceptre. A particularly stiff and wooden-looking soldier stood at the back of this strange group. Judge of my amazement when, quite as a matter of course, the whole party deliberately stepped out of the picture into the room, and, before I could realize what had happened, the old gentleman with the wand came forward with a flourish and an elaborate bow, and announced: "A-hem! his Majesty the Wallypug of Why and suite." [Illustration: WITH SLIPPERS ON HIS TAIL] I was so astonished that for the moment I could not think what to say, but at last I managed to stammer, as I made a low bow to the Wallypug: "I am delighted to make your Majesty's acquaintance." The Wallypug smiled very affably, and held out his hand. "I have come up for the Jubilee, you know," he said. "_We've_ come up, you mean to say, Wallypug," corrected the old gentleman with the wand, frowning somewhat severely. "I am the Wallypug's professional adviser," he continued. "I am called the Doctor-in-Law--allow me to introduce the rest of our party. This," he went on, bringing the young man with the self-satisfied smile forward, "is the Jubilee Rhymester from Zum; he hopes to become a minor poet in time. And this," indicating the wooden-looking soldier, "is Sergeant One-and-Nine, also from Zum." Here the Doctor-in-Law took me aside and whispered in my ear, "Slightly cracked, crossed in love; speaks very peculiarly; capital chap though." Then crossing to where the Fish was standing, he said, "And this is A. Fish, Esq., the celebrated lecturer on the 'Whichness of the What as compared with the Thatness of the Thus.' He desired to accompany us here in order to find material for a new lecture which he is preparing upon the 'Perhapness of the Improbable.' He's awfully clever," he whispered impressively. [Illustration: "HIS MAJESTY THE WALLYPUG"] "I'm sure I'm delighted to see you all," I said, shaking hands with each one till I came to the Fish, who held out a fin. "Er-er-how do you do?" I stammered, somewhat taken aback by this strange proceeding. "Quide well with the egscebtiod of a slide cold id by head," said the Fish. "I'b subjecd to theb, you doe. It's beig id the water so butch, I fadcy," and he _smiled_. I don't know if you have ever seen a fish smile, but if not I may tell you that it is a very curious sight. "I suppose you can manage to put us up here for a month or two?" calmly suggested the Doctor-in-Law after a pause. "Dear me," I exclaimed in alarm, "I don't think my housekeeper could possibly--" "Why not ask her?" suggested the Doctor-in-Law, touching the bell. A moment or two afterwards a knock at the door announced that Mrs. Putchy was there. "Oh, Mrs. Putchy," I said, stepping just outside, "these gentlemen, er--that is to say, his Majesty the Wallypug of Why and suite, have honoured me with a visit, and I am anxious if possible to offer them such hospitality as my poor home affords. Do you think that we could manage anyhow to find room for them, for a few days at any rate?" Now Mrs. Putchy is a very remarkable woman, and I have never known her to show the slightest surprise at anything, and, so far from seeming alarmed at the prospect of having to entertain such notable visitors, she seemed positively delighted. "His Majesty of Why, sir? How charming! Of course we must do our best, and how fortunate that I put on my best gown to-day, isn't it? Dear me, and shall I be presented to his Majesty?" "Certainly, Mrs. Putchy, if you wish it," I said. "In fact, if you will call General Mary Jane, I will introduce you both, as you represent my entire household." Mrs. Putchy disappeared, returning almost immediately, followed by the servant, General Mary Jane, with her mouth wide open, and accompanied by the cat, who rejoices in the extraordinary name of Mrs. Mehetable Murchison. These members of my household were duly presented to the Wallypug. Mrs. Putchy made her curtsey with great dignity, but General Mary Jane was so overcome at the thought of being presented to royalty that she fell flat on her hands and knees in her humility, while Mrs. Mehetable Murchison, realizing, no doubt, the truth of the old saying that "a cat may look at a king," went up and sharpened her claws on the Wallypug's legs in the most friendly manner possible. It was when the cat caught sight of A. Fish, Esq., that she completely lost her presence of mind, and with arched back and bristling fur glared at him in amazement. "Priddy pussy, cub alog thed," said the Fish, stooping down and trying to stroke her with one of his fins; but Mrs. Mehetable Murchison, with a startled glance, tore out of the room, showing every sign of alarm. "And she's so fond of fish too, as a rule, ain't she, mum?" remarked General Mary Jane, who had somewhat overcome the awe with which she had at first regarded the presence of royalty. "Fod of fish?" repeated A. Fish, Esq., inquiringly. "What do you mead?" "Why, you see, sir," explained Mrs. Putchy, "we often have fish for dinner--er--that is to say--er--a-hem!" [Illustration: "PRIDDY PUSSY"] The Fish was glaring at her in a horrified way, and Mrs. Putchy had become quite nervous. "Let's change the subject," suggested the Doctor-in-Law, to our great relief. "The most important question for the moment is, where are we all going to sleep?" This gave Mrs. Putchy an opportunity for exercising her wonderful ability for management, and after arranging for the Wallypug to have the spare bedroom, and the Doctor-in-Law to have my room, I was to have a bed made up in the study, while the Jubilee Rhymester was to sleep in the attic, One-and-Nine was to have a box under the stairs, and there only remained A. Fish, Esq., to dispose of. "There is the bathroom, mum," suggested General Mary Jane brilliantly; "we could put a lid on the bath and make up a bed there." "Bedder sdill, fill id with wadter, ad thed I could sleeb _in_ id," suggested the Fish. "Oh yes, of course!" said Mrs. Putchy, "and now I must go and see about the supper." And, with a low curtsey to the Wallypug, the admirable little woman hurried out, followed by General Mary Jane, who gave a nervous little bob when she reached the door. They had scarcely disappeared before One-and-Nine came up to me and whispered: "I am muchly impressionated by that lady with the most militaryish name who has just gone out. Can you kindly inform me is she detached?" "Detached?" I inquired in bewilderment. "What ever do you mean?" "If a person is not attached to anyone else, they are detached, I suppose, are they not?" said One-and-Nine rather impatiently. "Well, if you put it that way, I suppose they are," I replied, laughing. "You mean, has she a sweetheart? Well, really I don't know. I have an idea though that Mrs. Putchy does not allow followers." "Then I shall considerize my prospectuousness with great hopefulosity!" remarked the soldier with considerable dignity, walking back to the Wallypug's chair. "What does he say?" asked the Jubilee Rhymester. "He is a little bit cracked, you know. Could you make out what he was driving at?" "Oh, yes, I could understand within a little what he meant," I replied. "He seems to have fallen in love with General Mary Jane at first sight, from what I can gather." "Really! Dear me! He is always doing that sort of thing, do you know, and he generally asks me to write poems for him when he gets into that state. I have written as many as 137 odes in one month on his behalf." "Good gracious," I replied, "and does he pay you well for them?" "Pay me!" exclaimed the Jubilee Rhymester, staring at me in surprise. "Of course not. Do people ever get paid for writing poetry?" "Why, yes, to be sure they do," I answered. "Well, I've never heard of such a thing in all my life," said the Jubilee Rhymester; "I always thought that poets had to pay to have their verses used at all, and that that was why they were always so poor while they were alive. Of course I knew that people sometimes made a fuss about them after they were dead, but I have never heard of such a thing as a live poet being paid for his work." "Nonsense," I replied; "I believe that quite a lot of money is sometimes paid by the magazines and other papers for poems and verses." "Well, I am delighted to hear it," said the Jubilee Rhymester, "and I shall certainly start writing to-morrow. I have no doubt whatever that I shall make my fortune before I go back to Zum." Shortly after this Mrs. Putchy announced that supper was served, and a little later my guests retired to rest, being thoroughly tired out with their long journey. I sat up in my study a little while longer to smoke a pipe, but was just thinking of going to bed when there was a tap at the door and the Doctor-in-Law entered. "I say, I thought I had better come and arrange with you about money matters," he said; "I didn't like to mention such things before the others. Now then," he continued, "how much are you going to pay us for staying with you?" "Pay _you_!" I gasped. "What on earth do you mean?" "Well, you see, it will be a great thing for you to have such distinguished visitors, don't you know, and you ought to be quite willing to pay liberally for the honour," said the Doctor-in-Law, smiling amiably. Now Girlie had told me what a greedy, avaricious person the Doctor-in-Law really was, despite his benevolent appearance, but this cool cheek almost took my breath away. I was determined, however, to let him see at once that I was not to be imposed upon, so I said as firmly as I could, "Now, look here, Mr. Doctor-in-Law, please understand once and for all, that as you were all so kind to my little friend Girlie when she was at Why, I am quite willing to entertain his Majesty the Wallypug, and the rest of you, to the very best of my ability, but as for paying you for being here, the idea is absurd--impossible!" [Illustration: "ID QUIDE GAVE BE A TURN"] Just then a terrific hullabaloo in the passage caused us both to run to the door. We could hear that the noise proceeded from the bathroom, and, hurrying to the door, we found A. Fish, Esq., sitting up in the water shouting for help, while Mrs. Mehetable Murchison and a whole group of her feline friends were out on the tiles, glaring through the window. "Dear be, dear be," panted the Fish, when he saw us, "I'b so frighteded, just look at all those cats. I had beed to sleeb ad was just dreabig that sobeone was sayig, 'Mrs. Behetable Burchison is _so_ fod of fish, and we ofted have fish for didder,' whed I woke ub and saw all those horrible cats lookig id ad the widdow; id quide gave be a turn. Do drive theb away please." We soon did this, and, pulling down the blinds, we left A. Fish, Esq., to his dreams and soon afterwards retired to rest ourselves. CHAPTER II THE NEXT DAY'S ADVENTURES When I entered the breakfast room the next morning I found that the Wallypug and the Doctor-in-Law had been up for some time, and were both gazing out of the window with the greatest of interest. "I hope your Majesty slept well," I remarked to the Wallypug as I approached them. "Very well indeed, thank you," he replied smilingly. "The Doctor-in-Law and myself have just been saying that we are sure to have an enjoyable visit here. We have been greatly interested in the man-machines going past. We have never seen anything like them before." "The man-machines!" I exclaimed, puzzled to know whatever he could mean. "Yes, the men with wheels instead of legs, you know." "Oh, you mean the bicyclists," I replied, laughing. "Have you really never seen any before?" "No, indeed," replied his Majesty. "Are they born with wheels on, or do they grow afterwards?" I laughed, and fortunately just then the youngster opposite, who always rides to school on his bicycle, came out of doors wheeling his machine, and I was able to explain to the Wallypug the principle upon which they worked. "Dear me; the Doctor-in-Law told me that the machinery was part of the man, but now I see that it is separate. And he charged me sixpence for the information too," he complained, looking reproachfully at the Doctor-in-Law. "Charged you sixpence!" I cried. "Yes," replied the poor Wallypug. "He offered to tell me all about them for sixpence, and as I was really very curious to know I gave it to him, and then he informed me that they were a peculiar race of people who came from Coventry, and who were all born with wheels instead of legs." "Take your old sixpence then, if you are going to make all that fuss about it," said the Doctor-in-Law, crossly, throwing the coin down on the table and walking out of the room in a huff. "I'm sure I did read somewhere that they came from Coventry," he added, popping his head in at the door and then slamming it violently after him. The boy opposite was still riding up and down the road, and I made up my mind that although I had never spoken to him before, I would ask him to let the Wallypug examine his bicycle more closely. "With pleasure," he replied, raising his hat politely to the Wallypug, when I had explained who he was; "and if his Majesty would like to try it he is quite welcome to do so." The Doctor-in-Law's curiosity had so far overcome his ill-humour that, when he saw us talking to the boy, he came forward and offered to help the Wallypug to mount. "I really don't think he had better," I said, "he might damage the machine." "Oh no, he won't hurt it, I'm sure," said the boy generously; and so with our united assistance the Wallypug got on to the bicycle, and after a few preliminary wobblings started off in fine style. Faster and faster he went, clinging desperately to the handle-bars, till we, who were running beside him, could no longer keep pace with him. [Illustration: THE START] "I can't stop," we heard him shout; and a moment later he charged straight at a large stone and half a brick which lay in the middle of the roadway. Poor Wallypug! The sudden impact threw him right over the handle-bars, and he landed in a huddled heap on his hands and knees in the gutter. The machine flew in half, and the front portion careered madly away by itself till stopped by the kerb. We hurried up to his Majesty to discover if he was much hurt, but, with the exception of a few scratches on his hands and knees and a thorough shaking, he seemed to have come off pretty well. [Illustration: THE FINISH] "I suppose we can't stick it together again?" he inquired, gazing ruefully at the broken bicycle, and I was obliged to tell him that there was not much chance of our doing so. The boy to whom it belonged bravely made the best of the matter, especially when I told him that the next half-holiday he had I would take him to Holborn to choose another one in its place. And when I discovered that he had a half-holiday that very afternoon, it was arranged that General Mary Jane should order a carriage at the livery stable, and that we should all drive to the city after luncheon. The Wallypug, after a good wash and a hearty breakfast, went to his room to lie down for an hour or two to recover from the effects of his accident, and I was just answering my morning letters when there was a knock at the study door, and the Rhymester entered. [Illustration: HIPPETY-HOPPETY-PLOP] "I sat up most of the night writing poetry," he remarked, "and I have just brought you one or two specimens. The first one is called 'The Ode of a Toad.' Perhaps I had better read it to you. My writing is rather peculiar," and he began as follows: THE ODE OF A TOAD. There was once an old toad who lived under a tree, Hippety hop--Flippety flop, And his head was as bald as bald could be, He was deaf as a post and could hardly see, But a giddy and frivolous toad was he, With his hippety-hoppety-plop. And he gambolled and danced on the village green, Hippety hop--Flippety flop, In a way that had never before been seen, Tho' he wasn't so young as once he had been, And the people all wondered whate'er he could mean, With his hippety-hoppety-plop. But the old chap kept bobbing about just the same, Hippety hop--Flippety flop, Till everyone thought he _must_ make himself lame, And not a soul ever could find out his aim, In keeping up such a ridiculous game, As his hippety-hoppety-plop. Some said he was mad, tho' as mild as a dove, Hippety hop--Flippety flop, And as the result of a push or a shove, Was a little bit cracked in the storey above, _But I fancy myself the old boy was in love_, With his hippety-hoppety-plop. "There! What do you think of it?" he asked when he had finished. "Well, candidly, I'm afraid not very much," I replied; "and what on earth do you call it an ode for?" "Why, you see, ode went so well with the word toad. I was going to call it 'Ode to a Toad,' but it isn't _to_ a toad at all, though it's about a toad. Ah! by the bye, I might call it 'A Toad's Ode,' mightn't I? I think that sounds very jolly." He altered the title in pencil. [Illustration: "I LOVE BUT THEE"] "I have another which I think you will say is very touching." And after getting his handkerchief out in case he should be moved to tears, he began: THE BALLADE OF A BUN. Don't talk to me of "Sally Lunn," Or toasted tea-cake nice and hot, I do not care for either one A single solitary jot; My heart is fixed and changeth not, In all the world--whate'er I see, And rich or poor--whate'er my lot-- Oh! penny bun, I love but thee. For thy dear sake all cakes I shun Smeared o'er with jam. No apricot Or greengage tart my heart hath won; Their sweetness doth but cloy and clot. What marmalade in fancy pot Or cream meringue, though fair it be, Thine image e'er can mar or blot? Oh! penny bun, I love but thee. I vowed to cherish thee, or none (Such love thy simple charms begot), When first I saw thee, precious one; And now to some sweet lonely spot, Some shady dell or mossy grot, Come let us hasten, you and me, And I will eat you like a shot; Oh! penny bun, I love but thee. _Envoy._ Small boys or girls that homeward trot From school in time for early tea, This moral ne'er must be forgot: "Love penny buns, and they'll love thee." "Isn't it affecting?" he inquired, wiping his eyes when he had finished. "Well, perhaps I didn't quite appreciate the pathos of it as I might have done," I answered, trying hard not to laugh. "You see I was paying so much attention to the scansion. I find that you have altered the refrain in the Envoy. Surely that's not correct, is it?" "Oh, you are a great deal too particular," remarked the Rhymester crossly. "Why, I should think from the Doctor-in-Law's description of a critic that you must be one." "What did he say a critic was?" I asked. "Why, he said a critic was a person who found fault with another, for not doing what he was unable to do himself. And he charged me fourpence three-farthings for the information, and as I only had fourpence halfpenny I have to pay him the odd farthing when I sell some of my poems. Can you tell me how I can set to work about it?" "Well, I hardly know," I replied, "unless you send them to the editors of the various magazines. They may take them, but you must not be disappointed if some of them are rejected. You see they cannot possibly print everything that is sent to them." There were several magazines in the study, and I suggested that the Rhymester should make a list of the addresses of the various editors, and he was busy about that till luncheon time. At half-past two the carriage came to the door, and goodness only knows what General Mary Jane must have told the livery stable people about the Wallypug, for, evidently anxious to send an equipage worthy of royalty, they had painted an enormous monogram in gold on the sides of the carriage, while the coachman was resplendent in blue plush and gold lace, with silk stockings and a powdered wig. [Illustration: "EQUIPAGEOUS GRANDIOSITY"] The Wallypug was delighted when he saw this elaborate turn-out, and so were the others, for I overheard One-and-Nine murmuring something about "equipageous grandiosity," as he climbed up to the seat beside the coachman. When the Wallypug, the Doctor-in-Law, A. Fish, Esq., and the Rhymester, were seated, there was no room left for the boy and myself, so we followed behind in a modest dog-cart, which was hurriedly procured from the livery stable. Many were the wondering glances bestowed upon the carriage, with its somewhat remarkable burden, as we drove along through Kensington to the Gardens. And everywhere our appearance was hailed with enthusiasm, people being evidently under the impression that the Wallypug was one of the royal guests invited to the Jubilee festivities. Who could he be? That was decidedly the question which everyone was asking, and I could not quite determine who was causing the greater sensation, the Wallypug or A. Fish, Esq. These two individuals, however, comported themselves with the calmest dignity, only the Doctor-in-Law seemed flurried by the attention which they attracted, and smiled and bowed right and left, whether the people took any notice of him or not. As we approached Hyde-Park corner attention was diverted from the Wallypug's carriage by the fact that _another_ royal equipage had entered the Park gates; and as the Princess passed us, an amused glance and a whispered conversation with the other occupant of the carriage showed that the Wallypug's extraordinary party had not escaped Her Royal Highness's attention. After going once round the Park we went out at the Marble Arch and along Oxford Street to Holborn, our progress through the crowded streets everywhere attracting the most excited interest. And when we stopped before one of the large bicycle _depôts_ in Holborn the crowd around the carriage was so large that the policeman had quite a difficulty in preventing a block in the traffic. Our business was soon transacted, and, having secured an excellent machine for the boy in place of the one which his Majesty had damaged in the morning, we drove back to Kensington without further adventure. The Wallypug's curiosity, however, was so awakened by what he had seen that, as soon as we had been refreshed by a cup of afternoon tea, he suggested that we should go out for a walk; accordingly the whole party proceeded to Kensington Gardens, followed by a curious and somewhat derisive crowd of small boys, who would insist upon advising the Wallypug to "get his hair cut." Now, I happened to know, from what Girlie had told me about her adventures in Why, that the Wallypug, though a kind of king, had to do as his people directed and not as he liked, and that when he had presented a petition in Parliament to be allowed to have his hair cut, they had divided upon the subject, and so he had only been allowed to have _half_ of it cut, and as the long half had by this time grown very long indeed, he certainly did look rather remarkable; that was no excuse though for the street boys' rudeness, and his Majesty very wisely took no notice of them. A. Fish, Esq., came in for the greatest amount of attention, and when a few drops of rain began to fall, and he put up an umbrella for fear that he should get wet, the crowd became so excited that the Doctor-in-Law wisely suggested that a return should be made. His Majesty, however, was bent upon sight-seeing, and so the party separated, the Doctor-in-Law, A. Fish, Esq., and One-and-Nine going home, while the rest of us continued our walk. When we reached the Gardens, the Wallypug was greatly interested in seeing the palace where the Queen was born, and said that he should certainly petition his Parliament to allow him to have soldiers walk up and down before the gates of his palace, like those which he saw here. He admired greatly Princess Louise's statue of the Queen, which stands in front of the palace, and said he couldn't imagine where-ever they could have got all the white sugar from to make it with, and I think that he was inclined to disbelieve me when I told him that it was not made of sugar at all, but of white marble; for he said that if that were the case he couldn't think why they wanted to put such high railings around it, as no one would wish to carry away a marble statue of that size, whereas, if it were sugar, as he suggested, why, of course, the railings were there to prevent the children from climbing up and breaking off little pieces to eat. [Illustration: FOR FEAR HE SHOULD GET WET] The Round Pond and the little model ships interested His Majesty most of all though, I fancy, and he spent quite a long time admiring them, until, while assisting a small boy to get his ship ashore, he had the misfortune to slip into the water himself, and had to be fished out with the assistance of a boathook. His Majesty certainly did not look either dignified or regal as he stood on the bank saturated with water, and his royal robes clinging about him in the most woe-begone manner--and as the crowd had greatly increased, I was very glad to get the poor Wallypug into a cab and drive home. [Illustration: HIS MAJESTY HAS AN ACCIDENT] On our way there, the Rhymester, being very much afraid of getting his clothes wet, sat in the furthest corner of the cab and amused himself by writing a verse on the subject of his Majesty's misfortune, which read somehow like this: "King George I've heard is King of Greece, But since this luckless slipping, The Wallypug I do declare Should be the King of _Dripping_." I think his Majesty thought it rather unkind of the Rhymester to make fun of him in this way, but before he had time to think much about the matter, we had arrived at our destination, and to my great surprise I could see a vast crowd collected at the doors of the building in which my flat is situated. CHAPTER III SUNDRY SMALL HAPPENINGS Whatever could it all mean? The Doctor-in-Law stood on the steps, calling out, "Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the Talking Fish," while large posters were pasted on the walls, bearing the words, "Admission Sixpence" and "One day only." The Commissionaire who usually stands at the door was looking very surprised and angry, while the page boy was grinning all over his face. Whatever was happening? I hastily paid the cabman, and followed by the Wallypug made my way through the crowd to the entrance. "Admission sixpence each," said the Doctor-in-Law, holding out his hand. [Illustration: "WALK UP, WALK UP, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN"] "What do you mean?" I replied, "and what is all this crowd doing here?" "Admission sixpence each!" repeated the Doctor-in-Law stubbornly, not taking the least notice of my questions, and holding his wand across the doorway so that I could not get in. "Nonsense!" I cried; "I'm not going to pay to go into my own house." "Pay for the Wallypug then and I'll let you in free," said the little man insinuatingly. "I shall do nothing of the sort," I cried, pushing past him and hurrying up the stairs. To my surprise I found my rooms occupied by strangers. Sergeant One-and-Nine was reciting some of the Rhymester's poems in the dining room to three deaf old ladies, two of whom had ear trumpets, while A. Fish, Esq., was holding a kind of _levée_ in my study, seated in a chair placed on the writing table, and was surrounded by an admiring crowd of people who were asking all sorts of questions. Mrs. Putchy met me at the door. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad you've come home. I haven't known what to do with all these people." "But what does it all mean, Putchy?" I inquired. "What are they doing here at all?" "Why, you see, sir!" said Mrs. Putchy, "Mr. Doctor-in-Law found that A. Fish, Esq., was attracting a good deal of attention out of doors, and he thought that it would be a capital idea to have a kind of show here and charge sixpence admission to see him; and if there's been one, I'm sure there's been a hundred people up here this afternoon. The remarks they've been making too, and the questions they've been asking. Why, one old lady, sir, wanted to know how much you paid A. Fish, Esq., a week, and if I was _quite_ sure that you gave him enough to eat. They've broken three chairs too, and that little Venetian glass vase that stood on the bracket in the corner. And just now I caught some little boys tearing pictures out of one of those illustrated books you brought home last week." Here was a pretty state of affairs. The strangers had by this time left A. Fish, Esq., and had collected around the poor Wallypug, who had been waiting in his wet clothing in the hall, and I was obliged to politely but firmly insist upon them at once leaving the house, telling them that their money would be returned at the door. "I should think so, indeed," said one angry-looking stout lady. "Why, the whole thing is a fraud and you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. Talking fish indeed! I don't believe he's a fish at all--at any rate, not what I call a 'fish,'" and she flounced down the stairs only to return a moment or two afterwards to say, "I thought you said that we were to have our money back." "So you are, madam," I replied. "Well, why don't you see that we get it then? That man downstairs refuses to give me any money. The whole thing is a swindle. But I don't mean to be defrauded in this way, I can tell you." I went downstairs and told the Doctor-in-Law that he must at once return everyone their money, and this after a great deal of grumbling he did, while the Commissionaire and the page boy tore down the posters outside the door at my request. I explained to the Doctor-in-Law that this sort of thing must not occur again, and made him promise that he would never again use my rooms as a place in which to hold a show. I really felt rather annoyed about it, for I could not imagine whatever the neighbours would think of me for permitting such a scene to take place in my rooms, but it evidently was useless now to say anything more about it. The next morning, despite the wetting which the Wallypug had received at the Round Pond, his thoughts still ran upon boating, and nothing would satisfy his Majesty but that he should go for a row. I suggested Richmond as the best place to start from, and so we drove over Hammersmith Bridge and across Barnes Common. Arrived at Richmond we had no difficulty in securing a nice boat. "I'll row for one," said his Majesty. "And I for another," said the Rhymester. "Very well then," I replied. "Perhaps the Doctor-in-Law will steer, and so we will manage very nicely." Quite a large crowd had collected to see us start, and perhaps that is what made the Wallypug so nervous; as it was, as soon as we pushed off, his Majesty fell backwards with his feet sticking up above the seat, while the Rhymester stuck one oar deep down into the water and pulled it with all his might, while the other flourished about in the air. [Illustration: HIS MAJESTY FELL BACKWARDS] The Doctor-in-Law's idea of steering consisted in pulling first one string and then the other, and so we did not get along very well just at first. When the Wallypug had picked himself up from the bottom of the boat, however, and the Rhymester and he made another attempt, I think we should have got along fairly well if the Doctor-in-Law, in trying to get out of the way of a passing boat, had not steered us into the bank, where we stuck fast in the mud till someone on the footpath very kindly pushed us off again. After that I thought it best to take the oars myself, and his Majesty steered under my direction. In this way we managed to get a little way past Teddington Lock by luncheon time, and having found an _eyot_ with no one on it we went ashore and unpacked the hamper of good things which we had brought with us. It was a beautiful day, and I think that we all enjoyed the picnic immensely. I know that I did for one, and so, I think, did his Majesty, for after the meal he laid aside his crown and royal robes and made himself comfortable on the grass under the trees, and looked thoroughly happy with a big cigar in his mouth. [Illustration: HIS MAJESTY ENJOYS HIMSELF] A. Fish, Esq., busied himself in preparing notes for his lecture on the "Perhapness of the Improbable," and the Doctor-in-Law, having piled all the cushions in the boat at one end, threw himself upon them and read the newspaper. In this way the afternoon passed very comfortably, and the Rhymester, after scribbling upon several pieces of paper, came and read to me a poem which had been inspired by our beautiful surroundings; he called it SOUL YEARNINGS. The water's as wet as wet can be, And the trees, and the grass, are green, While the little birds sing and the fishes swim; 'Tis a most delightful scene. It makes me yearn for I don't know what, To come from I don't know where, And take me away to the thingummybob And the what-you-may-call-'ems there; and he told me that beautiful scenery always affected him in that way. [Illustration: AN UNFORTUNATE VOLLEY] It was now time for us to be thinking about getting back, especially as I should have to do all of the rowing. So we got into the boat again, and I rowed back as far as Twickenham, where we stopped at Eel-pie Island to have some tea. While we were waiting for it to be prepared, we began a game of tennis, but were obliged to leave off, as an unfortunate volley of the Doctor-in-Law's caught the Wallypug on the nose, and so his Majesty declined to play any more. We persuaded him to join us at cricket, though, having found some stumps and a bat and ball in an outhouse on the Island, and got on very well for some time till, at a shout of "out, leg before wicket," the Wallypug (who had caught the ball very nicely on his shin) fell forward on to the Doctor-in-Law, crushing his hat well over his eyes, and ruffling his temper considerably. [Illustration: "OUT"] In fact, I was very glad that tea was announced just then, for I feared that there was going to be a bother, and, as it was, the Doctor-in-Law kept scowling at his Majesty very fiercely. "I shall make him pay for it," declared the little man, and, during tea, which we had at wicker tables by the river's edge, he was busy making out an account, which later he handed with great solemnity to the Wallypug. His Majesty apparently could not understand it, and passed it on to me. On examination, I found it to be worded as follows: HIS MAJESTY THE WALLYPUG OF WHY, In account with THE DOCTOR-IN-LAW. To damage of one hat, £0 7 6 " Physical injury, 0 2 0 " Moral deterioration, 15 6 9 --------- £22 17 8 " 3 per cent. discount for cash, 3 6 2 --------- £26 4 11 "What do you mean by moral deterioration?" demanded the Wallypug. "Oh, I don't know. Same as other people do, I suppose," said the Doctor-in-Law. "It's always charged now, I believe. I read something about it in the papers this afternoon." "But the addition is all wrong," I expostulated. "No, it isn't," replied the Doctor-in-Law, rudely snatching the document from me and putting it into his pocket-book, "and if it is, it's nothing to do with you. I shall charge it in our expenses, which the people of Why have undertaken to pay, so there." And the avaricious little fellow ran off to the boat, which we afterwards found he had been letting out on hire to small boys at a penny a head. The return journey was accomplished without any remarkable incidents, and on reaching home I found a very pressing invitation from Girlie's mother for the whole party to attend her "At Home" the next day. It appears that this lady had called upon me while we were out, and Mrs. Putchy had told her of the Wallypug's arrival. His Majesty was good enough to say that he should be delighted to accept, and so I wrote off at once to say that she might expect us. CHAPTER IV LOST We had a terrible fright the next morning, for the poor dear Wallypug got lost, and for some time we could not imagine what had become of him. It happened in this way: directly after breakfast his Majesty said that he should like to go for a walk and look at the shops. "I'm not going," declared the Doctor-in-Law. "I have some _very_ important letters to write." We all looked up in surprise, for we did not know that the Doctor-in-Law had any other acquaintances in London. "Letters from which I hope to derive a princely income," continued the little man grandly; "and, therefore, I have no time for such foolishness as looking into shop windows." "He's afraid thad he bight have to sped sub buddy," remarked A. Fish, Esq. "Nothing of the sort," replied the Doctor-in-Law, turning very red though. "Well, don't waste time talking about it; let's go if we are going," said the Rhymester; and so, as I also had some correspondence to attend to, it was arranged that the Wallypug, the Rhymester, and A. Fish, Esq., should go for a little stroll by themselves. I had some doubts in my own mind as to the advisability of letting them go alone, but they promised not to go beyond Kensington Gardens, and to wait for me there just inside the gates. After they had gone I settled down to my letter-writing, and was getting along nicely when the Doctor-in-Law interrupted me with: "I say, I wish you would let me have about twenty sheets of note-paper, will you, please?" "Twenty!" I exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, twenty," said the Doctor-in-Law. "Or you had better make it a quire while you are about it." I thought the quickest way to get rid of him was to give him the paper, so I got up and got it for him. "And a packet of envelopes, please," he said, as I handed it to him. "Anything else?" I asked rather sarcastically. "Stamps!" he replied, calmly holding out his hand. "Well, really--" I expostulated. "Oh, halfpenny ones will do. You're surely not so mean as to mind tenpence, are you?" "I don't think I'm mean, but--" "Hand them over then, and don't waste so much time talking," said the little man impatiently, and so, just to get rid of him, I gave him the stamps and sat down to my letters again. I had hardly begun when he came back. "Don't you take any other newspapers than these?" he demanded, showing me a handful. "No, I don't, and I think it's rather extravagant of me to have those," I replied. "Well, then, how do you suppose that I am going to manage? I want at least five other papers, and it's _most_ important that I should have them." "You might buy them," I suggested. "They are so dear," he grumbled. "Well, why don't you go to the Public Library then?" I suggested. "You know where it is, and you could see all of the papers there, you know." "Ah, a capital idea," he said, putting on his hat and going out. "Now," I thought, "I shall have peace at last." I was not left undisturbed long though, for a few minutes later Mrs. Putchy came to the door. "Oh, please, sir, will you go down? Mr. Doctor-in-Law is having such a bother with the postman." I hurried out, and found the little man very angry indeed. "This postman won't give me a letter," he cried when he saw me. "Perhaps he hasn't one for you," I answered. "But I saw him giving them away all down the street for nothing," persisted the Doctor-in-Law. "And when I asked him in a civil way for one, he refused to give it to me. It's no use for him to say he hasn't one, when he has a whole packet in his hand now, and a lot more in his bag, no doubt. Are you going to give me a letter or not?" he continued, turning to the postman. [Illustration: "ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE ME A LETTER OR NOT?"] "No, sir," continued the man, smiling. "I haven't any for you." "Very well, then," said the Doctor-in-Law decidedly, "I shall certainly write to the Queen and tell her that if she employs you any longer I shall take all my custom away, and I shall not send the twenty letters, that I intended writing to-day, off at all." I endeavoured to explain to the little man that the postman could not possibly give him a letter if he had not one addressed to him. "Oh, that's all nonsense," he exclaimed, going off in a huff. "Of course you would take his part." Before I could settle down to work again the Rhymester and A. Fish, Esq., returned. "Where's the Wallypug?" I demanded. "Oh, he's coming by the next 'bus," said the Rhymester. "Haven't you had any rain here?" "No," I replied. "Oh, we had quidt a sharb shower," said A. Fish, Esq., "ad I was afraid of gettig wet, so we stopped a 'bus--there was odly roob for two though, ad the Wallypug said thad he would cub od by the dext." "I hope he will get home all right," I said anxiously. "I don't think you ought to have left his Majesty by himself." "Oh! it's only a little way," said the Rhymester; "he's sure to get home all right." [Illustration: "SO WE STOPPED A 'BUS"] An hour passed and there was no signs of the Wallypug. I now began to get seriously anxious. It would, of course, be the easiest thing in the world for his Majesty to take the wrong 'bus, and be taken goodness knows where. I couldn't think what was best to be done. The Rhymester suggested sending the Crier out, but I never remembered having seen one at Kensington, and at last, after searching for some time ourselves in Kensington Gardens, and making inquiries in High Street, and failing to glean any tidings of his Majesty, I thought it best to go to the Police Station. Here I found a very important-looking official in uniform, with a big book in front of him. "What is it?" he inquired, glaring at me fiercely. "I've called to know if you could assist me in finding a friend who, I fear, has lost his way," I replied. The official did not answer me, but reached down another large book. "What's his name?" he inquired gruffly. "His name? Oh--er--his name is--er--that is to say he is the--" I had not the least idea what the Wallypug's name really was, so I couldn't very well say. "What's his name?" shouted the official. "I'll ask you what he _is_ presently." "Well, I'm very sorry, but I really do not know his name." The man glanced at me very suspiciously. "You said he was a friend of yours--it's a very odd thing that you don't know his name. What is he?" "He's a--a--Wallypug," I stammered. "That is to say he--er--" "Wallypug!" exclaimed the man contemptuously. "What's that?" "Why, it's a kind of king, you know," I explained, feeling that the explanation was rather a lame one. "A _kind_ of king!" exclaimed the police officer. "Explain yourself." "Well, I'm afraid I can't explain more clearly than that," I replied. "This gentleman has been staying with me for a couple of days, and went out this morning and lost his way." "Where did he come from?" asked the man. "Why," I answered. "Why? Because I want to know," he shouted. "Don't let me have any further prevarication. Where did the man, or Wallypug, or whatever you call him, come from?" "From Why. From a place called Why, you know," I repeated. "I _don't_ know," said the officer. "I've never heard of such a place. Where is it?" "Well, really," I said, "I'm very sorry, but I cannot tell you. I don't know myself." "This is _very_ remarkable," said the man, glaring at me through his glasses. "You don't know your friend's name; you call him a Wallypug, and can't explain what that is, you don't know where he comes from--perhaps you can tell me how he reached your house?" I was now really in a fix, for how could I tell this man that his Majesty had stepped out of a picture. I thought the best thing to do was to hold my tongue. "How did he come?" repeated the officer. "By train?" I shook my head. "By steamer?" I shook my head again. "Did he drive?--or come on a bicycle, or walk?" I remained silent. The police officer stared at me for a moment or two, waiting for my answer. "Look here, young man," said he at last, evidently very angry indeed. "It strikes me that you are having a game with me. You had better go away quietly or I shall be obliged to take you in charge as a lunatic." "But I assure you that--" "How was your friend dressed?" "Oh, he wore a somewhat battered gold crown, and carried an orb and sceptre, and was dressed in knee breeches and a velvet cloak with an ermine collar." The man gave me a keen glance and then rang a bell. A policeman appeared a moment or two afterwards, and the officer whispered something to him, of which I only caught the words, "harmless lunatic." "Lunatic, sir; yes, sir. Step this way, please," said the policeman, and before I could realize what had happened I was bundled into a small bare room, and the key was turned in the lock and I was a prisoner. Here was a pretty state of affairs. The stupid people had mistaken me for a lunatic, and I was no doubt to be locked up here till a doctor arrived. Of course the only thing for me to do was to sit still and wait as patiently as I could. Fortunately the police people thought of telegraphing to the other stations to find out if anything was known of an escaped lunatic; and from Fulham came the reply, "We have found one ourselves. He calls himself a Wallypug, and is dressed like a second-hand king." This caused inquiries to be made, and eventually I was taken in a cab to Fulham, where we found his Majesty in the charge of the police, he having been found wandering about the Fulham Road quite unable to give what they considered a satisfactory account of himself. It was most unfortunate that his Majesty should have taken the wrong 'bus, for, not having any money with him, he was set down in a totally strange neighbourhood, and had quite forgotten my address. Of course, now that we had been brought face to face, we had no difficulty in convincing the police people that we were what we represented ourselves to be, and were soon, to our great relief, on our way home again. "I don't think that I should like to be a policeman," remarked the Wallypug, on our way there. "No?" I answered. "Why not?" "They have to catch dogs for a living?" remarked his Majesty solemnly. "There were several brought in while I was waiting, and the policeman who had caught them seemed so pleased about it." I explained to the Wallypug as well as I was able about the muzzling order, and his Majesty was highly indignant, and when I pointed out several dogs with muzzles on he was more indignant still. "And are they always obliged to wear those horrible wire cages over their heads?" he inquired. I told his Majesty that in London the order for wearing them had been in force for some considerable time, and we had a long talk over the matter, his Majesty declaring that he should try and invent a new muzzle which should be more comfortable for the poor dogs. [Illustration: UNABLE TO GIVE AN ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF] "Oh, here we are at last," he exclaimed, as we turned the corner near my house. "And there are the others on the steps!" "Here they are! Here they are!" shouted the Rhymester to the others, and everyone rushed forward to assist his Majesty to alight, seemingly very glad to see us back again. We were quite as delighted to get back, I can tell you, and I was so relieved at having found the Wallypug that I hadn't the heart to refuse the Doctor-in-Law's request that I would give him ten shillings worth of penny stamps to put into the letters which he had been writing while we had been away, although he would not give me the slightest clue as to what they were wanted for. CHAPTER V AN 'AT HOME' AND THE ACADEMY We were quite ready for luncheon, as you may imagine, after our morning's adventures, and directly afterwards his Majesty set to work on the new dog's muzzle which he had promised to invent. In about half an hour he had constructed one with which he was intensely delighted, and he persuaded A. Fish, Esq., to try it on that we might see the effect. It certainly was very simple, but as there was nothing whatever to go over the mouth, I felt sure that it could not possibly be very useful. I did not like to tell his Majesty so though, for he seemed so thoroughly proud of his achievement. It was now time to go to the 'At Home,' so, wishing to do honour to the occasion, our 'State Coach,' as we called it, was sent for, and we drove off in fine style. There were a great many people invited to meet us, and I could see that there was quite a little flutter of excitement when the Wallypug entered. [Illustration: IT CERTAINLY WAS VERY SIMPLE] His Majesty, however, in his simple, good-natured way soon put everybody at their ease, and laughed and chattered with the utmost affability. Girlie and Boy had both been allowed to come into the drawing-room, and Girlie quite claimed the Wallypug as her own particular guest, while Boy renewed his acquaintance with the Rhymester, whom he had met before at Zum, and despite their mother's protests they carried these two members of our party off in triumph to show them their play-room and toys and to talk over old times. While they were away the Doctor-in-Law made himself very agreeable to the ladies, and I watched him bowing and smiling and chatting, first with one group, then with another, with great amusement. I found out afterwards that he had promised several of them portraits of his Majesty and suite for 2s. 6d. each as soon as they should be taken, and in every case had asked for the money in advance; but the great event of the afternoon was when A. Fish, Esq., wrapped up in Mrs. Putchy's pink woollen shawl, borrowed for the occasion, and surrounded by a group of young ladies, consented after much pressing to deliver part of his lecture on the "Perhapness of the Improbable." "You bust sed for the Rhymebster though to help be to read id, for by cold is still so bad thad I can'd do id by byself," he explained. [Illustration: A. FISH, ESQ., OBLIGES] So the Rhymester was sent for, and his Majesty also came down to hear the wonderful lecture. It had been turned into verse by the Rhymester, who, after an affected attempt to clear his throat, read as follows: THE PERHAPNESS OF THE IMPROBABLE. If _this_ were that, and _these_ were those, And _hither_ nearer thither, Why, _which_ might be whate'er it chose, And _there_ be any whither. Somehow 'twould be the simpler way To _dearer_ be than cheaper, And that's why _when_ (each other day) Would _higher_ be than _deeper_. So _worst_ would be the _best_ of all, And _far more less_ than either; While _short_ would certainly be _tall_, And therefore thus be neither. [Illustration: ABSENT-MINDEDLY SPILT HIS TEA] "Beautiful! charming!" echoed all the young ladies at once when he had finished, while one lady sitting near me exclaimed, "How sweetly simple!" For my own part I thought that it was anything but simple, and caught myself trying to follow the line of argument with the most brain-confusing results. The Wallypug was greatly distressed when he discovered that while listening to the reading, and looking at the charming young lady with whom he had been conversing, he had absent-mindedly spilt the whole of his cup of tea over her dress. "You see, they didn't give me a plate to put my cake on," I heard him explain apologetically, "and it _was_ so awkward, for my cup would keep slipping about on the saucer." The young lady smiled very sweetly and assured his Majesty that it didn't matter in the least, and shortly afterwards we left, having stayed, as it was, far beyond the regulation time. When we arrived home we found a letter addressed to the Rhymester in the letter-box, which in a state of great excitement he tore open with trembling fingers. Upon reading the contents he burst into tears. "Poor man, poor man!" he sobbed. "I am so sorry to have caused him so much trouble." "It is a letter from an Editor," he explained through his tears, "and he is in great distress through not being able to publish my poem. He says he greatly regrets his inability to make use of it! Poor man, he evidently feels it very keenly. I must write and tell him not to be too unhappy about it." I had some letters to write too, one to a photographer in Regent Street, asking for an appointment the next morning, for I was determined that the Doctor-in-Law should send the promised photographs to the young ladies without delay. The first thing in the morning came a telegram to say that we could be photographed at eleven o'clock, so, after my guests had made themselves as spruce as possible, we started off and reached there in good time. It was suggested that the Wallypug should be taken by himself, but when he saw the camera pointed directly at him while the operator disappeared beneath the black cloth, he came to the conclusion that it was too dangerous a machine to be faced with impunity, so he suddenly turned his back upon it, and nervously fled from the room. It was only by promising that the others should be taken with him that we could get him to sit at all, and even then there was a strained and nervous expression upon his face, which suggested that he was in momentary fear that the thing would "go off." The Rhymester insisted upon being taken with one of his poems in his hand, the Doctor-in-Law wore his usual complacent smile, and altogether the group was quite a success. As soon as the "operation," as the Wallypug would insist upon calling it, was over, we went downstairs, his Majesty leading the way, while the Doctor-in-Law stayed behind for a moment to make some arrangements with the photographer about commission. We had intended going home by 'bus, but when we got to the door his Majesty was nowhere to be seen. What could have become of him? We looked up and down the street, but could see no signs of him anywhere; and at last, after hunting about for a considerable time, he was discovered calmly sitting inside a furniture removal van, waiting for it to start, under the impression that it was an omnibus. "I'm sure this is the right one," he explained, "for it has 'Kensington' printed in large letters on it. Come along, there's plenty of room inside; the conductor and the driver will be here presently, I suppose." I laughingly explained to his Majesty the mistake which he had made, and we walked on as far as Piccadilly Circus, where we found a 'bus to take us to the Academy, which we intended visiting on our way home. We had not gone far though, when I suddenly remembered that the 22nd June was very close at hand, and that I had better make arrangements for seats to view the Jubilee Procession or I should be too late. So it was arranged that the Doctor-in-Law should take charge of the party while I went on to the agents to see about the seats. They would have no difficulty in getting home by themselves for the 'buses ran from just outside the Academy doors straight to Kensington, so I felt sure that they would be all right. "How much is the entrance fee to the Academy?" asked the Doctor-in-Law, as I was getting down from the 'bus. "A shilling each," I replied, and I saw the little man collecting the money from the others as the 'bus disappeared from view. [Illustration: WAITING FOR IT TO START] I was very fortunate at the agents in being able to secure a capital window in Piccadilly, and some Stores in the neighbourhood undertook to provide a luncheon and to suitably decorate the window for us. These arrangements being satisfactorily concluded, I hurried home, and was greatly relieved to find my guests there before me. "How did you enjoy the Academy?" I inquired. [Illustration: COULD NOT UNDERSTAND THE CATALOGUE] "Not at all!" said his Majesty decidedly. "Waste of money, I call it," said the Rhymester, sniffing contemptuously. "I was dever so disappointed id edythig id all by life!" declared A. Fish, Esq. "Besides, the catalogue was no good at all," complained his Majesty. "We could make neither head nor tail of it." The Doctor-in-Law was silent, and it was only by very careful inquiry that I found out that, after pocketing their money, he had taken them to an immense hoarding covered with advertisement posters, and had gammoned them into believing that _that_ was the Academy, while it was no wonder that the poor Wallypug could not understand the 'catalogue,' for it was nothing more nor less than an old illustrated stores price list. It was really too bad of the Doctor-in-Law. CHAPTER VI THE JUBILEE The few days which elapsed before the memorable 22nd of June passed very quickly, and we were all more or less busy making preparations for the festival. His Majesty would insist upon polishing up his regalia himself in order to do honour to the occasion, and spent hours over his crown with a piece of chamois leather and some whitening till, though somewhat battered by the rough usage it had sustained, it shone quite brilliantly. Mrs. Putchy herself suggested making his Majesty some new red silk rosettes for his shoes, which he very graciously consented to accept. The Doctor-in-Law was always so spick and span that we scarcely noticed any change in his appearance, but the Rhymester had made arrangements with General Mary Jane to wash, starch, and iron his lace collar, and he remained in his room one entire day while it was being done up. A. Fish, Esq., purchased a necktie of most brilliant colouring, and One-and-Nine touched himself up here and there with some red enamel where his tunic had become shabby in places, so that altogether our party looked very smart as we drove at a very early hour to our seats in Piccadilly. To avoid the crowd we went by way of Bayswater Road, and then passed down Park Lane and through Berkeley Square, in order to reach the back entrance to the house in Piccadilly where I had booked seats. Our gorgeous carriage was everywhere hailed with great delight, being of course mistaken for a portion of the Jubilee procession, and many were the conjectures heard on all sides as to who the Wallypug could possibly be. [Illustration: WITH SOME RED ENAMEL] Our window was in the centre of the building on the first floor, and we had it all to ourselves. A table at the back of the room was tastefully set out with an excellent cold collation, and in front of the window, which was most elaborately decorated with velvet curtains, flags, and trophies, and which was surmounted by a device which was understood to be the Wallypug's coat-of-arms, a gorgeous, gilded, high-backed chair was placed as a throne for his Majesty, and comfortable seats were also provided for the rest of the party. The crowd outside greeted our appearance with quite a demonstration, as by the enormous placard outside announcing the name of the decorators, and stating that they were by appointment to his Majesty the Wallypug of Why, of course everybody knew who we were. Indeed, one learned-looking person in the crowd was holding forth to an eager audience, and explaining exactly where Why was situated, and pretending that he had been there, and had seen the Wallypug before, ever so many times. As the time approached for the procession to pass, the Wallypug became very excited and nervous. "Shall I really see the Queen of England?" he kept asking over and over again. "Do you think she will see me? Will she bow to me? What must I say? Must I keep my crown on or take it off?" and innumerable other questions of the same nature. Presently the excitement and enthusiasm reached their height, as amid a confused shouting of "Here they are," the Guards in advance came in sight. Slowly the mighty procession, with its innumerable squadrons and bands passed, and at last, after the English and Foreign princes and Eastern potentates, the eight cream-coloured Hanoverian horses, drawing the Jubilee landau, made their appearance, and the Queen was seen, smiling and bowing graciously to the cheering populace. The Doctor-in-Law, in his excitement, scrambled on to the window ledge in order to obtain a better view; the Wallypug loyally waved his crown; while the Rhymester, hurriedly unrolling a lengthy ode which he had written especially for the occasion, began reading it in a loud voice, and, though nobody paid the slightest attention to him, did not desist until long after the procession had passed. [Illustration: THE WALLYPUG LOYALLY WAVED HIS CROWN] The Wallypug was very thoughtful for some time after the Queen had gone by, and, during the drive home, expressed his great surprise that her Majesty had not worn a crown, and apparently could not understand why it should not be worn on all occasions. "I suppose her Majesty has a crown of her own, hasn't she?" he asked anxiously. "Oh yes, of course!" I replied. "Where is it then?" persisted his Majesty. "I believe all of the regalia is kept carefully locked up and guarded in the Tower of London," I said. "Well, I think it's very unkind of them not to let her Majesty have them out on an occasion like this. I shall see what I can do about it." The dear Wallypug's intentions were evidently so good that I did not say anything in reply to this, though I wondered to myself whatever his Majesty thought that _he_ could do in the matter. There were so many people about that we considered it best to spend the rest of the day quietly at home, though we did venture out in the evening to see the illuminations, which delighted his Majesty exceedingly. The next afternoon the whole party, with the exception of One-and-Nine, drove over the route taken by the procession, in order to see the street decorations. I remained at home, and late in the afternoon there was a knock at my door, and General Mary Jane entered. She was nervously wringing a handkerchief wet with tears, and her eyes were quite red with weeping. "Please, sir," she began, sniffing pathetically, "I want to gi--gi--give no--notice." "Why! what ever for?" I asked in surprise, for General Mary Jane was an excellent servant, and Mrs. Putchy had always been very pleased with her. "Please, sir, it's Sergeant One-and-Nine; he's broken my 'art, sir, and I can't bear it no longer," and the poor girl burst into a flood of tears. "Bless me!" I cried, "whatever do you mean?" "Well, sir, you see ever since he's been 'ere, sir, he's been a making hup to me; leastwise that's what I thought he meant, sir; but this afternoon bein' my day hout, I went up to Kensington Gardens for a walk (him a saying as he would be there), and what should I see when I gets there, but him a walkin' about with half-a-dozen of them nursemaids in white frocks a followin' of him. Not that I says as it's altogether his fault; they will run after the military; but it's more than I can stand, sir, me bein' that proud at 'avin' a soldier for a sweetheart, and all," and she began to cry again. [Illustration: THEY WILL RUN AFTER THE MILITARY] I hardly knew what to do, but suggested that she should not think too seriously about it, and General Mary Jane, saying she hoped I would excuse her troubling me in the matter, decided to go to her married sister at Barnes and spend the rest of her day out there, and talk the matter over with her. I had a lot of writing to do all the afternoon, and the time passed so quickly that until the gong sounded for dinner I did not realize that the Wallypug and his party had not returned. It was now past seven, and they should have been home hours since. I was so anxious about them that I could scarcely eat any dinner, and as soon as the meal was over I hurried to the livery stables to hear if they knew anything about the matter. The first person I encountered when I arrived there was the coachman, now divested of his fine livery, and busy in the yard. "Bless you, sir, yes, back hours ago," said he. "I set his Majesty and the others down at your door about five o'clock, and I did hear them say something about going down to Hammersmith for a walk." "To Hammersmith?" I echoed in surprise. "Yes, sir--they wanted to see the Suspension Bridge and the river again, so I told them the way to get there. They're all right, sir, I'll be bound. The Doctor-in-Law is too wide awake for anything to happen to them while he is with them." I walked home somewhat easier in my mind now that I knew the party had returned safely, though still somewhat anxious as to their whereabouts. About nine o'clock it began to get quite dark, and I was just setting out to see if I could find any trace of them when General Mary Jane returned. [Illustration: "AND DONKEY RIDES"] "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed directly she saw me, "what do you think? His Majesty and the Doctor-in-Law and the others are down at the fair by Hammersmith Bridge, and they are 'aving such a lark. I see them all 'aving a roundabout as I was coming past on my way 'ome from my sister's just now; such a crowd there was a cheering and a hollering. Cocoa-nut shies, too, a boy told me they had been 'aving, and old Aunt Sally, and donkey rides along the towing path." [Illustration: "THEY ARE 'AVING SUCH A LARK"] I hurriedly put on my hat and rushed off to Hammersmith, for I didn't know what might happen to my guests among the rough crowd which I knew usually gathered there. When I arrived on the scene I found the whole party on the roundabout, and when they alighted I learned that the Doctor-in-Law had arranged with one of the show people to share the proceeds of exhibiting the Wallypug and A. Fish, Esq., in separate tents, at 3d. a head. I met with considerable opposition from the show people in my endeavours to persuade my guests to come home, as they had evidently been a source of considerable profit to them, though the man with the cocoa-nut shies declared that the Doctor-in-Law had claimed a great many more nuts than he was properly entitled to. The crowd made quite a demonstration when we departed in a four-wheeler, and the Rhymester evidently considered it a compliment that the contents of so many "ladies' tormentors," as the little tubes filled with water are called, were directed at him. Altogether the whole party had evidently been delighted with their evening's amusement, though, as I explained to them while we were driving home, it was highly inconsistent with the dignity of his Majesty's position, and calculated to cause him to be treated with a certain amount of disrespect. I could see, however, that all I said had very little effect on any of the party, and that they were one and all highly delighted with their adventure. CHAPTER VII MORE ADVENTURES "It's the most contraryish place I've ever seen," declared One-and-Nine. "Yes," agreed the Wallypug. "There was no water in the moat." "The Drawbridge didn't draw," echoed the Rhymester. "Ad the beefeaters didn't eat beef," chimed in A. Fish, Esq., while the Doctor-in-Law declared that for his part he "considered the morning spent there had been entirely wasted." They were talking about the Tower of London, and were telling Girlie and Boy, who were spending the afternoon with us, all about their visit there on the previous day. I was sitting in an adjoining room--but the door being open I could hear all that was said. "How did you go?" asked Boy. "Oh!" exclaimed the Wallypug, "in the most extraordinary way you can possibly imagine. We went into a house in High Street, Kensington, and bought some little tickets, and then we handed them to a man at a barrier, who cut a little piece out of each one as we passed through." "To rebebber us by," chimed in A. Fish, Esq. "Yes," continued the Wallypug; "and then we went down two flights of stairs, and by-and-bye a lot of little houses on wheels came rushing into the station, and we got into one of them and before you could say 'Jack Robinson' we were rushing through a big black tunnel under the ground." "Why, you mean the Underground Railway," declared Girlie. "Yes," agreed his Majesty. "And the little room we sat in had beautiful soft cushions and a big light in the middle of the roof, and little texts printed on the wall--" "Texts!" exclaimed both of the children. "Texts," repeated the Wallypug. "What were they? Do you remember?" he asked of the others. "Oh, one was, 'You are requested not to put your feet on the cushions,'" said the Rhymester. "Oh, yes, and 'To seat five,' and 'Wait till the train stops'--I remember now," continued the Wallypug. "Well, we kept rushing through the tunnel till we came to 'Holman's Mustard,' and a lot of people got out, and then we went on again till we came to 'Smears' Soap.'" [Illustration: "HOLMAN'S MUSTARD AGAIN"] "It wasn't 'Smears' Soap,'" contradicted the Doctor-in-Law. "It was somebody's Ink." "Well, there were such a lot of names," declared the Wallypug, "it was impossible to really tell which was which. I always took the name opposite to my window to be the right one. The funniest part of it all was, we kept coming to 'Holman's Mustard' over and over again. I can't think how on earth the people know when to get out." "Why, those weren't the names of the stations at all," laughed Boy. "They were advertisements!" "Well, where were the names of the stations then?" demanded his Majesty. "Why, in big letters on the walls of course," was the reply. "They couldn't have been much bigger than those of 'Holman's Mustard,'" persisted the Wallypug somewhat ungrammatically. "Never mind about that; get on with your story," remarked the Doctor-in-Law impatiently. "Well, after going through a lot of tunnels and stopping ever so many times, we got out at one of the stations and went upstairs into the light again, and almost opposite the station we could see a lot of grey stone buildings with towers and battlements." "I know! You mean the Tower. We've been there," interrupted Girlie. "Did you see the Lions?" asked the Wallypug eagerly. "Lions! No!" exclaimed the children. "There weren't any; you didn't see any, did you?" "No, we didn't," admitted the Wallypug, "but the Doctor-in-Law told us that there were some there." "I read it in a book," declared the Doctor-in-Law. "But I daresay it was all a pack of stories, like the rest of the things they said. Look at the Crown Jewels for instance--bits of glass and rubbish. That's why they put them in an iron cage, so you can't get at them to see if they are real." "Oh! I think they _are_ real," said Boy. "The Guide told us that they were worth ever so many thousands of pounds." "Yes, he may have _said_ so," remarked the Doctor-in-Law, "but I'll be bound he wouldn't let you take them away and examine them for yourself. I asked them to let me have one or two of the crowns and things to take home and test, but they positively refused, although I promised to return them within a week. They are afraid that we should find out that they are only imitations--that's what's the matter." "There weren't any kings or queens executed either the day we were there," he continued, grumbling. "Well, I'm sure I'm very glad that _that_ fashion has died out," declared his Majesty. "I don't mind admitting now that I was rather nervous about going at all, for fear that I should have _my_ head chopped off, and I should feel so very awkward without one, you know." "Pooh! You needn't have been alarmed, for there wasn't a Lord High Executioner on the premises, because I asked," declared the Rhymester. "No, but do you know," said his Majesty, "I've found out since, that he lives at the bottom of our street, and mends shoes for a living--he does a little executing still on the sly, for I have seen his bill in the window, 'Orders _executed_ with promptness and dispatch.' I asked him one day what class he executed most, and he said that his connection was principally amongst the 'Uppers.' He seems a very kind man though, and not only executes orders, but heals them too, poor souls! He charges 1s. 3d. for healing. His education has been sorely neglected, I am afraid, however, for he spells it 'heeling.'" "Did you see the Armoury at the Tower?" asked Boy. "Yes, and there was another instance of deception," declared the Doctor-in-Law. "What do you mean?" asked Boy. "Well, what is an armoury?" inquired the Doctor-in-Law. "A place where arms are kept, I suppose," replied Boy. "Just so, and there wasn't an arm in the place except our own," said the Doctor-in-Law wrathfully. "Why, they call guns and things arms," said Boy, laughing. "Oh! do they?" remarked the Doctor-in-Law sarcastically. "Why don't they call things by their proper names then? they might as well call them legs, or turnips, or paraffin oil--bah! I've no patience with such folly!" [Illustration: "THEY WENT FOR BY CALVES"] "I think they bight feed the raveds[1] bedder," complained A. Fish, Esq. "They went for by calves, and if wud of those Beefeaters hadn'd cub and driven theb away I shouldn't have had a leg left to stand up od." [1] He meant the tame ravens which are kept at the Tower. "Beefeaters, yes!" remarked the Rhymester, "and a pretty lot they were. I tried several of them with a piece that I had brought with me in a little paper bag, and not one of them would touch it." "Madame Tussaud's was better; we went there in the afternoon," said his Majesty. "Yes, but who was to know which were wax figures and which were not?" asked the Doctor-in-Law. "Well, you made a pretty muddle of it anyhow," said the Wallypug. "Do you know," he went on, "the Doctor-in-Law made us all pay sixpence each towards the catalogue, and then went around with us explaining the various groups. He had just finished telling us that several ladies, who were standing together, were Henry the Eighth's wives, when they all marched off looking highly indignant." "Well, how was I to know?" remarked the Doctor-in-Law pettishly. "I'd never met a single one of Henry the Eighth's wives in my life, and how was I to recognize them?" "I don't think they would have binded so butch if the Rhymebster hadn't pinched wud of theb to see if they were alive or dot," remarked A. Fish, Esq. "Did you see the Sleeping Beauty?" asked Girlie. [Illustration: HE COULD GET NO ANSWER] "Oh, yes! Isn't it cruel to keep her shut up in that case," cried the Wallypug. "I'm sure she's alive, for we could see her breathing quite distinctly. I was so concerned about it that I asked the Doctor-in-Law to speak to a policeman who was standing near by about it. But he could get no answer from him, and we found out afterwards that he was only a wax figure." "The best thig of all," remarked A. Fish, Esq., "was whed we all pretended that we--" "Dear me, it's very warm!" interrupted the Doctor-in-Law. "Let's change the subject." "Pretended that we--" continued A. Fish, Esq. "Hush--sh--sh--!" cried the Doctor-in-Law in a warning voice. "The fact of the matter is," explained the Rhymester, "the Doctor-in-Law got us all to pretend that we were wax figures ourselves, and he tied little money boxes in front of us with the words: 'Put a penny in the slot and the figure will move,' written on them, and when anyone put a penny in we all moved our heads and rolled our eyes about." "I didn't!" said the Wallypug. "No, I know you didn't," replied the Rhymester. "And the Doctor-in-Law had to explain that you were out of order, and that's how we were found out, for the people wanted their money back and he wouldn't give it to them, so they called the attendant, and we had to go out as quickly as we could." "Ad wasn't id beade?" said A. Fish, Esq. "There were four shillings ad threepedce id the boxes, ad the Doctor-id-Law wouldn't give us a penny of id." "Well, I let you pay my fare home. That amounted to the same thing," replied the little man. Just then Mrs. Putchy came in with afternoon tea, and I joined my guests in the drawing-room. CHAPTER VIII HIS MAJESTY IS INTERVIEWED The next morning we were all seated around the breakfast table laughing over our adventures of the evening before, when we had visited the Earl's Court Exhibition together. We had been up in the Great Wheel, and having passed through the pretty old English village were walking around the artificial lake listening to the band playing in their little pavilion on the island in the middle, when the Doctor-in-Law declared that he heard a strange trumpeting sound, and asked me what it could be. I had not heard it and so could not tell him, and we were just discussing the matter when the Wallypug clutched wildly at his crown, and turning around we saw a huge elephant lifting it gracefully off his head with its trunk. Directly his Majesty realized what it was, he gave a wild scream and took to his heels, as did all the others, with the exception of the Rhymester, who tripped against a stone and lay with his head buried in his arms for some time, kicking and screaming for help. Of course it was only the tame elephant that carries the children on its back, but to the unaccustomed eyes of the Wallypug and his party it seemed, so they told me afterwards, some strange and awful monster ready to devour them. As I said, we were laughing merrily over this adventure when the postman arrived, and the Doctor-in-Law, without asking to be excused from the table, rushed out to meet him, and returned a few minutes later with his arms loaded with a number of little packages and one rather large box, which had arrived by Carter Paterson. "Dear me, what a lot of letters," remarked his Majesty. "Yes. Wouldn't you like to know what they are all about, eh?" inquired the Doctor-in-Law. "Yes, I should," admitted the Wallypug; while the faces of the others all expressed the same curiosity. [Illustration: A STRANGE AND AWFUL MONSTER] "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said the Doctor-in-Law. "If you'll all pay me fourpence halfpenny each, I will let you open them and see for yourselves." There was a little grumbling at this, but eventually the money changed hands, and, the breakfast things having been removed, the little packages were opened with great eagerness. Besides a printed circular, each one contained some little article--a pencil case, a pen knife, a comb, a sample tin of knife polish, a card of revolving collar studs, and so on. "Ah!" remarked the Doctor-in-Law complacently as these articles were spread about the table; "I told you that I expected to derive a princely revenue from my correspondence, and now I will explain to you how it is done. I observed a great number of advertisements in the daily papers, stating that 'A handsome income could be earned without the slightest trouble or inconvenience, and particulars would be forwarded to any one sending six stamps and an addressed envelope'; so I sent off about twenty, and here is the result. I see by these circulars that I have only to sell two hundred of these little pencil cases at half-a-crown each in order to earn 1s. 6d. commission, and for every dozen tins of knife polish I sell, I shall be paid 1-1/2d., besides being able to earn 6d. a thousand by addressing envelopes for one firm, if I supply my own envelopes." "What's in the big box?" inquired the Rhymester. "A dittig bachede," replied A. Fish, Esq., who had been busily engaged in opening it. "A what?" exclaimed the others. "A dittig bachede for dittig socks," repeated A. Fish, Esq. "Oh yes, of course!" explained the Doctor-in-Law, "a knitting machine. I was persuaded to buy it on the understanding that I was to have constant work all the year round, and be paid so much per pair for knitting socks with it. It's a most interesting and amusing occupation, and, I'll tell you what, I don't mind letting any one of you use the machine for sixpence an hour, if you find your own worsted and give me the socks when they are finished. There now! nothing could be fairer than that, could it?" [Illustration: THE "DITTIG BACHEDE"] And positively A. Fish, Esq., was so infatuated with the charms of the "dittig bachede," as he called it, that he actually agreed to these terms, and sent out for some worsted, and commenced "dittig" with great enthusiasm. The Doctor-in-Law then set the Rhymester to work, addressing the envelopes on the understanding that he was to share the sixpence per thousand to be paid for them. And, having bothered the Wallypug and myself into buying a pencil-case and a knife each, in order to get rid of him, he started off to the kitchen to see if he could do any business with Mrs. Putchy in the knife-polish or black-lead line. His Majesty and myself were just saying what an extraordinary little man he was, when he burst in upon us again. "Heard the news?" he inquired, his face beaming with importance. "No. What is it?" inquired the others eagerly. "Ah! wouldn't you like to know?" exclaimed the Doctor-in-Law. "How much will you give me for telling you?" "How much do you want?" asked the Rhymester dubiously. "A penny each," was the reply. "Come on then, let's have it," said the Rhymester, collecting the pennies from the others and handing them to the Doctor-in-Law. "Why--er--er--Queen Anne is dead, and the Dutch have taken Holland--yah!" And the little man burst out laughing. "Oh! I say, that's _too_ bad," grumbled the Wallypug. "Isn't it now?" he cried, appealing to me. "Well, really," I replied, "you shouldn't be so silly as to give him money. You ought to know by this time what to expect from him." "No, but truly," said the Doctor-in-Law, pulling a serious face, "I _have_ got some news, the other was only my fun. A lady is going to call on us at eleven, to interview the Wallypug. I had almost forgotten it." "A lady!" I exclaimed. "Whoever do you mean?" "Oh, she's the Duchess of something. I forget her name," answered the Doctor-in-Law nonchalantly. "She called the other day while you were out, and explained that she was a contributor to one of the latest society magazines, and was anxious to send an illustrated interview with the Wallypug, to her paper; so--a-hem!--after we had come to terms, I arranged for her to come to-day and see him. You had better go and make yourself tidy, hadn't you?" he continued, turning to the Wallypug. "Well, really," I interposed, "I think you might have consulted his Majesty first, before making these arrangements." "Oh! do you?" said the Doctor-in-Law rudely. "Well, I don't see that it's any business of yours, my good sir--so there!" and he bounced out of the room again, rattling his sample tins. It was nearly eleven then, and a few minutes afterwards a beautifully-appointed carriage drew up to the door, and Mrs. Putchy brought up a card inscribed: [Illustration: _Her Grace the Duchess of Mortlake._] and immediately ushered in a fashionably-dressed lady, who smilingly offered me the tips of her fingers. "Oh, _how_ do you do? You are the gentleman, I think, who is to introduce me to his Majesty, are you not?" "Well, really, your Grace, we have only just heard of the appointment, but his Majesty the Wallypug will be very pleased to receive you I am sure." "And is that his Majesty at the other end of the room?" whispered the Duchess. "Pray present me." I made the necessary introduction, and the Duchess gave the regulation Court 'dip,' which the Wallypug gravely imitated, and then in his usual simple manner offered his hand with a smile. [Illustration: IN THE MOST APPROVED FASHION] Her Grace made a deep presentation curtsey and bowed over it in the most approved fashion; but the Wallypug, evidently unused to being treated with so much ceremony, withdrew it hastily and remarked nervously but politely: "Won't you take a seat, madam?" "Say, 'Your Grace,'" I whispered. "What for?" asked his Majesty blankly. "Because this lady is a Duchess, and you must always say 'Your Grace' when speaking to her," I replied. "Oh!" said the Wallypug vaguely--then going up to the Duchess he solemnly said, "I'm Grace." "No, no!" I explained. "You don't understand me. I mean, when you speak to this lady you must call her 'Your Grace.'" "Dear me, how stupid of me, to be sure!" said his Majesty. "I understand now. I beg your pardon. I meant to say, 'You are my Grace,' madam," he continued, addressing himself to the Duchess. Her Grace amiably laughed away this little mistake, and was soon busy asking questions. The Wallypug, however, got very nervous, and made a shocking lot of mistakes in his answers. He couldn't even say how old he was. "I know I've been in the family for years," he remarked, "and I fancy I must have come over with William the Conqueror. Such a lot of people did that, you know, and it's so respectable. I don't remember it, of course; but then I've been told that I was born very young, and so naturally I shouldn't do so." "Does your Majesty remember any of the incidents of your early life?" asked the Duchess. "I was considered remarkably bald for my age as an infant," replied the Wallypug simply. "And I believe I had several measles, and a mump or two as a child. But I don't wish to boast about them," he added modestly. "Where were you educated, your Majesty?" was the next question. "I wasn't," replied the Wallypug with a sigh. "Does your Majesty mean that you received no education at all?" asked the Duchess in surprise. "Oh! I was taught reading, and writing, and arithmetic, and the use of the globes, and Latin and Greek, and all that rubbish, of course," replied the Wallypug. "But I mean there were no Universities at Why, where I could receive a higher education, and be taught cricket, and football, and rowing, and all those classical things taught at Oxford and Cambridge, you know. I was considered the best boy in my form at marbles though," he added proudly. "And I could beat any of the masters at Hop Scotch." "What is your favourite diet, your Majesty?" came next. "Oh! jumbles, I think--or bull's eyes. I'm very fond of hardbake too, and I love cocoa-nut ice." A few more questions such as these, and her Grace took her departure, after taking several snap-shot photographs of various articles in the drawing room. I felt convinced that with such a scanty amount of information at her disposal the Duchess would have great difficulty in writing an article on the Wallypug, and was therefore the more surprised a few days later to receive a copy of the magazine which her Grace represented, with a long and particular account of the interview, under the heading of, "'Why Wallypug and wherefore of Why?' by a Lady of Title." Into it her Grace had introduced the most preposterous and extravagant statements about his Majesty. We learned with amazement that "The Wallypug came of a very ancient family, and had early been distinguished for many remarkable accomplishments. While at school his Majesty displayed such a natural aptitude for learning as to readily out-distance his instructors." "I suppose that's because I said I played Hop Scotch better than the masters," commented his Majesty, to whom I was reading the account aloud. [Illustration: THE FAITHFUL HOUND] Photographs of various articles in the drawing-room, which had no connection whatever with the Wallypug, were reproduced with the most extraordinary and absolutely untrue stories attached to them. Dick and Mrs. Mehetable Murchison appeared as "The Wallypug's favourite cat and dog," while pathetic stories were told of how the dog had on several occasions saved his royal master from an untimely and watery grave, while the cat had prevented him from being burned to death while reading in bed by gently scratching his nose when he had fallen asleep, and the candle had set fire to the bed curtains. Sensational illustrations were also given depicting these incidents, which of course were purely imaginary. It was very remarkable to notice though, that directly the article of the Duchess's appeared, invitations from all sorts of grand people poured in upon us--and the daily papers suddenly woke up to the fact that the Wallypug and his suite were very important personages, and devoted whole columns to "Our Mysterious Foreign Guests," as they called them. [Illustration: THE SAGACIOUS PUSSY] There was always more or less of a crowd outside the house now, and when his Majesty drove in the Park, the people all stood up on the little green seats to get a better view of him as he passed. CHAPTER IX THE WALLYPUG'S OWN It was shortly after this that the Doctor-in-Law, hearing what a vast fortune might be made in literature, decided to start a magazine of his own. [Illustration: THE DOCTOR-IN-LAW WAS EDITOR] After a lot of argument it was thought best to call it _The Wallypug's Own_, as the name was considered a striking one. The first number was to be a very elaborate affair, and, for weeks before it appeared, all of my guests were busily engaged in its production. "There will be a good opportunity for some of your poems appearing at last," hinted the Doctor-in-Law to the Rhymester, which so delighted the poor little fellow that he set to work at once upon a number of new ones. A. Fish, Esq., contributed a very learned article on the subject of "The Prevalence of Toothache amongst Fish: its Cause and Treatment"; while the great attraction of the number was an historical article by the Wallypug on the subject of "Julius Caesar," illustrated by his Majesty himself. As a special favour, the original drawing was presented to me by his Majesty, and I am thus enabled to reproduce it for your benefit. His Majesty confided to me that parts of it were traced from a picture which appeared in the _Boys' Own Paper_ some time ago, but of course we did not tell everybody that. [Illustration: FROM "THE WALLYPUG'S OWN"] The essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this: "_Julius Caesar was a man, and he lived in Rome. He came over to conquer Britain because he heard there was a lot of tin here, and when he arrived he said in Latin_, 'Veni, vidi, vici,' _which means, 'I have come, and thou wilt have to skedaddle', which has been the British motto ever since. But the Ancient Britons who lived here then, didn't understand Latin, and so they went for Julius Caesar, and shook their fists in his face, and tried to drive him and his followers away. But Julius Caesar and the Romans were civilized, and had daggers and things, and shields, and wore firemen's helmets, and kilts like Scotchmen, so they soon overcame the Ancient Britons; and they built London Wall, and made a lot of combs, and glass tear-bottles, and brooches, and sarcophaguses, that you can see in the Museum at the Guildhall; and then they went back to Rome, and Julius Caesar was stabbed by his friend Brutus, to show how much he liked him; and Caesar, when he found out he was stabbed, cried out in Latin_, 'Et tu, Brute,' _which means 'Oh, you brute,' and lived happy ever after. I have drawn the picture of Julius Caesar landing in Britain--that's him waving things, and calling to the others to come on._" The Doctor-in-Law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions, and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: First prize, £1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of scented soap. The prizes were to be awarded for the first correct answers received by post, but the Doctor-in-Law took good care to write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes but himself. He made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell your fortune by the creases in your collar. All you had to do was to send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a letter in reply similar to this: "You are probably either a male or a female, and will no doubt live till you die. You like to have your own way when you can get it, and when you can't you get very cross and irritable. You are not so young as you were a few years ago, and you dislike pain of any kind. You will remain single until you marry, and whichever you do you will probably wish you hadn't." The greatest novelty, however, which the Doctor-in-Law introduced in his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your watch and chain. There was no fee charged, and all you had to do was to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the Doctor-in-Law would tell your character, quite correctly. It generally was as follows: "You are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken." The Rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the point, the Doctor-in-Law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it, and the poor Rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that rate. This is what he sent: [Illustration] THE NEW ROBIN. The North wind doth blow, And we ought to have snow, If 'tis true what my nurse used to sing, Poor thing. Yet up in yon tree Robin Redbreast I see As happy and gay as a king, Poor thing. Look! as true as I live, There's a boy with a sieve And a stick and a long piece of string, Poor thing. But the bird doesn't care, For I hear him declare, "Pooh! the old dodge he tried in the Spring, Poor thing." "What ridiculous cheek," And he turns up his beak Ere he tucks his head under his wing, Poor thing. [Illustration] The poor Rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish more of his poems, so the Doctor-in-Law, to console him, allowed him to contribute an article on "Fashions for the Month by Our Paris Model." He made a frightful muddle of it though, not knowing the proper terms in which to describe the various materials and styles. Here is an extract, which will show you better than I can tell, the stupid blunders which he made: "_Hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and fruit._ "_Artificial vegetables are not much worn, although a cauliflower or two and a bunch of carrots, with a few cabbages, would form a striking and novel decoration for a hat. If this trimming is considered insufficient, a few brightly coloured tomatoes stuck round the brim might be added, and would render the head-gear particularly 'chic.'_ "_Hats for the theatre should be worn large and handsomely trimmed, but for the economically inclined--a last year's clothes basket trimmed with art muslin, which may be purchased of any good draper at 1-3/4d. a yard, cut on the cross and tucked with chiffons, would form a sweetly simple hat, and if tied beneath the chin with an aigrette, and the front filled in with sequins, it would readily be mistaken for one of the new early Victorian bonnets which continue to be worn by the upper housemaids in most aristocratic families._ _"I hear that dresses are to be worn again this year by ladies. The most fashionable ones will be made of various sorts of material._ _"A charming walking costume suitable for the Autumn may be made of shaded grenadine, trimmed with buckram pom-poms, made up on the selvedge edge."_ There was a lot more nonsense of this kind which I did not at all understand, but which some lady friends who understood these things made great fun of. You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that in a weak moment I allowed myself to be persuaded into contributing a little experience of my own. The Rhymester told me that it was shockingly bad rhyme, but I think that he was jealous because the Doctor-in-Law published it. Anyhow, here it is, so you can judge for yourself. I call it HE AND I AND IT. Oh HE was a Publisher And I was a Publishee, And IT was a book Which the Publisher took And pub-l-i-s-h-e-d. The Publisher's smile it was bland, 'Twas a beautiful smile to see, As again and again He took pains to explain How large my "half-profits" _might_ be. IT had a capital sale, Well reviewed by the _Times_ and _D.T._, And a great many more, So my friends by the score Came around to congratulate me. [Illustration: IT HAD A CAPITAL SALE] And people I scarcely had met, Just "dropped in" to afternoon tea; While my aunt, who's a swell, _Now_ remembered quite well That I was related to she. And girls that were rich and plain, Or pretty and poor, did agree To let me suppose That I'd but to propose To be m-a-r-r-i-e-d. [Illustration: MY FRIENDS ALL TURNED TAIL] Yes, HE published IT in the Spring, That season of frolic and glee; "In the Autumn," HE said, Gravely nodding his head, "'Half-profits' will mean L.S.D." But Autumn has come and gone, And I'm so to say, "All at sea," For HE sobs and HE sighs And HE turns up his eyes When I ask what my "half-profits" be. There are "charges for this, and for that," And for "things that HE couldn't foresee," And HE "very much fears," So he says twixt his tears, "That there won't be a penny for me." Oh! rich is the Publisher And poor is the Publishee; Of the profits of IT I shall touch not a bit, They are all swallowed up by HE. The girls now all treat me with scorn-- Aunt turns up her n-o-s-e, And my friends all turn tail, While my book they assail And call rubbish and twad-d-l-e. Even One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane were smitten with a desire to rush into print, and I overheard them concocting a tragic Love Story in the kitchen, and they were highly indignant later on, because the Doctor-in-Law would not accept it. You can hardly wonder at it though, for it really was too bad for anything. It was called "The Viscount's Revenge," and in it several characters who had been killed in the first part of the book kept cropping up all through the story in a most confusing manner, while One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane could not agree as to whether the heroine should be dark or fair, so in one part of the book she had beautiful golden hair and blue eyes, and in another she was described as "darkly, proudly handsome, with a wealth of dusky hair and eyes as black as night." [Illustration: THE LITERARY HOUSEMAID] At the last moment it was found necessary to include another poem in the magazine, and, as all of the Rhymester's were too long, the Doctor-in-Law decided to write one himself, which he called COMMERCIAL PROBLEMS. Why doth the little busy bee Not charge so much an hour, For gathering honey day by day From every opening flower? And can you tell me why, good sir, The birds receive no pay For singing sweetly in the grove Throughout the livelong day? Why flow'rs should bloom about the place And give their perfume free, In so unbusinesslike a way, Seems very odd to me. I cannot meet a single cow That charges for her milk, And though they are not paid a sou, The silkworms still spin silk. While ducks and hens, I grieve to find, Lay eggs for nothing too, Which is a most ridiculous And foolish thing to do. These problems often puzzle me; I lie awake at night, And think and think what I can do To set this matter right. I've found a way at last, and though It may at first seem funny, It cannot fail--'tis this: _You_ pay, And _I'll_ collect the money. CHAPTER X THE WALLYPUG GOES TO WINDSOR While they were all busy in the preparation of _The Wallypug's Own_, I thought it an excellent opportunity to run down to Folkestone in order to make arrangements for hiring a house, as I intended taking my guests to the seaside for a few weeks. I felt a little anxious about leaving them to themselves, but hoped that they would be too busy and interested in the new magazine to get into trouble. It was most unfortunate that I should have gone just then though, for directly I had left the Wallypug received a polite letter from one of the Court officials to say that the Queen would be pleased to receive his Majesty and suite at Windsor on the following day. [Illustration: A ROYAL INVITATION] Of course, as you may imagine, the Wallypug was in a great state of excitement at receiving this royal invitation, and wished to telegraph at once for me to return and advise them how to act and what to do, on this important occasion; however, the Doctor-in-Law, so I have been given to understand, persuaded his Majesty not to do anything of the sort, and added that I "was always poking about and interfering, and was better out of the way"; so his Majesty, who was very anxious to do the right thing, consulted Mrs. Putchy as to the proper costume to be worn, and the etiquette to be observed. "Well, your Majesty," remarked Mrs. Putchy in reply, "I scarcely know what to advise. When in my younger days, I acted as lady's maid to the Countess of Wembley, I know her ladyship wore a Court train and carried a bouquet when she was presented to the Queen." "Where did the engine go?" asked his Majesty curiously. "The engine!" exclaimed Mrs. Putchy. "Yes; you said she wore a train, didn't you?" said the Wallypug. "Oh! but I didn't mean that kind of train," laughed Mrs. Putchy; "I meant a long sort of cloak fastened on to the shoulders and trailing along the ground at the back--they are generally made of satin and velvet, and are decorated with flowers and feathers and lace, and that sort of thing. Your Majesty's cloak would do nicely if I trimmed it for you." "But are you sure that gentlemen wear these sort of things?" inquired the Wallypug. "Well, I couldn't rightly say, your Majesty, but I'm sure I've seen pictures of kings and such like wearing trains which were borne by pages, so I feel sure your Majesty would be safe in wearing one." So it was arranged that, after having been carefully brushed, his Majesty's velvet cloak was to be gaily decorated with lace and large bunches of flowers, and, to make the thing complete, a large bouquet was tied around his sceptre, and, at the Rhymester's suggestion, little knots of flowers were attached to the knobs of his Majesty's crown. The little man was highly delighted with his appearance when all these arrangements were concluded, and could get but very little sleep that night for thinking of the great honour which was to be his the next day. The whole household was early astir in the morning, and at about eleven o'clock the carriage came to take the royal guests to the station. Arrived at Waterloo, the Doctor-in-Law, after making various inquiries as to the price of the tickets, etc., actually had the meanness, despite the remonstrance of the railway officials, to insist upon the whole party travelling down third-class, remarking that he "found the third-class carriages reached there quite as soon as the first, and a penny saved was a penny gained." The station master at Windsor was particularly put out about it, as, in honour of his Majesty's visit, the station had been gaily decorated and a carpet laid down to the carriage door. His Majesty, however, made a brave show as he walked up the platform preceded by the Doctor-in-Law, his gaily decorated train borne by the Rhymester, and followed by A. Fish, Esq., and One-and-Nine, the latter carrying a mysterious bandbox, which contained a present from the Wallypug to her Majesty. (See frontispiece.) Inside and out the station was crowded with curious spectators, all eager to catch a glimpse of his Majesty and his remarkable retinue, and cheer after cheer resounded as the station master, bare-headed and bowing, ushered the party to the royal carriage with the red and gold-liveried servants, which had been sent from the castle to meet them. The bells were ringing, and the streets were crowded as they drove through the old town, and his Majesty thoroughly enjoyed the drive, while the Doctor-in-Law was quite in his element amidst all this fuss and excitement. I did not care to inquire too fully into the details of his Majesty's interview with the Queen, but I was given to understand that the whole party was treated with the utmost kindness. Her Majesty graciously accepted at the Wallypug's hands a gilded crown, an exact copy of the one he wore himself, and which he had had made expressly for her Majesty, having been struck by the fact that her Majesty's real crown was always kept locked up in the Tower, and hoping that perhaps this one would do for second best. I could not gather that her Majesty had actually promised to wear it, but I do know that the Wallypug was made exceedingly proud and happy by the gift of a portrait of her Majesty herself, with the royal autograph attached, and that he will always remember the occasion of his visit to Windsor, and the kindness with which he was treated by everyone, particularly by the little Princes and Princesses, her Majesty's great grand-children, who led him about the Castle grounds, and showed him their pets, and the flowers, and conservatories, and all the wonderful sights of that wonderful place. In the evening there was a dinner party, at which her Majesty did not appear, and early the next morning a royal carriage again drove them to the station _en route_ for London. All this I learned on my return from Folkestone. I also heard of an extraordinary evening party which had been given at my house during my absence. It appears that the invitations had been sent out by the Doctor-in-Law the very day upon which I left, and about thirty guests, including the Duchess of Mortlake, had been invited. Unfortunately, however, this visit to Windsor had entirely driven the matter from the Wallypug's mind, and the others had forgotten about it too, and so a pretty confusion was the result. It appears that one evening about seven o'clock they were all in the kitchen making toffee, having persuaded Mrs. Putchy to let them have the frying-pan and some sugar and butter, and it having been cooking for some time the Doctor-in-Law had just told the Wallypug to stick his finger in and see if it was done, when Mrs. Putchy came in to say that some ladies and gentlemen had arrived, and were waiting in the drawing-room. [Illustration: TO SEE IF IT WAS DONE] All of a sudden it flashed upon their minds that _this_ was the evening upon which they had invited their visitors to the party. Whatever was to be done? Not the slightest preparation had been made--and his Majesty and the others were all more or less in a sticky condition, and quite unfit to be seen by company. A hurried consultation took place, during which they could hear more and more guests arriving, and at last, by a brilliant inspiration, the Doctor-in-Law thought of making it a surprise party, similar to those given in America. "It won't cost us anything either," he remarked complacently. "But what is a surprise party?" asked the others. "Never mind, you'll see presently," remarked the little man. "Run and wash your hands now and make yourselves tidy." A few minutes later the whole party filed into the drawing-room, the Wallypug looking rather blank and nervous, and the Doctor-in-Law full of profuse apologies for having kept the guests waiting so long. "By the way," he remarked airily, "I suppose you all know that it's a surprise party." "Dear me, no," said the Duchess of Mortlake, speaking for the others. "Whatever is that; I don't think it was mentioned on the cards of invitation, was it?" "Ah! a trifling oversight," remarked the Doctor-in-Law. "A surprise party," he continued in explanation, "is one at which each guest is expected to contribute something towards the supper--some bring one thing and some another. What have you brought, may I ask, your Grace?" "Well, really," said the Duchess, "I've never heard of such a thing in my life before. I've not brought anything at all, of course; I'm surprised at your asking me such a question." "Ah, yes, just so," remarked the Doctor-in-Law triumphantly, "just what I told you--a _surprise_ party, don't you see! Now, what I would advise is that you should all go out and order various things to be sent in for supper; we, for our part, will provide some excellent toffee, and then you can come back and help us to set the tables and all that sort of thing, you know--it's the greatest fun in the world, I assure you." And really the little man carried it off with such gaiety, that entering into the spirit of the thing the guests really did as he suggested, and went out and ordered the things, and afterwards came back, and, amidst great laughter and fun, the tables were laid, every one doing some share of the work, with the exception of the Doctor-in-Law, who contented himself with directing the others and chatting to the ladies. [Illustration: THE WALLYPUG HELPS] The poor dear Wallypug amiably toiled backward and forward between the kitchen and dining-room with great piles of plates and other heavy articles, and A. Fish, Esq., in his eagerness to help, was continually treading on his own tail, upsetting himself and the various dishes entrusted to his charge. [Illustration: A. FISH, ESQ., UPSET] At last, however, the supper was set, and the merriest evening you can possibly imagine was spent by the guests. His Majesty was in capital spirits, and after supper suggested a little dancing, which suggestion was hailed with delight by the others, and, having moved some of the furniture out of the drawing-room and pushed the rest away into corners, the Wallypug led off with her Grace the Duchess of Mortlake, and quite distinguished himself in "Sir Roger de Coverley." Afterwards there was a little singing and music, several of the guests contributing to the evening's entertainment. Amongst other items was a song by A. Fish, Esq., rendered as well as his bad cold would permit, of which the first lines ran: I'b siddig here ad lookig at the bood, love, Ad thinkig ov the habby days of old, Wed you ad I had each a wooded spood, love, To eat our porridge wed we had a cold. Altogether the evening was such a success that her Grace declared that it should not be her fault if surprise parties were not the fashion in Society during the coming winter. CHAPTER XI HIS MAJESTY AT THE SEASIDE I sent Mrs. Putchy and General Mary Jane down to the house, which I had engaged on the "Lees" at Folkestone, the day before we were to go, in order to see that everything was ready for us. "The only thing that is wrong is the kitchen chimney, and that smokes, sir," said Mrs. Putchy, in answer to my inquiry on the night of our arrival. "I think that we had better have the sweep in the morning, sir." "Very well, Mrs. Putchy, I'm sure you know best," I replied, and thought no more of the matter. Early in the morning, however, I was awakened by screams and cries proceeding from the lower part of the house. "Help! help! Burglars! Fire and police! Thieves!" screamed a voice, and hastily dressing myself, I rushed out into the passage, and was confronted by the Rhymester, who had evidently just jumped out of bed, and who, though it was broad daylight, bore a lighted candle in one hand, and a pair of fire tongs in the other. His teeth were chattering with fright, and his knees were knocking together from the same cause. "What's the matter," I asked in alarm. "Oh! oh! there are burglars in the house," he cried excitedly, "and the others have gone down to them; I'm sure they'll be killed--I told them not to go, but they would. Let's go and hide under a bed somewhere. Oh! oh, what will become of us?" "Don't be such a coward," I cried, hurrying down stairs, while the poor little Rhymester, afraid to be left alone upstairs, tremblingly followed. Sure enough there was a sound of struggling going on, and voices raised in loud dispute. "Oh, that story won't do for me," I heard the Doctor-in-Law exclaim. "But I tell yez, sor," chimed in another strange voice, "I waz only going to----" "Never mind what you were going to do, give up the sack," said the Doctor-in-Law. Then there were sounds of struggling, and amidst the confusion a voice saying: "Hold him down! Sit on him! That's right! Now for the sack." And, bursting the door open, a curious sight met my eyes. A poor sweep lay flat upon the floor, with the Wallypug sitting upon him, and One-and-Nine keeping guard; while the Doctor-in-Law and A. Fish, Esq., examined his bag of soot in the corner. The poor little Rhymester summoned up sufficient courage to peep in at the doorway, and stood there making a piteous picture, with his white face and trembling limbs. "Whatever is the matter," I inquired as soon as I entered. "We've caught him!" exclaimed his Majesty, complacently wriggling his toes about. "But what's he been doing," I asked. [Illustration: "WE'VE CAUGHT HIM!"] "Av ye plaze, sor," groaned the man, panting beneath the Wallypug's weight, "I have been doing nothing at all, at all. I waz just a-finishin' me warrak of swapin' the chimneys, wen one ov the ould gintleman came up an' poked me in the nose with a sthick, and the other ould gintleman knocked me over and sthole me bag, while the soger hild me down till the other gintleman sat on me--it's among a lot of murtherin' thaves I've got entoirely, savin' yer presince, sor." "The man is a burglar," declared the Doctor-in-Law emphatically. "I happened to hear a very suspicious noise down here, and calling to the others, rushed down just in time to catch this man making off with a bag of things. I think he was trying to escape up the chimney, for his head was half-way up when we entered, and this bag, which evidently contains plunder of some kind, is covered with soot too." "Why, the man is a sweep, and was sweeping the chimney," I cried, pointing to his brushes and sticks; and after a lot of explanations the man was told to get up and his Majesty, followed by the others, retired to his bedroom, evidently greatly disappointed that it was not a real burglar that they had been combating. The sweep, who was a very good-natured Irishman, took it in very good part, and the present of half-a-crown sent him away quite reconciled to his assailants. The Rhymester afterwards made a great boast that he had not taken any part in the mélée. "Of course I knew all along that he wasn't a burglar," he declared, "and that's the reason why I wouldn't interfere." "You managed to do a good deal of screaming though, I noticed," remarked the Doctor-in-Law grumpily. "Ah! that was only for fun," asserted the Rhymester. This was really about the only remarkable incident which occurred during our holiday at Folkestone, which passed very pleasantly and very quietly. We went for a sea bathe nearly every day, and his Majesty would insist upon wearing his crown in the water on every occasion. "No one will know that I am a king if I don't," he declared; and I am bound to admit that his Majesty did not look very regal in his bathing costume, particularly when he was dripping with water and his long straight hair hung half over his face, and even when he wore his crown he was continually catching bits of seaweed in it, which gave him a singularly untidy appearance for a king. [Illustration: HIS MAJESTY DID NOT LOOK VERY REGAL] A. Fish, Esq., with the assistance of a lifebuoy, nearly learned to swim while we were down there; but the Doctor-in-Law thought that hiring bathing machines was a foolish waste of money, and contented himself with taking off his shoes and stockings and paddling, which he could do without having to pay. One day, however, he was knocked completely over by an incoming wave, and got wet to the skin. We could never persuade the Rhymester either, to go out further than just to his knees; but I rather fancy that that was because he was afraid of wetting his bathing costume, of which he was particularly proud, and which was decorated with smart little bows of ribbon wherever they could be conveniently put. Fear may have had something to do with it though, for I noticed that he always clung very tightly to the rope, and never by any chance went beyond its length. The switchback railway was a source of infinite amusement, and a great deal of time was spent on it. Boating was not much indulged in, as it made one or two of the party, particularly A. Fish, Esq., very ill; but we all enjoyed the beautiful drives in the neighbourhood. There was an excellent Punch and Judy show in the town too, which so fascinated his Majesty that we could scarcely tear him away whenever he joined the admiring crowd which daily surrounded it. The fickle One-and-Nine, while we were here, fell in love with a wax figure exhibited in a hair-dresser's window in Sandgate Road. It represented a beautiful lady with her hair dressed in the latest fashion, and the wooden soldier was greatly infatuated. He spent hours gazing through the window, watching the lady slowly revolve by clockwork; and he became frightfully jealous of the hair-dresser, whom he caught one morning rearranging the drapery around the lady's shoulders. Eventually, with the assistance of the Rhymester, he composed the following piece of poetry--which he stuck, by means of six gelatine sweets, on to the hair-dresser's window with the writing inside, in order that the lady might see it. TO THE BEAUTIFUL LADY IN THE HAIRDRESSER'S WINDOW. I love you, oh! I love you, And I beg you to be mine; I'm a gallant wooden soldier, And my name is 1/9. If you will only marry me, 'Twill be the greatest fun To puzzle folks by telling them, That we're both 2/1. 'Twill be the truth, for man and wife Are one, I beg to state, This fact's as clear as 4/4, Or 2/6 make 8. They tell me, dear, you have no feet; But what is that to me? 2 feet be 4/2 behind On animals you see. That you have none, is 0 to me, Dear 1/4 your sake, No trifles such as these shall e'er My true affections shake. I bought some penny tarts for you, But I am much distrest To tell you by mistake I sat On 1/8 the rest. One-and-Nine was quite happy in finding that the paper had disappeared from the shop window when he passed by a little later, and declared that it must mean that the lady had accepted him and his poetry. I think the funniest incident of all though, in connection with our visit to Folkestone, was when his Majesty and the others went into Carlo Maestrani's for some ices. They had never tasted any before, and were very much surprised to find them so cold. I shall never forget the expression on the Wallypug's face when, having rather greedily taken a very large mouthful, he could not swallow it, or dispose of it in any way. A. Fish, Esq., declared that it gave him a violent toothache; while the Doctor-in-Law called for the waiter, and insisted upon him taking it away. [Illustration: "IT'S NOT PROPERLY COOKED"] "It's not properly cooked," he declared angrily. "It's cold." "Cook, sare, no, sare, it is not cook," agreed the waiter. "Very well, then, take it away and bring us some that is. Have it warmed up; do something with it. It's disgraceful bringing us stuff like that." And no argument or persuasion would convince the little man that the ices were as they should be. CHAPTER XII THE DEPARTURE We remained at Folkestone till the latter part of September, and then returned to London just about the time that the first number of _The Wallypug's Own_ made its appearance. It caused quite a sensation in literary circles, and was mentioned by most of the papers; but it did _not_ turn out a monetary success, and so the Doctor-in-Law declared that he must devise some other means of making money. We had been once or twice to the circus, and I fancy that it must have been his intention to start something of the sort himself, for I caught him one day trying to teach his Majesty to walk the tight-rope; but as he had only tied the rope between two very light chairs the result was not very satisfactory, particularly to the poor Wallypug, who came to the ground with a terrific crash. A. Fish, Esq., dressed as a clown, and certainly looked very funny; but his bad cold prevented him from speaking his jokes distinctly, and so the idea was given up. [Illustration: THE RESULT WAS NOT SATISFACTORY] In fact it was not till November that the Doctor-in-Law hit upon a plan which seemed to give him any great satisfaction. We had been talking a great deal about Guy Fawkes' day and the fireworks at the Crystal Palace, which we intended going to see in the evening, and the Doctor-in-Law had been particularly curious to know all about the day and its customs. He did not say much about his plans, but I felt sure that he was up to some of his tricks, for I caught him several times whispering mysteriously to the Rhymester and A. Fish, Esq., and I noticed that they were all particularly kind and respectful to his Majesty, as though they wished to keep him in a good humour. On the morning of the fifth, when I came down to breakfast, I was greatly surprised to find that the whole party had gone out about an hour previous, after borrowing from Mrs. Putchy a kitchen chair, four broomsticks, and a long piece of clothes-line. Whatever were they up to? I asked Mrs. Putchy if they had left any message, but no--they had said nothing as to where they were going, what they were going to do, or when they would be back; and the only thing that had struck Mrs. Putchy as being at all remarkable about their appearance, was the fact that the Rhymester had added little bows of coloured ribbon to his costume, and wore a tall pointed cap gaily decorated with streamers, and a deep white frill around his neck--the others were dressed as usual. I felt sure that some mischief was brewing, and could not settle down to my work for thinking of them. About eleven o'clock I went out to see if I could find any traces of my guests. I had been walking about unsuccessfully for about an hour, when I heard some boys shouting, and turning to look in their direction, I beheld his Majesty calmly seated in a chair which, by means of long poles attached to it, was being carried along by the Rhymester and A. Fish, Esq. They were followed by a crowd of people who were cheering lustily, and the Doctor-in-Law was rushing about collecting money in his hat, and entreating the people "not to forget the fifth of November," and repeating some doggerel verse about: "Guy Fawkes guy, Stick him up high; Stick him on a lamp-post, And there let him die," while several little boys were dancing about in great excitement, and shouting, "Holler, boys! holler! here's another guy." [Illustration: A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION] His Majesty evidently regarded it as a great compliment to himself, and complacently bowed right and left with considerable dignity. And I found out that the Doctor-in-Law had persuaded him into believing that this triumphal procession had been arranged solely in his Majesty's honour. I was naturally very vexed at the poor Wallypug being imposed upon in this manner, and spoke very plainly to the Doctor-in-Law about it on our way home, and I think the little man must have taken it very much to heart, for he seemed quite subdued, and actually himself suggested sharing the proceeds of the collection with the others. We went to see the fireworks in the evening, and I don't ever remember seeing the party in such excellent spirits as they were that night. Mrs. Putchy had prepared a capital supper for us on our return, and I love to remember my friends as they appeared sitting around the supper table talking over the adventures and excitements of the day. I can see them now whenever I close my eyes--the dear old Wallypug at the head of the table, with One-and-Nine in attendance, and the others all talking at once about the jolly time they had had at the Skating Rink in the afternoon, when A. Fish, Esq., had vainly tried to get along with roller-skates fastened on to his tail. [Illustration: A CAPITAL STORY] I say I love to remember them thus, for it was the last occasion upon which we were all together. Early the next morning Mrs. Putchy came to my room, and in a very agitated voice said, "Please sir, I'm afraid that there is something wrong; I have knocked at his Majesty's door and can get no answer, and the Doctor-in-Law's room is empty too." I hurried down, and on the breakfast table I found a letter addressed to me, in which his Majesty, on behalf of the others, thanked me very heartily for my hospitality, and explained that State matters of the utmost importance had necessitated their immediate return to Why. How they went I have never been able to discover. The outer door of my flat was found to be locked on the inside as usual, and the windows were all fastened; besides which, as they were some distance from the ground, the Royal party could scarcely have got out that way. Altogether the whole affair was involved in a mystery which I have never been able to solve to this day. Of course I miss my strange, but withal lovable visitors, very much, and I value very highly the several little mementoes of their visit which remained behind. Amongst others is a cheque of the Doctor-in-Law's for a considerable amount; which, however, I shall never be able to cash, as it is drawn upon the bank of, "Don't-you-wish-you-may-get-it," at Why. General Mary Jane was inconsolable for some time after the departure of her soldier hero, but eventually married our milkman, a very steady and respectable man in the neighbourhood. Girlie and Boy and many other friends of the Wallypug greatly regretted that they were unable to say good-bye to his Majesty before he left; and often and often, as I sit alone in my study, I think about the simple-natured, good-hearted little fellow, and his remarkable followers, and wonder if I shall ever see them again. Who knows? [Illustration: I OFTEN THINK OF THEM] THE END GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. * * * * * A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS AND ANNOUNCEMENTS OF METHUEN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS: LONDON 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. CONTENTS PAGE FORTHCOMING BOOKS, 2 POETRY, 10 BELLES LETTRES, 11 ILLUSTRATED BOOKS, 13 HISTORY, 14 BIOGRAPHY, 16 TRAVEL, ADVENTURE AND TOPOGRAPHY, 18 GENERAL LITERATURE, 19 SCIENCE, 21 PHILOSOPHY, 22 THEOLOGY, 22 LEADERS OF RELIGION, 24 FICTION, 25 BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, 34 THE PEACOCK LIBRARY, 35 UNIVERSITY EXTENSION SERIES, 35 SOCIAL QUESTIONS OF TO-DAY, 36 CLASSICAL TRANSLATIONS, 37 EDUCATIONAL BOOKS, 38 NOVEMBER 1897 NOVEMBER 1897. MESSRS. METHUEN'S ANNOUNCEMENTS #Poetry# SHAKESPEARE'S POEMS. Edited, with an Introduction and Notes, by GEORGE WYNDHAM, M.P. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram. 6s._ This is a volume of the sonnets and lesser poems of Shakespeare, and is prefaced with an elaborate Introduction by Mr. Wyndham. ENGLISH LYRICS. Selected and Edited by W. E. HENLEY. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram. 6s._ Also 15 copies on Japanese paper. _Demy 8vo._ _£2, 2s. net._ Few announcements will be more welcome to lovers of English verse than the one that Mr. Henley is bringing together into one book the finest lyrics in our language. NURSERY RHYMES. With many Coloured Pictures. By F. D. BEDFORD. _Small 4to._ _5s._ This book has many beautiful designs in colour to illustrate the old rhymes. THE ODYSSEY OF HOMER. A Translation by J. G. CORDERY. _Crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ #Travel and Adventure# BRITISH CENTRAL AFRICA. By Sir H. H. JOHNSTON, K.C.B. With nearly Two Hundred Illustrations, and Six Maps. _Crown 4to._ _30s. net._ CONTENTS.--(1) The History of Nyasaland and British Central Africa generally. (2) A detailed description of the races and languages of British Central Africa. (3) Chapters on the European settlers and missionaries; the Fauna, the Flora, minerals, and scenery. (4) A chapter on the prospects of the country. WITH THE GREEKS IN THESSALY. By W. KINNAIRD ROSE, Reuter's Correspondent. With Plans and 23 Illustrations. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A history of the operations in Thessaly by one whose brilliant despatches from the seat of war attracted universal attention. THE BENIN MASSACRE. By CAPTAIN BOISRAGON. With Portrait and Map. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ This volume is written by one of the two survivors who escaped the terrible massacre in Benin at the beginning of this year. The author relates in detail his adventures and his extraordinary escape, and adds a description of the country and of the events which led up to the outbreak. FROM TONKIN TO INDIA. By PRINCE HENRI OF ORLEANS. Translated by HAMLEY BENT, M.A. With 80 Illustrations and a Map. _Crown 4to._ _25s._ The travels of Prince Henri in 1895 from China to the valley of the Bramaputra covered a distance of 2100 miles, of which 1600 was through absolutely unexplored country. No fewer than seventeen ranges of mountains were crossed at altitudes of from 11,000 to 13,000 feet. The journey was made memorable by the discovery of the sources of the Irrawaddy. To the physical difficulties of the journey were added dangers from the attacks of savage tribes. The book deals with many of the burning political problems of the East, and it will be found a most important contribution to the literature of adventure and discovery. THREE YEARS IN SAVAGE AFRICA. By LIONEL DECLE. With an Introduction by H. M. STANLEY, M.P. With 100 Illustrations and 5 Maps. _Demy 8vo._ _21s._ Few Europeans have had the same opportunity of studying the barbarous parts of Africa as Mr. Decle. Starting from the Cape, he visited in succession Bechuanaland, the Zambesi, Matabeleland and Mashonaland, the Portuguese settlement on the Zambesi, Nyasaland, Ujiji, the headquarters of the Arabs, German East Africa, Uganda (where he saw fighting in company with the late Major 'Roddy' Owen), and British East Africa. In his book he relates his experiences, his minute observations of native habits and customs, and his views as to the work done in Africa by the various European Governments, whose operations he was able to study. The whole journey extended over 7000 miles, and occupied exactly three years. WITH THE MOUNTED INFANTRY IN MASHONALAND. By Lieut.-Colonel ALDERSON. With numerous Illustrations and Plans. _Demy 8vo._ _12s. 6d._ This is an account of the military operations in Mashonaland by the officer who commanded the troops in that district during the late rebellion. Besides its interest as a story of warfare, it will have a peculiar value as an account of the services of mounted infantry by one of the chief authorities on the subject. THE HILL OF THE GRACES: OR, THE GREAT STONE TEMPLES OF TRIPOLI. By H. S. COWPER, F.S.A. With Maps, Plans, and 75 Illustrations. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ A record of two journeys through Tripoli in 1895 and 1896. The book treats of a remarkable series of megalithic temples which have hitherto been uninvestigated, and contains a large amount of new geographical and archæological matter. ADVENTURE AND EXPLORATION IN AFRICA. By Captain A. ST. H. GIBBONS, F.R.G.S. With Illustrations by C. WHYMPER, and Maps. _Demy 8vo._ _21s._ This is an account of travel and adventure among the Marotse and contiguous tribes, with a description of their customs, characteristics, and history, together with the author's experiences in hunting big game. The illustrations are by Mr. Charles Whymper, and from photographs. There is a map by the author of the hitherto unexplored regions lying between the Zambezi and Kafukwi rivers and from 18° to 15° S. lat. #History and Biography# A HISTORY OF EGYPT, FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO THE PRESENT DAY. Edited by W. M. FLINDERS PETRIE, D.C.L., LL.D., Professor of Egyptology at University College. _Fully Illustrated._ _In Six Volumes._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ VOL. V. ROMAN EGYPT. By J. G. MILNE. THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. By EDWARD GIBBON. A New Edition, edited with Notes, Appendices, and Maps by J. B. BURY, M.A., Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. _In Seven Volumes._ _Demy 8vo, gilt top._ _8s. 6d. each._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ _Vol. IV._ THE LETTERS OF VICTOR HUGO. Translated from the French by F. CLARKE, M.A. _In Two Volumes._ _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d. each._ _Vol. II._ 1835-72. This is the second volume of one of the most interesting and important collection of letters ever published in France. The correspondence dates from Victor Hugo's boyhood to his death, and none of the letters have been published before. A HISTORY OF THE GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY, 1845-95. By C. H. GRINLING. With Maps and Illustrations. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ A record of Railway enterprise and development in Northern England, containing much matter hitherto unpublished. It appeals both to the general reader and to those specially interested in railway construction and management. A HISTORY OF BRITISH COLONIAL POLICY. By H. E. EGERTON, M.A. _Demy 8vo._ _12s. 6d._ This book deals with British Colonial policy historically from the beginnings of English colonisation down to the present day. The subject has been treated by itself, and it has thus been possible within a reasonable compass to deal with a mass of authority which must otherwise be sought in the State papers. The volume is divided into five parts:--(1) The Period of Beginnings, 1497-1650; (2) Trade Ascendancy, 1651-1830; (3) The Granting of Responsible Government, 1831-1860; (4) _Laissez Aller_, 1861-1885; (5) Greater Britain. A HISTORY OF ANARCHISM. By E. V. ZENKER. Translated from the German. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ A critical study and history, as well as a powerful and trenchant criticism, of the Anarchist movement in Europe. The book has aroused considerable attention on the Continent. THE LIFE OF ERNEST RENAN. By MADAME DARMESTETER. With Portrait. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A biography of Renan by one of his most intimate friends. A LIFE OF DONNE. By AUGUSTUS JESSOPP, D.D. With Portrait. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ This is a new volume of the 'Leaders of Religion' series, from the learned and witty pen of the Rector of Scarning, who has been able to embody the results of much research. OLD HARROW DAYS. By J. G. COTTON MINCHIN. _Crown 8vo._ _5s._ A volume of reminiscences which will be interesting to old Harrovians and to many of the general public. #Theology# A PRIMER OF THE BIBLE. By Prof. W. H. BENNETT. _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ This Primer sketches the history of the books which make up the Bible, in the light of recent criticism. It gives an account of their character, origin, and composition, as far as possible in chronological order, with special reference to their relations to one another and to the history of Israel and the Church. The formation of the Canon is illustrated by chapters on the Apocrypha (Old and New Testament); and there is a brief notice of the history of the Bible since the close of the Canon. LIGHT AND LEAVEN: HISTORICAL AND SOCIAL SERMONS. By the Rev. H. HENSLEY HENSON, M.A., Fellow of All Souls', Incumbent of St. Mary's Hospital, Ilford. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ _Devotional Series_ THE CONFESSIONS OF ST. AUGUSTINE. Newly Translated, with an Introduction, by C. BIGG, D.D., late Student of Christ Church. With a Frontispiece. _18mo._ _1s. 6d._ This little book is the first volume of a new Devotional Series, printed in clear type, and published at a very low price. This volume contains the nine books of the 'Confessions' which are suitable for devotional purposes. The name of the Editor is a sufficient guarantee of the excellence of the edition. THE HOLY SACRIFICE. By F. WESTON, M.A., Curate of St. Matthew's, Westminster. _18mo._ _1s._ A small volume of devotions at the Holy Communion. #Naval and Military# A HISTORY OF THE ART OF WAR. By C. W. OMAN, M.A., Fellow of All Souls', Oxford. _Demy 8vo._ _Illustrated._ _21s._ Vol. II. MEDI�VAL WARFARE. Mr. Oman is engaged on a History of the Art of War, of which the above, though covering the middle period from the fall of the Roman Empire to the general use of gunpowder in Western Europe, is the first instalment. The first battle dealt with will be Adrianople (378) and the last Navarette (1367). There will appear later a volume dealing with the Art of War among the Ancients, and another covering the 15th, 16th, and 17th centuries. The book will deal mainly with tactics and strategy, fortifications and siegecraft, but subsidiary chapters will give some account of the development of arms and armour, and of the various forms of military organization known to the Middle Ages. A SHORT HISTORY OF THE ROYAL NAVY, FROM EARLY TIMES TO THE PRESENT DAY. By DAVID HANNAY. Illustrated. _2 Vols. Demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d. each._ Vol. I. This book aims at giving an account not only of the fighting we have done at sea, but of the growth of the service, of the part the Navy has played in the development of the Empire, and of its inner life. THE STORY OF THE BRITISH ARMY. By Lieut.-Colonel COOPER KING, of the Staff College, Camberley. Illustrated. _Demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ This volume aims at describing the nature of the different armies that have been formed in Great Britain, and how from the early and feudal levies the present standing army came to be. The changes in tactics, uniform, and armament are briefly touched upon, and the campaigns in which the army has shared have been so far followed as to explain the part played by British regiments in them. #General Literature# THE OLD ENGLISH HOME. By S. BARING-GOULD. With numerous Plans and Illustrations. _Crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ This book, like Mr. Baring-Gould's well-known 'Old Country Life,' describes the life and environment of an old English family. OXFORD AND ITS COLLEGES. By J. WELLS, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Wadham College. Illustrated by E. H. NEW. _Fcap. 8vo._ _3s._ _Leather._ _4s._ This is a guide--chiefly historical--to the Colleges of Oxford. It contains numerous illustrations. VOCES ACADEMIC�. By C. GRANT ROBERTSON, M.A., Fellow of All Souls', Oxford. _With a Frontispiece._ _Fcap. 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ This is a volume of light satirical dialogues and should be read by all who are interested in the life of Oxford. A PRIMER OF WORDSWORTH. By LAURIE MAGNUS. _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ This volume is uniform with the Primers of Tennyson and Burns, and contains a concise biography of the poet, a critical appreciation of his work in detail, and a bibliography. NEO-MALTHUSIANISM. By R. USSHER, M.A. _Cr. 8vo._ _6s._ This book deals with a very delicate but most important matter, namely, the voluntary limitation of the family, and how such action affects morality, the individual, and the nation. PRIM�VAL SCENES. By H. N. HUTCHINSON, B.A., F.G.S., Author of 'Extinct Monsters,' 'Creatures of Other Days,' 'Prehistoric Man and Beast,' etc. With numerous Illustrations drawn by JOHN HASSALL and FRED. V. BURRIDGE. _4to._ _6s._ A set of twenty drawings, with short text to each, to illustrate the humorous aspects of prehistoric times. They are carefully planned by the author so as to be scientifically and archæologically correct and at the same time amusing. THE WALLYPUG IN LONDON. By G. E. FARROW, Author of 'The Wallypug of Why.' With numerous Illustrations. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ An extravaganza for children, written with great charm and vivacity. RAILWAY NATIONALIZATION. By CLEMENT EDWARDS. _Social Questions Series._ _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ #Sport# SPORTING AND ATHLETIC RECORDS. By H. MORGAN BROWNE. _Crown 8vo._ _1s. paper;_ _2s. cloth._ This book gives, in a clear and complete form, accurate records of the best performances in all important branches of Sport. It is an attempt, never yet made, to present all-important sporting records in a systematic way. THE GOLFING PILGRIM. By HORACE G. HUTCHINSON. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ This book, by a famous golfer, contains the following sketches lightly and humorously written:--The Prologue--The Pilgrim at the Shrine--Mecca out of Season--The Pilgrim at Home--The Pilgrim Abroad--The Life of the Links--A Tragedy by the Way--Scraps from the Scrip--The Golfer in Art--Early Pilgrims in the West--An Interesting Relic. #Educational# EVAGRIUS. Edited by PROFESSOR L�ON PARMENTIER of Liége and M. Bidez of Gand. _Demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ _Byzantine Texts._ THE ODES AND EPODES OF HORACE. Translated by A. D. GODLEY, M.A., Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford. _Crown 8vo. buckram._ _2s._ ORNAMENTAL DESIGN FOR WOVEN FABRICS. By C. STEPHENSON, of The Technical College, Bradford, and F. SUDDARDS, of The Yorkshire College, Leeds. With 65 full-page plates, and numerous designs and diagrams in the text. _Demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ The aim of this book is to supply, in a systematic and practical form, information on the subject of Decorative Design as applied to Woven Fabrics, and is primarily intended to meet the requirements of students in Textile and Art Schools, or of designers actively engaged in the weaving industry. Its wealth of illustration is a marked feature of the book. ESSENTIALS OF COMMERCIAL EDUCATION. By E. E. WHITFIELD, M.A. _Crown 8vo._ _1s. 6d._ A guide to Commercial Education and Examinations. PASSAGES FOR UNSEEN TRANSLATION. By E. C. MARCHANT, M.A., Fellow of Peterhouse, Cambridge; and A. M. COOK, M.A., late Scholar of Wadham College, Oxford: Assistant Masters at St. Paul's School. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ This book contains Two Hundred Latin and Two Hundred Greek Passages, and has been very carefully compiled to meet the wants of V. and VI. Form Boys at Public Schools. It is also well adapted for the use of Honour men at the Universities. EXERCISES IN LATIN ACCIDENCE. By S. E. WINBOLT, Assistant Master in Christ's Hospital. _Crown 8vo._ _1s. 6d._ An elementary book adapted for Lower Forms to accompany the shorter Latin primer. NOTES ON GREEK AND LATIN SYNTAX. By G. BUCKLAND GREEN, M.A., Assistant Master at the Edinburgh Academy, late Fellow of St. John's College, Oxon. _Cr. 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ Notes and explanations on the chief difficulties of Greek and Latin Syntax, with numerous passages for exercise. A DIGEST OF DEDUCTIVE LOGIC. By JOHNSON BARKER, B.A. _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ A short introduction to logic for students preparing for examinations. TEST CARDS IN EUCLID AND ALGEBRA. By D. S. CALDERWOOD, Headmaster of the Normal School, Edinburgh. In a Packet of 40, with Answers. _1s._ A set of cards for advanced pupils in elementary schools. HOW TO MAKE A DRESS. By J. A. E. WOOD. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo._ _1s. 6d._ A text-book for students preparing for the City and Guilds examination, based on the syllabus. The diagrams are numerous. #Fiction# LOCHINVAR. By S. R. CROCKETT, Author of 'The Raiders,' etc. Illustrated by FRANK RICHARDS. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ BYEWAYS. By ROBERT HICHENS, Author of 'Flames,' etc. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ THE MUTABLE MANY. By ROBERT BARR, Author of 'In the Midst of Alarms,' 'A Woman Intervenes,' etc. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ THE LADY'S WALK. By MRS. OLIPHANT. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A new book by this lamented author, somewhat in the style of her 'Beleagured City.' TRAITS AND CONFIDENCES. By The Hon. EMILY LAWLESS, Author of 'Hurrish,' 'Maelcho,' etc. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ BLADYS. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of 'The Broom Squire,' etc. Illustrated by F. H. TOWNSEND. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A Romance of the last century. THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES. By GILBERT PARKER, Author of 'The Seats of the Mighty,' etc. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE. By JANE HELEN FINDLATER, Author of 'The Green Graves of Balgowrie.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A story of 1710. OVER THE HILLS. By MARY FINDLATER. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A novel by a sister of J. H. Findlater, the author of 'The Green Graves of Balgowrie.' A CREEL OF IRISH STORIES. By JANE BARLOW, Author of 'Irish Idylls.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ THE CLASH OF ARMS. By J. BLOUNDELLE BURTON, Author of 'In the Day of Adversity.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A PASSIONATE PILGRIM. By PERCY WHITE, Author of 'Mr. Bailey-Martin.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ SECRETARY TO BAYNE, M.P. By W. PETT RIDGE. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ THE BUILDERS. By J. S. FLETCHER, Author of 'When Charles I. was King.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ JOSIAH'S WIFE. By NORMA LORIMER. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ BY STROKE OF SWORD. By ANDREW BALFOUR. Illustrated by W. CUBITT COOKE. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A romance of the time of Elizabeth. THE SINGER OF MARLY. By I. HOOPER. Illustrated by W. CUBITT COOKE. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A romance of adventure. KIRKHAM'S FIND. By MARY GAUNT, Author of 'The Moving Finger.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ THE FALL OF THE SPARROW. By M. C. BALFOUR. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ SCOTTISH BORDER LIFE. By JAMES C. DIBDIN. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ A LIST OF MESSRS. METHUEN'S PUBLICATIONS #Poetry# RUDYARD KIPLING'S NEW POEMS #Rudyard Kipling.# THE SEVEN SEAS. By RUDYARD KIPLING. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram, gilt top._ _6s._ 'The new poems of Mr. Rudyard Kipling have all the spirit and swing of their predecessors. Patriotism is the solid concrete foundation on which Mr. Kipling has built the whole of his work.'--_Times._ 'Full of passionate patriotism and the Imperial spirit.'--_Yorkshire Post._ 'The Empire has found a singer; it is no depreciation of the songs to say that statesmen may have, one way or other, to take account of them.'--_Manchester Guardian._ 'Animated through and through with indubitable genius.'--_Daily Telegraph._ 'Packed with inspiration, with humour, with pathos.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'All the pride of empire, all the intoxication of power, all the ardour, the energy, the masterful strength and the wonderful endurance and death-scorning pluck which are the very bone and fibre and marrow of the British character are here.'--_Daily Mail._ #Rudyard Kipling.# BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS; And Other Verses. By RUDYARD KIPLING. _Twelfth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Mr. Kipling's verse is strong, vivid, full of character.... Unmistakable genius rings in every line.'--_Times._ 'The ballads teem with imagination, they palpitate with emotion. We read them with laughter and tears; the metres throb in our pulses, the cunningly ordered words tingle with life; and if this be not poetry, what is?'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ #"Q."# POEMS AND BALLADS. By "Q.," Author of 'Green Bays,' etc. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _3s. 6d._ 'This work has just the faint, ineffable touch and glow that make poetry. 'Q.' has the true romantic spirit.'--_Speaker._ #"Q."# GREEN BAYS: Verses and Parodies. By "Q.," Author of 'Dead Man's Rock,' etc. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'The verses display a rare and versatile gift of parody, great command of metre, and a very pretty turn of humour.'--_Times._ #E. Mackay.# A SONG OF THE SEA. By ERIC MACKAY, Author of 'The Love Letters of a Violinist.' _Second Edition._ _Fcap. 8vo._ _5s._ 'Everywhere Mr. Mackay displays himself the master of a style marked by all the characteristics of the best rhetoric. He has a keen sense of rhythm and of general balance; his verse is excellently sonorous.'--_Globe._ #Ibsen.# BRAND. A Drama by HENRIK IBSEN. Translated by William Wilson. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'The greatest world-poem of the nineteenth century next to "Faust." It is in the same set with "Agamemnon," with "Lear," with the literature that we now instinctively regard as high and holy.'--_Daily Chronicle._ #"A. G."# VERSES TO ORDER. By "A. G." _Cr. 8vo._ _2s. 6d. net._ A small volume of verse by a writer whose initials are well known to Oxford men. 'A capital specimen of light academic poetry. These verses are very bright and engaging, easy and sufficiently witty.'--_St. James's Gazette._ #Belles Lettres, Anthologies, etc.# #R. L. Stevenson.# VAILIMA LETTERS. By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. With an Etched Portrait by WILLIAM STRANG, and other Illustrations. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _7s. 6d._ 'Few publications have in our time been more eagerly awaited than these "Vailima Letters," giving the first fruits of the correspondence of Robert Louis Stevenson. But, high as the tide of expectation has run, no reader can possibly be disappointed in the result.'--_St. James's Gazette._ #Henley and Whibley.# A BOOK OF ENGLISH PROSE. Collected by W. E. HENLEY and CHARLES WHIBLEY. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A unique volume of extracts--an art gallery of early prose.'--_Birmingham Post._ 'An admirable companion to Mr. Henley's "Lyra Heroica."'--_Saturday Review._ 'Quite delightful. A greater treat for those not well acquainted with pre-Restoration prose could not be imagined.'--_Athenæum._ #H. C. Beeching.# LYRA SACRA: An Anthology of Sacred Verse. Edited by H. C. BEECHING, M.A. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _6s._ 'A charming selection, which maintains a lofty standard of excellence.'--_Times._ #"Q."# THE GOLDEN POMP: A Procession of English Lyrics from Surrey to Shirley, arranged by A. T. QUILLER COUCH. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _6s._ 'A delightful volume: a really golden "Pomp."'--_Spectator._ #W. B. Yeats.# AN ANTHOLOGY OF IRISH VERSE. Edited by W. B. YEATS. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'An attractive and catholic selection.'--Times. #G. W. Steevens.# MONOLOGUES OF THE DEAD. By G. W. STEEVENS. _Foolscap 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ A series of Soliloquies in which famous men of antiquity--Julius Cæsar, Nero, Alcibiades, etc., attempt to express themselves in the modes of thought and language of to-day. The effect is sometimes splendid, sometimes bizarre, but always amazingly clever.--_Pall Mall Gazette._ #Victor Hugo.# THE LETTERS OF VICTOR HUGO. Translated from the French by F. CLARKE, M.A. _In Two Volumes._ _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d. each._ _Vol. I._ 1815-35. This is the first volume of one of the most interesting and important collection of letters ever published in France. The correspondence dates from Victor Hugo's boyhood to his death, and none of the letters have been published before. The arrangement is chiefly chronological, but where there is an interesting set of letters to one person these are arranged together. The first volume contains, among others, (1) Letters to his father; (2) to his young wife; (3) to his confessor, Lamennais; (4) a very important set of about fifty letters to Sainte-Beauve; (5) letters about his early books and plays. 'A charming and vivid picture of a man whose egotism never marred his natural kindness, and whose vanity did not impair his greatness.'--_Standard._ #C. H. Pearson.# ESSAYS AND CRITICAL REVIEWS. By C. H. PEARSON, M.A., Author of 'National Life and Character.' Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by H. A. STRONG, M.A., LL.D. With a Portrait. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'Remarkable for careful handling, breadth of view, and knowledge.'--_Scotsman._ 'Charming essays.'--_Spectator._ #W. M. Dixon.# A PRIMER OF TENNYSON. By W. M. DIXON, M.A., Professor of English Literature at Mason College. _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ 'Much sound and well-expressed criticism and acute literary judgments. The bibliography is a boon.'--_Speaker._ #W. A. Craigie.# A PRIMER OF BURNS. By W. A. CRAIGIE. _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ This book is planned on a method similar to the 'Primer of Tennyson.' It has also a glossary. 'A valuable addition to the literature of the poet.'--_Times._ 'An excellent short account.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'An admirable introduction.'--_Globe._ #Sterne.# THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. By LAWRENCE STERNE. With an Introduction by CHARLES WHIBLEY, and a Portrait. _2 vols._ _7s._ 'Very dainty volumes are these; the paper, type, and light-green binding are all very agreeable to the eye. _Simplex munditiis_ is the phrase that might be applied to them.'--_Globe._ #Congreve.# THE COMEDIES OF WILLIAM CONGREVE. With an Introduction by G. S. STREET, and a Portrait. _2 vols._ _7s._ 'The volumes are strongly bound in green buckram, are of a convenient size, and pleasant to look upon, so that whether on the shelf, or on the table, or in the hand the possessor is thoroughly content with them.'--_Guardian._ #Morier.# THE ADVENTURES OF HAJJI BABA OF ISPAHAN. By JAMES MORIER. With an Introduction by E. G. BROWNE, M.A., and a Portrait. _2 vols._ _7s._ #Walton.# THE LIVES OF DONNE, WOTTON, HOOKER, HERBERT, AND SANDERSON. By IZAAK WALTON. With an Introduction by VERNON BLACKBURN, and a Portrait. _3s. 6d._ #Johnson.# THE LIVES OF THE ENGLISH POETS. By SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. With an Introduction by J. H. MILLAR, and a Portrait. _3 vols._ _10s. 6d._ #Burns.# THE POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS. Edited by ANDREW LANG and W. A. CRAIGIE. With Portrait. _Demy 8vo, gilt top._ _6s._ This edition contains a carefully collated Text, numerous Notes, critical and textual, a critical and biographical Introduction, and a Glossary. 'Among the editions in one volume, Mr. Andrew Lang's will take the place of authority.'--_Times._ #F. Langbridge.# BALLADS OF THE BRAVE: Poems of Chivalry, Enterprise, Courage, and Constancy. Edited, with Notes, by Rev. F. LANGBRIDGE. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _3s. 6d._ _School Edition._ _2s. 6d._ 'A very happy conception happily carried out. These "Ballads of the Brave" are intended to suit the real tastes of boys, and will suit the taste of the great majority.'--_Spectator._ 'The book is full of splendid things.'--_World._ #Illustrated Books# #Jane Barlow.# THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE, translated by JANE BARLOW, Author of 'Irish Idylls,' and pictured by F. D. BEDFORD. _Small 4to._ _6s. net._ #S. Baring Gould.# A BOOK OF FAIRY TALES retold by S. BARING GOULD. With numerous illustrations and initial letters by ARTHUR J. GASKIN. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _6s._ 'Mr. Baring Gould is deserving of gratitude, in re-writing in honest, simple style the old stories that delighted the childhood of "our fathers and grandfathers." As to the form of the book, and the printing, which is by Messrs. Constable, it were difficult to commend overmuch.'--_Saturday Review._ #S. Baring Gould.# OLD ENGLISH FAIRY TALES. Collected and edited by S. BARING GOULD. With Numerous Illustrations by F. D. BEDFORD. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _6s._ 'A charming volume, which children will be sure to appreciate. The stories have been selected with great ingenuity from various old ballads and folk-tales, and, having been somewhat altered and readjusted, now stand forth, clothed in Mr. Baring Gould's delightful English, to enchant youthful readers.'--_Guardian._ #S. Baring Gould.# A BOOK OF NURSERY SONGS AND RHYMES. Edited by S. BARING GOULD, and Illustrated by the Birmingham Art School. _Buckram, gilt top._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The volume is very complete in its way, as it contains nursery songs to the number of 77, game-rhymes, and jingles. To the student we commend the sensible introduction, and the explanatory notes. The volume is superbly printed on soft, thick paper, which it is a pleasure to touch; and the borders and pictures are among the very best specimens we have seen of the Gaskin school.'--_Birmingham Gazette._ #H. C. Beeching.# A BOOK OF CHRISTMAS VERSE. Edited by H. C. BEECHING, M.A., and Illustrated by WALTER CRANE. _Crown 8vo, gilt top._ _5s._ A collection of the best verse inspired by the birth of Christ from the Middle Ages to the present day. A distinction of the book is the large number of poems it contains by modern authors, a few of which are here printed for the first time. 'An anthology which, from its unity of aim and high poetic excellence, has a better right to exist than most of its fellows.'--_Guardian._ #History# #Gibbon.# THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. By EDWARD GIBBON. A New Edition, Edited with Notes, Appendices, and Maps, by J. B. BURY, M.A., Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. _In Seven Volumes._ _Demy 8vo._ _Gilt top._ _8s. 6d. each._ _Also crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ _Vols. I., II., and III._ 'The time has certainly arrived for a new edition of Gibbon's great work.... Professor Bury is the right man to undertake this task. His learning is amazing, both in extent and accuracy. The book is issued in a handy form, and at a moderate price, and it is admirably printed.'--_Times._ 'The edition is edited as a classic should be edited, removing nothing, yet indicating the value of the text, and bringing it up to date. It promises to be of the utmost value, and will be a welcome addition to many libraries.'--_Scotsman._ 'This edition, so far as one may judge from the first instalment, is a marvel of erudition and critical skill, and it is the very minimum of praise to predict that the seven volumes of it will supersede Dean Milman's as the standard edition of our great historical classic.'--_Glasgow Herald._ 'The beau-ideal Gibbon has arrived at last.'--_Sketch._ 'At last there is an adequate modern edition of Gibbon.... The best edition the nineteenth century could produce.'--_Manchester Guardian._ #Flinders Petrie.# A HISTORY OF EGYPT, FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO THE PRESENT DAY. Edited by W. M. FLINDERS PETRIE, D.C.L., LL.D., Professor of Egyptology at University College. _Fully Illustrated._ _In Six Volumes._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ Vol. I. PREHISTORIC TIMES TO XVI. DYNASTY. W. M. F. Petrie. _Third Edition._ Vol. II. THE XVIITH AND XVIIITH DYNASTIES. W. M. F. Petrie. _Second Edition._ 'A history written in the spirit of scientific precision so worthily represented by Dr. Petrie and his school cannot but promote sound and accurate study, and supply a vacant place in the English literature of Egyptology.'--_Times._ #Flinders Petrie.# EGYPTIAN TALES. Edited by W. M. FLINDERS PETRIE. Illustrated by TRISTRAM ELLIS. _In Two Volumes._ _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d. each._ 'A valuable addition to the literature of comparative folk-lore. The drawings are really illustrations in the literal sense of the word.'--_Globe._ 'It has a scientific value to the student of history and archæology.'--_Scotsman._ 'Invaluable as a picture of life in Palestine and Egypt.'--_Daily News._ #Flinders Petrie.# EGYPTIAN DECORATIVE ART. By W. M. FLINDERS PETRIE, D.C.L. With 120 Illustrations. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'Professor Flinders Petrie is not only a profound Egyptologist, but an accomplished student of comparative archæology. In these lectures, delivered at the Royal Institution, he displays both qualifications with rare skill in elucidating the development of decorative art in Egypt, and in tracing its influence on the art of other countries.'--_Times._ #S. Baring Gould.# THE TRAGEDY OF THE C�SARS. The Emperors of the Julian and Claudian Lines. With numerous Illustrations from Busts, Gems, Cameos, etc. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of 'Mehalah,' etc. _Fourth Edition._ _Royal 8vo._ _15s._ 'A most splendid and fascinating book on a subject of undying interest. The great feature of the book is the use the author has made of the existing portraits of the Cæsars, and the admirable critical subtlety he has exhibited in dealing with this line of research. It is brilliantly written, and the illustrations are supplied on a scale of profuse magnificence.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'The volumes will in no sense disappoint the general reader. Indeed, in their way, there is nothing in any sense so good in English.... Mr. Baring Gould has presented his narrative in such a way as not to make one dull page.'--_Athenæum._ #H. de B. Gibbons.# INDUSTRY IN ENGLAND: HISTORICAL OUTLINES. By H. DE B. GIBBINS, M.A., D.Litt. With 5 Maps. _Second Edition._ _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ This book is written with the view of affording a clear view of the main facts of English Social and Industrial History placed in due perspective. Beginning with prehistoric times, it passes in review the growth and advance of industry up to the nineteenth century, showing its gradual development and progress. The book is illustrated by Maps, Diagrams, and Tables. #A. Clark.# THE COLLEGES OF OXFORD: Their History and their Traditions. By Members of the University. Edited by A. CLARK, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Lincoln College. _8vo._ _12s. 6d._ 'A work which will certainly be appealed to for many years as the standard book on the Colleges of Oxford.'--_Athenæum._ #Perrens.# THE HISTORY OF FLORENCE FROM 1434 TO 1492. By F. T. PERRENS. Translated by HANNAH LYNCH. _8vo._ _12s. 6d._ A history of Florence under the domination of Cosimo, Piero, and Lorenzo de Medicis. 'This is a standard book by an honest and intelligent historian, who has deserved well of all who are interested in Italian history.'--_Manchester Guardian._ #J. Wells.# A SHORT HISTORY OF ROME. By $1, Fellow and Tutor of Wadham Coll., Oxford. With 4 Maps. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ This book is intended for the Middle and Upper Forms of Public Schools and for Pass Students at the Universities. It contains copious Tables, etc. 'An original work written on an original plan, and with uncommon freshness and vigour.'--_Speaker._ #E. L. S. Horsburgh.# THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. By E. L. S. HORSBURGH, B.A. _With Plans._ _Crown 8vo._ _5s._ 'A brilliant essay--simple, sound, and thorough.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'A study, the most concise, the most lucid, the most critical that has been produced.'--_Birmingham Mercury._ #H. B. George.# BATTLES OF ENGLISH HISTORY. By H. B. GEORGE, M.A., Fellow of New College, Oxford. _With numerous Plans._ _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Mr. George has undertaken a very useful task--that of making military affairs intelligible and instructive to non-military readers--and has executed it with laudable intelligence and industry, and with a large measure of success.'--_Times._ #O. Browning.# A SHORT HISTORY OF MEDI�VAL ITALY, A.D. 1250-1530. By OSCAR BROWNING, Fellow and Tutor of King's College, Cambridge. _Second Edition._ _In Two Volumes._ _Crown 8vo._ _5s. each._ Vol. I. 1250-1409.--Guelphs and Ghibellines. Vol. II. 1409-1530.--The Age of the Condottieri. 'A vivid picture of mediæval Italy.'--_Standard._ 'Mr. Browning is to be congratulated on the production of a work of immense labour and learning.'--_Westminster Gazette._ #O'Grady.# THE STORY OF IRELAND. By STANDISH O'GRADY, Author of 'Finn and his Companions.' _Cr. 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ 'Most delightful, most stimulating. Its racy humour, its original imaginings, make it one of the freshest, breeziest volumes.'--_Methodist Times._ #Biography# #S. Baring Gould.# THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. By S. BARING GOULD. With over 450 Illustrations in the Text and 12 Photogravure Plates. _Large quarto._ _Gilt top._ _36s._ 'The best biography of Napoleon in our tongue, nor have the French as good a biographer of their hero. A book very nearly as good as Southey's "Life of Nelson."'--_Manchester Guardian._ 'The main feature of this gorgeous volume is its great wealth of beautiful photogravures and finely-executed wood engravings, constituting a complete pictorial chronicle of Napoleon I.'s personal history from the days of his early childhood at Ajaccio to the date of his second interment under the dome of the Invalides in Paris.'--_Daily Telegraph._ 'The most elaborate account of Napoleon ever produced by an English writer.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'A brilliant and attractive volume. Never before have so many pictures relating to Napoleon been brought within the limits of an English book.'--_Globe._ 'Particular notice is due to the vast collection of contemporary illustrations.'--_Guardian._ 'Nearly all the illustrations are real contributions to history.'--_Westminster Gazette._ 'The illustrations are of supreme interest.'--_Standard._ #Morris Fuller.# THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF JOHN DAVENANT, D.D. (1571-1641), President of Queen's College, Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity, Bishop of Salisbury. By MORRIS FULLER, B.D. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'A valuable contribution to ecclesiastical history.'--_Birmingham Gazette._ #J. M. Rigg.# ST. ANSELM OF CANTERBURY: A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF RELIGION. By J. M. RIGG. _Demy 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ 'Mr. Rigg has told the story of the great Primate's life with scholarly ability, and has thereby contributed an interesting chapter to the history of the Norman period.'--_Daily Chronicle._ #F. W. Joyce.# THE LIFE OF SIR FREDERICK GORE OUSELEY. By F. W. JOYCE, M.A. With Portraits and Illustrations. _Crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ 'This book has been undertaken in quite the right spirit, and written with sympathy, insight, and considerable literary skill.'--_Times._ #W. G. Collingwood.# THE LIFE OF JOHN RUSKIN. By W. G. COLLINGWOOD, M.A., Editor of Mr. Ruskin's Poems. With numerous Portraits, and 13 Drawings by Mr. Ruskin. _Second Edition._ _2 vols._ _8vo._ _32s._ 'No more magnificent volumes have been published for a long time.'--_Times._ 'It is long since we had a biography with such delights of substance and of form. Such a book is a pleasure for the day, and a joy for ever.'--_Daily Chronicle._ #C. Waldstein.# JOHN RUSKIN: a Study. By CHARLES WALDSTEIN, M.A., Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. With a Photogravure Portrait after Professor Herkomer. _Post 8vo._ _5s._ 'A thoughtful, impartial, well-written criticism of Ruskin's teaching, intended to separate what the author regards as valuable and permanent from what is transient and erroneous in the great master's writing.'--_Daily Chronicle._ #W. H. Hutton.# THE LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. By W. H. HUTTON, M.A., Author of 'William Laud.' _With Portraits._ _Crown 8vo._ _5s._ 'The book lays good claim to high rank among our biographies. It is excellently, even lovingly, written.'--_Scotsman._ 'An excellent monograph.'--_Times._ #Clark Russell.# THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL LORD COLLINGWOOD. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor.' With Illustrations by F. BRANGWYN. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A book which we should like to see in the hands of every boy in the country.'--_St. James's Gazette._ 'A really good book.'--_Saturday Review._ #Southey.# ENGLISH SEAMEN (Howard, Clifford, Hawkins, Drake, Cavendish). By ROBERT SOUTHEY. Edited, with an Introduction, by DAVID HANNAY. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Admirable and well-told stories of our naval history.'--_Army and Navy Gazette._ 'A brave, inspiriting book.'--_Black and White._ #Travel, Adventure and Topography# #R. S. S. Baden-Powell.# THE DOWNFALL OF PREMPEH. A Diary of Life with the Native Levy in Ashanti, 1895. By Colonel BADEN-POWELL. With 21 Illustrations and a Map. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'A compact, faithful, most readable record of the campaign.'--_Daily News._ 'A bluff and vigorous narrative.'--_Glasgow Herald._ #R. S. S. Baden-Powell.# THE MATEBELE CAMPAIGN 1896. By Colonel R. S. S. BADEN-POWELL. With nearly 100 Illustrations. _Second Edition._ _Demy 8vo._ _15s._ 'Written in an unaffectedly light and humorous style.'--_The World._ 'A very racy and eminently readable book.'--_St. James's Gazette._ 'As a straightforward account of a great deal of plucky work unpretentiously done, this book is well worth reading. The simplicity of the narrative is all in its favour, and accords in a peculiarly English fashion with the nature of the subject.'--_Times._ #Captain Hinde.# THE FALL OF THE CONGO ARABS. By SIDNEY L. HINDE. With Portraits and Plans. _Demy 8vo._ _12s. 6d._ 'The book is full of good things, and of sustained interest.'--_St. James's Gazette._ 'A graphic sketch of one of the most exciting and important episodes in the struggle for supremacy in Central Africa between the Arabs and their Europeon rivals. Apart from the story of the campaign, Captain Hinde's book is mainly remarkable for the fulness with which he discusses the question of cannibalism. It is, indeed, the only connected narrative--in English, at any rate--which has been published of this particular episode in African history.'--_Times._ 'Captain Hinde's book is one of the most interesting and valuable contributions yet made to the literature of modern Africa.'--_Daily News._ #W. Crooke.# THE NORTH-WESTERN PROVINCES OF INDIA: THEIR ETHNOLOGY AND ADMINISTRATION. By W. CROOKE. With Maps and Illustrations. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'A carefully and well-written account of one of the most important provinces of the Empire. In seven chapters Mr. Crooke deals successively with the land in its physical aspect, the province under Hindoo and Mussulman rule, the province under British rule, the ethnology and sociology of the province, the religious and social life of the people, the land and its settlement, and the native peasant in his relation to the land. The illustrations are good and well selected, and the map is excellent.'--_Manchester Guardian._ #W. B. Worsfold.# SOUTH AFRICA: Its History and its Future. By W. BASIL WORSFOLD, M.A. _With a Map._ _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'An intensely interesting book.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'A monumental work compressed into a very moderate compass.'--_World._ #General Literature# #S. Baring Gould.# OLD COUNTRY LIFE. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of 'Mehalah,' etc. With Sixty-seven Illustrations by W. PARKINSON, F. D. BEDFORD, and F. MASEY. _Large Crown 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ _Fifth and Cheaper Edition._ _6s._ '"Old Country Life," as healthy wholesome reading, full of breezy life and movement, full of quaint stories vigorously told, will not be excelled by any book to be published throughout the year. Sound, hearty, and English to the core.'--_World._ #S. Baring Gould.# HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. By S. BARING GOULD. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A collection of exciting and entertaining chapters. The whole volume is delightful reading.'--_Times._ #S. Baring Gould.# FREAKS OF FANATICISM. By S. BARING GOULD. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Mr. Baring Gould has a keen eye for colour and effect, and the subjects he has chosen give ample scope to his descriptive and analytic faculties. A perfectly fascinating book.'--_Scottish Leader._ #S. Baring Gould.# A GARLAND OF COUNTRY SONG: English Folk Songs with their Traditional Melodies. Collected and arranged by S. BARING GOULD and H. FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD. _Demy 4to._ _6s._ #S. Baring Gould.# SONGS OF THE WEST: Traditional Ballads and Songs of the West of England, with their Traditional Melodies. Collected by S. BARING GOULD, M.A., and H. FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD, M.A. Arranged for Voice and Piano. In 4 Parts (containing 25 Songs each), _Parts I., II., III.,_ _3s. each._ _Part IV.,_ _5s._ _In one Vol.,_ _French morocco,_ _15s._ 'A rich collection of humour, pathos, grace, and poetic fancy.'--_Saturday Review._ #S. Baring Gould.# YORKSHIRE ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. _Fourth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #S. Baring Gould.# STRANGE SURVIVALS AND SUPERSTITIONS. With Illustrations. By S. BARING GOULD. _Crown 8vo._ _Second Edition._ _6s._ 'We have read Mr. Baring Gould's book from beginning to end. It is full of quaint and various information, and there is not a dull page in it.'--_Notes and Queries._ #S. Baring Gould.# THE DESERTS OF SOUTHERN FRANCE. By S. BARING GOULD. With numerous Illustrations by F. D. BEDFORD, S. HUTTON, etc. _2 vols._ _Demy 8vo._ _32s._ 'His two richly-illustrated volumes are full of matter of interest to the geologist, the archæologist, and the student of history and manners.'--_Scotsman._ #G. W. Steevens.# NAVAL POLICY: WITH A DESCRIPTION OF ENGLISH AND FOREIGN NAVIES. By G. W. STEEVENS. _Demy 8vo._ _6s._ This book is a description of the British and other more important navies of the world, with a sketch of the lines on which our naval policy might possibly be developed. It describes our recent naval policy, and shows what our naval force really is. A detailed but non-technical account is given of the instruments of modern warfare--guns, armour, engines, and the like--with a view to determine how far we are abreast of modern invention and modern requirements. An ideal policy is then sketched for the building and manning of our fleet; and the last chapter is devoted to docks, coaling-stations, and especially colonial defence. 'An extremely able and interesting work.'--_Daily Chronicle._ #W. E. Gladstone.# THE SPEECHES AND PUBLIC ADDRESSES OF THE RT. HON. W. E. GLADSTONE, M.P. Edited by A. W. HUTTON, M.A., and H. J. COHEN, M.A. With Portraits. _8vo._ _Vols. IX. and X._ _12s. 6d. each._ #J. Wells.# OXFORD AND OXFORD LIFE. By Members of the University. Edited by J. WELLS, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Wadham College. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ 'We congratulate Mr. Wells on the production of a readable and intelligent account of Oxford as it is at the present time, written by persons who are possessed of a close acquaintance with the system and life of the University.'--_Athenæum._ #L. Whibley.# GREEK OLIGARCHIES: THEIR ORGANISATION AND CHARACTER. By L. WHIBLEY, M.A., Fellow of Pembroke College, Cambridge. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'An exceedingly useful handbook: a careful and well-arranged study of an obscure subject.'--_Times._ 'Mr. Whibley is never tedious or pedantic.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ #L. L. Price.# ECONOMIC SCIENCE AND PRACTICE. By L. L. PRICE, M.A., Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The book is well written, giving evidence of considerable literary ability, and clear mental grasp of the subject under consideration.'--_Western Morning News._ #C. F. Andrews.# CHRISTIANITY AND THE LABOUR QUESTION. By C. F. ANDREWS, B.A. _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ 'A bold and scholarly survey.'--_Speaker._ #J. S. Shedlock.# THE PIANOFORTE SONATA: Its Origin and Development. By J. S. SHEDLOCK. _Crown 8vo._ _5s._ 'This work should be in the possession of every musician and amateur, for it not only embodies a concise and lucid history of the origin of one of the most important forms of musical composition, but, by reason of the painstaking research and accuracy of the author's statements, it is a very valuable work for reference.'--_Athenæum._ #E. M. Bowden.# THE EXAMPLE OF BUDDHA: Being Quotations from Buddhist Literature for each Day in the Year. Compiled by E. M. BOWDEN. With Preface by Sir EDWIN ARNOLD. _Third Edition._ _16mo._ _2s. 6d._ #Science# #Freudenreich.# DAIRY BACTERIOLOGY. A Short Manual for the Use of Students. By Dr. ED. VON FREUDENREICH. Translated from the German by J. R. AINSWORTH DAVIS, B.A., F.C.P. _Crown 8vo._ _2s. 6d._ #Chalmers Mitchell.# OUTLINES OF BIOLOGY. By P. CHALMERS MITCHELL, M.A., F.Z.S. _Fully Illustrated._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A text-book designed to cover the new Schedule issued by the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons. #G. Massee.# A MONOGRAPH OF THE MYXOGASTRES. By GEORGE MASSEE. With 12 Coloured Plates. _Royal 8vo._ _18s. net._ 'A work much in advance of any book in the language treating of this group of organisms. It is indispensable to every student of the Myxogastres. The coloured plates deserve high praise for their accuracy and execution.'--_Nature._ #Philosophy# #L. T. Hobhouse.# THE THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE. By L. T. HOBHOUSE, Fellow and Tutor of Corpus College, Oxford. _Demy 8vo._ _21s._ 'The most important contribution to English philosophy since the publication of Mr. Bradley's "Appearance and Reality." Full of brilliant criticism and of positive theories which are models of lucid statement.'--_Glasgow Herald._ 'An elaborate and often brilliantly written volume. The treatment is one of great freshness, and the illustrations are particularly numerous and apt.'--_Times._ #W. H. Fairbrother.# THE PHILOSOPHY OF T. H. GREEN. By W. H. FAIRBROTHER, M.A., Lecturer at Lincoln College, Oxford. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ This volume is expository, not critical, and is intended for senior students at the Universities and others, as a statement of Green's teaching, and an introduction to the study of Idealist Philosophy. 'In every way an admirable book. As an introduction to the writings of perhaps the most remarkable speculative thinker whom England has produced in the present century, nothing could be better.'--_Glasgow Herald._ #F. W. Bussell.# THE SCHOOL OF PLATO: its Origin and its Revival under the Roman Empire. By F. W. BUSSELL, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Brasenose College, Oxford. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ 'A highly valuable contribution to the history of ancient thought.'--_Glasgow Herald._ 'A clever and stimulating book, provocative of thought and deserving careful reading.'--_Manchester Guardian._ #F. S. Granger.# THE WORSHIP OF THE ROMANS. By F. S. GRANGER, M.A., Litt.D., Professor of Philosophy at University College, Nottingham. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A scholarly analysis of the religious ceremonies, beliefs, and superstitions of ancient Rome, conducted in the new instructive light of comparative anthropology.'--_Times._ #Theology# #E. C. S. Gibson.# THE XXXIX. ARTICLES OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND. Edited with an Introduction by E. C. S. GIBSON, D.D., Vicar of Leeds, late Principal of Wells Theological College. _In Two Volumes._ _Demy 8vo._ _15s._ 'The tone maintained throughout is not that of the partial advocate, but the faithful exponent'--_Scotsman._ 'There are ample proofs of clearness of expression, sobriety of judgment, and breadth of view.... The book will be welcome to all students of the subject, and its sound, definite, and loyal theology ought to be of great service.'--_National Observer._ 'So far from repelling the general reader, its orderly arrangement, lucid treatment, and felicity of diction invite and encourage his attention.'--_Yorkshire Post._ #R. L. Ottley.# THE DOCTRINE OF THE INCARNATION. By R. L. OTTLEY, M.A., late fellow of Magdalen College, Oxon., Principal of Pusey House. _In Two Volumes._ _Demy 8vo._ _15s._ 'Learned and reverent: lucid and well arranged.'--_Record._ 'Accurate, well ordered, and judicious.'--_National Observer._ 'A clear and remarkably full account of the main currents of speculation. Scholarly precision ... genuine tolerance ... intense interest in his subject--are Mr. Ottley's merits.'--_Guardian._ #F. B. Jevons.# AN INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF RELIGION. By F. B. JEVONS, M.A., Litt.D., Principal of Bishop Hatfield's Hall. _Demy 8vo._ _10s. 6d._ Mr. F. B. Jevons' 'Introduction to the History of Religion' treats of early religion, from the point of view of Anthropology and Folk-lore; and is the first attempt that has been made in any language to weave together the results of recent investigations into such topics as Sympathetic Magic, Taboo, Totemism, Fetishism, etc., so as to present a systematic account of the growth of primitive religion and the development of early religious institutions. 'Dr. Jevons has written a notable work, and we can strongly recommend it to the serious attention of theologians, anthropologists, and classical scholars.'--_Manchester Guardian._ 'The merit of this book lies in the penetration, the singular acuteness and force of the author's judgment. He is at once critical and luminous, at once just and suggestive. It is but rarely that one meets with a book so comprehensive and so thorough as this, and it is more than an ordinary pleasure for the reviewer to welcome and recommend it. Dr. Jevons is something more than an historian of primitive belief--he is a philosophic thinker, who sees his subject clearly and sees it whole, whose mastery of detail is no less complete than his view of the broader aspects and issues of his subject is convincing.'--_Birmingham Post._ #S. R. Driver.# SERMONS ON SUBJECTS CONNECTED WITH THE OLD TESTAMENT. By S. R. DRIVER, D.D., Canon of Christ Church, Regius Professor of Hebrew in the University of Oxford. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A welcome companion to the author's famous 'Introduction.' No man can read these discourses without feeling that Dr. Driver is fully alive to the deeper teaching of the Old Testament.'--_Guardian._ #T. K. Cheyne.# FOUNDERS OF OLD TESTAMENT CRITICISM: Biographical, Descriptive, and Critical Studies. By T. K. CHEYNE, D.D., Oriel Professor of the Interpretation of Holy Scripture at Oxford. _Large crown 8vo._ _7s. 6d._ This book is a historical sketch of O. T. Criticism in the form of biographical studies from the days of Eichhorn to those of Driver and Robertson Smith. 'A very learned and instructive work.'--_Times._ #C. H. Prior.# CAMBRIDGE SERMONS. Edited by C. H. PRIOR, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Pembroke College. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A volume of sermons preached before the University of Cambridge by various preachers, including the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop Westcott. 'A representative collection. Bishop Westcott's is a noble sermon.'--_Guardian._ #E. B. Layard.# RELIGION IN BOYHOOD. Notes on the Religious Training of Boys. With a Preface by J. R. ILLINGWORTH. By E. B. LAYARD, M.A. _18mo._ _1s._ #W. Yorke Faussett.# THE _DE CATECHIZANDIS RUDIBUS_ OF ST. AUGUSTINE. Edited, with Introduction, Notes, etc., by W. YORKE FAUSSETT, M.A., late Scholar of Balliol Coll. _Crown 8vo._ _3s. 6d._ An edition of a Treatise on the Essentials of Christian Doctrine, and the best methods of impressing them on candidates for baptism. 'Ably and judiciously edited on the same principle as the ordinary Greek and Latin texts.'--_Glasgow Herald._ _Devotional Books_ _With Full-page Illustrations._ _Fcap. 8vo._ _Buckram._ _3s. 6d._ _Padded morocco, 5s._ THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. By THOMAS � KEMPIS. With an Introduction by DEAN FARRAR. Illustrated by C. M. GERE, and printed in black and red. _Second Edition._ 'Amongst all the innumerable English editions of the "Imitation," there can have been few which were prettier than this one, printed in strong and handsome type, with all the glory of red initials.'--_Glasgow Herald._ THE CHRISTIAN YEAR. By JOHN KEBLE. With an Introduction and Notes by W. LOCK, D.D., Warden of Keble College, Ireland, Professor at Oxford. Illustrated by R. ANNING BELL. 'The present edition is annotated with all the care and insight to be expected from Mr. Lock. The progress and circumstances of its composition are detailed in the Introduction. There is an interesting Appendix on the MSS. of the "Christian Year," and another giving the order in which the poems were written. A "Short Analysis of the Thought" is prefixed to each, and any difficulty in the text is explained in a note.'--_Guardian._ 'The most acceptable edition of this ever-popular work.'--_Globe._ #Leaders of Religion# Edited by H. C. BEECHING, M.A. _With Portraits, crown 8vo._ A series of short biographies of the most prominent leaders of religious life and thought of all ages and countries. 3/6 The following are ready-- CARDINAL NEWMAN. By R. H. HUTTON. JOHN WESLEY. By J. H. OVERTON, M.A. BISHOP WILBERFORCE. By G. W. DANIEL, M.A. CARDINAL MANNING. By A. W. HUTTON, M.A. CHARLES SIMEON. By H. C. G. MOULE, M.A. JOHN KEBLE. By WALTER LOCK, D.D. THOMAS CHALMERS. By Mrs. OLIPHANT. LANCELOT ANDREWES. By R. L. OTTLEY, M.A. AUGUSTINE OF CANTERBURY. By E. L. CUTTS, D.D. WILLIAM LAUD. By W. H. HUTTON, B.D. JOHN KNOX. By F. M'CUNN. JOHN HOWE. By R. F. HORTON, D.D. BISHOP KEN. By F. A. CLARKE, M.A. GEORGE FOX, THE QUAKER. By T. HODGKIN, D.C.L. Other volumes will be announced in due course. #Fiction# SIX SHILLING NOVELS Marie Corelli's Novels _Crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. _Sixteenth Edition._ VENDETTA. _Thirteenth Edition._ THELMA. _Seventeenth Edition._ ARDATH. _Eleventh Edition._ THE SOUL OF LILITH. _Ninth Edition._ WORMWOOD. _Eighth Edition._ BARABBAS: A DREAM OF THE WORLD'S TRAGEDY. _Thirty-first Edition._ 'The tender reverence of the treatment and the imaginative beauty of the writing have reconciled us to the daring of the conception, and the conviction is forced on us that even so exalted a subject cannot be made too familiar to us, provided it be presented in the true spirit of Christian faith. The amplifications of the Scripture narrative are often conceived with high poetic insight, and this "Dream of the World's Tragedy" is, despite some trifling incongruities, a lofty and not inadequate paraphrase of the supreme climax of the inspired narrative.'--_Dublin Review._ THE SORROWS OF SATAN. _Thirty-sixth Edition._ 'A very powerful piece of work.... The conception is magnificent, and is likely to win an abiding place within the memory of man.... The author has immense command of language, and a limitless audacity.... This interesting and remarkable romance will live long after much of the ephemeral literature of the day is forgotten.... A literary phenomenon ... novel, and even sublime.'--W. T. STEAD in the _Review of Reviews._ Anthony Hope's Novels _Crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ THE GOD IN THE CAR. _Seventh Edition._ 'A very remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible within our limit; brilliant, but not superficial; well considered, but not elaborated; constructed with the proverbial art that conceals, but yet allows itself to be enjoyed by readers to whom fine literary method is a keen pleasure.'--_The World._ A CHANGE OF AIR. _Fourth Edition._ 'A graceful, vivacious comedy, true to human nature. The characters are traced with a masterly hand.'--_Times._ A MAN OF MARK. _Fourth Edition._ 'Of all Mr. Hope's books, "A Man of Mark" is the one which best compares with "The Prisoner of Zenda."'--_National Observer._ THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. _Third Edition._ 'It is a perfectly enchanting story of love and chivalry, and pure romance. The outlawed Count is the most constant, desperate, and withal modest and tender of lovers, a peerless gentleman, an intrepid fighter, a very faithful friend, and a most magnanimous foe.'--_Guardian._ PHROSO. Illustrated by H. R. MILLAR. _Third Edition._ 'The tale is thoroughly fresh, quick with vitality, stirring the blood, and humorously, dashingly told.'--_St. James's Gazette._ 'A story of adventure, every page of which is palpitating with action and excitement.'--_Speaker._ 'From cover to cover "Phroso" not only engages the attention, but carries the reader in little whirls of delight from adventure to adventure.'--_Academy._ S. Baring Gould's Novels _Crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ 'To say that a book is by the author of "Mehalah" is to imply that it contains a story cast on strong lines, containing dramatic possibilities, vivid and sympathetic descriptions of Nature, and a wealth of ingenious imagery.'--_Speaker._ 'That whatever Mr. Baring Gould writes is well worth reading, is a conclusion that may be very generally accepted. His views of life are fresh and vigorous, his language pointed and characteristic, the incidents of which he makes use are striking and original, his characters are life-like, and though somewhat exceptional people, are drawn and coloured with artistic force. Add to this that his descriptions of scenes and scenery are painted with the loving eyes and skilled hands of a master of his art, that he is always fresh and never dull, and under such conditions it is no wonder that readers have gained confidence both in his power of amusing and satisfying them, and that year by year his popularity widens.'--_Court Circular._ ARMINELL: A Social Romance. _Fourth Edition._ URITH: A Story of Dartmoor. _Fifth Edition._ 'The author is at his best.'--_Times._ IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. _Sixth Edition._ 'One of the best imagined and most enthralling stories the author has produced.'--_Saturday Review._ MRS. CURGENVEN OF CURGENVEN. _Fourth Edition._ 'The swing of the narrative is splendid.'--_Sussex Daily News._ CHEAP JACK ZITA. _Fourth Edition._ 'A powerful drama of human passion.'--_Westminster Gazette._ 'A story worthy the author.'--_National Observer._ THE QUEEN OF LOVE. _Fourth Edition._ 'You cannot put it down until you have finished it.'--_Punch._ 'Can be heartily recommended to all who care for cleanly, energetic, and interesting fiction.'--_Sussex Daily News._ KITTY ALONE. _Fourth Edition._ 'A strong and original story, teeming with graphic description, stirring incident, and, above all, with vivid and enthralling human interest.'--_Daily Telegraph._ NO�MI: A Romance of the Cave-Dwellers. Illustrated by R. CATON WOODVILLE. _Third Edition._ '"Noémi" is as excellent a tale of fighting and adventure as one may wish to meet. The narrative also runs clear and sharp as the Loire itself.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'Mr. Baring Gould's powerful story is full of the strong lights and shadows and vivid colouring to which he has accustomed us.'--_Standard._ THE BROOM-SQUIRE. Illustrated by FRANK DADD. _Fourth Edition._ 'A strain of tenderness is woven through the web of his tragic tale, and its atmosphere is sweetened by the nobility and sweetness of the heroine's character.'--_Daily News._ 'A story of exceptional interest that seems to us to be better than anything he has written of late.'--_Speaker._ THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS. _Third Edition._ DARTMOOR IDYLLS. 'A book to read, and keep and read again; for the genuine fun and pathos of it will not early lose their effect.'--_Vanity Fair._ GUAVAS THE TINNER. Illustrated by FRANK DADD. _Second Edition._ 'Mr. Baring Gould is a wizard who transports us into a region of visions, often lurid and disquieting, but always full of interest and enchantment.'--_Spectator._ 'In the weirdness of the story, in the faithfulness with which the characters are depicted, and in force of style, it closely resembles "Mehalah."'--_Daily Telegraph._ 'There is a kind of flavour about this book which alone elevates it above the ordinary novel. The story itself has a grandeur in harmony with the wild and rugged scenery which is its setting.'--_Athenæum._ Gilbert Parker's Novels _Crown 8vo._ _6s. each._ PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. _Fourth Edition._ 'Stories happily conceived and finely executed. There is strength and genius in Mr. Parker's style.'--_Daily Telegraph._ MRS. FALCHION. _Fourth Edition._ 'A splendid study of character.'--_Athenæum._ 'But little behind anything that has been done by any writer of our time.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'A very striking and admirable novel.'--_St. James's Gazette._ THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE. 'The plot is original and one difficult to work out; but Mr. Parker has done it with great skill and delicacy. The reader who is not interested in this original, fresh, and well-told tale must be a dull person indeed.'--_Daily Chronicle._ THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. _Fifth Edition._ 'Everybody with a soul for romance will thoroughly enjoy "The Trail of the Sword."'--_St. James's Gazette._ 'A rousing and dramatic tale. A book like this, in which swords flash, great surprises are undertaken, and daring deeds done, in which men and women live and love in the old straightforward passionate way, is a joy inexpressible to the reviewer.'--_Daily Chronicle._ WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC: The Story of a Lost Napoleon. _Fourth Edition._ 'Here we find romance--real, breathing, living romance, but it runs flush with our own times, level with our own feelings. The character of Valmond is drawn unerringly; his career, brief as it is, is placed before us as convincingly as history itself. The book must be read, we may say re-read, for any one thoroughly to appreciate Mr. Parker's delicate touch and innate sympathy with humanity.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'The one work of genius which 1895 has as yet produced.'--_New Age._ AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH: The Last Adventures of 'Pretty Pierre.' _Second Edition._ 'The present book is full of fine and moving stories of the great North, and it will add to Mr. Parker's already high reputation.'--_Glasgow Herald._ THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY. _Illustrated._ _Eighth Edition._ 'The best thing he has done; one of the best things that any one has done lately.'--_St. James's Gazette._ 'Mr. Parker seems to become stronger and easier with every serious novel that he attempts.... In "The Seats of the Mighty" he shows the matured power which his former novels have led us to expect, and has produced a really fine historical novel.... Most sincerely is Mr. Parker to be congratulated on the finest novel he has yet written.'--_Athenæum._ 'Mr. Parker's latest book places him in the front rank of living novelists. "The Seats of the Mighty" is a great book.'--_Black and White._ 'One of the strongest stories of historical interest and adventure that we have read for many a day.... A notable and successful book.'--_Speaker._ #Conan Doyle.# ROUND THE RED LAMP. By A. CONAN DOYLE, Author of 'The White Company,' 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,' etc. _Fifth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The book is, indeed, composed of leaves from life, and is far and away the best view that has been vouchsafed us behind the scenes of the consulting-room. It is very superior to "The Diary of a late Physician."'--_Illustrated London News._ #Stanley Weyman.# UNDER THE RED ROBE. By STANLEY WEYMAN, Author of 'A Gentleman of France.' With Twelve Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. _Twelfth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A book of which we have read every word for the sheer pleasure of reading, and which we put down with a pang that we cannot forget it all and start again.'--_Westminster Gazette._ 'Every one who reads books at all must read this thrilling romance, from the first page of which to the last the breathless reader is haled along. An inspiration of "manliness and courage."'--_Daily Chronicle._ #Lucas Malet.# THE WAGES OF SIN. By LUCAS MALET. _Thirteenth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #Lucas Malet.# THE CARISSIMA. By LUCAS MALET, Author of 'The Wages of Sin,' etc. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #Arthur Morrison.# TALES OF MEAN STREETS. By ARTHUR MORRISON. _Fourth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Told with consummate art and extraordinary detail. He tells a plain, unvarnished tale, and the very truth of it makes for beauty. In the true humanity of the book lies its justification, the permanence of its interest, and its indubitable triumph.'--_Athenæum._ 'A great book. The author's method is amazingly effective, and produces a thrilling sense of reality. The writer lays upon us a master hand. The book is simply appalling and irresistible in its interest. It is humorous also; without humour it would not make the mark it is certain to make.'--_World._ #Arthur Morrison.# A CHILD OF THE JAGO. By ARTHUR MORRISON. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ This, the first long story which Mr. Morrison has written, is like his remarkable 'Tales of Mean Streets,' a realistic study of East End life. 'The book is a masterpiece.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'Told with great vigour and powerful simplicity.'--_Athenæum._ #Mrs. Clifford.# A FLASH OF SUMMER. By Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD, Author of 'Aunt Anne,' etc. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The story is a very sad and a very beautiful one, exquisitely told, and enriched with many subtle touches of wise and tender insight. It will, undoubtedly, add to its author's reputation--already high--in the ranks of novelists.'--_Speaker._ #Emily Lawless.# HURRISH. By the Honble. EMILY LAWLESS, Author of 'Maelcho,' etc. _Fifth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A reissue of Miss Lawless' most popular novel, uniform with 'Maelcho.' #Emily Lawless.# MAELCHO: a Sixteenth Century Romance. By the Honble. EMILY LAWLESS. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A really great book.'--_Spectator._ 'There is no keener pleasure in life than the recognition of genius. Good work is commoner than it used to be, but the best is as rare as ever. All the more gladly, therefore, do we welcome in "Maelcho" a piece of work of the first order, which we do not hesitate to describe as one of the most remarkable literary achievements of this generation. Miss Lawless is possessed of the very essence of historical genius.'--_Manchester Guardian._ #J. H. Findlater.# THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE. By JANE H. FINDLATER. _Fourth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A powerful and vivid story.'--_Standard._ 'A beautiful story, sad and strange as truth itself.'--_Vanity Fair._ 'A work of remarkable interest and originality.'--_National Observer._ 'A very charming and pathetic tale.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'A singularly original, clever, and beautiful story.'--_Guardian._ '"The Green Graves of Balgowrie" reveals to us a new Scotch writer of undoubted faculty and reserve force.'--_Spectator._ 'An exquisite idyll, delicate, affecting, and beautiful.'--_Black and White._ #H. G Wells.# THE STOLEN BACILLUS, and other Stories. By H. G. WELLS, Author of 'The Time Machine.' _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The ordinary reader of fiction may be glad to know that these stories are eminently readable from one cover to the other, but they are more than that; they are the impressions of a very striking imagination, which, it would seem, has a great deal within its reach.'--_Saturday Review._ #H. G. WELLS.# THE PLATTNER STORY AND OTHERS. By H. G. WELLS. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Weird and mysterious, they seem to hold the reader as by a magic spell.'--_Scotsman._ 'Such is the fascination of this writer's skill that you unhesitatingly prophesy that none of the many readers, however his flesh do creep, will relinquish the volume ere he has read from first word to last.'--_Black and White._ 'No volume has appeared for a long time so likely to give equal pleasure to the simplest reader and to the most fastidious critic.'--_Academy._ 'Mr. Wells is a magician skilled in wielding that most potent of all spells--the fear of the unknown.'--_Daily Telegraph._ #E. F. Benson.# DODO: A DETAIL OF THE DAY. By E. F. BENSON. _Sixteenth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A delightfully witty sketch of society.'--_Spectator._ 'A perpetual feast of epigram and paradox.'--_Speaker._ #E. F. Benson.# THE RUBICON. By E. F. BENSON, Author of 'Dodo.' _Fifth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'An exceptional achievement; a notable advance on his previous work.'--_National Observer._ #Mrs. Oliphant.# SIR ROBERT'S FORTUNE. By MRS. OLIPHANT. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Full of her own peculiar charm of style and simple, subtle character-painting comes her new gift, the delightful story before us. The scene mostly lies in the moors, and at the touch of the authoress a Scotch moor becomes a living thing, strong, tender, beautiful, and changeful.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ #Mrs. Oliphant.# THE TWO MARYS. By MRS. OLIPHANT. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #W. E. Norris.# MATTHEW AUSTIN. By W. E. NORRIS, Author of 'Mademoiselle de Mersac,' etc. _Fourth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ '"Matthew Austin" may safely be pronounced one of the most intellectually satisfactory and morally bracing novels of the current year.'--_Daily Telegraph._ #W. E. Norris.# HIS GRACE. By W. E. NORRIS. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Mr. Norris has drawn a really fine character in the Duke of Hurstbourne, at once unconventional and very true to the conventionalities of life.'--_Athenæum._ #W. E. Norris.# THE DESPOTIC LADY AND OTHERS. By W. E. NORRIS. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A budget of good fiction of which no one will tire.'--_Scotsman._ #W. E. Norris.# CLARISSA FURIOSA. By W. E. NORRIS, Author of 'The Rogue,' etc. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'One of Mr. Norris's very best novels. As a story it is admirable, as a _jeu d'esprit_ it is capital, as a lay sermon studded with gems of wit and wisdom it is a model which will not, we imagine, find an efficient imitator.'--_The World._ 'The best novel he has written for some time: a story which is full of admirable character-drawing.'--_The Standard._ #Robert Barr.# IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS. By ROBERT BARR. _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A book which has abundantly satisfied us by its capital humour.'--_Daily Chronicle._ 'Mr. Barr has achieved a triumph whereof he has every reason to be proud.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ #J. Maclaren Cobban.# THE KING OF ANDAMAN: A Saviour of Society. By J. MACLAREN COBBAN. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'An unquestionably interesting book. It would not surprise us if it turns out to be the most interesting novel of the season, for it contains one character, at least, who has in him the root of immortality, and the book itself is ever exhaling the sweet savour of the unexpected.... Plot is forgotten and incident fades, and only the really human endures, and throughout this book there stands out in bold and beautiful relief its high-souled and chivalric protagonist, James the Master of Hutcheon, the King of Andaman himself.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ #J. Maclaren Cobban.# WILT THOU HAVE THIS WOMAN? By J. M. COBBAN, Author of 'The King of Andaman.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Mr. Cobban has the true story-teller's art. He arrests attention at the outset, and he retains it to the end.'--_Birmingham Post._ #H. Morrah.# A SERIOUS COMEDY. By HERBERT MORRAH. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'This volume is well worthy of its title. The theme has seldom been presented with more freshness or more force.'--_Scotsman._ #H. Morrah.# THE FAITHFUL CITY. By HERBERT MORRAH, Author of 'A Serious Comedy.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Conveys a suggestion of weirdness and horror, until finally he convinces and enthrals the reader with his mysterious savages, his gigantic tower, and his uncompromising men and women. This is a haunting, mysterious book, not without an element of stupendous grandeur.'--_Athenæum._ #L. B. Walford.# SUCCESSORS TO THE TITLE. By MRS. WALFORD, Author of 'Mr. Smith,' etc. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The story is fresh and healthy from beginning to finish; and our liking for the two simple people who are the successors to the title mounts steadily, and ends almost in respect.'--_Scotsman._ #T. L. Paton.# A HOME IN INVERESK. By T. L. PATON. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A pleasant and well-written story.'--_Daily Chronicle._ #John Davidson.# MISS ARMSTRONG'S AND OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES. By JOHN DAVIDSON. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Throughout the volume there is a strong vein of originality, and a knowledge of human nature that are worthy of the highest praise.'--_Scotsman._ #M. M. Dowie.# GALLIA. By M�NIE MURIEL DOWIE, Author of 'A Girl in the Carpathians.' _Third Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The style is generally admirable, the dialogue not seldom brilliant, the situations surprising in their freshness and originality, while the subsidiary as well as the principal characters live and move, and the story itself is readable from title-page to colophon.'--_Saturday Review._ #J. A. Barry.# IN THE GREAT DEEP: TALES OF THE SEA. By J. A. BARRY, Author of 'Steve Brown's Bunyip.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A collection of really admirable short stories of the sea, very simply told, and placed before the reader in pithy and telling English.'--_Westminster Gazette._ #J. B. Burton.# IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY. By J. BLOUNDELLE BURTON. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Unusually interesting and full of highly dramatic situations.'--_Guardian._ #J. B. Burton.# DENOUNCED. By J. BLOUNDELLE BURTON. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The plot is an original one, and the local colouring is laid on with a delicacy and an accuracy of detail which denote the true artist.'--_Broad Arrow._ #W. C. Scully.# THE WHITE HECATOMB. By W. C. SCULLY, Author of 'Kafir Stories.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'The author is so steeped in Kaffir lore and legend, and so thoroughly well acquainted with native sagas and traditional ceremonial that he is able to attract the reader by the easy familiarity with which he handles his characters.'--_South Africa._ 'It reveals a marvellously intimate understanding of the Kaffir mind, allied with literary gifts of no mean order.'--_African Critic._ #H. Johnston.# DR. CONGALTON'S LEGACY. By HENRY JOHNSTON. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A worthy and permanent contribution to Scottish literature.'--_Glasgow Herald._ #J. F. Brewer.# THE SPECULATORS. By J. F. BREWER. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A pretty bit of comedy.... It is undeniably a clever book.'--_Academy._ 'A clever and amusing story. It makes capital out of the comic aspects of culture, and will be read with amusement by every intellectual reader.'--_Scotsman._ 'A remarkably clever study.'--_Vanity Fair._ #Julian Corbett.# A BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS. By JULIAN CORBETT. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Mr. Corbett writes with immense spirit, and the book is a thoroughly enjoyable one in all respects. The salt of the ocean is in it, and the right heroic ring resounds through its gallant adventures.'--_Speaker._ #L. Cope Cornford.# CAPTAIN JACOBUS: A ROMANCE OF THE ROAD. By L. COPE CORNFORD. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'An exceptionally good story of adventure and character.'--_World._ #C. P. Wolley.# THE QUEENSBERRY CUP. A Tale of Adventure. By CLIVE PHILLIPS WOLLEY. _Illustrated._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'A book which will delight boys: a book which upholds the healthy schoolboy code of morality.'--_Scotsman._ #L. Daintrey.# THE KING OF ALBERIA. A Romance of the Balkans. By LAURA DAINTREY. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Miss Daintrey seems to have an intimate acquaintance with the people and politics of the Balkan countries in which the scene of her lively and picturesque romance is laid.'--_Glasgow Herald._ #M. A. Owen.# THE DAUGHTER OF ALOUETTE. By MARY A. OWEN. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A story of life among the American Indians. 'A fascinating story.'--_Literary World._ #Mrs. Pinsent.# CHILDREN OF THIS WORLD. By ELLEN F. PINSENT, Author of 'Jenny's Case.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Mrs. Pinsent's new novel has plenty of vigour, variety, and good writing. There are certainty of purpose, strength of touch, and clearness of vision.'--_Athenæum._ #Clark Russell.# MY DANISH SWEETHEART. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor,' etc. _Illustrated._ _Fourth Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #G. Manville Fenn.# AN ELECTRIC SPARK. By G. MANVILLE FENN, Author of 'The Vicar's Wife,' 'A Double Knot,' etc. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #L. S. McChesney.# UNDER SHADOW OF THE MISSION. By L. S. MCCHESNEY. _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ 'Those whose minds are open to the finer issues of life, who can appreciate graceful thought and refined expression of it, from them this volume will receive a welcome as enthusiastic as it will be based on critical knowledge.'--_Church Times._ #Ronald Ross.# THE SPIRIT OF STORM. By RONALD ROSS, Author of 'The Child of Ocean.' _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ A romance of the Sea. 'Weird, powerful, and impressive.'--_Black and White._ #R. Pryce.# TIME AND THE WOMAN. By RICHARD PRYCE. _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #Mrs. Watson.# THIS MAN'S DOMINION. By the Author of 'A High Little World.' _Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._ _6s._ #Marriott Watson.# DIOGENES OF LONDON. By H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _6s._ #M. Gilchrist.# THE STONE DRAGON. By MURRAY GILCHRIST. _Crown 8vo._ _Buckram._ _6s._ 'The author's faults are atoned for by certain positive and admirable merits. 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THE SQUIRE OF WANDALES. By A. SHIELD. A REVEREND GENTLEMAN. By J. M. COBBAN. A DEPLORABLE AFFAIR. By W. E. NORRIS. A CAVALIER'S LADYE. By MRS. DICKER. THE PRODIGALS. By MRS. OLIPHANT. THE SUPPLANTER. By P. NEUMANN. A MAN WITH BLACK EYELASHES. By H. A. KENNEDY. A HANDFUL OF EXOTICS. By S. GORDON. AN ODD EXPERIMENT. By HANNAH LYNCH. HALF-CROWN NOVELS 2/6 _A Series of Novels by popular Authors._ 1. HOVENDEN, V.C. By F. MABEL ROBINSON. 2. ELI'S CHILDREN. By G. MANVILLE FENN. 3. A DOUBLE KNOT. By G. MANVILLE FENN. 4. DISARMED. By M. BETHAM EDWARDS. 5. A MARRIAGE AT SEA. By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 6. IN TENT AND BUNGALOW. By the Author of 'Indian Idylls.' 7. MY STEWARDSHIP. By E. M'QUEEN GRAY. 8. JACK'S FATHER. By W. E. NORRIS. 9. JIM B. 10. THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN. By F. MABEL ROBINSON. 11. MR. BUTLER'S WARD. By F. MABEL ROBINSON. 12. A LOST ILLUSION. By LESLIE KEITH. * * * * * #Lynn Linton.# THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON, Christian and Communist. By E. 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30656	----	Transcriber's Note: Text within {xx} following ^ = text inserted above the line. [Illustration: The Purple Cow!] Published by William Doxey, at the Sign of the Lark, San Francisco. Copyright. The Lark Book I., Nos. 1-12, with Table of Contents and Press Comments; bound in canvas, with a cover design (The Piping Faun) by Bruce Porter, painted in three colors. Price, 3.00, post-paid. [Illustration: _THE LARK_ _Book 1 Nos. 1-12_] _NOTES ON THE BIRTH OF THE LARK_ _Boston Herald._--"The pictures and rhymes in _The Lark_ rank with the most remarkable things done for children since the days of Mother Goose." _Boston Budget._--"_The Lark_ is a reaction against the decadent spirit. It is blithe, happy, full of the joy of life and the Greek within us--a herald of the dawn of the new century." _Boston Commonwealth._--"Everything in _The Lark_ is clever--some, we may be permitted to add, cleverer than the rest." _New York Critic._--"The faddists have produced some extraordinary things in the way of literature, but nothing more freakish has made its appearance in the last half-century than _The Lark_." _New York Tribune._--"It is perhaps one-fourth a monthly periodical and three-fourths an escapade. _The Lark_ ought really to be called 'The Goose.'" _New York Herald._--"The current number of _The Lark_ is, if possible, more curious, more quaint, more preposterously humorous, and more original than its predecessors. It is entirely unlike any other publication." _Richmond Times._--"We do not understand upon what the editor of _The Lark_ bases anticipation of interest and consequent demand." _Philadelphia Times._--"The young men who publish _The Lark_ have ideas of their own. _The Lark_ is smart and funny in a way quite its own, and it is also capable of serious flights and of musical notes clear enough to be heard across the continent." _Cincinnati Commercial Gazette._--"The worst thing about it being that it is all too brief." _Jersey City Chronicle._--"Every line in it is well worth perusal." _St. Paul Globe._--"_The Lark_ partakes of the prevalent temper of life on the Pacific Coast, where the don't-care mood of the West takes an especially sunny and cheerful turn, and life looks a bigger joke than elsewhere in the Union." _St. Louis Mirror._--"_The Lark_ continues to be odd and ridiculous. Its humor is quite unlike any other humor ever seen in this country. There are good men with good pens working on _The Lark_." _Kansas City Star._--"_The Lark_ seems to have attained a distinction hitherto considered impossible in the unconventional. It seems really original. It succeeds in holding in captivity the unexpected." _Los Angeles: The Land of Sunshine._--"It is unlike anything nearer to hand than 'Alice in Wonderland.'" #Lark Posters.#--The full set of Eight Posters for THE LARK will be sent post-paid for $2.00. The Lark Posters are printed from wooden blocks, all but the first two having been cut by the artist. May, 1895 _The Piping Faun_ Bruce Porter Aug., 1895 _Mother and Child_ Florence Lundborg Nov., 1895 _Mt. Tamalpais_ Florence Lundborg Feb., 1896 _Robin Hood_ Florence Lundborg May, 1896 _The Oread_ Florence Lundborg Aug., 1896 _Pan Pipes_ Florence Lundborg Nov., 1896 _Redwood_ Florence Lundborg Feb., 1897 _Sunrise_ Florence Lundborg _Published by_ WM. DOXEY, _at the Sign of the Lark, San Francisco._ CONTENTS DEDICATION. 1. A LEGEND, Rare and Superfine, Cribbed, some will say, from FRANKENSTEIN, (It _is_ a little in that line). 2. MY FEET; a Memoir, with a Phase Resembling some Equestrian Ways. 3. TH' INVISIBLE BRIDGE; a sort of Fable,-- Please understand, if you're able. 4. THE RUNAWAY TRAIN; a weird Creation Of Fancy and Imagination, Meant for the Rising Generation. 5. On CITY FLORA, semi-culled By one whose Fame was somewhat dulled. 6. ASTONISHMENT; depicting how Peculiar is the Verdant Bough. 7. The PURPLE COW'S projected Feast; Reflections on a Mythic Beast That's quite Remarkable, at least. 8. MY HOUSE, and how I make MY BED; A Nocturne for a Sleepy-Head. 9. On DIGITAL EXTREMITIES; A Poem (and a gem it is!) 10. THE GOOP; constructed on a Plan Beyond the Intellect of Man. 11. PARISIAN NECTAR for the Gods; A little thick--but what's the odds? 12. THE FLYING HOUSE; a Narrative Of Sanity comparative, And nothing much declarative. (_Permission of S. F. Examiner._) 13. The Story of the GIANT HORSE; 'T is quite improbable, of course. 14. _WHAT_ SMITH _TRIED TO_ BELIEVE; a Study That will appeal to anybuddy. 15. The TOWEL AND THE DOOR,--ah well! I'll not attempt the Tale to tell. 16. The TOWEL AND THE DOOR again! The Story's told--is it in vain? 17. The FOOTLESS FEAT of Mrs. Box _Posteaque, fiat Nox!_ 18. And now, allow the PURPLE COW To make her Bow. TO THE READERS OF "_THE LARK_" WHO HAVE LAUGHED THEY KNEW NOT WHY, THESE INARTISTIC ABERRATIONS ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. GELETT BURGESS _THE PECULIAR HISTORY OF THE CHEWING-GUM MAN._ O Willie, an' Wallie, an' Huldy Ann, They went an' built a big CHEWIN'-GUM MAN: It was none o' your teenty little dots, With pinhole eyes an' pencil-spots; But this was a terribul big one--well, 'T was a'most as high as the Palace Hotel! _It took 'em a year to chew the gum!!_ And Willie he done it all, 'cept some That Huldy got her ma to chew, By the time the head was ready to do. * * * * * Well, Willie he chewed it for days 'n' days; They brung it to him in gret big drays; An' fast as he got it good an' soft, Then Wallie he come and carried it oft. Then he'd roll it into a gret big ball, _An' he made a-more'n a MILLION in all!_ Then Huldy Ann she spanked 'em flat An' pinched an' poked, an' the like o' that, Till she got it inter a gret big hunk-- My! didn't Huldy have the spunk! And then she sliced one end half-way To make the laigs ('cause they never stay When you stick 'em on in a seprit piece-- Seems like the ends was made o' grease); And she slit an arm right up each side,-- I couldn't a done it if I'd a tried! O' course, her brothers they helped her, though, An' rolled the arms an' laigs out, so They all was smooth with roundin' bends An' _chopped_ the fingers inter the ends! An' when their mother had chewn the head, She went an' _stuck_ it on, instead! An' then, when the man was almost done, They had an awful lots o' fun. A-walkin' down his stummick was best To make the buttons onter his vest! They struck big cartwheels in him for eyes; His eyes was both tremendous size; His nose was a barrel--an' then beneath They used a ladder, to make his teeth! An' when he was layin' acrost the street Along come their daddy, as white 's a sheet,-- He was skeert half outer his wits, I guess, An' he didn't know whatter make o' the mess,-- But Huldy she up an' begun to coax To have him down town, to skeer the folks! So her dad he grabbed him offen the street, An' Willie an' Wallie they took his feet, An' they dragged him clean down to the Cogswell fountain, An' stood him up as big as a mountain! You'd orter seen him a-standin' there, A-straddlin' Market street in the air! Well, he stood up straight for a week 'n' a half An' the folks, Gee! didn't they yell 'n' laff: The boys clum up his laigs quite bold-- The gum was so soft they got good hold; The cars run under him day an' night, An' the people come miles to see the sight! Well, after he'd stayed as stiff 's a post, With his head on top o' the roofts almost, The sun come outer the fog one day An'--well, I guess you can see the way That gret big feller begun to melt;-- _Imagine how Willie and Wallie felt!_ For first he cocked his head out some, An' when the heat got inter the gum He slowly waved his arms ahead An' slanted forred, just like he was dead! [Illustration] An' all day long he leaned an' bent Till all expected he would have went An' pitched right over. They roped the street To keep the crowd away from his feet. I tell yer he was a sight; my soul! Twicet as high as a telegraft pole, Wavin' his arms an' slumpin' his feet An' a-starin' away down Market street. Then, what did I tell yer--that blame old head Their mother had made a-seprit, instead,-- It fell right off an' squashed a horse! ('T was so soft, it didn't _kill_ him, o' course.) When his hands got so they touched the ground A hundred policemen they come around; They stuck a cable-car to his feet, An' one to his head, a goin' up street, An' then they pulled him opposite ways, An' they pulled him for days 'n' days 'n' days, An' they drored him out so slim an' small That he reached a _mile 'n' a half_, in all. An' that was the end o' the CHEWIN'-GUM MAN For Willie, an' Wallie, an' Huldy Ann. They come along with an ax next day, An' chopped him up, and guv him away. [Illustration] [Illustration] My Feet they haul me 'round the House; They hoist me up the Stairs; I only have to steer them and They ride me everywheres. [Illustration] I'd never dare to walk across A Bridge I could not see, For quite afraid of falling off I fear that I should be! _ADULT'S DEPARTMENT:_ Oh, Willie and Wallie and Pinkie Jane! They run away with a Railroad Train! 'T was Wallie got up the ridiculous plan,-- 'T was most as good as the Chewin'-Gum Man! Wallie is terribul funny--My! He can make up a face that would make you die, An' when Pinkie Jane come down to the city He tried to show off, for she's awful pretty. So they all went over across the Bay, To have a picnic, and spend the day. At Sixteenth Street they got off the cars A-grinnin' an' giggling so,--My Stars! A Enormus Crowd begun to collect, But nobuddy knew just what to expect. Then up the track come a little spot, An' nearer and nearer and NEARER it got, And Willie and Wallie and Pinkie Jane Stood right in the road of the Overland Train!!! The folks on the platform begun to yell, "_Look out!--get off!!_" an' the engine bell [Illustration] _THE RUNAWAY TRAIN_: Was ringin' like mad,--but them children stood As calm as if they was made of wood! And a great big fat man yelled,--"_Oh Golly! For Heaven's sakes, just look at Wallie!_" As the train came thunderin' down the rail, The wimmin all turned terribul pale. But Wallie he stood there, stiff 's a soldier, An' then (you remember what I told yer) He made up a horribul face,--and whack! He SCARED THE ENGINE RIGHT OFF'N THE TRACK! An' the train jumped forreds an' squirmed around, A-wrigglin' an' jigglin' over the ground; And all the people they had to git, For the blame old engine it had a fit! But when the train got onto the track, Them children they clum right onto its back, And they tickled it so that all to once It gave 'em a lot of shivers an' grunts, And it humped itself way up in the air, And p'raps it didn't give them a scare! [Illustration] _AN IMPOSSIBLE EPIC_: Then it puffed an' puffed, a-faster an' faster, While Wallie sat there like an old school-master, A-drivin' that train till, I tell you what! You no idea what a nerve he's got! Willie he held on to Wallie, an' Jane Held onto Willie with might and main. Then they hitched along, like an old inch-worm, With now a spazzum, and then a squirm; But Willie and Wallie and Pinkie Jane, They soon got sick o' that Railroad train! But when they crawled to the last end car To jump on the ground, where it wasn't far, They got a heap worse off, instead, For that nasty train, it stood on its head! An' they all yelled, "Telegraft Huldy Ann, And make her come as quick as she can. We can't get off. Oh, hurry up, please! What would we do if the thing should sneeze?" [Illustration] _SEQUEL TO THE CHEWING-GUM MAN_ I tell yer them children was in a fix While that mad engine was doin' his tricks. But the messenger-boy found Huldy Ann, An' she said, "I'm glad that I ain't a man! I'll show 'em how!" an' she crossed the Bay, An' she see in a wink where the trouble lay. An' she said, "You go, an' you telegraft back For a load o' candy to block the track!" An' when they sent it, she piled it high With chocolate caramels, good ones,--My! Peppermint drops and cocoanut cream, Till it looked too good for a Christmas dream! And the sun it melted and finished the job Into one great elegant sticky gob! So the train run into it lickety-split, An' the cow-catcher stuck, when the engine hit,-- An' the tail o' the train flew up and threw Them children into that caramel goo! They fell clear in,--way over their head, But Ann eat 'em out, an' sent 'em to bed! [Illustration] [Illustration] There is a Theory some deny, That Lamp Posts once were three foot high, And a Little Boy was terrible strong, And he stretched 'em out to 'leven foot long! [Illustration] I picked some Leaves from off a Tree, And then I nearly Fainted: For somehow it Astonished me To find they'd All been Painted! [Illustration] I never saw a PURPLE COW, I never HOPE to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather SEE than BE one! [Illustration] My House is made of Graham Bread, Except the ceiling 's made of White; Of Angel Cake I make my Bed; I eat my Pillow every night! [Illustration] I'd rather have Fingers than Toes; I'd rather have Ears than a Nose; And as for my Hair, I'm glad it's all there, I'll be awfully sad when it goes! [Illustration] Now you are what I call a GOOP! A Co-tangent harmonious Loop You appear to be facing due South But O what have you done with your Mouth? [Illustration] Many People seem to Think Plaster o' Paris good to Drink: Though conducive unto Quiet I prefer another Diet! [Illustration] THE:FLYING:HOUSE Written and Illustrated by GELETT:BURGESS O Willie an' Wallie, you better believe, They had a circus on Christmas Eve With Huldy Ann an' Pinkie Jane-- The folks imagined they'd went insane! Them twins had an awfully narrow shave-- They nearly was killt, for they wouldn't behave! Huldy's a winner! She hatched the scheme On the day before Christmas; an' that there team-- That Willie an' Wallie--they worked like mad-- You've no idea what a time they had! 'Twas the day before Christmas, at half-past three, When Huldy she up an' she says, says she: "You Willie an' Wallie, you go in the yard An' get that windmill--it won't be hard-- An' bring it an' put it on top of the house, An' don't make no more noise than a mouse! 'For I know something I won't tell, Nine little niggers in a peanut shell!'" Well, the twins they knew when she said that, Huldy wa' n't talkin' much through her hat. So they worked an' they tugged for more 'n an hour, 'Till they got that windmill off'n the tower; An' they hauled it up to the roof with ropes, Way on the ridgepole, 'tween the slopes. [Illustration] [Illustration] They was almost dead, it tired 'em so, An' Will druv a splinter into his toe! An' all this time both Pinkie Jane An' Huldy was workin' with might an' main, A-shuttin' the doors, an' the windows too, An' stoppin' up cracks where the leaks come through. An' when it was tight, she slipped inside An' turned the gas on good an' wide! An' she screamed, "Look out that you don't get smothered: Climb up on the roof where I won't be bothered!" When the house filled up with the gas inside, It trembled an' jiggled from side to side; An' when the gas filled it good an' full The ole foundations began to pull; Then Huldy she pushed it a little mite, An' the house riz up in the air all right! An' it riz an' riz like a ole balloon. An' Ann got aboard of it none too soon; For it flew away off up into the sky With her holdin' on by her hands--Oh my! But she clum on top, an' you'd oughter have seen Them workin' that wheel like a flyin' machine! Well, after they'd flew an hour or so They came to a mountain all covered with snow, An' there on the top they happened to see A enermous great big Christmas tree! Then Huldy steered 'em over the top, An' they let down an anchor to make 'em stop; An' Willie an' Wallie they yelled with glee, An' jumped right into that Christmas tree! They let down a ladder for them two girls That didn't darst jump for spoilin' their curls! They was toys an' games an' wagons an' dolls, All trimmed with tinsel an' fol-de-rols! For Santa Claus had just drove away, An' Wallie he said that he seen the sleigh! Well, when they'd eat all the candy they could, They loaded their house with things up good. (But they hurried for fear that the old man'd come back An' catch 'em an' give 'em a larrupin' whack!) Then they got on the roof, an' they cut the string An' away they flew like everything! [Illustration] The twins worked the wheel an' Huldy steered, An' Pinkie clung tight--she was awfully skeered: They got back home at half-past six, But, oh! they got into a nawful fix! For just as they sunk the house gave a lurch An' they landed right on top of a church! An' they punched a hole through the roof with the steeple, To the great amazement of all of the people! An' the toys fell out of that house in the air, An' all the children in the town was there. So every one got a present again 'Cept Willie an' Wallie an' Huldy an' Jane-- An' it served 'em right, don't you think? because They'd stolen the presents from Santa Clause. [Illustration] [Illustration] Once there was a GIANT HORSE, That walked through all the Town, A-stepping into all the Roofs, And Smashing Houses down! [Illustration] WHAT:SMITH:TRIED:TO:BELIEVE _refused by_ ST NICHOLAS, BIBELOT, NEW:REVIEW, POLYNESIAN:MONITOR _and_ SAN FRANCISCO:CLIMAX Well, I come home late that night, near one o'clock, I reckon, and I undressed in the dark as per usual. When I gut into bed I thot it felt as tho sumbuddy hed bin there, and when I kicked out my leg sure enough there was sumbuddy there. Well, I thot Rats, what's the difference; I'll go to sleep, it's only a man. But I kinder could'nt sleep, so I got up and lit a cigaroot, and I saw the feller that was in bed with me wos dead. Well, I thot Rats, what's the difference, he wont git over to my side of the bed anyway; so I turned over and went to sleep. Well, I fired my cigaroot in ther paper-basket and went to sleep. Well, after a while I thot I smealed smoke, and it wasn't cigaroot smoke, but the basket was all afire, and burning like a editor's soul after death. Well, I thot Rats, what's the difference. Well, it looked so bright and comfortable I thot I'd get up and read. By this time one corner of the room was goin' like 4 o'clock, and it was nice and warm. After I'd read about ten minits, it got so hot I cuddent stand it, and I got up and went into ther next room. Well, I thot Rats, what's the difference. Well, in about a hour there was a big crowd outside of the house, and they was all yellin' Fire to beat the band. I looked out er winder. Jump, says the fireman, and I jumped. Then I walked off, and a feller says, says he, "You blame fool, you've bruk yer leg." Well, I thot Rats, what's the difference? [Illustration] The Towel hangs upon the Wall, And, somehow, I don't care at all! The Door is open;--I must say I rather fancy it that Way! [Illustration] ,llaW eht nopu sgnah lewoT ehT !lla ta erac t'nod I, wohemos,dnA yas tsum I--;nepo si rooD ehT !yaW taht ti ycnaf rehtar I _THE SOLES OF THE UNFORTUNATES._ Likkery had but one leg[A] when I married him.[B] I did not realize what this meant {it meant 41 right-foot shoes [for he was extravagant (and I was economical[C]) to a degree] in his dressing closet} until he died. {I could not bear to throw {them away. { {The clerks asserted that all {their one-legged right-footed I could not get rid of them {customers wore {large sizes.[D] { {There were not weddings {enough to throw them all {after the carriages. Chapter II. [Sidenote: Mr. Silk _WAS_ a two-legged gentleman.] My second marriage WOULD have been happy, but my husband met with a distressing accident, which necessitated an amputation ^{of his right leg} of his wrong leg. So the collection increased. In spite of all my precautions, Mr. Silk's shoes would often be left pointing toward the bed.[E] How I suffered! At last Mr. Silk died. The day after the funeral, I made a procession of all the shoes-- ORDER: 1. Patent leathers 2. Brogans 3. Bluchers (small) 4. Bluchers (large) 5. Tan shoes 6. Slippers (carpet) 7. Congresses 8. Riding boots 9. Pumps Sixty-two right-foot shoes, ^{toe to heel,} they reached from my bedroom[F] to the stairs. I was in despair when a small-footed man named Box proposed to me. I looked at his feet and accepted him. (I was sure the shoes would fit.) * * * * * As soon as he was asleep I approached his prostrate form (my axe was sharp {I ground it myself} and my mind was set). Sixty-two soles inspired me.[G] I struck the blow!--Then the HORROR of my deed seized me. The rest is too awful! NOTE: I had cut off the wrong foot! [A] Left leg. [B] Fool that I was. [C] For he could get a pair at the same price as a single shoe. [D] Likkery wore No. 3's. [E] It is a common superstition among children that this encourages bad dreams. [F] Bay-window. [G] I was determined they should at last be worn out. [Illustration] Ah, yes, I wrote the "Purple Cow"-- I'm Sorry, now, I wrote it; But I can tell you Anyhow I'll Kill you if you Quote it! The Lark Book II., Nos. 13-24, with Table of Contents and EPILARK; bound in canvas, with cover design (Pan Pipes) by Florence Lundborg, painted in three colors. Price, 3.00, post-paid. [Illustration: Book II--Nos. 13-24] _NOTES ON THE PASSING OF THE LARK_ _Literary Review._--"Its ways were ways of pleasantness, and all its paths were peace. It had no enemies and all its friends were true ones. We see it go with a real regret and a feeling that we could have better spared a better paper."--CAROLYN WELLS. _New York Times._--"Regret moderately deep and thoroughly sincere will be felt all over the country, at the announcement that _The Lark_ has ceased publication. A considerable number of people could see no humor and less meaning in its songs, but thousands of others had keener eyes and ears, and looked and listened with delight." _Cincinnati Commercial Tribune._--"_The Lark_ is dead, and the _Epilark_ has come and gone, leaving behind them only a haunting echo of joyous song and a love of living delicious to contemplate." _St. Paul Daily Globe._--"But the mood in which we turn the Japanese pages of the last _Lark_ is anything but flippant. It is something to have known youth and gayety, enthusiasm and a bravery which flies in the face of day, and now--something to have lost them. _The Lark_ has lived and now dies well, and, to some at least, the time of its irregular appearance will no longer be a red-letter day." _The Philosopher._--"And now _The Lark_ announces its end. It was the freshest, purest breath of air that ever blew across the atmosphere of letters." _London Times._--"So unique in literature and illustration, we are sorry to note that its publication is to be suspended. The bound volumes for the two years it has been running deserve a place in the libraries of all lovers of the odd and advanced in literature." _Paragraphs._--"No more shall its cool notes delight the tree-tops, and no longer may we follow in the footsteps of Vivette. It is a pity, of course; but what can you expect? Larks must be fed, and--no one thinks of feeding them." _Trenton Tribune._--"Its clever foolery shows how big a void was created when _The Lark_ decided to sing no more. _The Lark_ was the one new thing in junior magazinedom that did not outlive its welcome." _St. Louis Mirror._--"It smacked of Robert Louis Stevenson. It was 'Alice in Wonderland' in picture. It was art through a crazy looking-glass. It was the realism of nonsense. The whole country laughed at the strange pictures with the brilliantly unintelligible verses. But much of it was not understood of the people who need diagrams. _The Lark_ was always too high in the blue for the many; but for those who might mount with him or to him--for those the magazinelet was published. Those enjoyed it; and now they regret it--for _The Lark_ is no more. It was so original that its death is its only unoriginality." #The Lark Almanac for 1899:# Being a collection of vagaries from THE LARK, with original designs by Porter Garnett; uniform in size with "The Purple Cow." Price, 50c. _Published by_ WM. DOXEY, _at the Sign of the Lark, San Francisco_ "Who'll be the Clerk!" "I!" said _THE LARK_. 
36782	----	MORE MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN By HARRY GRAHAM _Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," "Misrepresentative Men," "Ballads of the Boer War," "Verse and Worse," etc., etc._ PICTURES BY MALCOLM STRAUSS NEW YORK FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY MCMV COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY Published in September, 1905 To E. B. _Contents_ AUTHOR'S FOREWORD PUBLISHER'S PREFACE ROBERT BURNS WILLIAM WALDORF ASTOR HENRY VIII ALTON B. PARKER EUCLID J. M. BARRIE OMAR KHAYYAM ANDREW CARNEGIE KING COPHETUA JOSEPH F. SMITH SHERLOCK HOLMES AFTWORD _Authors Foreword_ (_To the Publisher_) When honest men are all in bed, We poets at our desks are toiling, To earn a modicum of bread, And keep the pot a-boiling; We weld together, bit by bit, The fabric of our laboured wit. We see with eyes of frank dismay The coming of this Autumn season, When bards are driven to display Their feast of rhyme and reason; With hectic brain and loosened collar, We chase the too-elusive dollar. While Publishers, in search of grist, Despise our masterly inaction, And shake their faces in our fist, Demanding satisfaction, We view with vague or vacant mind The grim agreements we have signed. For though a willing public gives Its timely share of cash assistance, The author (like the dentist) lives A hand-to-mouth existence; And Publishers, those modern Circes, Make pig's-ear purses of his verses. Behold! How ill, how thin and pale, The features of the furtive jester! Compelled by contracts to curtail His moments of siesta! A true White Knight is he to-day (_Nuit Blanche_, as Stevenson would say). Ah, surely he has laboured well, Constructing this immortal sequel,-- A work which no one could excel, And very few can equal,-- A volume which, I dare to say, Is epoch-making, in its way. When other poets' work is not, These verses shall retain their label; When Herford is a thing forgot, And Ade an ancient fable; When Goops no longer give a sign Of Burgess's empurpled kine. My Publishers, I love you so! Your well-secreted virtues viewing; Who never let your right hand know Whom your left hand is doing; Who hold me firmly in your grip, And crack your cheque-book, like a whip! My Publishers, make no mistake, You have in me an _avis rara_, So write a princely cheque, and make It payable to bearer; I love you, as I said before, But oh! I love your money more! _Publisher's Preface_ (_To the Author_) Voracious Author, gorged with gold, Your grasping greed shall not avail! In vain you venture to unfold Your false prehensile tale! I view in scorn (unmixed with awe) The width of your capacious maw. On me the onus has to fall Of your malevolent effusions; 'Tis I who bear the brunt of all Your libellous allusions; To bolster up your turgid verse, I jeopardise my very purse! You do not hesitate to fleece The Publisher you scorn to thank, And when you manage to decrease His balance at the bank, Your face is lighted up with greed, And you are lantern-jawed indeed! Yet will I still heap coals of fire, Until your coiffure is imbedded, And you at last, perchance, shall tire Of growing so hot-headed, And realise that being funny Is not a mere affair of money. And so, in honour of your pow'rs, A fragrant bouquet will I pick, Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rs Of speech and rhetoric; I'll add a thistle, if I may, And, round the whole, a wreath of bay. The blossoms for your button-hole, To mark your affluent condition, Exotics to inspire your soul To further composition. Come, set the bays upon your brow! * * * * * Well, eat the thistle, anyhow! _Robert Burns_ The jingling rhymes of Dr. Watts Excite the reader's just impatience, He wearies of Sir Walter Scott's Melodious verbal collocations, And with advancing years he learns To love the simpler style of Burns. Too much the careworn critic knows Of that obscure robustious diction, Which like a form of fungus grows Amid the Kailyard school of fiction; In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighs For Burns's clear and spacious skies. Tho' no aspersions need be cast On Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic, Creator of that unsurpass'd If most minute ecclesiastic; Yet even here the eye discerns No master-hand like that of Burns. The works of Campbell and the rest Exhale a sanctimonious odour, Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best, Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour! They cannot hope, like Burns, to win That "touch which makes the whole world kin." Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro, And virtues in Maclaren see, Or want but little here below, And want that little Lang, maybe; Each renegade at length returns, To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns. His verse, as all the world declares, And Tennyson himself confesses, The radiance of the dewdrop shares, The berry's perfect shape possesses; And even William Wordsworth praises The magic of his faultless phrases. But he, whose books bedeck our shelves, Whose lofty genius we adore so, Was only human, like ourselves,-- Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so! And joined a thirst that nought could quench To morals which were frankly French. And ev'ry night he made his way, With boon companions, bent on frolic, To inns of ill-repute, where lay Refreshments--chiefly alcoholic! (But I decline to raise your gorges, Describing these nocturnal orgies.) Of love-affairs he knew no end, So long and ardently he flirted, And e'en the least suspicious friend Would feel a trifle disconcerted, When Burns was sitting with his "_sposa_," "As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!" A Cockney Chiel who found him thus, And showed some conjugal alarm, When Burns implored him not to fuss, Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?" Replied at once, with perfect taste, "The _h_arm is round my consort's waist!" "A poor thing but my own," said he, His fair but fickle bride denoting, And she, with scathing repartee, Assented, wilfully misquoting, (Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah), "A poorer thing--and yet my owner!" The most bucolic hearts were burnt By Burns' amatory glances; The most suburban spinsters learnt To welcome his abrupt advances; When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said, They wished that _they_ were there instead! They loved him from the first, in spite Of angry parents' interference; They deemed his courtship so polite, So captivating his appearance; So great his charm, so apt his wit, In local parlance, Burns was IT! The rustic maids from far and wide, Encouraged his unwise flirtations; For love of Burns they moped and sighed, And, while their nearest male relations Were up in arms, the sad thing is That they themselves were up in his! His crest a mug, with open lid, The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,-- Inscribed "Amari Aliquid," (Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"), On either side, as meet supporters, The village blacksmith's lovely daughters. "Men were deceivers ever!" True, As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!), But one should always keep in view That "_tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny_"; In judging poets it suffices To scan their verses, not their vices. . . . . . . The poets of the present time Attempt their feeble imitations; Are economical of rhyme, And lavish with reiterations; The while a patient public swallows A "Border Ballad" much as follows:-- _Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel, Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither, Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel, Like a mither._ _Jamie's ganging doon the burn, Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer, Jamie's ganging doon the burn, To Strathpeffer!_ _Jamie's comin' hame to dee, Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin', Jamie's comin' hame to dee, Dee o' drinkin'!_ _Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie! Dinna greet sae sair! Gin ye canna, winna, shanna See yer lassie mair! Wha' hoo! Wha' hae! Strathpeffer!_ I give you now, as antidote, Some lines which I myself indited. Carnegie, when he read them, wrote To say that he was quite delighted; Their pathos cut him to the quick, Their humour almost made him sick. _The queys are moopin' i' the mirk, An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk, I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work, Sae straught an' primsie; In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw, The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw, The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw, Or warl a whimsy. The cootie muircocks crousely craw, The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw, I gie their wames a random paw, For a' they're skilpy; For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din, To but the ben, or loup the linn, Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pin Sae frae an' gilpie?_ _Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap, The cairngorm clap in ilka cap, Och, hand me o'er Ma lang claymore, Twa, bannocks an' a bap, Wha hoo! Twa bannocks an' a bap!_ . . . . . . O fellow Scotsman, near and far, Renowned for health and good digestion, For all that makes you what you are,-- (But are you really? That's the question)-- Be grateful, while the world endures, That Burns was countryman of yours. And hand-in-hand, in alien land, Foregather with your fellow cronies, To masticate the haggis (cann'd) At Scottish Conversaziones, Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne, You worship at your country's shrine! _William Waldorf Astor_ How blest a thing it is to die For Country's sake, as bards have sung! How sweet "pro patria mori," (To quote the vulgar Latin tongue); And yet to him the palm we give Who for his fatherland can _live_. Historians have explained to us, In terms that never can grow cold, How well the bold Horatius Played bridge in the brave days of old; And we can read of hosts of others, From Spartan boys to Roman mothers. But nowhere has the student got, From poet, pedagogue, or pastor, The picture of a patriot So truly typical as Astor; And none has ever shown a greater Affection for his Alma Mater. With loyalty to Fatherland His heart inflexible as starch is, Whene'er he hears upon a band The too prolific Sousa's marches; And from his eyes a tear he wipes, Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes. Tho' others roam across the foam To European health resorts, The fact that "there's no place like home" Is foremost in our hero's thoughts; And all in vain have people tried To lure him from his "ain fireside." Let tourists travel near or far, By wayward breezes widely blown, _He_ stops at the Astoria, "A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;" And nothing that his friends may do Can drag him from Fifth Avenue. The Western heiress is content To scale, as a prospective bride, The bare six-story tenement Where foreign pauper peers reside; But men like Astor all disparage The so-called Morgan-attic marriage. The rich Chicago millionaire May buy a mansion in Belgravia, Have footmen there with powdered hair And frigidly correct behaviour; But marble stairs and plate of gold Leave Astor absolutely cold. The lofty ducal residence, That fronts some Surrey riverside, Would wound his socialistic sense, And pain his patriotic pride; He would not change for Castles Highland His cabbage-patch on Coney Island. A statue in some Roman street, A palace of Venetian gilding, Appear to him not half so sweet As any modern Vanderbuilding; He views, without an envious throe, The wolf that suckled Romeo! Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut, Their mead of praise from some may win; Our hero cannot do without Peanuts and clams and terrapin; Away from home, his soul would lack The cocktail and the canvasback. Not his to walk the crowded Strand; 'Mid busy London's jar and hum. On quiet Broadway he would stand, Saying "Americanus sum!" His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,-- Small wonder that it stops the traffic! Who would not be a man like he, (This lapse of grammar pray forgive,) So simply satisfied to be, Contented with his lot to live,-- Whether or not it be, I wot, A little lot,--or quite a lot? Content with any kind of fare, With any tiny piece of earth, So long as he can find it there Within the land that gave him birth; Content with simple beans and pork, If he may eat them in New York! O persons who have made your pile, And spend it far across the seas, Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle, Denounced notorious absentees, I pray you imitate the Master, And stay at home like Mr. Astor! But if you go abroad at all, And leave your fatherland behind you, Without an effort to recall The sentimental ties that bind you, I should be grateful if you could Contrive to stay away for good! _Henry VIII_ With Stevenson we must agree, Who found the world so full of things, That all should be, or so said he, As happy as a host of Kings; Yet few so fortunate as not To envy Bluff King Henry's lot. A polished monarch, through and through, Tho' somewhat lacking in religion, Who joined a courtly manner to The figure of a pouter pigeon; And was, at time of feast or revel A ... well ... a perfect little devil! But tho' his vices, I'm afraid, Are hard for modern minds to swallow, Two lofty virtues he displayed, Which we should do our best to follow:-- A passion for domestic life, A cult for what is called The Wife. He sought his spouses, North and South. Six times (to make a misquotation) He managed, at the Canon's mouth, To win a bubble reputation; And ev'ry time, from last to first, His matrimonial bubble burst! Six times, with wide, self-conscious smile And well-blacked, button boots, he entered The Abbey's bust-congested aisle, With ev'ry eye upon him centred; Six times he heard, and not alone, The march of Mr. Mendelssohn. Six sep'rate times (or three times twice), In order to complete the marriage, 'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice, He sought the shelter of his carriage; Six times the bride, beneath her veil, Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale." Within the limits of one reign, Six females of undaunted bearing, Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane, Enjoyed the privilege of sharing A conjugal career so chequer'd It almost constitutes a record! Yet sometimes it occurs to me That Henry missed his true vocation; A husband by profession he, A widower by occupation; And, honestly, it seems a pity He didn't live in Salt Lake City. For there he could have put in force His plural marriage views, unbaffled; Nor had recourse to dull divorce, Nor sought the service of the scaffold; Nor looked for peace, nor found release, In any partner's predecease. Had Henry been alive to-day, He might have hired a timely motor, And sent each wife in turn to stay Within the confines of Dakota; That State whose rigid marriage-law, Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw. But Henry's simple days are done, And, in the present generation, A wife is seldom woo'd and won By prospects of decapitation. For nowadays when Woman weds, It is the _Men_ who lose their heads! _Alton B. Parker_ Those Roman Fathers, long ago, Established a sublime tradition, Who gave the Man Behind the Hoe His proud proconsular position; When Cincinnatus left his hens, And beat his ploughshares into pens. His modern prototype we see, Descended from some humble attic, The Presidential nominee Of those whose views are Democratic; From Millionaire to Billiard Marker They plumped their votes for Central Parker. A member of the sterner sex, Possessing neither wealth nor beauty, But gifted with a really ex-- --Traordinary sense of Duty; In Honour's list I place him first,-- With Cæsar's Wife and Mr. Hearst. From childhood's day this son of toil, Since first he laid aside his rattle, Was wont to cultivate the soil, Or milk his father's kindly cattle; To groom the pigs, drive crows away, Or teach the bantams how to lay. This sprightly lad, his parents' pet, With tastes essentially bucolic, Eschewed the straightcut cigarette, And shunned refreshments alcoholic; His simple pleasure 'twas to plumb The deep-laid joys of chewing gum. As local pedagogue he next Attained to years of indiscretion, To preach the Solomonian text So popular with that profession, Which honours whom (and what) it teaches More in th' observance than the breeches. The sprightly Parker soon one sees, Head of a legal institution, Enjoying huge retaining fees As counsel for the prosecution. (Advice to lawyers, _meum non est_,-- Get on, get honour, then get honest!) Behold him, then, like comet, shoot Beyond the bounds of birth or station, And gain, as jurist of repute, A continental reputation. (Don't mix him with that "Triple Star" Which lights a more unworthy "bar.") A proud position now is his, A judge, arrayed in moral ermine, As from the Bench he sentences His fellow-man, and other vermin, And does his duty to his neighbour, By giving him six months' hard labour. On knotty questions of finance He bears aloft the golden standard, For he whose motto is "Advance!" To baser coin has never pandered. No eulogist of War is he, "Retrenchment!" is his _dernier cri_. But tho', to his convictions true, With strength like concentrated Eno, He did his very utmost to Emancipate the Filipino, A fickle public chose Another, Who called the Coloured Coon his Brother. _Euclid_ When Egypt was a first-class Pow'r-- When Ptolemy was King, that is, Whose benefices used to show'r On all the local charities, And by his liberal subscriptions Was always spoiling the Egyptians-- The Alexandrine School enjoyed A proud and primary position For training scholars not devoid Of geometric erudition; Where arithmetical fanatics Could even _live_ in (mathem)-attics. The best informed Historians name This Institution the possessor Of one who occupied with fame The post of principal Professor, Who had a more expansive brain Than any man--before Hall Caine. No complex sums of huge amounts Perplexed his algebraic knowledge; With ease he balanced the accounts Of his (at times insolvent) College; He was, without the least romance, A very Blondin of Finance. In pencil, on his shirt-cuff, he, Without a moment's hesitation, Elucidated easily The most elab'rate calculation (His washing got, I needn't mention, The local laundry's best attention). Behind a manner mild as mouse, Blue-spectacled and inoffensive, He hid a judgment and a _nous_ As overwhelming as extensive, And cloaked a soul immune from wrong Beneath an ample ong-bong-pong. To rows of conscientious youths, Whom 'twas his duty to take care of, He loved to prove the truth of truths Which they already were aware of; They learnt to look politely bored, Where modern students would have snored. To show that Two and Two make Four, That All is greater than a Portion, Requires no dialectic lore, Nor any cerebral contortion; The public's faith in facts was steady, Before the days of Mrs. Eddy. But what was hard to overlook (From which Society still suffers) Was all the trouble Euclid took To teach the game of Bridge to duffers. Insisting, when he got a quorum, On "_Pons_" (he called it) "_Asinorum_." The guileless methods of his game Provoked his partner's strongest strictures; He hardly knew the cards by name, But realised that some had pictures; Exhausting ev'rybody's patience By his perpetual revocations. For weary hours, in deep concern, O'er dummy's hand he loved to linger, Denoting ev'ry card in turn, With timid indecisive finger; And stopped to say, at each delay, "I really don't know _what_ to play!" He sought, at any cost, to win His ev'ry suit in turn unguarding; He trumped his partner's "best card in," His own egregiously discarding; Remarking sadly, when in doubt, "I quite forgot the King was out!" Alert opponents always knew, By what the look upon his face was, When safety lay in leading through, And where, of course, the fatal ace was; Assuring the complete successes Of bold but hazardous "finesses." But nowadays we find no trace, From distant Assouan to Cairo, To mark the place where dwelt a race Mistaught by so absurd a tyro; And nothing but occult inscriptions Recall the sports of past Egyptians. Yes, "_autre temps_" and "_autre moeurs_," "_Où sont_ indeed _les neiges d'antan_?" The modern native much prefers Debauching in some _café chantant_, Nor ever shows the least ambition To solve a single Proposition. O Euclid, luckiest of men! You knew no English interloper; For Allah's Garden was not then The pleasure-ground of Alleh Sloper, Nor (broth-like) had your country's looks Been spoilt by an excess of "Cooks." The Nile to your untutored ears Discoursed in dull but tender tones; Not yours the modern Dahabeahs, Supplied with strident gramophones, Imploring, in a loud refrain, Bill Bailey to come home again. Your cars, the older-fashioned sort, And drawn, perhaps, by alligators, Were not the modern Juggernaut- Child-dog-and-space-obliterators, Those "stormy petrols" of the land Which deal decease on either hand. No European tourist wags Defiled the desert's dusky face With orange peel and paper bags, Those emblems of a cultured race; Or cut the noble name of Jones, On tombs which held a monarch's bones. O Euclid! Could you see to-day The sunny clime you once frequented, And note the way we moderns play The game you thoughtfully invented, The knowledge of your guilt would force yer To feelings of internal nausea! _J. M. Barrie_ The briny tears unbidden start, At mention of my hero's name! Was ever set so huge a heart Within so small a frame? So much of tenderness and grace Confined in such a slender space? (O tiniest of tiny men! So wise, so whimsical, so witty! Whose magic little fairy-pen Is steeped in human pity; Whose humour plays so quaint a tune, From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!) So wide a sympathy has he, Such kindliness without an end, That children clamber on his knee, And claim him as a friend; They somehow know he understands, And doesn't mind their sticky hands. And so they swarm about his neck, With energy that nothing wearies, Assured that he will never check Their ceaseless flow of queries, And grateful, with a warm affection, For his avuncular protection. And when his watch he opens wide, Or beats them all at blowing bubbles, They tell him how the dormouse died, And all their tiny troubles; And drag him, if he seems deprest, To see the baby squirrel's nest. For hidden treasure he can dig, Pursue the Indians in the wood, Feed the prolific guinea-pig With inappropriate food; Do all the things that mattered so In happy days of long ago. All this he can achieve, and more! For, 'neath the magic of his brain, The young are younger than before, The old grow young again, To dream of Beauty and of Truth For hearts that win eternal youth. Fat apoplectic men I know, With well-developed Little Marys, Look almost human when they show Their faith in Barrie's fairies; Their blank lethargic faces lighten In admiration of his Crichton. To lovers who, with fingers cold, Attempt to fan some dying ember, He brings the happy days of old, And bids their hearts remember; Recalling in romantic fashion The tenderness of earlier passion. And modern matrons who can find So little leisure for the Nurs'ry, Whose interest in babykind Is eminently curs'ry, New views on Motherhood acquire From Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire! While men of every sort and kind, At times of sunshine or of trouble, In Sentimental Tommy find Their own amazing double; To each in turn the mem'ry comes Of some belov'd forgotten Thrums. To Barrie's literary art That strong poetic sense is clinging Which hears, in ev'ry human heart, A "late lark" faintly singing, A bird that bears upon its wing The promise of perpetual Spring. Materialists may labour much At problems for the modern stage; His simpler methods reach and touch The Young of ev'ry age; And first and second childhood meet On common ground at Barrie's feet! _Omar Khayyam_ Though many a great Philosopher Has earned the Epicure's diploma, Not one of them, as I aver, So much deserved the prize as Omar; For he, without the least misgiving, Combined High Thinking and High Living. He lived in Persia, long ago, Upon a somewhat slender pittance; And Persia is, as you may know, The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens, (A quite consistent _habitat_, Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.") He lived--as I was saying, when You interrupted, impolitely-- Not loosely, like his fellow-men, But, _vicê versâ_, rather tightly; And drank his share, so runs the story, And other people's, _con amore_. A great Astronomer, no doubt, He often found some Constellation Which others could not see without Profuse internal irrigation; And snakes he saw, and crimson mice, Until his colleagues rang for ice. Omar, who owned a length of throat As dry as the proverbial "drummer," And quite believed that (let me quote) "One swallow does not make a summer," Supplied a model to society Of frank, persistent insobriety. * * * * * Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet, Until, when indisposed for more, Your puzzled, inadhesive feet Elude the smooth revolving floor. What matter doubts, despair or sorrow? To-day is Yesterday To-morrow! Oblivion in the bottle win, Let finger-bowls with vodka foam, And seek the Open Port within Some dignified Inebriates' Home; Assuming there, with kingly air, A crown of vine-leaves in your hair! A book of verse (my own, for choice), A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda, A lady with a tuneful voice, Beside me in some dim pagoda! A cellar--if I had the key,-- Would be a Paradise to me! In cosy seat, with lots to eat, And bottles of Lafitte to fracture (And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet Recalls the mode of manufacture)-- I contemplate, at easy distance, The troublous problems of existence. For even if it could be mine To change Creation's partial scheme, To mould it to a fresh design, More nearly that of which I dream, Most probably, my weak endeavour Would make more mess of it than ever! So let us stock our cellar shelves With balm to lubricate the throttle; For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves," So help yourself, and pass the bottle! . . . . . . What! Would you quarrel with my moral? (Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!) _Andrew Carnegie_ In Caledonia, stern and wild, Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung, Where ev'ry little barefoot child Correctly lisps his mother-tongue, And lingual solecisms betoken That Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken, There dwells a man of iron nerve, A millionaire without a peer, Possessing that supreme reserve Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, And marks him out to human ken As one of Nature's noblemen. Like other self-made persons, he Is surely much to be excused, Since they have had no choice, you see, Of the material to be used; But when his noiseless fabric grew, He builded better than he knew. A democrat, whose views are frank, To him Success alone is vital; He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank" As good as any other title; To him the post of postman betters The trade of other Men of Letters. The relative who seeks to wed Some nice but indigent patrician, He urges to select instead A coachman of assured position, Since safety-matches, you'll agree, Strike only on the box, says he. At Skibo Castle, by the sea, A splendid palace he has built, Equipped with all the luxury Of plush, of looking-glass, and gilt; A style which Ruskin much enjoyed, And christened "Early German Lloyd." With milking-stools and ribbon'd screens The floor is covered, well I know; The walls are thick with tambourines, Hand-painted many years ago; Ah, how much taste our forbears had! And nearly all of it was bad. Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite, Each "cosy corner" set apart, Was modelled in the Regent Street Emporium of suburban art. "O Liberty!" (I quote with shame) "The crimes committed in thy name!" But tho' his mansion now contains A swimming-bath, a barrel-organ, Electric light, and even drains, As good as those of Mr. Morgan, There was a time when Andrew C. Was not obsessed by l. s. d. Across the seas he made his pile, In Pittsburg, where, I've understood, You have to exercise some guile To do the very slightest good; But he kept doing good by stealth, And doubtless blushed to find it wealth. And now his private hobby 'tis To meet a starving people's need By making gifts of libraries To those who never learnt to read; Rich mental banquets he provides For folks with famishing insides. In Education's hallowed name He pours his opulent libations; His vast deserted Halls of Fame Increase the gaiety of nations. But still the slums are plague-infested, The hospitals remain congested. . . . . . . Carnegie, should your kindly eye This foolish book of verses meet, Please order an immense supply, To make your libraries complete, And register its author's name Within your princely Halls of Fame! _King Cophetua_ To sing of King Cophetua I am indeed unwilling, For none of his adventures are Particularly thrilling; Nor, as I hardly need to mention, Am I addicted to invention. The story of his roving eye, You must already know it, Since it has been narrated by Lord Tennyson, the poet; I could a moving tale unfold, But it has been so often told. But since I wish my friends to see My early education, If Tennyson will pardon me A somewhat free translation, I'll try if something can't be sung In someone else's mother-tongue. "Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!" So runs the story's title (An explanation, I'm afraid, Is absolutely vital), Express'd, as I need hardly mench: In 4 a.m. (or early) French:-- _Les bras posés sur la poitrine Lui fait l'apparence divine,-- Enfin elle a très bonne mine,-- Elle arrive, ne portant pas De sabots, ni même de bas, Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua._ _Le roi lors, couronne sur tête, Vêtu de ses robes de fête, Va la rencontrer, et l'arrête. On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!" "Je ferais ça si c'était moi!" Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!_ _Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux, Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux, Quand même ses habits soient vieux. En voilà un qui loue ses yeux, Un autre admire ses cheveux, Et tout le monde est amoureux._ _Car on n'a jamais vu là-bas Un charme tel que celui-là Alors le bon Cophetua Jure, "La pauvre mendiante, Si séduisante, si charmante, Sera ma femme,--ou bien ma tante!"_ _Joseph F. Smith_ Though, to the ordinary mind, The weight of marriage ties is such That many mere, male, mortals find One wife enough,--if not too much; I see no no reason to abuse A person holding other views. Though most of us, at any rate, Have not acquired the plural habits, Which we are apt to delegate To Eastern potentates,--or rabbits; We should regard with open mind The more uxoriously inclined. In Salt Lake City dwells a man Who deems monogamy a myth; (One of that too prolific clan Which glories in the name of Smith); A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator," With the appearance of a waiter. This hoary patriarch contrives To thrive in manner most bewild'rin', With close on half a dozen wives, And nearly half a hundred children; And views with unaffrighted eyes The burden of domestic ties. To him all spouses seem the same-- Each one a model of the Graces; He knows his children all by name, But cannot recollect their faces; A minor point, since, I suppose, Each one has got its popper's nose! They are denied to me and you: Such old-world luxuries as his, When, after work, he hastens to The bosoms of his families (Each offspring joining with the others In, "What is Home without five Mothers?"). Such strange surroundings would retard Most ordinary men's digestions; Five ladies all conversing hard, And fifty children asking questions! Besides (the tragic final straw), Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law! What difficulties there must be To find a telescopic mansion; For each successive family The space sufficient for expansion. ("But that," said Kipling, in his glory-- "But that is quite another storey!") The sailor who, from lack of thought, Or else a too diffuse affection, Has, for a wife in ev'ry port, An unappeasing predilection, Would designate as "simply great!" The mode of life in Utah State. The gay Lothario, too, who makes His mad but meaningless advances To more than one fair maid, and takes A large variety of chances, Need have no fear, in such a place, Of any breach-of-promise case. With Mormons of the latter-day I have no slightest cause for quarrel; Nor do I doubt at all that they Are quite exceptionally moral; Their President has told us so, And he, if anyone, should know. But tho' of folks in Utah State, But 2 percent lead plural lives, Perhaps the other 98 Are just--their children and their wives! O stern, ascetic congregation, Resisting all--except temptation! Well, I, for one, can see no harm, Unless for trouble one were looking, In having wives on either arm, And one downstairs--to do the cooking. A touching scene; with nought to dim it. But fifty children!--That's the limit! Some middle course would I explore; Incur a merely dual bond; One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor, And one for outdoor use, a blonde; Thus happily could I exist, A moral Mormonogamist! _Sherlock Holmes_ The French "filou" may raise his "bock," The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, when He toast Gaboriau's Le Coq, Or Pinkerton's discreet young men; But beer in British bumpers foams Around the name of Sherlock Holmes! Come, boon companions, all of you Who (woodcock-like) exist by suction, Uplift your teeming tankards to The great Professor of Deduction! Who is he? You shall shortly see If (Watson-like) you "follow me." In London (on the left-hand side As you go in), stands Baker Street, Exhibited with proper pride By all policemen on the beat, As housing one whose predilection Is private criminal detection. The malefactor's apt disguise Presents to him an easy task; His placid, penetrating eyes Can pierce the most secretive mask; And felons ask a deal too much Who fancy to elude his clutch. No slender or exiguous clew Too paltry for his needs is found; No knot too stubborn to undo, No prey too swift to run to ground; No road too difficult to travel, No skein too tangled to unravel. For Holmes the ash of a cigar, A gnat impinging on his eye, Possess a meaning subtler far Than humbler mortals can descry. A primrose at the river's brim No simple primrose is to him! To Holmes a battered Brahma key, Combined with blurred articulation, Displays a man's capacity For infinite ingurgitation; Obliquity of moral vision Betrays the civic politician. I had an uncle, who possessed A marked resemblance to a bloater, Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessed To be the victim of a motor; Whereas, his wife (or so he swore) Had merely shut him in the door! My brother's nose, whose hectic hue Recalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf, Though friends attributed it to Some secret or domestic grief, Revealed to Holmes his deep potations, And _not_ the loss of loved relations! I had a poodle, short and fat, Who proved a conjugal deceiver; Her offspring were a Maltese Cat, Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever! Her husband was a pure-bred Skye; And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why! When after-dinner speakers rise, To plunge in anecdotage deep, At once will Sherlock recognise Each welcome harbinger of sleep: That voice which torpid guests entrances, That immemorial voice of Chauncey's! Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walk All unannounced into the room, To say, like pressmen of New York, "Er--Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?" By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail, Observing that he _had no tale_. In vain, amid the lonely state Of Zion, dreariest of havens, Does bashful Dowie emulate The prophet who was fed by ravens; To Holmes such affluence betrays A prophet who is fed by _jays_! . . . . . . With Holmes there lived a foolish man, To whom I briefly must allude, Who gloried in possessing an Abnormal mental hebetude; One could describe the grossest _bétise_ To this (forgive the rhyme) Achates. 'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole, Obtusely, painfully polite; Who played the unambitious rôle Of parasitic satellite; Inevitably bound to bore us, Like Aristophanes's Chorus. . . . . . . But London town is sad to-day, And preternaturally solemn; The fountains murmur "Let us spray" To Nelson on his lonely column; Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is, For Holmes has given up his practice. No more in silence, as the snake, Will he his sinuous path pursue, Till, like the weasel (when awake), Or deft, resilient kangaroo, He leaps upon his quivering quarry, Before there's time to say you're sorry. No more will criminals, at dawn, Effecting some burglarious entry, (While Sherlock, on the garden lawn, Enacts the thankless rôle of sentry), Discover, to their bitter cost, That felons who are found--are lost! No more on Holmes shall Watson base The Chronicles he proudly fabled; The violin and morphia-case Are in the passage, packed and labelled; And Holmes himself is at the door, Departing--to return no more. He bids farewell to Baker Street, Though Watson clings about his knees; He hastens to his country seat, To spend his dotage keeping bees; And one of them, depend upon it, Shall find a haven in his bonnet! But though in grief our heads are bowed, And tears upon our cheeks are shining, We recognise that ev'ry cloud Conceals somewhere a silver lining; And hear with deep congratulation Of Watson's timely termination. _Aftword_ Ye Critics, who with bilious eye Peruse my incoherent medley, Prepared to let your arrows fly, With cruel aim and purpose deadly, Desist a moment, ere you spoil The harvest of a twelvemonth's toil! Remember, should you scent afar The crusted jokes of days gone by, What conscious plagiarists we are: Molière and Seymour Hicks and I, For, as my bearded chestnuts prove, _Je prends mon bien où je le trouve!_ My wealth of wit I never waste On Chestertonian paradox; My humour, in the best of taste, Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks; For sacred things my rev'rent awe Resembles that of Bernard Shaw. Behold how tenderly I treat Each victim of my pen and brain, And should I tread upon his feet, How lightly I leap off again; Observe with what an airy grace I fling my inkpot in his face! And those who seek at Christmas time, An inexpensive gift for Mother, Will fine this foolish book of rhyme As apposite as any other, And suitable for presentation To any poor or near relation. To those whose intellect is small, This work should prove a priceless treasure; To persons who have none at all, A never-ending fount of pleasure; A mental stimulus or tonic To all whose idiocy is chronic. And you, my Readers (never mind Which category you come under), Will, after due reflection, find My verse a constant source of wonder; 'Twill make you _think_, I dare to swear-- But _what_ you think I do not care! 
45276	----	provided by the Internet Archive DAME TROT AND HER CAT. By Anonymous [Illustration: 0001] [Illustration: 0003] [Illustration: 0004] |Dame Trot once went to a neighboring fair, And what do you think that she bought herself there? A Pussy! the prettiest ever was seen; No cat was so gentle, so clever, and clean. Each dear little paw was as black as a sloe, The rest of her fur was as white as the snow; Her eyes were bright green, and her sweet little face Was pretty and meek, full of innocent grace. Dame Trot hurried home with this beautiful cat; Went up stairs to take off her cloak and her hat; And when she came down was astonished to see That Pussy was busy preparing the tea. "Oh, what a strange cat! thought poor little Dame Trot, "She'll break my best china and upset the pot;" But no harm befel them--the velvety paws Were quite sure; the Dame for alarm had no cause. [Illustration: 0006] Next morning when little Dame Trot came down stairs, To attend, as usual, to household affairs, She found that the kitchen was swept up as clean As if Puss, a regular servant had been. The tea stood to draw, and the toast was done brown, The Dame, very pleased, to her breakfast sat down; While Puss by her side on an arm-chair sat up, And lapp'd her warm milk from a nice china cup. Now Spot, the old house-dog, looked on in amaze, He'd never been used to such queer cattish ways; But Puss mew'd so sweetly, and moved with such grace, That Spot at last liked her, and licked her white face. The Dame went to market and left them alone, Puss washing her face, the dog picking a bone; But when she came back, Spot was learning to dance, From Pussy, who once had had lessons in France. [Illustration: 0008] [Illustration: 0009] Poor little Dame Trot had no money to spare, And only too often, her cupboard was bare; Then kind Mrs. Pussy would catch a nice fish, And serve it for dinner upon a clean dish. The rats and the mice, who wish'd Pussy to please, Were now never seen at the butter or cheese; The Dame daily found their numbers grow thinner, For Puss eat a mouse ev'ry day for her dinner. If Puss had a weakness, I needs must confess, 'Twas a Girl of the Period's fancy for dress; Her greatest desire a high chignon and hat, And a very short dress _a la mode_ for a cat. [Illustration: 0011] So, one day, when Dame Trot had gone out to dine, Puss dressed herself up, as she thought, very fine; And coaxed kind old Spot, who looked at her with pride, To play pony for once, and give her a ride. The Dame from her visit returning home late, Met this funny couple outside her own gate, And heartily laugh'd, when she saw her dear cat, Dressed up in a cloak and a chignon and hat. "You're quite a grand lady, Miss Pussy," said she, And Pussy, affectedly, answered, "Oui. Oui;" She thought it beneath her to mutter a mew, While wearing a dress of a fashion so new. Now Spot, who to welcome his mistress desired, And to "company manners" never aspired, Jumped up to fawn on her,--and down came the cat, And crushed in her tumble, her feather, and hat. [Illustration: 0013] "Oh, Puss!" said Dame Trot, "what a very sad mess You'd best have remained in your natural dress; The graces which nature so kindly bestows, Are more often hid than improved by fine clothes." 
36321	----	_Misrepresentative Men_ [Illustration: "_He might be seen, in any weather, In what is called 'the altogether.'_" _Page 34_] MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN By HARRY GRAHAM ("COL. D. STREAMER") _Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," etc., etc._ ILLUSTRATED BY F. STROTHMANN NEW YORK FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY MCMV COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY _Published, September, 1904_ PRINTED IN AMERICA _These Verses are Gratefully Dedicated to_ [Illustration] "_From quiet home and first beginning, Out to the undiscovered ends, There's nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends._" My verses in Your path I lay, And do not deem me indiscreet, If I should say that surely they Could find no haven half so sweet As at Your feet. Unworthy little rhymes are these, Tread tenderly upon them, please! One single favour do I crave, Which is that You regard my pen As Your devoted humble slave. Most fortunate shall I be then Of mortal men; For what more happiness ensures Than work in service such as Yours? Should You be pleased, at any time, To dip into this shallow brook Of simple, unpretentious rhyme, Or chance with fav'ring smile to look Upon my book; Don't mention such a fact out loud, Or haply I shall grow too proud! Accept these verses then, I pray, Disarming press and public too, For what can hostile critics say? What else is left for them to do, Because of You, But view with kindness this collection, Which bears the seal of Your protection? _Contents_ PAGE FOREWORD 11 THEODORE ROOSEVELT 17 BACON 27 ADAM 33 JOAN OF ARC 39 PADEREWSKI 45 WILLIAM TELL 51 DIOGENES 57 SIR THOMAS LIPTON 63 MARAT 69 ANANIAS 75 NERO 77 AFTWORD 83 POSTLUDE 87 _List of Illustrations_ "_He might be seen in any weather In what is called the altogether_" FRONTISPIECE PAGE "_The politician's grip of steel_" 18 "_At six A.M. he shoots a bear_" 22 "_When Eve appeared upon the scene_" 36 "_On concert platforms he perform_" 48 "_Altho' he raised a rasping voice To persons who his view obstructed_" 58 "_But Charlotte Corday came along, Intent to right her country's wrong_" 70 _Foreword_ All great biographers possess, Besides a thirst for information, That talent which commands success, I mean of course Imagination; Combining with excessive Tact A total disregard for Fact. Boswell and Froude, and all the rest, With just sufficient grounds to go on, Could only tell the world, at best, What Great Men did, and thought--and so on. But I, of course, can speak to you About the things they didn't do. I don't rely on breadth of mind, On wit or pow'rs of observation; Carnegie's libraries I find A fruitful source of inspiration; The new Encyclopædia Brit. Has helped me, too, a little bit. In any case I cannot fail, With such a range of mental vision, So deep a passion for detail, And such meticulous precision. I pity men like Sidney Lee; How jealous they must be of me! 'Tis easy work to be exact, (I have no fear of contradiction), Since it has been allowed that Fact Is stranger far than any Fiction; But what demands the truest wit Is knowing what one should omit. Carlyle, for instance, finds no place Among my list of lucubrations; Because I have no wish to face The righteous wrath of his relations. Whatever feud they have with Froude, No one can say that _I_ was rude. This work is written to supply A long-felt want among Beginners; A handbook where the student's eye May read the lives of saints and sinners, And learn, without undue expense, The fruits of their experience. A book to buy and give away, To fill the youthful with ambition, For even they may hope, some day, To share the Author's erudition; So not in vain, nor void of gain, The work of his colossal brain. _Theodore Roosevelt_ Alert as bird or early worm, Yet gifted with those courtly ways Which connoisseurs correctly term The _tout-c'qu'-il-y-a de Louis seize_; He reigns, by popular assent, The People's peerless President! Behold him! Squarely built and small; With hands that would resemble Liszt's, Did they not forcibly recall The contour of Fitzsimmons' fists; Beneath whose velvet gloves you feel The politician's grip of steel. Accomplished as a King should be, And autocratic as a Czar, To him all classes bow the knee, In spotless Washington afar; And while his jealous rivals scoff, He wears the smile-that-won't-come-off. [Illustration: "_The politician's grip of steel._"] In him combined we critics find The diplomatic skill of Choate, Elijah Dowie's breadth of mind, And Chauncey's fund of anecdote; He joins the morals of Susannah To Dr. Munyon's bedside manner. The rugged virtues of his race He softens with a Dewey's tact, Combining Shafter's easy grace With all Bourke Cockran's love of fact; To Dooley's pow'rs of observation He adds the charms of Carrie Nation. In him we see a devotee Of what is called the "simpler life" (To tell the naked Truth, and be Contented with a single wife). Luxurious living he abhors, And takes his pleasures out of doors. And, since his sole delight and pride Are exercise and open air, His spirit chafes at being tied All day to an official chair; The bell-boys (in the room beneath) Can hear him gnash his serried teeth. In summertime he can't resist A country gallop on his cob, So, like a thorough altruist, He lets another do his job; In winter he will work all day, But when the sun shines he makes Hay. And thus, in spite of office ties, He manages to take a lot Of healthy outdoor exercise, Where other Presidents have not; As I can prove by drawing your Attention to his _carte du jour_. At 6 a.m. he shoots a bear, At 8 he schools a restive horse, From 10 to 4 he takes the air,-- (He doesn't take it all, of course); And then at 5 o'clock, maybe, Some colored man drops in to tea. At intervals throughout the day He sprints around the house, or if His residence is Oyster Bay, He races up and down the cliff; While seagulls scream about his legs, Or hasten home to hide their eggs. [Illustration: "_At six A. M. he shoots a bear._"] A man of deeds, not words, is he, Who never stooped to roll a log; Agile as fond gazelle or flea, Sagacious as an indoor dog; In him we find a spacious mind, "Uncribb'd, uncabin'd, unconfin'd." In martial exploits he delights, And has no fear of War's alarms; The hero of a hundred fights, Since first he was a child (in arms); Like battle-horse, when bugles bray, He champs his bit and tries to neigh. And if the Army of the State Is always in such perfect trim, Well-organized and up to date, This grand result is due to him; For while his country reaped the fruit, 'Twas he alone could reach the Root. And spite of jeers that foes have hurled, No problems can his soul perplex; He lectures women of the world Upon the duties of their sex, And with unfailing courage thrusts His spoke within the wheels of trusts. No private ends has he to serve, No dirty linen needs to wash; A man of quite colossal nerve, Who lives _sans peur et sans reproche_; _In modo suaviter_ maybe, But then how _fortiter in re_! A lion is his crest, you know, Columbia stooping to caress it, With _vi et armis_ writ below, _Nemo impune me lacessit_; His motto, as you've read already, _Semper paratus_--always Teddy! _Bacon_ In far Elizabethan days (Ho! By my Halidome! Gadzooks!) Lord Bacon wrote his own essays, And lots of other people's books; Annexing as a pseudonym Each author's name that suited him. All notoriety he'd shirk, Nor sought for literary credit, Although the best of Shakespeare's work Was his. (For Mrs. Gallup said it, And she, poor lady, I suppose, Has read the whole of it, and knows.) Such was his kind, unselfish plan, That he allowed a rude, unshaven, Ill-educated actor man To style himself the Bard of Avon; Altho' 'twas _he_ and not this fellow Who wrote "The Tempest" and "Othello." For right throughout his works there is A cipher hid, which makes it certain That all Pope's "Iliad" is his, And the "Anatomy" of Burton; There's not a volume you can name To which he has not laid a claim. He is responsible, I wot, For Euclid's lucid demonstrations, The early works of Walter Scott, And the Aurelian "Meditations"; Also "The House with Seven Gables" And most of Æsop's (so-called) Fables. And once, when he annoyed the Queen, And wished to gain the royal pardon, He wrote his masterpiece; I mean That work about her German Garden; And published, just before his death, The "Visits of Elizabeth." Yet peradventure we are wrong, For just as probable the chance is That all these volumes may belong To someone else, and not to Francis. I think,--tho' I may be mistaken,-- That Shakespeare wrote the works of Bacon. _MORAL_ If you approach the Mosque of Fame, And seek to climb its tallest steeple, Just lodge a literary claim Against the works of other people. And though the Press may not receive it, A few old ladies will believe it. For instance, I of proof could bring Sufficient to convince the layman That I had written ev'rything Attributed to Stanley Weyman. In common justice I should pocket The royalties of S. R. Crockett. And anyone can plainly see, Without the wit of Machiavelli, That "Hall Caines look alike to me," Since I am Ouida and Corelli. Yes, I am Rudyard Kipling, truly, And the immortal Mr. Dooley. _Adam_ In History he holds a place Unique, unparalleled, sublime; "The First of all the Human Race!" Yes, that was Adam, all the time. It didn't matter if he burst, He simply _had_ to get there first. A simple Child of Nature he, Whose life was primitive and rude; His wants were few, his manners free, All kinds of clothing he eschewed,-- He might be seen in any weather, In what is called "the Altogether!" The luxuries that we enjoy He never had, so never missed; Appliances that we employ For saving work did not exist; He would have found them useless too, Not having any work to do. He never wrote a business note; He had no creditors to pay; He was not pestered for his vote, Not having one to give away; And, living utterly alone, He did not need a telephone. The joys of indolence he knew, In his remote and peaceful clime, He did just what he wanted to, Nor ever said he "hadn't time!" (And this was natural becos He had whatever time there was.) His pulse was strong, his health was good, He had no fads of meat or drink, Of tonic waters, Breakfast Food, Or Pills for Persons who are Pink; No cloud of indigestion lay Across the sunshine of his day. And, when he went to bed each night, He made his couch upon the soil; The glow-worms gave him all his light, (He hadn't heard of Standard Oil);-- At dawn he woke,--then slept again, _He_ never had to catch a train! [Illustration: "_When Eve appeared upon the scene._"] A happy, solitary life! But soon he found it dull, I ween, So thought that he would like a wife,-- When Eve appeared upon the scene. * * * And we will draw a kindly veil Over the sequel to this tale. _MORAL_ Ye Bachelors, contented be With what the future holds for you; Pity the married man, for he Has _nothing_ to look forward to,-- To hunger for with bated breath!-- * * * (Nothing, that is to say, but Death!) _Joan of Arc_ From Pimlico to Central Park, From Timbuctoo to Rotten Row, Who has not heard of Joan of Arc, His tragic tale who does not know? And how he put his life to stake, For Principle and Country's sake? This simple person of Lorraine Had thoughts for nothing but Romance, And longed to see a king again Upon the battered throne of France; (With Charles the Seventh crowned at Rheims, He realized his fondest dreams.) Then came the fight at Compiègne, Where he was captured by the foe, And lots of vulgar foreign men Caught hold and wouldn't let him go. "Please don't!" he begged them, in despair, "You're disarranging all my hair." Unmoved by grace of form or face, These brutes, whose hearts were quite opaque, At Rouen, in the market-place, Secured him tightly to a stake; (Behaviour which cannot be viewed As other than extremely rude.) Poor Joan of Arc, of course, was bound To be the centre of the show, When, having piled the faggots round, They lit him up and let him go. (Which surely strikes the modern mind As thoughtless, not to say unkind.) But tho' he died, his deathless name In Hist'ry holds a noble place, And brings the blush of conscious shame To any Anglo-Saxon face. Perfidious truly was the nation Which caused his premature cremation! * * * I showed these verses to a friend, Inviting him to criticise; He read them slowly to the end, Then asked me, with a mild surprise, "What was your object," he began, "In making Joan of Arc a man?" I hastened to the library Which kind Carnegie gave the town, Searched Section B. (Biography.) And took six bulky volumes down; Then studied all one livelong night, And found (alas!) my friend was right. I'm sorry; for it gives me pain To think of such a waste of rhyme. I'd write the poem all again, Only I can't afford the time; It's rather late to change it now,-- I can't be bothered anyhow. _Paderewski_ While other men of "note" have had A certain local reputation, They never could compare with Pad,-- (Forgive this terse abbreviation),-- Loot: Orpheus may have been All Right; Cap: Paderewski's Out of Sight! No lunatic, competing in The game of Arctic exploration, Can ever really hope to win More pleasures of anticipation Than he who fixes as his goal So satisfactory a Pole. The grand piano is his forte, And when he treads upon its pedals, Weak women weep, and strong men snort, While Cuban veterans (with medals) Grow kind of bleary-eyed and soppy; And journalists forget their "copy." And as he makes the key-board smart, Or softly on its surface lingers, He plays upon the public's heart, And holds it there beneath his fingers; Caresses, teases, pokes or squeezes,-- Does just exactly as he pleases. And oh! the hair upon his head! Hay-coloured, with a touch of Titian! He's under contract, so 'tis said, To keep it in this wild condition; All those who wish for thatch like Pad's Should buy-- (This space To Let for Ads.) On concert platforms he performs, Where ladies, (matrons, maids or misses), Surround his feet in perfect swarms, And try to waft him fat damp kisses; Till he takes refuge in his hair, And sits serenely smiling there. He draws the tear-drop to the eye Of dullest dude or quaintest Quaker; The instrument he plays is by The very best piano-maker, Whose name, I hope you won't forget, Is-- (Once again, this space To Let.) [Illustration: "_On concert platforms he performs._"] Before the style of his technique, The science of his execution, The blackest criminal grows weak And makes a moral resolution; Requiring all his strength of will Before he even robs a till. Rough soldiers, from the seat of war,-- (I never understood what "seat" meant)-- Have ceased to swear or hit the jar After a course of Rooski's treatment. 'Tis more persuasive and as sure As (shall we say?) the Water-cure! Thus on triumphantly he goes,-- A long succession of successes,-- And nobody exactly knows Just how much income he possesses; He makes sufficient (if not more) To keep the wolf from the stage-door. And when he plays a "Polonaise," (His own unrivalled composition), The entertainment well repays The prices charged one for admission; But still, as ladies all declare, His crowning glory is his hair! _William Tell_ All persons who, by way of joke, Point loaded guns at one another, (A state of things which ends in smoke, And murder of an aunt or brother,) Will find that it repays them well To note the tale of William Tell. He was a patriotic Swiss, Whose skill was such with bow and arrow, He never had been known to miss A target, howsoever narrow; His archery could well defy The needle or the camel's eye. And when the hated Austrian Invaded his belovéd country, This simple man at once began To treat the foe with calm effront'ry, And gave a sporting exhibition, To which he charged ten cents admission. He set his son against a tree, Upon his head an apple placing, Next measured paces thirty-three, And turned about, his offspring facing, Then chose an arrow, drew his bow,-- (And all the people murmured "Oh!") No sound disturbed the morning air, (You could have heard a tea-tray falling,) Save in the virgin forest, where A chipmunk to his mate was calling, Where sang the giddy martingale, Or snaffle woo'd the genial quail. But, drowning cry of beast or bird, There rose the hush of expectation; No whispered converse, not a word From the surrounding population; A tactful silence, as of death, While people held each other's breath. The bow rang out, the arrow sped! Before a man could turn completely, All scatheless shone the offspring's head, The apple lay divided neatly! The ten-cent public gave a roar, And appleplectic shrieked "En-_core_." They kissed the hero, clasped his hand, In search of autographs pursued him, Escorted with the local band, Cheered, banqueted and interviewed him, Demanding how he shot so well; But simple William would not Tell. The Austrians, without a word, Retired at once across the border, And thence on William they conferred Two medals and a foreign order, (And tactfully addressed the bill "Hereditary Arch-Duke Will.") And, in the piping times of peace, Such luxury his life was wrapt in, He got the chief-ship of police, (And made his son a Precinct Captain), Wore celluloid white cuffs and collars, And absolutely rolled in dollars. Still, to the end, whenever Will With fiscal problems had to grapple, He called to mind his offspring's skill At balancing the homely apple, And made him use his level head At balancing accounts instead. _Diogenes_ He stopped inside a tub, from choice, But otherwise was well-conducted, Altho' he raised a rasping voice To persons who his view obstructed, And threw a boot at anyone Who robbed him of his patch of sun. And thus he lived, without expense, Arrayed in somewhat scant apparel, His customary residence The limits of an empty barrel; (His spirits would perforce be good, Maturing slowly "in the wood.") With lamp alight he sought at night For honest men, his ruling passion; But either he was short of sight, Or honest men were out of fashion; He never found one, so he said;-- They probably were all in bed. [Illustration: "_Altho' he raised a rasping voice to persons who his view obstructed._"] At last, when he was very old, He got abducted by a pirate, And to a man of Corinth sold, At an exorbitantly high rate; His owner called him "Sunny Jim," And made an indoor pet of him. And soon, as one may well suppose, He learnt the very choicest manners, Could balance sugar on his nose, Or sit right up and smoke Havanas, Or swim into the pond for sticks,-- There was no limit to his tricks. He never tasted wine nor meat, But ate, in full and plenteous measure, Grape-Nuts and Force and Shredded Wheat, Pretending that they gave him pleasure. At length, at eighty-nine, he died, Of a too strenuous inside. Had but this worthy cynic been A member of _our_ favoured nation, Niagara he might have seen, And realised a new sensation, If he had set himself the task To brave the Rapids in his cask. Or if his ghost once more began, With lighted lamp, his ancient mission, And searched the city for a man Whose honesty outsoared suspicion, We could provide him, in New York, A nice (if somewhat lengthy) walk. _MORAL._ Tho' thumping tubs is easy work, With which no critic cares to quarrel, There may be charms about a Turk, Policemen even may be moral; And, tho' they never get found out, There are _some_ honest men about. _Sir Thomas Lipton_ Of all the sportsmen now afloat Upon the waters of this planet, No better ever manned a boat, (Or paid another man to man it,) And won a kindly public's heart Like dear Sir Thomas Lipton, Bart. Behind a counter, as a child, He woo'd Dame Fortune, fair but fickle, Until at last one day she smiled Upon his spices and his pickle; And all the world rejoiced to see Plain Thomas Lipton made "Sir Tea." He won the trade, his name was made; In country-house or London gutter, All classes found his marmalade A perfect "substitute for butter." His jam in loudest praise was sung, His sauces were on ev'ry tongue. He built a yacht; that is to say, He paid another man to build it; With all the patents of the day, Regardless of the cost, he filled it; And hired, which was expensive too, At least three Captains and a crew. And, being properly brought up, A member of that sober nation, Which ever loves to raise the cup That cheers without inebriation, He saw an op'ning if he took His lifting pow'rs to Sandy Hook. And there his hospitality Was always welcome to the masses; As on the good ship "Erin" he Provided luncheons for all classes; Where poets, publicans and peers, Retained his spoons as souvenirs. But tho' each boat of his that sailed Was like the last one, only better, To lift the cup she always failed,-- Because the Yankees wouldn't let her. (A state of things which was not quite, What Englishmen would term, polite!) His efforts were alas! in vain, He couldn't beat the pot defender, Again he tried, and yet again,-- He might as well have sailed a tender! At last he cried "I give it up! America can keep her cup!" "For She, and she alone, has got The proper breed of modern Yachtsmen! If only _I_ had hired a lot Of Swedes, Norwegians and Scotsmen, I might have met, with calm defiance, The crew on which _She_ placed Reliance. "But, as the matter stands, instead Of knowing what a well-fought fight is, I'm fêted, dined and banqueted, Until I get appendicitis! And probably shall end my life By marrying a Yankee wife! "I felt it when the line was crost, I hold it true, whate'er befall, 'Tis better to have luffed and lost, Than never to have luffed at all! My shareholders must be content With such a good advertisement." _Marat_ It is impossible to do Three diff'rent kinds of things at once; A fact that must be patent to The brain-pan of the dullest dunce; Yet Marat somehow never knew it, And died in an attempt to do it. A Revolutionist was he; The People's Friend,--they called him so,-- And many such there used to be In France, a hundred years ago. (For further notice see Carlyle,-- If you can grapple with his style.) His manners were so debonnair, He took a hip-bath ev'ry day; Would sit and write his letters there, In quite an unselfconscious way; And, if you wished to interview him, His housekeeper would take you to him. [Illustration: "_But Charlotte Corday came along, Intent to right her country's wrong._"] But Charlotte Corday came along, A Norman noble's nobler daughter, Intent to Right her Country's Wrong, And put an end to ceaseless slaughter; In Marat she descried a victim,-- So bought a knife and promptly pricked him! Poor Marat, who (as was his wont) Was planning further Revolutions, The while he washed, exclaimed, "Oh, don't! "You're interrupting my ablutions! "I can't escape; it isn't fair! "A sponge is all I have to wear!" But Charlotte firmly answered "Bosh!" (How could she so forget good breeding?) "While you sit there and calmly wash, The noblest hearts in France are bleeding!" Then jabbed him in those vital places Where ordinary men wear braces! So perished Marat. In his way To prove a lesson, apt and scathing, From which young people of to-day May learn the dangers of mixed bathing, And shun the thankless operation Of sponging on a rich relation. _MORAL_ Ye democrats, who plan and plot Schemes to decapitate your betters, Remember that a bath is not The proper place for writing letters; Nor one which Providence intends For interviews with lady-friends. _Ananias_ When Golf was in its childhood still, And not the sport that now it is; When no-one knew of Bunker Hill, Or spoke of Boston tee-parties; One man there was who played the game, And Ananias was his name. But little else of him we know, Save that his grasp of facts was slack, And yet, as circumstances show, He was a golfomaniac, And thus biographers relate The story of his tragic fate:-- He occupied his final scene, (In golfing parlance so 'tis said), In "practising upon the _green_," And, after a "bad lie," "lay dead;" Then came Sapphira,--she, poor soul, After a worse "lie," "halved the hole." _Nero_ The portrait that I seek to paint Is of no ordinary hero, No customary plaster saint,-- For nothing of the sort was Nero. (He was an Emperor, but then He had his faults like other men.) And first, (a foolish thing to do), He turned his hand to matricide, And straight his agéd mother slew, The poor old lady promptly died! ('Tis surely wrong to kill one's mother, Since one can hardly get another.) He was a hearty feeder too, And onto his digestion thrust All kinds of fatty foods, and grew Robust--with accent on the _Bust_. ("Sweets are"--I quote from memory-- "The Uses of Obesity!") He married twice; two ladies fair Agreed in turn to be his wife, To board his slender barque and share His fate upon the stream of Life. (Forgive me if I mention this As being true Canoebial bliss!) His talent on the violin He was for ever proud of showing; The tone that he produced was thin, Nor could one loudly praise his "bowing;" But persons whom he played before Were almost sure to ask for more. For he decreed that any who Did not encore him or applaud, Should be beheaded, cut in two, Hanged, flayed alive, and sent abroad. (So it was natural that they Who "came to cough remained to pray.") He felt no sympathy for those Who had not lots to drink and eat, Who wore unfashionable clothes, And strove to make the two ends meet; (They drew no tears, "the short and sim- Ple flannels of the Poor," from him.) To Christians he was far from kind, They met with his disapprobation; The choicest tortures he designed For folks of their denomination. (And all Historians insist That he was no philanthropist.) To lamp-posts he would oft attach A Jew, immersed in paraffine, Apply a patent safety match, And smile as he surveyed the scene. ('Twas possible in Rome at night To read a book by Israelight.) And when occurred the famous fire, Of which some say he was the starter, He roused the Corporation's ire By playing Braga's "Serenata"; ('Tis said that, when he changed to Handel, The "play was hardly worth the scandal."[A]) He crowned his long career at last By one supreme and final action, Which, after such a lurid past, Gave universal satisfaction; And not one poor relation cried When he committed suicide. _Aftword_ The feast is ended! (As we've seen.) 'Tis time the vacant board to quit. By "vacant bored" I do not mean My host of readers, not a bit! For they, the mentally élite, Are stimulated and replete. The fare that I provide is light, But don't, I pray, look down upon it! Such verse is just as hard to write As any sentimental sonnet. It looks a simple task, maybe,-- Well--try your hand at it, and see! Don't fancy too that I dispense With study, or eschew research; Sufficient books of reference I have, to fill the highest church. I've no dislike of work, I swear,-- It's _doing it_ that I can't bear! Abuse or praise me, as you choose, There is no limit to my patience; My verse the _London Daily News_ Once styled "Mephitic exhalations"! I lived that down,--(don't ask me how,)-- And nothing really hurts me now. For while my stricken soul survived, With wounded pride and dulled ambition, My humble book of verses thrived And quite outgrew the old edition! So now I have exhaled some more,-- Mephitically, as before! _Postlude_ The book is finished! With a sigh, My pen upon the desk I lay; The weary task is o'er, and I Am off upon a holiday, To Paris, lovely Paris, where I have a little _ventr'-à-terre_.[B] And tho' my verses may be weak, And call for your severest strictures, The illustrations are unique,-- I really never saw such pictures! (At times, in my unthinking way, I almost hope I never may.) Footnotes: [A] NOTE.--"_Lors, dit-on, quand il jouait Handel Le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle._" [B] PUBLISHER'S READER--"_Pied-a-terre_"? AUTHOR--Shut up! Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. 
46691	----	New Novels 6/- THE QUESTION By Parry Truscott Author of "Catherine" THE WICKED WORLD By Alice Maud Meadows Author of "The Dukedom of Portsea" JOHN MARVEL By Thomas Nelson Page Author of "Red Rock" By MARY GAUNT The Uncounted Cost Part Author of "The Silent Ones" By HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE A Winter's Comedy A Tale of Yorkshire By VICTORIA CROSS The Eternal Fires Contains portrait of Author in Colours By SHAN F. BULLOCK Master John Author of "Robert Thorne" By STANLEY PORTAL HYATT Black Sheep Author of "The Marriage of Hilary Carden" _BIOGRAPHY_ _FOR_ _BEGINNERS_ [Illustration] Fine Editions of this Book are also issued at 2/6 net and 6/- net BIOGRAPHY FOR BEGINNERS BEING A COLLECTION OF MISCELLANEOUS EXAMPLES FOR THE USE OF UPPER FORMS Edited by E. CLERIHEW, B.A. With 40 Diagrams by G. K. CHESTERTON LONDON T. WERNER LAURIE CLIFFORD'S INN LIST OF CONTENTS Introductory Remarks Sir Christopher Wren Miguel de Cervantes George Bernard Shaw Sir Humphrey Davy J. S. Mill François Liszt Lord Clive King Edward the Confessor The Rev. John Clifford, M.A., LL.B., D.D. Messrs Chapman & Hall Karl Marx Otto the Great Marconi David Hume Mr H. Belloc Job Pizarro The Duke of Fife, K.T., P.C., G.C.V.O. The Duke of Wellington John Bunyan George Hirst Erasmus and the Humanists Besant and Rice Tiziano Vecelli Professor James Dewar, F.R.S. Sir Walter Raleigh Jane Austen Odo of Bayeux David Ricardo Sir Thomas à Mallory Mr Alfred Beit Cimabue President Roosevelt Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford Sir Alexander Fuller Acland-Hood, M.P. Mahomet Edvard Grieg Jan Van Eyck Mr T. Werner Laurie Index of Psychology INTRODUCTORY REMARKS The Art of Biography Is different from Geography. Geography is about Maps, But Biography is about Chaps. [Illustration] SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN Sir Christopher Wren Said, "I am going to dine with some men. "If anybody calls "Say I am designing St. Paul's." [Illustration] MIGUEL DE CERVANTES The people of Spain think Cervantes Equal to half-a-dozen Dantes: An opinion resented most bitterly By the people of Italy. [Illustration] GEORGE BERNARD SHAW Mr Bernard Shaw Was just setting out for the war, When he heard it was a dangerous trade And demonstrably underpaid. [Illustration] SIR HUMPHREY DAVY Sir Humphrey Davy Abominated gravy. He lived in the odium Of having discovered Sodium. [Illustration] J. S. MILL John Stuart Mill, By a mighty effort of will, Overcame his natural bonhomie And wrote "Principles of Political Economy." [Illustration] FRANÇOIS LISZT The Abbé Liszt Hit the piano with his fist. That was the way He used to play. [Illustration] LORD CLIVE What I like about Clive Is that he is no longer alive. There is a great deal to be said For being dead. [Illustration] KING EDWARD THE CONFESSOR Edward the Confessor Slept under the dresser. When that began to pall, He slept in the hall. [Illustration] THE REV. JOHN CLIFFORD M.A., LL.B., D.D. Dr Clifford And I have differed. He disapproves of gin: I disapprove of sin. [Illustration] MESSRS CHAPMAN & HALL Chapman & Hall Swore not at all. Mr Chapman's yea was yea, And Mr Hall's nay was nay. [Illustration] KARL MARX Karl Marx Was completely wrapped up in his sharks. The poor creatures seriously missed him While he was attacking the capitalist system. [Illustration] OTTO THE GREAT The great Emperor Otto Could not decide upon a motto. His mind wavered between "L'Etat C'est Moi" and "Ich Dien." [Illustration] MARCONI Guglielmo Marconi Was brought up on macaroni, But when he gets it now There's no end of a row. [Illustration] DAVID HUME That you have all heard of Hume I tacitly assume; But you didn't know, perhaps, That his parents were Lapps. [Illustration] MR H. BELLOC Mr Hilaire Belloc Is a case for legislation ad hoc. He seems to think nobody minds His books being all of different kinds. [Illustration] JOB It is understood that Job Never read "The Globe;" But nothing could be higher than His opinion of Leviathan. [Illustration] PIZARRO The views of Pizarro Were perhaps a little narrow. He killed the Caciques Because (he said) they were sneaks. [Illustration] THE DUKE OF FIFE K.T., P.C., G.C.V.O. It looked bad when the Duke of Fife Left off using a knife; But people began to talk When he left off using a fork. [Illustration] THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON The great Duke of Wellington Reduced himself to a skellington. He reached seven stone two, And then----Waterloo! [Illustration] JOHN BUNYAN I do not extenuate Bunyan's Intemperate use of onions, But if I knew a wicked ogress I would lend her "The Pilgrim's Progress." [Illustration] GEORGE HIRST When I faced the bowling of Hirst I ejaculated, "Do your worst!" He said, "Right you are, Sid." ----And he did. [Illustration] ERASMUS AND THE HUMANISTS After dinner, Erasmus Told Colet not to be "blas'mous" Which Colet, with some heat, Requested him to repeat. [Illustration] BESANT AND RICE Sir (then Mr) Walter Besant Would never touch pheasant, But Mr James Rice Thought it so nice. [Illustration] TIZIANO VECELLI When the great Titian Was in a critical condition, He was carefully nursed By Francis the First. [Illustration] PROFESSOR JAMES DEWAR, F.R.S. Professor Dewar Is a better man than you are. None of you asses Can condense gases. [Illustration] SIR WALTER RALEIGH Sir Walter Raleigh Bickered down the valley. But he could do better than the rill, For he could bicker up-hill. [Illustration] JANE AUSTEN The novels of Jane Austen Are the ones to get lost in. * * * * * I wonder if Labby Has read "Northanger Abbey?" [Illustration] ODO OF BAYEUX Archbishop Odo Was just in the middle of "Dodo," When he remembered that it was Sunday. "Sic transit gloria mundi." [Illustration] DAVID RICARDO The intrepid Ricardo With characteristic bravado, Alluded openly to Rent Wherever he went. [Illustration] SIR THOMAS À MALLORY Sir Thomas à Mallory Always went to the gallery. He said, not without nous, That it was the best place in the house. [Illustration] MR ALFRED BEIT Mr Alfred Beit Screamed suddenly in the night. When they asked him why He made no reply. [Illustration] CIMABUE When they told Cimabue He didn't know how to cooee, He replied, "Perhaps I mayn't, But I do know how to paint." [Illustration] PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT If only Mr Roosevelt Knew how officers in the Blues felt, He wouldn't be so rife With his Strenuous Life. [Illustration] ROBERT HARLEY, EARL OF OXFORD People wondered why Harley Sang "Wae's me for Prince Charlie." "It is childish," they said, "to mourn For a person not yet born." [Illustration] SIR ALEXANDER FULLER ACLAND-HOOD, M.P. Sir Alexander Acland-Hood Believed in Free Food: But he was Eleusinian About this opinion. [Illustration] MAHOMET I am not Mahomet. ----Far from it. That is the mistake All of you seem to make. [Illustration] EDVARD GRIEG The musician Grieg Joined the Primrose League. It gave him the idea of his chorus, "The Unburied Ichthyosaurus." [Illustration] JAN VAN EYCK The younger Van Eyck Was christened Jan, and not Mike. The thought of this curious mistake Often kept him awake. [Illustration] MR T. WERNER LAURIE Mr Werner Laurie Is not at all sorry He undertook the publication Of this instructive compilation. [Illustration] INDEX OF PSYCHOLOGY. (_In all work of a biographic character it is important to make copious reference to as many as possible of the generally-recognised virtues, vices, good points, foibles, peculiarities, tricks, characteristics, little weaknesses, traits, imperfections, fads, idiosyncrasies, singularities, morbid symptoms, oddities, faults, and regrettable propensities set forth in the following table. The form of an alphabetic index, with references to the examples given in the preceding pages, has been chosen, so that the beginner who may be desirous, when trying his hand at work of this sort, of seeing how any given one of these subjects may best be treated, is enabled at once to turn to one or more model passages._) Abominable deceit (WREN). Agitation, reluctance to explain (BEIT). Allah, Prophet of, refusal to admit identity with (MAHOMET). Appearances, disregard of, by man of position (MALLORY). Artistic temperament, the: its acute sensitiveness (VAN EYCK); love of violent action (LISZT); deliberate eccentricity (FIFE); naïf self-appreciation (CIMABUE); irresistibly attracted by the sublime (GRIEG); high value set upon it by Frenchmen (TIZIANO). Bankruptcy, moral (WREN). Blindness to obvious tendency of public opinion (BELLOC). Cobdenism, qualified adherence to, hesitation to avow (ACLAND-HOOD). Conduct, disingenuous (WREN). Contentions and disagreements, love of (ERASMUS, BESANT AND RICE, CLIFFORD, RALEIGH). Diet, morbid delicacy in matter of (DAVY, BESANT, MARCONI, but _cf._ BUNYAN). Domestic servants, encouragement of dishonesty among (WREN). Efficiency (DEWAR, CIMABUE, HIRST, LISZT). Escutcheon, blot on, action involving (WREN). Excisable commodity, unsympathetic attitude towards (CLIFFORD). Fact, cynical perversion of (WREN). Frigidity of style, sometimes attributable to præ-natal influences (HUME). Funereal thoughts, predisposition to (HARLEY). Generalisations, sweeping, dangerous fondness for (PIZARRO). Guile (WREN). Habits, repugnant personal, often found in association with fine spiritual gifts (BUNYAN). Horizon, restricted mental (PIZARRO). Hour of trial, fortitude in (ACLAND-HOOD). Hubbub, interminable, power to raise (MARCONI). Hypocrisy, calculated (WREN). Ignoring, pointed, of literary rivals (JOB). Information, insufficient, proneness to act upon (SHAW, ROOSEVELT). Insomnia, liability to (VAN EYCK, BEIT). Integrity, low standard of (WREN). Jesuitical dealing (WREN). Justification, flimsy, of homicide (PIZARRO). Kindness to animals (JOB, MARX). Knavery (WREN). Labouchere, Mr, power to awaken interest in (AUSTEN). Levity, irresponsible, of Yorkshiremen (HIRST). Lie, bouncing, circulation of (WREN). Low company, penchant for (MALLORY). MACCHIAVELLI, unholy precepts of, tendency to act upon (WREN). Memory, lapse of (ODO). Mind, contented, blessing of a (MALLORY). Nervous prostration, freedom from (LAURIE). "_Noblesse Oblige_," disregard of apothegm (WREN). Obesity, effective treatment of (WELLINGTON). Openness, want of (WREN). Ordinary man, treatment of genius at hands of (DAVY, HARLEY). Oriental metaphor, distaste for (CHAPMAN AND HALL). Ostentation, contempt for (MALLORY). Output, delusions in regard to reception of literary (BELLOC). Percussion, instrument of, habit of treating pianoforte as (LISZT). Principle, absence of (WREN). ---- self-sacrificing devotion to (CHAPMAN & HALL). Prompt and decisive action, unfitness for position requiring (OTTO). Psychology, complex and baffling, of contemporary genius (MARCONI). Quickening, need of spiritual (WREN). Repartée, witty and pungent, gift of (HIRST, CIMABUE). Resemblance, confusing physical, sometimes noted among higher types of genius (MAHOMET). Restoration, lax morality of, readiness to fall in with (WREN). Salvation Army, sympathy with methods of (LISZT). Satanism, revolting display of (WREN). Self-effacement, public-spirited (CLIVE). Sense of proportion, lack of (PIZARRO). Simple Life, fondness for the (EDWARD THE CONFESSOR, MALLORY). Statesmanship, qualities of: anticipation of coming problems (HARLEY); readiness to sink own prejudices in interest of common weal (ACLAND-HOOD); freedom from insomnia (EDWARD THE CONFESSOR). Taboos, faithful observance of (ODO). Taciturnity of the strong, silent man (BEIT). Tartufe, willingness to regard, as moral examplar (WREN). Treasury, Parliamentary Secretary to the, anxiety to remain (ACLAND-HOOD). Ugly, indifference to appearing (WELLINGTON). Umbrage, quickness to take (ERASMUS). Untruth, plausible, ability to frame (WREN). Utilitarianism, susceptibility to charms of (MILL). Utopian conditions, ill-judged efforts to realise (PIZARRO). Valhalla, precipitate eagerness to qualify for (SHAW). Vaticanism, display of blighting effects of, upon human mind (LISZT, PIZARRO). Veracity, departure from (WREN). Watchword, insistence upon ill-chosen (ROOSEVELT). World, the next, neglect of prospects in (WREN). Years, early, forgetfulness of habits inculcated in (MARCONI). Y.M.C.A., unfitness for (WREN). Zealous pursuit of pleasure at expense of soul (WREN). Zenith of literary achievement, attainment of (AUSTEN). Zulus, gradual adoption of social practices of (FIFE). Printed by A. M. Cowan & Co., Ltd. St John's Hall, Perth, N.B. Transcriber's Notes Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 1 Author of The "Dukedom of Portsea" has been replaced with Author of "The Dukedom of Portsea" In the "List of Contents", "Jane Austin" has been replaced with "Jane Austen". 
9380	----	_He must be a fool indeed who cannot at times play the fool; and he who does not enjoy nonsense must be lacking in sense_. _WILLIAM J. ROLFE_. A Nonsense Anthology Collected by Carolyn Wells 1910 TO GELETT BURGESS A NONSENSE LOVER CONTENTS INTRODUCTION JABBERWOCKY Lewis Carroll MORS IABROCHII Anonymous THE NYUM-NYUM Anonymous UFFIA Harriet R. White SPIRK TROLL-DERISIVE James Whitcomb Riley THE WHANGO TREE 1840 SING FOR THE GARISH EYE W.S. Gilbert THE CRUISE OF THE "P.C." Anonymous TO MARIE Anonymous LUNAR STANZAS Henry Coggswell Knight NONSENSE Anonymous, 1617 SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE Anonymous THE OCEAN WANDERER Anonymous SHE'S ALL MY FANCY PAINTED HIM Lewis Carroll MY RECOLLECTEST THOUGHTS Charles E. Carryl FATHER WILLIAM Anonymous IN THE GLOAMING James C. Bayles BALLAD OF BEDLAM Punch 'TIS SWEET TO ROAM Anonymous HYMN TO THE SUNRISE Anonymous THE MOON IS UP Anonymous 'T IS MIDNIGHT Anonymous UPRISING SEE THE FITFUL LARK Anonymous LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE Bishop Corbet MY DREAM Anonymous MY HOME Anonymous IN IMMEMORIAM Cuthbert Bede THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL A. C. Swinburne DARWINITY Herman Merivale SONG OF THE SCREW Anonymous MOORLANDS OF THE NOT Anonymous METAPHYSICS Oliver Herford ABSTROSOPHY Gelett Burgess ABSTEMIA Gelett Burgess PSYCHOLOPHON Gelett Burgess TIMON OF ARCHIMEDES Charles Battell Loomis ALONE Anonymous LINES BY A MEDIUM Anonymous TRANSCENDENTALISM From the Times of India INDIFFERENCE Anonymous QUATRAIN Anonymous COSSIMBAZAR Henry S. Leigh THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL Bret Harte A CLASSIC ODE Charles Battell Loomis WHERE AVALANCHES WAIL Anonymous BLUE MOONSHINE Francis G. Stokes NONSENSE Thomas Moore SUPERIOR NONSENSE VERSES Anonymous WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS W.M. Thackeray LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY Alexander Pope FRANGIPANNI Anonymous LINES BY A FOND LOVER Anonymous FORCING A WAY Anonymous THY HEART Anonymous A LOVE-SONG BY A LUNATIC Anonymous THE PARTERRE E.H. Palmer TO MOLLIDUSTA Planché JOHN JONES A.C. Swinburne THE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT Edward Lear A BALLADE OF THE NURSERIE John Twig A BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR Anonymous THE LUGUBRIOUS WHINGWHANG James Whitcomb Riley OH! WEARY MOTHER Barry Pain SWISS AIR Bret Harte THE BULBUL Owen Seaman BALLAD Anonymous OH, MY GERALDINE F.C. Burnand BUZ, QUOTH THE BLUE FLY Ben Jonson A SONG ON KING WILLIAM III Anonymous THERE WAS A MONKEY Anonymous, 1626 THE GUINEA PIG Anonymous THREE CHILDREN London, 1662 IF Anonymous A RIDDLE Anonymous THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN Anonymous THREE ACRES OF LAND Anonymous MASTER AND MAN Anonymous HYDER IDDLE Anonymous KING ARTHUR Anonymous IN THE DUMPS Anonymous TWEEDLE-DUM AND TWEE-DLE-DEE Anonymous MARTIN TO HIS MAN From Deuteromelia THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO Edward Lear THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES Edward Lear THE JUMBLIES Edward Lear INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF MY UNCLE ARLY Edward Lear LINES TO A YOUNG LADY Edward Lear WAYS AND MEANS Lewis Carroll THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER Lewis Carroll THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK Lewis Carroll SYLVIE AND BRUNO Lewis Carroll GENTLE ALICE BROWN W.S. Gilbert THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB W.S. Gilbert FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA, OR THE GENTLE PIEMAN W.S. Gilbert GENERAL JOHN W. S. Gilbert LITTLE BILLEE W. M. Thackeray THE WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE" William H. Drummond THE SHIPWRECK E. H. Palmer A SAILOR'S YARN J. J. Roche THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND Charles E. Carryl THE ROLLICKING MASTODON Arthur Macy THE SILVER QUESTION Oliver Herford THE SINGULAR SANGFROID OF BABY BUNTING Guy Wetmore Carryl FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY Thomas Hood THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN George Canning MALUM OPUS James Appleton Morgan ÆSTIVATION O. W. Holmes A HOLIDAY TASK Gilbert Abbott à Becket PUER EX JERSEY Anonymous THE LITTLE PEACH Anonymous MONSIEUR McGINTÉ Anonymous YE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE Henry A. Beers COLLUSION BETWEEN A ALEGAITER AND A WATER-SNAIK J. W. Morris ODD TO A KROKIS Anonymous SOME VERSES TO SNAIX Anonymous A GREAT MAN Oliver Goldsmith AN ELEGY Oliver Goldsmith PARSON GRAY Oliver Goldsmith AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Oliver Goldsmith THE WONDERFUL OLD MAN Anonymous A CHRONICLE Anonymous ON THE OXFORD CARRIER John Milton NEPHELIDIA A. C. Swinburne MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM Barry Pain COMPANIONS C. S. Calverley THE COCK AND THE BULL C. S. Calverley LOVERS AND A REFLECTION C. S. Calverley AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH Catharine M. Fanshawe. THE FAMOUS BALLAD OF THE JUBILEE CUP Arthur T. Quiller-Couch A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES W. M. Praed TRUST IN WOMEN Anonymous HERE IS THE TALE Anthony C. Deane THE AULD WIFE C. S. Calverley NOT I R. L. Stevenson MINNIE AND WINNIE Lord Tennyson THE MAYOR OF SCUTTLETON Mary Mapes Dodge THE PURPLE COW Gelett Burgess THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE Gelett Burgess THE LAZY ROOF Gelett Burgess MY FEET Gelett Burgess THE HEN Oliver Herford THE COW Oliver Herford THE CHIMPANZEE Oliver Herford THE HIPPOPOTAMUS Oliver Herford THE PLATYPUS Oliver Herford SOME GEESE Oliver Herford THE FLAMINGO Lewis Gaylord Clark KINDNESS TO ANIMALS J. Ashby-Sterry SAGE COUNSEL A. T. Quiller-Couch OF BAITING THE LION Owen Seaman THE FROG Hilaire Belloc THE YAK Hilaire Belloc THE PYTHON Hilaire Belloc THE BISON Hilaire Belloc THE PANTHER Anonymous THE MONKEY'S GLUE Goldwin Goldsmith THERE WAS A FROG Christ Church MS. THE BLOATED BIGGABOON H. Cholmondeley-Pennell WILD FLOWERS Peter Newell TIMID HORTENSE Peter Newell HER POLKA DOTS Peter Newell HER DAIRY Peter Newell TURVEY TOP Anonymous WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT H. Cholmondeley-Pennell THE DINKEY-BIRD Eugene Field THE MAN IN THE MOON James Whitcomb Riley THE STORY OF THE WILD HUNTSMAN Dr. Heinrich Hoffman THE STORY OF PYRAMID THOTHMES Anonymous THE STORY OF CRUEL PSAMTEK Anonymous THE CUMBERBUNCE Paul West THE AHKOND OF SWAT Edward Lear A THRENODY George Thomas Lanigan DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL George Thomas Lanigan RUSSIAN AND TURK Anonymous LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON Anonymous COBBE'S PROPHECIES 1614 AN UNSUSPECTED FACT Edward Cannon THE SORROWS OF WERTHER W. M. Thackeray NONSENSE VERSES Charles Lamb THE NOBLE TUCK-MAN Jean Ingelow THE PESSIMIST Ben King THE MODERN HIAWATHA Anonymous ON THE ROAD Tudor Jenks UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM Artemus Ward POOR DEAR GRANDPAPA D'Arcy W. Thompson THE SEA-SERPENT Planche MELANCHOLIA Anonymous THE MONKEY'S WEDDING Anonymous MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP Anonymous THE SUN J. Davis THE AUTUMN LEAVES Anonymous IN THE NIGHT Anonymous POOR BROTHER Anonymous THE BOY Eugene Field THE SEA Anonymous THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL H. W. Longfellow FIN DE SIÈCLE Newton Mackintosh MARY JANE Anonymous TENDER-HEARTEDNESS Col. D. Streamer IMPETUOUS SAMUEL Col. D. Streamer MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY Col. D. Streamer AUNT ELIZA Col. D. Streamer SUSAN Anonymous BABY AND MARY Anonymous THE SUNBEAM Anonymous LITTLE WILLIE Anonymous MARY AMES Anonymous MUDDLED METAPHORS Tom Hood, Jr. VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES W. E. Henley ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART Laman Blanchard LIMERICKS Edward Lear Anonymous Cosmo Monkhouse Walter Parke George du Maurier Robert J. Burdette Gelett Burgess Bruce Porter Newton Mackintosh Anonymous Anonymous Anonymous INTRODUCTION On a topographical map of Literature Nonsense would be represented by a small and sparsely settled country, neglected by the average tourist, but affording keen delight to the few enlightened travellers who sojourn within its borders. It is a field which has been neglected by anthologists and essayists; one of its few serious recognitions being in a certain "Treatise of Figurative Language," which says: "Nonsense; shall we dignify that with a place on our list? Assuredly will vote for doing so every one who hath at all duly noticed what admirable and wise uses it can be, and often is, put to, though never before in rhetoric has it been so highly honored. How deeply does clever or quaint nonsense abide in the memory, and for how many a decade--from earliest youth to age's most venerable years." And yet Hazlitt's "Studies in Jocular Literature" mentions six divisions of the Jest, and omits Nonsense! Perhaps, partly because of such neglect, the work of the best nonsense writers is less widely known than it might be. But a more probable reason is that the majority of the reading world does not appreciate or enjoy real nonsense, and this, again, is consequent upon their inability to discriminate between nonsense of integral merit and simple chaff. A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it. Never in the tongue Of him that makes it, and a sense of nonsense is as distinct a part of our mentality as a sense of humor, being by no means identical therewith. It is a fad at present for a man to relate a nonsensical story, and then, if his hearer does not laugh, say gravely: "You have no sense of humor. That is a test story, and only a true humorist laughs at it." Now, the hearer may have an exquisite sense of humor, but he may be lacking in a sense of nonsense, and so the story gives him no pleasure. De Quincey said, "None but a man of extraordinary talent can write first-rate nonsense." Only a short study of the subject is required to convince us that De Quincey was right; and he might have added, none but a man of extraordinary taste can appreciate first-rate nonsense. As an instance of this, we may remember that Edward Lear, "the parent of modern nonsense-writers," was a talented author and artist, and a prime favorite of such men as Tennyson and the Earls of Derby; and John Ruskin placed Lear's name at the head of his list of the best hundred authors. "Don't tell me," said William Pitt, "of a man's being able to talk sense; every one can talk sense. Can he talk nonsense?" The sense of nonsense enables us not only to discern pure nonsense, but to consider intelligently nonsense of various degrees of purity. Absence of sense is not necessarily nonsense, any more than absence of justice is injustice. Etymologically speaking, nonsense may be either words without meaning, or words conveying absurd or ridiculous ideas. It is the second definition which expresses the great mass of nonsense literature, but there is a small proportion of written nonsense which comes under the head of language without meaning. Again, there are verses composed entirely of meaningless words, which are not nonsense literature, because they are written with some other intent. The nursery rhyme, of which there are almost as many versions as there are nurseries, Eena, meena, mona, mi, Bassalona, bona, stri, Hare, ware, frown, whack, Halico balico, we, wi, we, wack, is not strictly a nonsense verse, because it was invented and used for "counting out," and the arbitrary words simply take the place of the numbers 1, 2, 3, etc. Also, the nonsense verses with which students of Latin composition are sometimes taught to begin their efforts, where words are used with no relative meaning, simply to familiarize the pupil with the mechanical values of quantity and metre, are not nonsense. It is only nonsense for nonsense' sake that is now under our consideration. Doubtless the best and best-known example of versified words without meaning is "Jabberwocky." Although (notwithstanding Lewis Carroll's explanations) the coined words are absolutely without meaning, the rhythm is perfect and the poetic quality decidedly apparent, and the poem appeals to the nonsense lover as a work of pure genius. Bayard Taylor is said to have recited "Jabberwocky" aloud for his own delectation until he was forced to stop by uncontrollable laughter. To us who know our _Alice_ it would seem unnecessary to quote this poem, but it is a fact that among the general reading community the appreciators of Lewis Carroll are surprisingly few. An editor of a leading literary review, when asked recently if he had read "Alice in Wonderland," replied, "No, but I mean to. It is by the author of 'As in a looking-Glass,' is it not?" But of far greater interest and merit than nonsense of words, is nonsense of ideas. Here, again, we distinguish between nonsense and no sense. Ideas conveying no sense are often intensely funny, and this type is seen in some of the best of our nonsense literature. A perfect specimen is the bit of evidence read by the White Rabbit at the Trial of the Knave of Hearts.[1] One charm of these verses is the serious air of legal directness which pervades their ambiguity, and another is the precision with which the metrical accent coincides exactly with the natural emphasis. They are marked, too, by the liquid euphony that always distinguishes Lewis Carroll's poetry. A different type is found in verses that refer to objects in terms the opposite of true, thereby suggesting ludicrous incongruity, and there is also the nonsense verse that uses word effects which have been confiscated by the poets and tacitly given over to them. A refrain of nonsense words is a favorite diversion of many otherwise serious poets. With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, is one of Shakespeare's many musical nonsense refrains. [Footnote 1: "She's all my Fancy painted him," page 20.] Burns gives us: Ken ye aught o' Captain Grose? Igo and ago, If he's 'mang his freens or foes? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highlan' bodies? Igo and ago; And eaten like a weather haggis? Iram, coram, dago. Another very old refrain runs thus: Forum, corum, sunt di-vorum, Harum, scarum, divo; Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hat-band, Hic, hoc, horum, genitivo. An old ballad written before the Reformation has for a refrain: Sing go trix, Trim go trix, Under the greenwood tree. While a celebrated political ballad is known by its nonsense chorus, Lilliburlero bullin a-la. Mother Goose rhymes abound in these nonsense refrains, and they are often fine examples of onomatopoeia. By far the most meritorious and most interesting kind of nonsense is that which embodies an absurd or ridiculous idea, and treats it with elaborate seriousness. The greatest masters of this art are undoubtedly Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. These Englishmen were men of genius, deep thinkers, and hard workers. Lear was an artist draughtsman, his subjects being mainly ornithological and zoological. Lewis Carroll (Charles L. Dodgson) was an expert in mathematics and a lecturer on that science in Christ Church, Oxford. Both these men numbered among their friends many of the greatest Englishmen of the day. Tennyson was a warm friend and admirer of each, as was also John Ruskin. Lear's first nonsense verses, published in 1846, are written in the form of the well-known stanza beginning: There was an old man of Tobago. This type of stanza, known as the "Limerick," is said by a gentleman who speaks with authority to have flourished in the reign of William IV. This is one of several he remembers as current at his public school in 1834: There was a young man at St. Kitts Who was very much troubled with fits; The eclipse of the moon Threw him into a swoon, When he tumbled and broke into bits. Lear distinctly asserts that this form of verse was not invented by him, but was suggested by a friend as a useful model for amusing rhymes. It proved so in his case, for he published no less than two hundred and twelve of these "Limericks." In regard to his verses, Lear asserted that "nonsense, pure and absolute," was his aim throughout; and remarked, further, that to have been the means of administering innocent mirth to thousands was surely a just excuse for satisfaction. He pursued his aim with scrupulous consistency, and his absurd conceits are fantastic and ridiculous, but never cheaply or vulgarly funny. Twenty-five years after his first book came out, Lear published other books of nonsense verse and prose, with pictures which are irresistibly mirth-provoking. Lear's nonsense songs, while retaining all the ludicrous merriment of his Limericks, have an added quality of poetic harmony. They are distinctly _singable_, and many of them have been set to music by talented composers. Perhaps the best-known songs are "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat" and "The Daddy-Long-Legs and the Fly." Lear himself composed airs for "The Pelican Chorus" and "The Yonghy-Bonghy Bo," which were arranged for the piano by Professor Pomè, of San Remo, Italy. Although like Lear's in some respects, Lewis Carroll's nonsense is perhaps of a more refined type. There is less of the grotesque and more poetic imagery. But though Carroll was more of a poet than Lear, both had the true sense of nonsense. Both assumed the most absurd conditions, and proceeded to detail their consequences with a simple seriousness that convulses appreciative readers, and we find ourselves uncertain whether it is the manner or the matter that is more amusing. Lewis Carroll was a man of intellect and education; his funniest sayings are often based on profound knowledge or deep thought. Like Lear, he never spoiled his quaint fancies by over-exaggerating their quaintness or their fancifulness, and his ridiculous plots are as carefully conceived, constructed, and elaborated as though they embodied the soundest facts. No funny detail is ever allowed to become _too_ funny; and it is in this judicious economy of extravagance that his genius is shown. As he remarks in one of his own poems: Then, fourthly, there are epithets That suit with any word-- As well as Harvey's Reading Sauce With fish, or flesh, or bird. Such epithets, like pepper, Give zest to what you write; And, if you strew them sparely, They whet the appetite; But if you lay them on too thick, You spoil the matter quite! Both Lear and Carroll suffered from the undiscerning critics who persisted in seeing in their nonsense a hidden meaning, a cynical, political, or other intent, veiled under the apparent foolery. Lear takes occasion to deny this in the preface to one of his books, and asserts not only that his rhymes and pictures have no symbolical meaning, but that he "took more care than might be supposed to make the subjects incapable of such misinterpretation." Likewise, "Jabberwocky" was declared by one critic to be a translation from the German, and by others its originality was doubted. The truth is, that it was written by Lewis Carroll at an evening party; it was quite impromptu, and no ulterior meaning was intended. "The Hunting of the Snark" was also regarded by some as an allegory, or, perhaps, a burlesque on a celebrated case, in which the _Snark_ was used as a personification of popularity, but Lewis Carroll protested that the poem had no meaning at all. A favorite trick of the Nonsensists is the coining of words to suit their needs, and Lear and Carroll are especially happy in their inventions of this kind. Lear gives us such gems as scroobious, meloobious, ombliferous, borascible, slobaciously, himmeltanious, flumpetty, and mumbian; while the best of Lewis Carroll's coined words are those found in "Jabberwocky." Another of the great Nonsensists is W. S. Gilbert. Unlike Lear or Carroll, his work is not characterized by absurd words or phrases; he prefers a still wider scope, and invents a ridiculous plot. The "Bab Ballads," as well as Mr. Gilbert's comic opera librettos, hinge upon schemes of ludicrous impossibility, which are treated as the most natural proceedings in the world. The best known of the "Bab Ballads" is no doubt "The Yarn of the 'Nancy Bell,'" which was long since set to music and is still a popular song. In addition to his talent for nonsense, Mr. Gilbert possesses a wonderful rhyming facility, and juggles cleverly with difficult and unusual metres. In regard to his "Bab Ballads," Mr. Gilbert gravely says that "they are not, as a rule, founded on fact," and, remembering their gory and often cannibalistic tendencies, we are grateful for this assurance. An instance of Gilbert's appreciation of other people's nonsense is his parody of Lear's verse: There was an old man in a tree Who was horribly bored by a bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" He replied, "Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a bee!" The parody attributed to Gilbert is called "A Nonsense Rhyme in Blank Verse": There was an old man of St. Bees, Who was stung in the arm by a wasp; When they asked, "Does it hurt?" He replied, "No, it doesn't, But I thought all the while 'twas a Hornet!" Thackeray wrote spirited nonsense, but much of it had an under-meaning, political or otherwise, which bars it from the field of sheer nonsense. The sense of nonsense is no respecter of persons; even staid old Dr. Johnson possessed it, though his nonsense verses are marked by credible fact and irrefutable logic. Witness these two examples: As with my hat upon my head I walked along the Strand, I there did meet another man With his hat in his hand. The tender infant, meek and mild, Fell down upon the stone; The nurse took up the squealing child, But still the child squealed on. The Doctor is also responsible for If a man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he would rather Have a turnip than a father. And indeed, among our best writers there are few who have not dropped into nonsense or semi-nonsense at one time or another. A familiar bit of nonsense prose is by S. Foote, and it is said that Charles Macklin used to recite it with great gusto: "She went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to make an apple-pie, and at the same time a great she-bear coming up the street, pops its head into the shop. 'What, no soap?' so he died. She imprudently married the barber, and there were present the Pickaninnies, the Joblilies, the Gayrulies, and the Grand Panjandrum himself with the little round button on top, and they all fell to playing catch-as-catch-can till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots." [Transcriber's note: The above paragraph is not an excerpt from a longer work, but is complete as it stands.] An old nonsense verse attributed to an Oxford student, is the well known: A centipede was happy quite, Until a frog in fun Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?" This raised her mind to such a pitch, She lay distracted in the ditch Considering how to run. So far as we know, Kipling has never printed anything which can be called nonsense verse, but it is doubtless only a question of time when that branch shall be added to his versatility. His "Just So" stories are capital nonsense prose, and the following rhyme proves him guilty of at least one Limerick: There was a small boy of Quebec, Who was buried in snow to his neck; When they said, "Are you friz?" He replied, "Yes, I is-- But we don't call this cold in Quebec." Among living authors, one who has written a great amount of good nonsense is Mr. Gelett Burgess, late editor of _The Lark_. According to Mr. Burgess' own statement, the test of nonsense is its quotability, and his work stands this test admirably, for what absurd rhyme ever attained such popularity as his "Purple Cow"? This was first printed in _The Lark_, a paper published in San Francisco for two years, the only periodical of any merit that has ever made intelligent nonsense its special feature. Another of the most talented nonsense writers of to-day is Mr. Oliver Herford. It is a pity, however, to reproduce his verse without his illustrations, for as nonsense these are as admirable as the text. But the greater part of Mr. Herford's work belongs to the realm of pure fancy, and though of a whimsical delicacy often equal to Lewis Carroll's, it is rarely sheer nonsense. As a proof that good nonsense is by no means an easy achievement, attention is called to a recent competition inaugurated by the London _Academy_. Nonsense rhymes similar to those quoted from _The Lark_ were asked for, and though many were received, it is stated that no brilliant results were among them. The prize was awarded to this weak and uninteresting specimen: "If half the road was made of jam, The other half of bread, How very nice my walks would be," The greedy infant said. These two were also offered by competitors: I love to stand upon my head And think of things sublime Until my mother interrupts And says it's dinner-time. A lobster wooed a lady crab, And kissed her lovely face. "Upon my sole," the crabbess cried, "I wish you'd mind your plaice!" Let us, then, give Nonsense its place among the divisions of Humor, and though we cannot reduce it to an exact science, let us acknowledge it as a fine art. A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY JABBERWOCKY 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought. So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through, and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'T was brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves And the mome raths outgrabe. _Lewis Carroll_. MORS IABROCHII Coesper[1] erat: tunc lubriciles[2] ultravia circum Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu; Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae. O fuge Iabrochium, sanguis meus![3] Ille recurvis Unguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax. Ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! Neque unquam Faederpax contra te frumiosus eat! Vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostis Manxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem: Jamque viâ fesso, sed plurima mente prementi, Tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram. Consilia interdum stetit egnia[4] mene revolvens; At gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[5] erat, Spiculaque[6] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulseam Per silvam venit burbur[7] labrochii! Vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum, Persnicuit gladis persnacuitque puer: Deinde galumphatus, spernens informe Cadaver, Horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput. Victor Iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis, Rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos! O frabiose dies! CALLO clamateque CALLA! Vix potuit lastus chorticulare pater. Coesper erat: tune lubriciles ultravia circum Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi; Moestenui visæ borogovides ire meatu; Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathæ. _Anonymous_. [Footnote 1: _Coesper_ from _Coena_ and _vesper_.] [Footnote 2: _lubriciles_ from _lubricus_ and _graciles_. See the Commentary in Humpty Dumpty's square, which will also explain _ultravia_, and--if it requires explanation--_moestenui_.] [Footnote 3: _Sanguis meus_: cf. Verg. Aen. 6. 836, "Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!"] [Footnote 4: _egnia_: "muffish" = segnis; ... "uffish" = egnis. This is a conjectural analogy, but I can suggest no better solution.] [Footnote 5: _susuffrus_ : "whiffling" :: _susurrus_ : "whistling."] [Footnote 6: _spicula_: see the picture.] [Footnote 7: _burbur_: apparently a labial variation of _murmur_, stronger but more dissonant.] _THE NYUM-NYUM_ The Nyum-Nyum chortled by the sea, And sipped the wavelets green: He wondered how the sky could be So very nice and clean; He wondered if the chambermaid Had swept the dust away, And if the scrumptious Jabberwock Had mopped it up that day. And then in sadness to his love The Nyum-Nyum weeping said, I know no reason why the sea Should not be white or red. I know no reason why the sea Should not be red, I say; And why the slithy Bandersnatch Has not been round to-day. He swore he'd call at two o'clock, And now it's half-past four. "Stay," said the Nyum-Nyum's love, "I think I hear him at the door." In twenty minutes in there came A creature black as ink, Which put its feet upon a chair And called for beer to drink. They gave him porter in a tub, But, "Give me more!" he cried; And then he drew a heavy sigh, And laid him down, and died. He died, and in the Nyum-Nyum's cave A cry of mourning rose; The Nyum-Nyum sobbed a gentle sob, And slily blew his nose. The Nyum-Nyum's love, we need not state, Was overwhelmed and sad; She said, "Oh, take the corpse away, Or you will drive me mad!" The Nyum-Nyum in his supple arms Took up the gruesome weight, And, with a cry of bitter fear, He threw it at his mate. And then he wept, and tore his hair, And threw it in the sea, And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes That such a thing could be. The ox, that mumbled in his stall, Perspired and gently sighed, And then, in sympathy, it fell Upon its back and died. The hen that sat upon her eggs, With high ambition fired, Arose in simple majesty, And, with a cluck, expired. The jubejube bird, that carolled there, Sat down upon a post, And with a reverential caw, Gave up its little ghost. And ere its kind and loving life Eternally had ceased, The donkey, in the ancient barn, In agony deceased. The raven, perched upon the elm, Gave forth a scraping note, And ere the sound had died away, Had cut its tuneful throat. The Nyum-Nyum's love was sorrowful; And, after she had cried, She, with a brand-new carving-knife, Committed suicide. "Alas!" the Nyum-Nyum said, "alas! With thee I will not part," And straightway seized a rolling-pin And drove it through his heart. The mourners came and gathered up The bits that lay about; But why the massacre had been, They could not quite make out. One said there was a mystery Connected with the deaths; But others thought the silent ones Perhaps had lost their breaths. The doctor soon arrived, and viewed The corpses as they lay; He could not give them life again, So he was heard to say. But, oh! it was a horrid sight; It made the blood run cold, To see the bodies carried off And covered up with mould. The Toves across the briny sea Wept buckets-full of tears; They were relations of the dead, And had been friends for years. The Jabberwock upon the hill Gave forth a gloomy wail, When in his airy seat he sat, And told the awful tale. And who can wonder that it made That loving creature cry? For he had done the dreadful work And caused the things to die. That Jabberwock was passing bad-- That Jabberwock was wrong, And with this verdict I conclude One portion of my song. _Anonymous_. UFFIA When sporgles spanned the floreate mead And cogwogs gleet upon the lea, Uffia gopped to meet her love Who smeeged upon the equat sea. Dately she walked aglost the sand; The boreal wind seet in her face; The moggling waves yalped at her feet; Pangwangling was her pace. _Harriet R. White_. SPIRK TROLL-DERISIVE The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon, And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." The quavering shriek of the Fliupthecreek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star. The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wig On the opposite side of his head; And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies To plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes. The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance; And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub! And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail!" While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail. _James Whitcomb Riley_. THE WHANGO TREE The woggly bird sat on the whango tree, Nooping the rinkum corn, And graper and graper, alas! grew he, And cursed the day he was born. His crute was clum and his voice was rum, As curiously thus sang he, "Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammed Ere I perched on this whango tree." Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn, As sharp as a nootie's bill, And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lorn And weepadge, the smart did thrill. He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst, For he couldn't at all get free, And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammed On the luggardly whango tree." And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill, Nor no guggledom in his nest; He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care, And his grabbles give him no rest; He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar, And nothing to nob has he, As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed, In this cuggerdom whango tree." _1840_. SING FOR THE GARISH EYE Sing for the garish eye, When moonless brandlings cling! Let the froddering crooner cry, And the braddled sapster sing, For never and never again, Will the tottering beechlings play, For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May! _W.S. Gilbert_. THE CRUISE OF THE "P.C." Across the swiffling waves they went, The gumly bark yoked to and fro: The jupple crew on pleasure bent, Galored, "This is a go!" Beside the poo's'l stood the Gom, He chirked and murgled in his glee; While near him, in a grue jipon, The Bard was quite at sea. "Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard! Take pen (thy stylo) and endite A pome, my brain needs kurgling hard, And I will feast tonight." That wansome Bard he took his pen, A flirgly look around he guv; He squoffled once, he squirled, and then He wrote what's writ above. _Anonymous_. TO MARIE When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blim Twirls the toads in a tooroomaloo, And the whiskery whine of the wheedlesome whim Drowns the roll of the rattatattoo, Then I dream in the shade of the shally-go-shee, And the voice of the bally-molay Brings the smell of stale poppy-cods blummered in blee From the willy-wad over the way. Ah, the shuddering shoo and the blinketty-blanks When the yungalung falls from the bough In the blast of a hurricane's hicketty-hanks On the hills of the hocketty-how! Give the rigamarole to the clangery-whang, If they care for such fiddlededee; But the thingumbob kiss of the whangery-bang Keeps the higgledy-piggle for me. _L'ENVOI_ It is pilly-po-doddle and aligobung When the lollypop covers the ground, Yet the poldiddle perishes punketty-pung When the heart jimmy-coggles around. If the soul cannot snoop at the giggle-some cart, Seeking surcease in gluggety-glug, It is useless to say to the pulsating heart, "Panky-doodle ker-chuggetty-chug!" _John Bennett_. _LUNAR STANZAS_ Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packs Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs; Walk crank along with coffin on their backs While in their arms they bow their weary legs. And yet 't was strange, and scarce can one suppose That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear His white jean breeches and black woollen hose, But thence that flies have souls is very clear. But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul, When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes? When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll, And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes. Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light, A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear; And 'twere indelicate, although she might Swallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear. But what to me are woven clouds, or what, If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms? If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State, With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes? Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste! To eat one's mother ere itself was born! To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste, And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn. No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone; Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep; Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone, And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep. _Henry Coggswell Knight, 1815_. NONSENSE Oh that my Lungs could bleat like butter'd Pease; But bleating of my lungs hath Caught the itch, And are as mangy as the Irish Seas That offer wary windmills to the Rich. I grant that Rainbowes being lull'd asleep, Snort like a woodknife in a Lady's eyes; Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep, For Creeping puddings only please the wise. Not that a hard-row'd herring should presume To swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse; For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome, By lesning of the fault should make it worse. For 'tis most certain Winter woolsacks grow From geese to swans if men could keep them so, Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint To pickle pancakes in Geneva print. Some men there were that did suppose the skie Was made of Carbonado'd Antidotes; But my opinion is, a Whale's left eye, Need not be coyned all King Harry groates. The reason's plain, for Charon's Westerne barge Running a tilt at the Subjunctive mood, Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him charge To fasten padlockes with Antartic food. The End will be the Mill ponds must be laded, To fish for white pots in a Country dance; So they that suffered wrong and were upbraded Shall be made friends in a left-handed trance. _Anonymous, 1617_. SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize! For the old egg of my desire is broken, Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and As the mild melancholy contents grease My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees. Time's trashy purse is as a taken token Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese. And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn? Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast? Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn? Or swallow any pill from out the past? Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn Like a potato riding on the blast. _Anonymous_. THE OCEAN WANDERER Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean wave Through realms that rove not, clouds that cannot save, Sinks in the sunshine; dazzles o'er the tomb And mocks the mutiny of Memory's gloom. Oh! who can feel the crimson ecstasy That soothes with bickering jar the Glorious Tree? O'er the high rock the foam of gladness throws, While star-beams lull Vesuvius to repose: Girds the white spray, and in the blue lagoon, Weeps like a walrus o'er the waning moon? Who can declare?--not thou, pervading boy Whom pibrochs pierce not, crystals cannot cloy;-- Not thou soft Architect of silvery gleams, Whose soul would simmer in Hesperian streams, Th' exhaustless fire--the bosom's azure bliss, That hurtles, life-like, o'er a scene like this;-- Defies the distant agony of Day-- And sweeps o'er hetacombs--away! away! Say shall Destruction's lava load the gale, The furnace quiver and the mountain quail? Say shall the son of Sympathy pretend His cedar fragrance with our Chiefs to blend? There, where the gnarled monuments of sand Howl their dark whirlwinds to the levin brand; Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog, Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog, Impetuous arrant toadstool; Thundering quince, Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince, Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun, Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun, Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting, Heav'n-born Insanity, courageous thing. Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all, Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall. _Anonymous_. SHE'S ALL MY FANCY PAINTED HIM She's all my fancy painted him, (I make no idle boast); If he or you had lost a limb, Which would have suffered most? He said that you had been to her, And seen me here before: But, in another character She was the same of yore. There was not one that spoke to us, Of all that thronged the street; So he sadly got into a 'bus, And pattered with his feet. They told me you had been to her, And mentioned me to him; She gave me a good character, But said I could not swim. He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true); If she should push the matter on, What would become of you? I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before. If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were. My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it. Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me. _Lewis Carroll_. MY RECOLLECTEST THOUGHTS My recollectest thoughts are those Which I remember yet; And bearing on, as you'd suppose, The things I don't forget. But my resemblest thoughts are less Alike than they should be; A state of things, as you'll confess, You very seldom see. And yet the mostest thought I love Is what no one believes-- That I'm the sole survivor of The famous Forty Thieves! _Charles E. Carry_. FATHER WILLIAM "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your nose has a look of surprise; Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head, And you live upon cucumber pies." "I know it, I know it," the old man replied, "And it comes from employing a quack, Who said if I laughed when the crocodile died I should never have pains in my back." "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your legs always get in your way; You use too much mortar in mixing your bread, And you try to drink timothy hay." "Very true, very true," said the wretched old man, "Every word that you tell me is true; And it's caused by my having my kerosene can Painted red where it ought to be blue." "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your teeth are beginning to freeze, Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head, And the chickens are eating your knees." "You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny, That my troubles are many and great, But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July, And then I'll be able to skate." _Anonymous_. IN THE GLOAMING The twilight twiles in the vernal vale, In adumbration of azure awe, And I listlessly list in my swallow-tail To the limpet licking his limber jaw. And it's O for the sound of the daffodil, For the dry distillings of prawn and prout, When hope hops high and a heather hill Is a dear delight and a darksome doubt. The snagwap sits in the bosky brae And sings to the gumplet in accents sweet; The gibwink hasn't a word to say, But pensively smiles at the fair keeweet. And it's O for the jungles of Boorabul. For the jingling jungles to jangle in, With a moony maze of mellado mull, And a protoplasm for next of kin. O, sweet is the note of the shagreen shard And mellow the mew of the mastodon, When the soboliferous Somminard Is scenting the shadows at set of sun. And it's O for the timorous tamarind In the murky meadows of Mariboo, For the suave sirocco of Sazerkind, And the pimpernell pellets of Pangipoo. _James C. Bayles_. BALLAD OF BEDLAM Oh, lady, wake! the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last We shall be happy yesterday. The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar. Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine, To some rich desert fly with me. _Punch_. 'TIS SWEET TO ROAM 'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light Resounds across the deep; And the crystal song of the woodbine bright Hushes the rocks to sleep, And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon Is bathed in a crumbling dew, And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout, To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo! _Anonymous_. HYMN TO THE SUNRISE The dreamy crags with raucous voices croon Across the zephyr's heliotrope career; I sit contentedly upon the moon And watch the sunlight trickle round the sphere. The shiny trill of jagged, feathered rocks I hear with glee as swift I fly away; And over waves of subtle, woolly flocks Crashes the breaking day! _Anonymous_. THE MOON IS UP The moon is up, the moon is up! The larks begin to fly, And, like a drowsy buttercup, Dark Phoebus skims the sky, The elephant, with cheerful voice, Sings blithely on the spray; The bats and beetles all rejoice, Then let me, too, be gay. I would I were a porcupine, And wore a peacock's tail; To-morrow, if the moon but shine, Perchance I'll be a whale. Then let me, like the cauliflower, Be merry while I may, And, ere there comes a sunny hour To cloud my heart, be gay! _Anonymous_. 'TIS MIDNIGHT 'Tis midnight, and the setting sun Is slowly rising in the west; The rapid rivers slowly run, The frog is on his downy nest. The pensive goat and sportive cow, Hilarious, leap from bough to bough. _Anonymous_. UPRISING SEE THE FITFUL LARK Uprising see the fitful lark Unfold his pinion to the stream; The pensive watch-dog's mellow bark O'ershades yon cottage like a dream: The playful duck and warbling bee Hop gayly on, from tree to tree! How calmly could my spirit rest Beneath yon primrose bell so blue, And watch those airy oxen drest In every tint of pearling hue! As on they hurl the gladsome plough, While fairy zephyrs deck each brow! _Anonymous_. LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat; E'en such is he who never was begotten Until his children were both dead and rotten. Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding; E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt, Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out. Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose, Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box, Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks; E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh To see these lines writ for his epitaph. _Bishop Corbet in 17th century_. MY DREAM I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week, Beneath the apple-trees; I thought my eyes were big pork-pies, And my nose was Stilton cheese. The clock struck twenty minutes to six, When a frog sat on my knee; I asked him to lend me eighteenpence, But he borrowed a shilling of me. _Anonymous_. MY HOME My home is on the rolling deep, I spend my time a-feeding sheep; And when the waves on high are running, I take my gun and go a-gunning. I shoot wild ducks down deep snake-holes, And drink gin-sling from two-quart bowls. _Anonymous_. IN IMMEMORIAM We seek to know, and knowing seek; We seek, we know, and every sense Is trembling with the great intense, And vibrating to what we speak. We ask too much, we seek too oft; We know enough and should no more; And yet we skim through Fancy's lore, And look to earth and not aloft. * * * * * O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; O moon! whose golden sickle's gone, O voices all! like you I die! _Cuthbert Bede_. THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is; Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this. What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder. Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without? Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over. One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true. Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew; You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you. One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee. _A.C. Swinburne_. DARWINITY Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences, All the old landmarks are ripe for decay; Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances, Darwin the great is the man of the day. All other 'ologies want an apology; Bread's a mistake--Science offers a stone; Nothing is true but Anthropobiology-- Darwin the great understands it alone. Mighty the great evolutionist teacher is, Licking Morphology clean into shape; Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher is, Ever to doubt his descent from an ape. Man's an Anthropoid--he cannot help that, you know-- First evoluted from Pongos of old; He's but a branch of the _catarrhine_ cat, you know-- Monkey I mean--that's an ape with a cold. Fast dying out are man's later Appearances, Cataclysmitic Geologies gone; Now of Creation completed the clearance is, Darwin alone you must anchor upon. Primitive Life--Organisms were chemical, Busting spontaneous under the sea; Purely subaqueous, panaquademical, Was the original Crystal of Me. I'm the Apostle of mighty Darwinity, Stands for Divinity--sounds much the same-- Apo-theistico-Pan-Asininity Only can doubt whence the lot of us came. Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom! Won't you accept such plain doctrines instead? What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom Born in the sea with a cold in its head? _Herman Merivale_. SONG OF THE SCREW A moving form or rigid mass, Under whate'er conditions Along successive screws must pass Between each two positions. It turns around and slides along-- This is the burden of my song. The pitch of screw, if multiplied By angle of rotation, Will give the distance it must glide In motion of translation. Infinite pitch means pure translation, And zero pitch means pure rotation. Two motions on two given screws, With amplitudes at pleasure, Into a third screw-motion fuse; Whose amplitude we measure By parallelogram construction (A very obvious deduction.) Its axis cuts the nodal line Which to both screws is normal, And generates a form divine, Whose name, in language formal, Is "surface-ruled of third degree." Cylindroid is the name for me. Rotation round a given line Is like a force along. If to say couple you incline, You're clearly in the wrong;-- 'Tis obvious, upon reflection, A line is not a mere direction. So couples with translations too In all respects agree; And thus there centres in the screw A wondrous harmony Of Kinematics and of Statics,-- The sweetest thing in mathematics. The forces on one given screw, With motion on a second, In general some work will do, Whose magnitude is reckoned By angle, force, and what we call The coefficient virtual. Rotation now to force convert, And force into rotation; Unchanged the work, we can assert, In spite of transformation. And if two screws no work can claim, Reciprocal will be their name. Five numbers will a screw define, A screwing motion, six; For four will give the axial line, One more the pitch will fix; And hence we always can contrive One screw reciprocal to five. Screws--two, three, four or five, combined (No question here of six), Yield other screws which are confined Within one screw complex. Thus we obtain the clearest notion Of freedom and constraint of motion. In complex III., three several screws At every point you find, Or if you one direction choose, One screw is to your mind; And complexes of order III. Their own reciprocals may be. In IV., wherever you arrive, You find of screws a cone, On every line in complex V. There is precisely one; At each point of this complex rich, A plane of screws have given pitch. But time would fail me to discourse Of Order and Degree; Of Impulse, Energy and Force, And Reciprocity. All these and more, for motions small, Have been discussed by Dr. Ball. _Anonymous_. MOORLANDS OF THE NOT Across the moorlands of the Not We chase the gruesome When; And hunt the Itness of the What Through forests of the Then. Into the Inner Consciousness We track the crafty Where; We spear the Ego tough, and beard The Selfhood in his lair. With lassos of the brain we catch The Isness of the Was; And in the copses of the Whence We hear the think bees buzz. We climb the slippery Whichbark tree To watch the Thusness roll And pause betimes in gnostic rimes To woo the Over Soul. _Anonymous_. METAPHYSICS Why and Wherefore set out 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. _Oliver Herford_. ABSTROSOPHY If echoes from the fitful past Could rise to mental view, Would all their fancied radiance last Or would some odors from the blast, Untouched by Time, accrue? Is present pain a future bliss, Or is it something worse? For instance, take a case like this: Is fancied kick a real kiss, Or rather the reverse? Is plenitude of passion palled By poverty of scorn? Does Fiction mend where Fact has mauled? Has Death its wisest victims called When idiots are born? _Gelett Burgess_. ABSTEMIA _In Mystic_ Argot _often Confounded with Farrago_ If aught that stumbles in my speech Or stutters in my pen, Or, claiming tribute, each to each, Rise, not to fall again, Let something lowlier far, for me, Through evanescent shades-- Than which my spirit might not be Nourished in fitful ecstasy Not less to know but more to see Where that great Bliss pervades. _Gelett Burgess_. PSYCHOLOPHON _Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee_ Twine then the rays Round her soft Theban tissues! All will be as She says, When that dead past reissues. Matters not what nor where, Hark, to the moon's dim cluster! How was her heavy hair Lithe as a feather duster! Matters not when nor whence; Flittertigibbet! Sounds make the song, not sense, Thus I inhibit! _Gelett Burgess_. TIMON OF ARCHIMEDES As one who cleaves the circumambient air Seeking in azure what it lacks in space, And sees a young and finely chiselled face Filled with foretastes of wisdom yet more rare; Touching and yet untouched--unmeasured grace! A breathing credo and a living prayer-- Yet of the earth, still earthy; debonair The while in heaven it seeketh for a place. So thy dear eyes and thy kind lips but say-- Ere from his cerements Timon seems to flit: "What of the reaper grim with sickle keen?" And then the sunlight ushers in new day And for our tasks our bodies seem more fit-- "Might of the night, unfleeing, sight unseen." _Charles Battell Loomis_. ALONE Alone! Alone! I sit in the solitudes of the moonshades, Soul-hungering in the moonshade solitudes sit I-- My heart-lifts beaten down in the wild wind-path. Oppressed, and scourged and beaten down are my heart-lifts. I fix my gaze on the eye-star, and the eye-star flings its dart upon me. I wonder why my soul is lost in wonder why I am, And why the eye-star mocks me, Why the wild wind beats down my heart-lifts; Why I am stricken here in the moonshade solitudes. Oh! why am I what I am, And why am I anything? Am I not as wild as the wind and more crazy? Why do I sit in the moonshade, while the eye-star mocks me while I ask what I am? Why? Why? _Anonymous_. LINES BY A MEDIUM I might not, if I could; I should not, if I might; Yet if I should I would, And, shoulding, I should quite! I must not, yet I may; I can, and still I must; But ah! I cannot--nay, To must I may not, just! I shall, although I will, But be it understood, If I may, can, shall--still I might, could, would, or should! _Anonymous_. TRANSCENDENTALISM It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic schools, There are rules, By observing which, when mundane labor irks One can simulate quiescence By a timely evanescence From his Active Mortal Essence, (Or his Works.) The particular procedure leaves research In the lurch, But, apparently, this matter-moulded form Is a kind of outer plaster, Which a well-instructed Master Can remove without disaster When he's warm. And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime At its prime 'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit, So expansively elastic, And so plausibly fantastic, That one gets enthusiastic For a bit. _From the Times of India_. INDIFFERENCE In loopy links the canker crawls, Tads twiddle in their 'polian glee, Yet sinks my heart as water falls. The loon that laughs, the babe that bawls, The wedding wear, the funeral palls, Are neither here nor there to me. Of life the mingled wine and brine I sit and sip pipslipsily. _Anonymous_. HEART-FOAM Oh! to be wafted away From this black Aceldama of sorrow, Where the dust of an earthy to-day Makes the earth of a dusty to-morrow. _W.S. Gilbert_. COSSIMBAZAR Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar, For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar. "Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh, And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry. _Pestonjee Bomanjee_! Smite the guitar; Join in the chorus, my hookabadar. Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon, Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon. Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round. _Famsetjee, Feejeebhoy_! Sweep the guitar. Join in the chorus, my hookabadar. Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed? Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee? Not that it matters an atom to me. _Cursetjee Bomanjee_! Twang the guitar Join in the chorus, my hookabadar. _Henry S. Leigh_. _THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL_ Affection's charm no longer gilds The idol of the shrine; But cold Oblivion seeks to fill Regret's ambrosial wine. Though Friendship's offering buried lies 'Neath cold Aversion's snow, Regard and Faith will ever bloom Perpetually below. I see thee whirl in marble halls, In Pleasure's giddy train, Remorse is never on that brow, Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. Deceit has marked thee for her own; Inconstancy the same; And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam Athwart thy path of shame. _Bret Harte_. A CLASSIC ODE Oh, limpid stream of Tyrus, now I hear The pulsing wings of Armageddon's host, Clear as a colcothar and yet more clear-- (Twin orbs, like those of which the Parsees boast;) Down in thy pebbled deeps in early spring The dimpled naiads sport, as in the time When Ocidelus with untiring wing Drave teams of prancing tigers, 'mid the chime Of all the bells of Phicol. Scarcely one Peristome veils its beauties now, but then-- Like nascent diamonds, sparkling in the sun, Or sainfoin, circinate, or moss in marshy fen. Loud as the blasts of Tubal, loud and strong, Sweet as the songs of Sappho, aye more sweet; Long as the spear of Arnon, twice as long, What time he hurled it at King Pharaoh's feet. _Charles Battell Loomis_. WHERE AVALANCHES WAIL Where avalanches wail, and green Distress Sweeps o'er the pallid beak of loveliness: Where melancholy Sulphur holds her sway: And cliffs of conscience tremble and obey; And where Tartarean rattle snakes expire; Twisting like tendrils of a hero's pyre? No! dancing in the meteor's hall of power, See, Genius ponders o'er Affection's tower! A form of thund'ring import soars on high, Hark! 'tis the gore of infant melody: No more shall verdant Innocence amuse The lips that death-fraught Indignation glues;-- Tempests shall teach the trackless tide of thought. That undiminish'd senselessness is naught; Freedom shall glare; and oh! ye links divine, The Poet's heart shall quiver in the brine. _Anonymous_ BLUE MOONSHINE Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit-burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe. Aye! forever and forever, Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep, Whilst the jasper winds dissever Amber-like the crystal deep, Shall the soul's delirious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Teach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss. _Francis G. Stokes_. NONSENSE Good reader, if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids with their tresses green Dancing upon the western billow; If you have seen at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore, The fairy train their ringlets weave Glancing along the spangled green;-- If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me! what a deal you've seen! _Thomas Moore_. SUPERIOR NONSENSE VERSES He comes with herald clouds of dust; Ecstatic frenzies rend his breast; A moment, and he graced the earth-- Now, seek him at the eagle's nest. Hark! see'st thou not the torrent's flash Far shooting o'er the mountain height? Hear'st not the billow's solemn roar, That echoes through the vaults of night? Anon the murky cloud is riven, The lightnings leap in sportive play, And through the clanging doors of heaven, In calm effulgence bursts the day. Hope, peering from her fleecy car, Smiles welcome to the coming spring, And birds with blithesome songs of praise Make every grove and valley ring. What though on pinions of the blast The sea-gulls sweep with leaden flight? What though the watery caverns deep Gleam ghostly on the wandering sight? Is there no music in the trees To charm thee with its frolic mirth? Must Care's wan phantom still beguile And chain thee to the stubborn earth? Lo! Fancy from her magic realm Pours Boreal gleams adown the pole. The tidal currents lift and swell-- Dead currents of the ocean's soul. Yet never may their mystic streams Breathe whispers of the mournful past, Or Pallas wake her sounding lyre Mid Ether's columned temples vast. Grave History walks again the earth As erst it did in days of eld, When seated on the golden throne Her hand a jewelled sceptre held. The Delphian oracle is dumb, Dread Cumae wafts no words of fate, To fright the eager souls that press Through sullen Lethe's iron gate. But deeper shadows gather o'er The vales that sever night and morn; And darkness folds with brooding wing The rustling fields of waving corn. Then issuing from his bosky lair The crafty tiger crouches low, Or thunders from the frozen north The white bear lapped in Arctic snow. Thus shift the scenes till high aloft The young moon sets her crescent horn, And in gray evening's emerald sea The beauteous Star of Love is born. _Anonymous_. WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily's bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames? I mark thee in the Marble all, Where England's loveliest shine-- I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems-- And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames? Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures-- There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope--but ar! Dost thou remember Jeames? _W.M. Thackeray_. LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions, Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping, Mourned Adonis, darling youth: Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, tune the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers; Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Armed in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains. Mournful Cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy, smooth Maeander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander With thy flowery chaplets crowned. Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, So the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate. _Alexander Pope_. FRANGIPANNI Untwine those ringlets! Ev'ry dainty clasp That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp That smiles to see men die. Oh, cobra-curlèd! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw Night's curtain o'er the landscape of thy hair! I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law That dooms me to despair. I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips, I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath! I droop! I sink into my soul's eclipse,-- I fall in love with death! And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes, Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze That smites to dusk the skies. Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee? Hast thou no garland for this aching head That soon so low must be? No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is _all_ forgot? Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein Thou callst thy tresses! _I_ shall stay thee not-- My struggles were but vain! But shall I see thee far beyond the sun, When the new dawn lights Empyrean scenes? What matters now? I know the poem's done, And wonder what the dickens it all means! _Anonymous_. LINES BY A FOND LOVER Lovely maid, with rapture swelling, Should these pages meet thine eye, Clouds of absence soft dispelling;-- Vacant memory heaves a sigh. As the rose, with fragrance weeping, Trembles to the tuneful wave, So my heart shall twine unsleeping, Till it canopies the grave. Though another's smile's requited, Envious fate my doom should be; Joy forever disunited, Think, ah! think, at times on me! Oft, amid the spicy gloaming, Where the brakes their songs instil, Fond affection silent roaming, Loves to linger by the rill-- There, when echo's voice consoling, Hears the nightingale complain, Gentle sighs my lips controlling, Bind my soul in beauty's chain. Oft in slumber's deep recesses, I thy mirror'd image see; Fancy mocks the vain caresses I would lavish like a bee! But how vain is glittering sadness! Hark, I hear distraction's knell! Torture gilds my heart with madness! Now forever fare thee well! _Anonymous_. FORCING A WAY How many strive to force a way Where none can go save those who pay, To verdant plains of soft delight The homage of the silent night, When countless stars from pole to pole Around the earth unceasing roll In roseate shadow's silvery hue, Shine forth and gild the morning dew. And must we really part for good, But meet again here where we've stood? No more delightful trysting-place, We've watched sweet Nature's smiling face. No more the landscape's lovely brow, Exchange our mutual breathing vow. Then should the twilight draw around No loving interchange of sound. Less for renown than innate love, These to my wish must recreant prove; Nor whilst an impulse here remain, Can ever hope the soul to gain; For memory scanning all the past, Relaxes her firm bonds at last, And gives to candor all the grace The heart can in its temple trace. _Anonymous_. THY HEART Thy heart is like some icy lake, On whose cold brink I stand; Oh, buckle on my spirit's skate, And lead, thou living saint, the way To where the ice is thin-- That it may break beneath my feet And let a lover in! _Anonymous_. A LOVE-SONG BY A LUNATIC There's not a spider in the sky, There's not a glowworm in the sea, There's not a crab that soars on high, But bids me dream, dear maid, of thee! When watery Phoebus ploughs the main, When fiery Luna gilds the lea, As flies run up the window-pane, So fly my thoughts, dear love, to thee! _Anonymous_. THE PARTERRE I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, And sniff one up the perfume sweet Of every roses buttoning there. It only want my charming miss Who make to blush the self red rose; Oh! I have envy of to kiss The end's tip of her splendid nose. Oh! I have envy of to be What grass 'neath her pantoffle push, And too much happy seemeth me The margaret which her vestige crush. But I will meet her nose at nose, And take occasion for her hairs, And indicate her all my woes, That she in fine agree my prayers. THE ENVOY I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses buttoning there. _E.H. Palmer_ TO MOLLIDUSTA When gooseberries grow on the stem of a daisy, And plum-puddings roll on the tide to the shore, And julep is made from the curls of a jazey, Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more. When steamboats no more on the Thames shall be going, And a cast-iron bridge reach Vauxhall from the Nore, And the Grand Junction waterworks cease to be flowing, Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more. _Planché_. JOHN JONES _At the Piano_ I Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May? Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts, decay; Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false--cards packed for storm's play! II Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed-- Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed-- Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,-- bloom frost bequeathed? III Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's cracked grate's screech? Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on shame's beach Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a toothful in each. IV Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which drops them and grins-- Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled their fins-- Hues of the pawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for our sins! V Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt--flies caught in time's mesh! Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood and stews flesh; Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them afresh. Old times left perish, new time to cherish; life just shifts its tune; As, when the day dies, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon; Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon! _A.C. Swinburne_. _THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT_ The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. _Edward Lear_. A BALLADE OF THE NURSERIE She hid herself in the _soirée_ kettle Out of her Ma's way, wise, wee maid! Wan was her lip as the lily's petal, Sad was the smile that over it played. Why doth she warble not? Is she afraid Of the hound that howls, or the moaning mole? Can it be on an errand she hath delayed? Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul! The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle In the gloom o' the gloaming athwart the glade: The zephyr sighs soft on Popòcatapètl, And Auster is taking it cool in the shade: Sing, hey, for a _gutta serenade_! Not mine to stir up a storied pole, No noses snip with a bluggy blade-- Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul! Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal? With Everton toffee thee persuade? That thou in a kettle thyself shouldst settle, When grandly and gaudily all arrayed! Thy flounces 'ill foul and fangles fade. Come out, and Algernon Charles 'ill roll Thee safe and snug in Plutonian plaid-- Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul! ENVOI When nap is none and raiment frayed, And winter crowns the puddered poll, A kettle sings ane soote ballade-- Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul. _John Twig_. _A BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR_ Ah Night! blind germ of days to be, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) What wail of smitten strings hear we? (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!) Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee_!) What profits it to rise i' the dark? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) If love but over-soar its mark (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!) What boots to fall again forlorn? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn, (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee_!) Art thou not greater who art less? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Low love fulfilled of low success? (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee_!) _Anonymous_. THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG Out on the margin of moonshine land, Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Out where the whing-whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail on the sand, And wiping it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Or what _is_ the sound the whing-whang seeks, Crouching low by the winding creeks, And holding his breath for weeks and weeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things! Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, 'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings, And bridal jewels of fangs and stings, _James W. Riley_ OH! WEARY MOTHER The lilies lie in my lady's bower, (Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;) They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady's head droops like a flower. She took the porcelain in her hand, (Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;) She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now--you understand! (Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost.) _Barry Pain_. SWISS AIR I'm a gay tra, la, la, With my fal, lal, la, la, And my bright-- And my light-- Tra, la, le. [_Repeat_.] Then laugh, ha, ha, ha, And ring, ting, ling, ling, And sing, fal, la, la, La, la, le. [_Repeat_.] _Bret Harte_. _THE BULBUL_ The bulbul hummeth like a book Upon the pooh-pooh tree, And now and then he takes a look At you and me, At me and you. Kuchi! Kuchoo! _Owen Seaman_. _BALLAD_ _With an Ancient Refrain_ O stoodent A has gone and spent, With a hey-lililu and a how-low-lan All his money to a Cent, And the birk and the broom blooms bonny. His Creditors he could not pay, With a hey-lililu and a how-low-lan, And Prison proved a shock to A, And the birk and the broom blooms bonny. _Anonymous_. OH, MY GERALDINE Oh, my Geraldine, No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um. You are my lum ti toodle lay, Pretty, pretty queen, Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen, More sweet than tiddle lum in May. Like the star so bright That somethings all the night, My Geraldine! You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen, Hark! there is what--ho! From something--um, you know, Dear, what I mean. Oh! rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine. _F.C. Burnand_. BUZ, QUOTH THE BLUE FLY Buz, quoth the blue fly, Hum, quoth the bee, Buz and hum they cry, And so do we: In his ear, in his nose, thus, do you see? He ate the dormouse, else it was he. _Ben Jonson in "The Masque of Oberon_." A SONG ON KING WILLIAM III As I walked by myself, And talked to myself, Myself said unto me, Look to thyself, Take care of thyself, For nobody cares for thee. I answered myself, And said to myself, In the self-same repartee, Look to thyself, Or not look to thyself, The selfsame thing will be. _Anonymous_. THERE WAS A MONKEY There was a monkey climbed up a tree, When he fell down, then down fell he. There was a crow sat on a stone, When he was gone, then there was none. There was an old wife did eat an apple, When she had eat two, she had eat a couple. There was a horse going to the mill, When he went on, he stood not still. There was a butcher cut his thumb, When it did bleed, then blood did come. There was a lackey ran a race, When he ran fast, he ran apace. There was a cobbler clouting shoon, When they were mended, they were done. There was a chandler making candle, When he them strip, he did them handle. There was a navy went into Spain, When it returned, it came again. _Anonymous, 1626_. THE GUINEA PIG There was a little Guinea-pig, Who, being little, was not big; He always walked upon his feet, And never fasted when he eat. When from a place he ran away, He never at that place did stay; And while he ran, as I am told, He ne'er stood still for young or old. He often squeaked, and sometimes vi'lent, And when he squeaked he ne'er was silent: Though ne'er instructed by a cat, He knew a mouse was not a rat. One day, as I am certified, He took a whim, and fairly died; And as I'm told by men of sense, He never has been living since! _Anonymous_. THREE CHILDREN Three children sliding on the ice Upon a summer's day, As it fell out they all fell in, The rest they ran away. Now, had these children been at home, Or sliding on dry ground, Ten thousand pounds to one penny They had not all been drowned. You parents all that children have, And you too that have none, If you would have them safe abroad Pray keep them safe at home. _London, 1662_ _IF_ If all the land were apple-pie, And all the sea were ink; And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we do for drink? _Anonymous_. _A RIDDLE_ The man in the wilderness asked of me How many strawberries grew in the sea. I answered him as I thought good, As many as red herrings grow in the wood. _Anonymous_. _THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN_ There were three jovial huntsmen, As I have heard them say, And they would go a-hunting All on a summer's day. All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind. One said it was a ship, The other said Nay; The third said it was a house With the chimney blown away. And all the night they hunted, And nothing could they find; But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind. One said it was the moon, The other said Nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o't cut away. _Anonymous_. THREE ACRES OF LAND My father left me three acres of land, Sing ivy, sing ivy; My father left me three acres of land, Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy! I ploughed it with a ram's horn, Sing ivy, sing ivy; And sowed it all over with one peppercorn. Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy! I harrowed it with a bramble bush, Sing ivy, sing ivy; And reaped it with my little penknife, Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy! I got the mice to carry it to the barn, Sing ivy, sing ivy; And thrashed it with a goose's quill, Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy! I got the cat to carry it to the mill, Sing ivy, sing ivy; The miller he swore he would have her paw, And the cat she swore she would scratch his face, Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy! _Anonymous_. MASTER AND MAN Master I have, and I am his man, Gallop a dreary dun; Master I have, and I am his man, And I'll get a wife as fast as I can; With a heighly gaily gamberally, Higgledy piggledy, niggledy, niggledy, Gallop a dreary dun. _Anonymous_. HYDER IDDLE Hyder iddle diddle dell, A yard of pudding is not an ell; Not forgetting tweedle-dye, A tailor's goose will never fly. _Anonymous_. KING ARTHUR When good King Arthur ruled the land, He was a goodly king: He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag-pudding. A bag-pudding the king did make, And stuffed it well with plums; And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs. The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried. _Anonymous_. IN THE DUMPS We're all in the dumps, For diamonds are trumps; The kittens are gone to St. Paul's! The babies are bit, The moon's in a fit, And the houses are built without walls. _Anonymous_. TWEEDLE-DUM AND TWEEDLE-DEE Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee Resolved to have a battle, For Tweedle-dum said Tweedle-dee Had spoiled his nice new rattle. Just then flew by a monstrous crow, As big as a tar-barrel, Which frightened both the heroes so They quite forgot their quarrel. _Anonymous_. MARTIN TO HIS MAN Martin said to his man, Fie! man, fie! Oh, Martin said to his man, Who's the fool now? Martin said to his man, Fill thou the cup, and I the can; Thou hast well drunken, man: Who's the fool now? I see a sheep shearing corn, Fie! man, fie! I see a sheep shearing corn, Who's the fool now? I see a sheep shearing corn, And a cuckoo blow his horn; Thou hast well drunken, man: Who's the fool now? I see a man in the moon, Fie! man, fie! I see a man in the moon, Who's the fool now? I see a man in the moon, Clouting of St. Peter's shoon, Thou hast well drunken, man: Who's the fool now? I see a hare chase a hound, Fie! man, fie! I see a hare chase a hound, Who's the fool now? I see a hare chase a hound, Twenty mile above the ground; Thou hast well drunken, man: Who's the fool now? I see a goose ring a hog, Fie! man, fie! I see a goose ring a hog, Who's the fool now? I see a goose ring a hog, And a snail that bit a dog; Thou hast well drunken, man: Who's the fool now? I see a mouse catch the cat, Fie! man, fie! I see a mouse catch the cat, Who's the fool now? I see a mouse catch the cat, And the cheese to eat the rat; Thou hast well drunken, man: Who's the fool now? From _Deuteromelia printed in the reign of James I_. _THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO_ I On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle,-- These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. II Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,-- "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. III "Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, "I am tired of living singly,-- On this coast so wild and shingly,-- I'm a-weary of my life; If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. IV "On this Coast of Coromandel Shrimps and watercresses grow, Prawns are plentiful and cheap," Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "You shall have my chairs and candle, And my jug without a handle! Gaze upon the rolling deep (Fish is plentiful and cheap): As the sea, my love is deep!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- "Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! I would be your wife most gladly!" (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) "But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!" VI Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,-- Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.) Dorking fowls delights to send, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle, And your jug without a handle,-- I can merely be your friend! Should my Jones more Dorkings send, I will give you three, my friend! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! VII "Though you've such a tiny body, And your head so large doth grow,-- Though your hat may blow away, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy, Yet I wish that I could modi- fy the words I needs must say! Will you please to go away? That is all I have to say, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!" VIII Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle. "You're the Cove," he said, "for me: On your back beyond the sea, Turtle, you shall carry me!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. IX Through the silent roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. With a sad primaeval motion Toward the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well, Holding fast upon his shell. "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!" Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. X From the Coast of Coromandel Did that Lady never go, On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On the little heap of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. _Edward Lear_. _THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES_ The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all," He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!" And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink Lavender water tinged with pink; For she said, "The World in general knows There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!" The Pobble who has no toes Swam across the Bristol Channel; But before he set out he wrapped his nose In a piece of scarlet flannel. For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm Can come to his toes if his nose is warm; And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes Are safe--provided he minds his nose." The Pobble swam fast and well, And when boats or ships came near him, He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell So that all the world could hear him. And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, When they saw him nearing the farther side, "He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!" But before he touched the shore-- The shore of the Bristol Channel, A sea-green Porpoise carried away His wrapper of scarlet flannel. And when he came to observe his feet, Formerly garnished with toes so neat, His face at once became forlorn On perceiving that all his toes were gone! And nobody ever knew, From that dark day to the present, Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes, In a manner so far from pleasant. Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, Or crafty mermaids stole them away, Nobody knew; and nobody knows How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes! The Pobble who has no toes Was placed in a friendly Bark, And they rowed him back and carried him up To his Aunt Jobiska's Park. And she made him a feast at his earnest wish, Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes." _Edward Lear_. THE JUMBLIES I They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to sea. And when the sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig: In a sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. II They sailed away in a sieve, they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. And every one said who saw them go, "Oh! won't they soon be upset, you know? For the sky is dark and the voyage is long, And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. III The water it soon came in, it did; The water it soon came in: So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat; And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar; And each of them said, "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our sieve we spin." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. IV And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballoo! How happy we are When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! And all night long, in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail In the shade of the mountains brown." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. V They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,-- To a land all covered with trees; And they bought an owl and a useful cart, And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, And a hive of silvery bees; And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, And no end of Stilton cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. VI And in twenty years they all came back,-- In twenty years or more; And every one said, "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore." And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, "If we only live, We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, To the hills of the Chankly Bore." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. _Edward Lear_. INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF MY UNCLE ARLY I Oh! my aged Uncle Arly, Sitting on a heap of barley Through the silent hours of night, Close beside a leafy thicket; On his nose there was a cricket, In his hat a Railway-Ticket, (But his shoes were far too tight.) II Long ago, in youth, he squander'd All his goods away, and wander'd To the Timskoop-hills afar. There on golden sunsets glazing Every evening found him gazing, Singing, "Orb! you're quite amazing! How I wonder what you are!" III Like the ancient Medes and Persians, Always by his own exertions He subsisted on those hills; Whiles, by teaching children spelling, Or at times by merely yelling, Or at intervals by selling "Propter's Nicodemus Pills." IV Later, in his morning rambles, He perceived the moving brambles Something square and white disclose:-- 'Twas a First-class Railway-Ticket; But on stooping down to pick it Off the ground, a pea-green cricket Settled on my uncle's nose. V Never, nevermore, oh! never Did that cricket leave him ever,-- Dawn or evening, day or night; Clinging as a constant treasure, Chirping with a cheerious measure, Wholly to my uncle's pleasure, (Though his shoes were far too tight.) VI So for three and forty winters, Till his shoes were worn to splinters All those hills he wander'd o'er,-- Sometimes silent, sometimes yelling; Till he came to Borley-Melling, Near his old ancestral dwelling, (But his shoes were far too tight.) VII On a little heap of barley Died my aged Uncle Arly, And they buried him one night Close beside the leafy thicket; There, his hat and Railway-Ticket; There, his ever faithful cricket; (But his shoes were far too tight.) _Edward Lear_. LINES TO A YOUNG LADY How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough. His mind is concrete and fastidious, His nose is remarkably big; His visage is more or less hideous, His beard it resembles a wig. He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, Leastways if you reckon two thumbs; Long ago he was one of the singers, But now he is one of the dumbs. He sits in a beautiful parlour, With hundreds of books on the wall; He drinks a great deal of Marsala, But never gets tipsy at all. He has many friends, laymen and clerical, Old Foss is the name of his cat: His body is perfectly spherical, He weareth a runcible hat. When he walks in a waterproof white, The children run after him so! Calling out, "He's come out in his night- Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!" He weeps by the side of the ocean, He weeps on the top of the hill; He purchases pancakes and lotion, And chocolate shrimps from the mill. He reads but he cannot speak Spanish, He cannot abide ginger-beer: Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, How pleasant to know Mr. Lear. _Edward Lear_. WAYS AND MEANS I'll tell thee everything I can; There's little to relate. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. "Who are you, aged man?" I said, "And how is it you live?" His answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve. He said, "I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men," he said, "Who sail on stormy seas; And that's the way I get my bread-- A trifle, if you please." But I was thinking of a plan To dye one's whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!" And thumped him on the head. His accents mild took up the tale; He said, "I go my ways And when I find a mountain-rill I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland's Macassar Oil-- Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil." But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue; "Come, tell me how you live," I cried, "And what it is you do!" He said, "I hunt for haddock's eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny And that will purchase nine." "I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of Hansom cabs. And that's the way" (he gave a wink) "By which I get my wealth-- And very gladly will I drink Your Honor's noble health." I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai Bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health. And now if e'er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know-- Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly, and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo-- That summer evening, long ago, A-sitting on a gate. _Lewis Carroll_ THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!" The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. "O Oysters come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But not a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter, They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you 're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said, "Do you admire the view?" "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said; "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. _Lewis Carroll_. THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks, (Four weeks to the month you may mark), But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks) Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark! "We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days, (Seven days to the week I allow), But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze, We have never beheld until now!" "Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again The five unmistakable marks By which you may know, wheresoever you go, The warranted genuine Snarks." "Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp: Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp." "Its habit of getting up late you'll agree That it carries too far, when I say That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea, And dines on the following day." "The third is its slowness in taking a jest. Should you happen to venture on one, It will sigh like a thing that is greatly distressed; And it always looks grave at a pun." "The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines, Which it constantly carries about, And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes-- A sentiment open to doubt." "The fifth is ambition. It next will be right To describe each particular batch; Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite, From those that have whiskers, and scratch." "For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm, Yet I feel it my duty to say Some are Boojums--" The Bellman broke off in alarm, For the Baker had fainted away. They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice-- They roused him with mustard and cress-- They roused him with jam and judicious advice-- They set him conundrums to guess. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried, "Silence! Not even a shriek!" And excitedly tingled his bell. "My father and mother were honest, though poor--" "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste, "If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark, We have hardly a minute to waste!" "I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, "And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark." "You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap--" "I said it in Hebrew--I said it in Dutch-- I said it in German and Greek; But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much) That English is what you speak!" "The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think The thing must be done, I am sure. The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, The best there is time to procure." So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, As he wrote with a pen in each hand, And explained all the while in a popular style Which the Beaver could well understand. "Taking Three as the subject to reason about-- A convenient number to state-- We add Seven and Ten and then multiply out By One Thousand diminished by Eight." "The result we proceed to divide, as you see, By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two; Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be Exactly and perfectly true." "As to temper, the Jubjub's a desperate bird, Since it lives in perpetual passion: Its taste in costume is entirely absurd-- It is ages ahead of the fashion." "Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far Than mutton or oysters or eggs: (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, And some, in mahogany kegs.)" "You boil it in sawdust; you salt it in glue: You condense it with locusts and tape; Still keeping one principal object in view-- To preserve its symmetrical shape." The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, But he felt that the Lesson must end, And he wept with delight in attempting to say He considered the Beaver his friend. _Lewis Carroll_. _SYLVIE AND BRUNO_ He thought he saw a Banker's clerk Descending from the 'bus; He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus. "If this should stay to dine," he said, "There won't be much for us!" He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage-Stamp. "You'd best be getting home," he said; "The nights are very damp!" He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. "Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!" He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. "Were I to swallow this," he said, "I should be very ill!" He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. "The one thing I regret," he said, "Is that it cannot speak!" _Lewis Carroll_. GENTLE ALICE BROWN It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown. Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing. As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!" And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode.) But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. "Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not? To discover that I was a most disreputable lot! Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?" "I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!" The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear-- And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear-- It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece." "Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six." "Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But O there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!" "A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!" "For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!" "This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours!" "The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?" The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who now was for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. Good Robber Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits." "I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two, Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small." He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed. And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. _W.S. Gilbert_. THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB Strike the concertina's melancholy string! Blow the spirit-stirring harp like any thing! Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing! Of Agib, who amid Tartaric scenes, Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens: His gentle spirit rolls In the melody of souls-- Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means Of Agib, who could readily, at sight, Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite: He would diligently play On the Zoetrope all day, And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night. One winter--I am shaky in my dates-- Came two starving minstrels to his gates, Oh, Allah be obeyed, How infernally they played! I remember that they called themselves the "Oiiaits." Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page! Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in! Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scents, and tin. And when (as snobs would say) They "put it all away," He requested them to tune up and begin. Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before, The consequences true Of that awful interview, _For I listened at the key-hole in the door_! They played him a sonata--let me see! "_Medulla oblongata_"--key of G. Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, "Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp." He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent, from a most ingenious little fount, More beer, in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount. Now follows the dim horror of my tale, And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For, even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail! The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All-overish it made me for to feel! "Oh Prince," he says, says he, "_If a Prince indeed you be_, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!" "Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you, saith: No 'Oiiaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be, For (ter-remble) I am Aleck--this is Beth!" Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that you are men of evil mind!" Beth gave a dreadful shriek-- But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind. In number ten or twelve or even more, They fastened me, full length upon the floor. On my face extended flat I was walloped with a cat For listening at the key-hole of the door. Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill! (I can feel the place in frosty weather still). For a week from ten to four I was fastened to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will! They branded me, and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal; And, upon my solemn word, I have never never heard What those Tartars had determined to reveal. But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page! _W.S. Gilbert_. FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA, OR THE GENTLE PIEMAN * * * * * "Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly-- For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly-- "Tell me whither I may his me, tell me, dear one, that I may know-- Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?" But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes, Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes." Seven weary years I wandered--Patagonia, China, Norway, Till at last I sank exhausted, at a pastrycook his doorway. And he chirped and sang and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty, He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party. And I said, "Oh, gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?" * * * * * "Then I polish all the silver which a supper-table lacquers; Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers." "Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!" Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me. And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him, And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!" _W.S. Gilbert_. GENERAL JOHN The bravest names for fire and flames, And all that mortal durst, Were General John and Private James, Of the Sixty-seventy-first. General John was a soldier tried, A chief of warlike dons; A haughty stride and a withering pride Were Major-General John. A sneer would play on his martial phiz, Superior birth to show; "Pish!" was a favorite word of his, And he often said "Ho! Ho!" Full-Private James described might be, As a man of mournful mind; No characteristic trait had he Of any distinctive kind. From the ranks, one day, cried Private James, "Oh! Major-General John, I've doubts of our respective names, My mournful mind upon." "A glimmering thought occurs to me, (Its source I can't unearth), But I've a kind of notion we Were cruelly changed at birth." "I've a strange idea, each other's names That we have each got on. Such things have been," said Private James. "They have!" sneered General John. "My General John, I swear upon My oath I think it is so--" "Pish!" proudly sneered his General John, And he also said "Ho! ho!" "My General John! my General John! My General John!" quoth he, "This aristocratical sneer upon Your face I blush to see." "No truly great or generous cove Deserving of them names Would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove In the mind of a Private James!" Said General John, "Upon your claims No need your breath to waste; If this is a joke, Full-Private James, It's a joke of doubtful taste." "But being a man of doubtless worth, If you feel certain quite That we were probably changed at birth, I'll venture to say you're right." So General John as Private James Fell in, parade upon; And Private James, by change of names, Was Major-General John. _W.S. Gilbert_ LITTLE BILLEE There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits, And pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, They'd nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we." Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he." "O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie, "First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mother taught to me." "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee. Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps--"There's land I see!" "Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee, There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill, he made him The captain of a Seventy-three. _W. M. Thackeray_. _THE WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE_" On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante" Got scar't an' run below-- For de win' she blow lak hurricane; Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre Wan arpent from de shore. De captinne walk on de fronte deck, An' walk de him' deck too-- He call de crew from up de hole, He call de cook also. De cook she's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge, On de Grande Lachine Canal. De win' she blow from nor'-eas'-wes',-- De sout' win' she blow too, Wen Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne, Mon cher, w'at I shall do?" Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre, But still de scow she dreef, De crew he can't pass on de shore, Becos he los' hees skeef. De night was dark lak wan black cat, De wave run high an' fas', Wen de captinne tak' de Rosie girl An' tie her to de mas'. Den he also tak' de life preserve, An' jomp off on de lak', An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie dear, I go down for your sak'." Nex' morning very early 'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four-- De captinne--scow--an' de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore. For de win' she blow lak' hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow, bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore. MORAL Now all good wood scow sailor man Tak' warning by dat storm An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' live on wan beeg farm. De win' can blow lak' hurricane An' s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre So long you stay on shore. _William H. Drummond_. THE SHIPWRECK Upon the poop the captain stands, As starboard as may be; And pipes on deck the topsail hands To reef the topsail-gallant strands Across the briny sea. "Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!" The captain loudly cried; "Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay! For we must luff for Falmouth Bay Before to-morrow's tide." The good ship was a racing yawl, A spare-rigged schooner sloop, Athwart the bows the taffrails all In grummets gay appeared to fall, To deck the mainsail poop. But ere they made the Foreland Light, And Deal was left behind, The wind it blew great gales that night, And blew the doughty captain tight, Full three sheets in the wind. And right across the tiller head The horse it ran apace, Whereon a traveller hitched and sped Along the jib and vanished To heave the trysail brace. What ship could live in such a sea? What vessel bear the shock? "Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee! Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree, With many a running block!" And right upon the Scilly Isles The ship had run aground; When lo! the stalwart Captain Giles Mounts up upon the gaff and smiles, And slews the compass round. "Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry, And scandalize the skiff; As taut and hoisted high and dry They see the ship unstoppered lie Upon the sea-girt cliff. And since that day in Falmouth Bay, As herring-fishers trawl, The younkers hear the boatswains say How Captain Giles that awful day Preserved the sinking yawl. _E.H. Palmer_. _A SAILOR'S YARN_ _As narrated by the second mate to one of the marines_. This is the tale that was told to me, By a battered and shattered son of the sea: To me and my messmate, Silas Green, When I was a guileless young marine. "'T was the good ship 'Gyacutus,' All in the China seas; With the wind a lee, and the capstan free, To catch the summer breeze." "'T was Captain Porgie on the deck To the mate in the mizzen hatch, While the boatswain bold, in the for'ard hold, Was winding his larboard watch." "'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night? How heads our gallant craft?' 'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N. And the binnacle lies abaft.'" "'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate? And how does the sextant stand?' 'Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point And the quadrant's lost a hand.'" "'Oh, if the quadrant's lost a hand, And the sextant falls so low, It's our body and bones to Davy Jones This night are bound to go." "'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard-strake, And reef the spanker boom, Bend a stubbing sail on the martingale To give her weather room." "'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold What water do you find?' 'Four foot and a half by the royal gaff And rather more behind.'" "'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes And each belaying pin; Come, stir your stumps to spike the pumps, Or more will be coming in.'" "'They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps They spliced the mizzen brace; Aloft and alow they worked, but, oh! The water gained apace." "They bored a hole below her line To let the water out, But more and more with awful roar The water in did spout." "Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship-- And he was a lubber brave-- 'I've several wives in various ports, And my life I'd like to save.'" "Then up spoke the captain of marines, Who dearly loved his prog: 'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry, And I move we pipes to grog.'" "Oh, then 'twas the gallant second-mate As stopped them sailors' jaw, 'Twas the second-mate whose hand had weight In laying down the law." "He took the anchor on his back, And leapt into the main; Through foam and spray he clove his way, And sunk, and rose again." "Through foam and spray a league away The anchor stout he bore, Till, safe at last, I made it fast, And warped the ship ashore." This is the tale that was told to me, By that modest and truthful son of the sea. And I envy the life of a second mate, Though captains curse him and sailors hate; For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen, As would go and lie to a poor marine. _J.J. Rache_. THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the "Walloping Window-blind"-- No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain's mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he'd been in his bunk below. The boatswain's mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain's boots, In the teeth of the booming gale. The captain sat in a commodore's hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such: For the food that he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Chopped up with sugar and glue. And we all felt ill as mariners will, On a diet that's cheap and rude; And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook In a tub of his gluesome food. Then nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Anagazanders roar. Composed of sand was that favored land, And trimmed with cinnamon straws; And pink and blue was the pleasing hue Of the Tickletoeteaser's claws. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea. On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubagub tree. _Charles E. Carryl_. THE ROLLICKING MASTODON A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree. His face was plain, but his jocular vein Was a burst of the wildest glee. His voice was strong and his laugh so long That people came many a mile, And offered to pay a guinea a day For the fractional part of a smile. The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide-- Indeed, 't was a matter of family pride; And oh! so proud of his jocular vein Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, "I feel that I need some air, For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, As well as a gloss for the hair." So he skipped along and warbled a song In his own triumphulant way. His smile was bright and his skip was light As he chirruped his roundelay. The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, And sang what Mastodons call a song; But every note of it seemed to pain The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. A Little Peetookle came over the hill, Dressed up in a bollitant coat; And he said, "You need some harroway seed, And a little advice for your throat." The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, There's a chance for your taste to grow. If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find How little, how little you know." The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; For he felt it a sort of a musical stain On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. "Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?" Said the Little Peetookle. "Dear me! It certainly seems your horrible screams Intended for music must be!" The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped, And murmured, "Good morning, my dear! I never will sing to a sensitive thing That shatters a song with a sneer!" The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu." Of course 't was a sensible thing to do; For Little Peetookle is spared the strain Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. _Arthur Macy_. THE SILVER QUESTION The Sun appeared so smug and bright, One day, that I made bold To ask him what he did each night With all his surplus gold. He flushed uncomfortably red, And would not meet my eye. "I travel round the world," he said, "And travelling rates are high." With frigid glance I pierced him through. He squirmed and changed his tune. Said he: "I will be frank with you: I lend it to the Moon." "Poor thing! You know she's growing old And hasn't any folk. She suffers terribly from cold, And half the time she's broke." * * * * * That evening on the beach I lay Behind a lonely dune, And as she rose above the bay I buttonholed the Moon. "Tell me about that gold," said I. I saw her features fall. "You see, it's useless to deny; The Sun has told me all." "Sir!" she exclaimed, "how _can_ you try An honest Moon this way? As for the gold, I put it by Against a rainy day." I smiled and shook my head. "All right, If you _must_ know," said she, "I change it into silver bright Wherewith to tip the Sea." "He is so faithful and so good, A most deserving case; If he should leave, I fear it would Be hard to fill his place." * * * * * When asked if they accepted tips, The waves became so rough; I thought of those at sea in ships, And felt I'd said enough. For if one virtue I have learned, 'Tis _tact_; so I forbore To press the matter, though I burned To ask one question more. I hate a scene, and do not wish To be mixed up in gales, But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish Whence came their silver scales! _Oliver Herfora_. THE SINGULAR SANGFROID OF BABY BUNTING Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting Had only three passions in life, And one of the trio was hunting, The others his babe and his wife. And always, so rigid his habits, He frolicked at home until two, And then started hunting for rabbits, And hunted till fall of the dew. Belinda Bellonia Bunting, Thus widowed for half of the day, Her duty maternal confronting, With baby would patiently play. When thus was her energy wasted, A patented food she'd dispense. (She had bought it the day that they pasted The posters all over her fence.) But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, The infant thus blindly adored, Replied to her worship by grunting, Which showed he was brutally bored. 'Twas little he cared for the troubles Of life. Like a crab on the sands, From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles, And threatened the air with his hands. Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting One night, as his wife let him in, Produced as the fruit of his hunting A cottontail's velvety skin, Which, seeing young Bonaparte wriggle, He gave him without a demur, And the babe with an aqueous giggle He swallowed the whole of the fur! Belinda Bellonia Bunting Behaved like a consummate loon: Her offspring in frenzy confronting She screamed herself mottled maroon: She felt of his vertebrae spinal, Expecting he'd surely succumb, And gave him one vigorous, final, Hard prod in the pit of his tum. But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, At first but a trifle perplexed, By a change in his manner of grunting Soon showed he was horribly vexed. He displayed not a sign of repentance But spoke, in a dignified tone, The only consecutive sentence He uttered. 'Twas: "Lemme alone." The Moral: The parent that uses Precaution his folly regrets: An infant gets all that he chooses, An infant chews all that he gets. And colics? He constantly has 'em So long as his food is the best, But he'll swallow with never a spasm What ostriches couldn't digest. _Guy Wetmore Carryl_. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms: But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms! Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot!" The army surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "They're only pegs; But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs!" Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours When he'd devoured his pay! But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off! "O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat, Should be more uniform!" Said she, "I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave!" "Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then you know, you stand upon Another footing now!" "O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches!" "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!" "Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray; I know why you refuse: Though I've no feet--some other man Is standing in my shoes!" "I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But now a long farewell! For you will be my death--alas! You will not be my Nell!" Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got-- And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot! So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life Enlisted in the Line! One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And as his legs were off,--of course, He soon was off his legs! And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town,-- For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died-- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside! _Thomas Hood_. THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat. On the top of his head was a wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat. The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat; And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat. The gentleman then took his cane which lay by his side as he sat; And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat. His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat; So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig, and his hat. Cool reflection at last came across while this elderly gentleman sat; So he thought he would follow the stream and look for his cane, wig, and hat. His head being thicker than common, o'er-balanced the rest of his fat; And in plumped this son of a woman to follow his wig, cane, and hat. _George Canning_. MALUM OPUS Prope ripam fluvii solus A senex silently sat; Super capitum ecce his wig, Et wig super, ecce his hat. Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, Dum elderly gentleman sat; Et a capite took up quite torve Et in rivum projecit his hat. Tunc soft maledixit the old man, Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat Et cum scipio poked in the water, Conatus servare his hat. Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, The moment it saw him at that; Et whisked his novum scratch wig In flumen, along with his hat. Ab imo pectore damnavit In coeruleus eye dolor sat; Tunc despairingly threw in his cane Nare cum his wig and his hat. L'ENVOI Contra bonos mores, don't swear It 'est wicked you know (verbum sat), Si this tale habet no other moral Mehercle! You're gratus to that! _James Appleton Morgan_. _ÆSTIVATION_ In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes. How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine. To me also, no verdurous visions come Save you exiguous pool's confervascum,-- No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue. Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous chump,-- Depart,--be off,--excede,--evade,--erump! _O. W. Holmes_. A HOLIDAY TASK _Air--Jullien's Polka_ Qui nunc dancere vult modo Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debet--ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel et toe One, two three, Hop with me, Whirligig, twirligig, rapidè. Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, Will you join the Polka, Miss? Liberius--most willingly. Sic agimus--then let us try: Nunc vide Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celerè. Tum laevâ citò, tum dextrâ First to the left, and then t' other way; Aspice retrò in vultu, You look at her, and she looks at you. Das palmam, Change hands ma'am Celerè--run away, just in sham. _Gilbert Abbott à Becket_. PUER EX JERSEY Puer ex Jersey Iens ad school; Vidit in meadow, Infestum mule. Ille approaches O magnus sorrow! Puer it skyward. Funus ad morrow. MORAL Qui vidit a thing Non ei well-known, Est bene for him Relinqui id alone. _Anonymous_. THE LITTLE PEACH Une petite pêche dans un orchard fleurit, Attendez à mon narration triste! Une petite pêche verdante fleurit. Grâce à chaleur de soleil, et moisture de miste. Il fleurit, il fleurit, Attendez à mon narration triste! Signes dures pour les deux, Petit Jean et sa soeur Sue, Et la pêche d'une verdante hue, Qui fleurit, qui fleurit, Attendez a mon narration triste! _Anonymous_. _MONSIEUR McGINTÉ_ Monsieur McGinté allait en has jusqu'an fond du mer, Ils ne l'ont pas encore trouvé Je crois qu'il est certainement mouillé. Monsieur McGinté, je le repéte, allait jusqu'au fond du mer, Habillé dans sa meilleure costume. _Anonymous_. _YE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE_ _Picus Erythrocephalus_: O whither goest thou, pale studént Within the wood so fur? Art on the chokesome cherry bent? Dost seek the chestnut burr? _Pale Studént_: O it is not for the mellow chestnut That I so far am come, Nor yet for puckery cherries, but For Cypripediúm. A blossom hangs the choke-cherry And eke the chestnut burr, And thou a silly fowl must be, Thou red-head wood-peckére. _Picas Erythrocephalus_: Turn back, turn back, thou pale studént, Nor in the forest go; There lurks beneath his bosky tent The deadly mosquitó, And there the wooden-chuck doth tread, And from the oak-tree's top The red, red squirrels on thy head The frequent acorn drop. _Pale Studént_: The wooden-chuck is next of kin Unto the wood-peckére: I fear not thine ill-boding din, And why should I fear her? What though a score of acorns drop And squirrels' fur be red! 'Tis not so ruddy as thy top-- So scarlet as thy head. O rarely blooms the Cypripe- diúm upon its stalk; And like a torch it shines to me Adown the dark wood-walk. O joy to pluck it from the ground, To view the purple sac, To touch the sessile stigma's round-- And shall I then turn back? _Picus Erytbrocephalus_: O black and shining is the log That feeds the sumptuous weed, Nor stone is found nor bedded log Where foot may well proceed. Midmost it glimmers in the mire Like Jack o' Lanthorn's spark, Lighting, with phosphorescent fire, The green umbrageous dark. There while thy thirsty glances drink The fair and baneful plant, Thy shoon within the ooze shall sink And eke thine either pant. _Pale Studént_: Give o'er, give o'er, thou wood-peckóre; The bark upon the tree, Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore But peck and bore not me. Full two long hours I've searched about And 't would in sooth be rum, If I should now go back without The Cypripediúm. _Picus Erythrocephalus_: Farewell! Farewell! But this I tell To thee, thou pale studént, Ere dews have fell, thou'lt rue it well That woodward thou didst went: Then whilst thou blows the drooping nose And wip'st the pensive eye-- There where the sad _symplocarpus foetidus_ grows, Then think--O think of I! Loud flouted there that student wight Solche warnynge for to hear; "I scorn, old hen, thy threats of might, And eke thine ill grammére." "Go peck the lice (or green or red) That swarm the bass-wood tree, But wag no more thine addled head Nor clack thy tongue at me." The wood-peck turned to whet her beak, The student heard her drum, As through the wood he went to seek The Cypripediúm. Alas! and for that pale studént: The evening bell did ring, And down the walk the Freshmen went Unto the prayer-meetíng; Upon the fence loud rose the song, The weak, weak tea was o'er-- Ha! who is he that sneaks along Into South Middle's door? The mud was on his shoon, and O! The briar was in his thumb, His staff was in his hand but no-- No Cypripediúm. _Henry A. Beers_. _COLLUSION BETWEEN A ALEGAITER AND A WATER-SNAIK_ There is a niland on a river lying, Which runs into Gautimaly, a warm country, Lying near the Tropicks, covered with sand; Hear and their a symptum of a Wilow, Hanging of its umberagious limbs & branches Over the clear streme meandering far below. This was the home of the now silent Alegaiter, When not in his other element confine'd: Here he wood set upon his eggs asleep With 1 ey observant of flis and other passing Objects: a while it kept a going on so: Fereles of danger was the happy Alegaiter! But a las! in a nevil our he was fourced to Wake! that dreme of Blis was two sweet for him. 1 morning the sun arose with unusool splender Whitch allso did our Alegaiter, coming from the water, His scails a flinging of the rais of the son back, To the fountain-head which tha originly sprung from, But having not had nothing to eat for some time, he Was slepy and gap'd, in a short time, widely. Unfoalding soon a welth of perl-white teth, The rais of the son soon shet his sinister ey Because of their mutool splendor and warmth. The evil Our (which I sed) was now come; Evidently a good chans for a water-snaik Of the large specie, which soon appeared Into the horison, near the bank where reposed Calmly in slepe the Alegaiter before spoken of. About 60 feet was his Length (not the 'gaiter) And he was aperiently a well-proportioned snaik. When he was all ashore he glared upon The iland with approval, but was soon "Astonished with the view and lost to wonder" (from Wats) (For jest then he began to see the Alegaiter) Being a nateral enemy of his'n, he worked hisself Into a fury, also a ni position. Before the Alegaiter well could ope His eye (in other words perceive his danger) The Snaik had enveloped his body just 19 Times with "foalds voluminous and vast" (from Milton) And had tore off several scails in the confusion, Besides squeazing him awfully into his stomoc. Just then, by a fortinate turn in his affairs, He ceazed into his mouth the careless tale Of the unreflecting water-snaik! Grown desperate He, finding that his tale was fast squesed Terrible while they roaled all over the iland. It was a well-conduckted Affair; no noise Disturbed the harmony of the seen, ecsept Onct when a Willow was snaped into by the roaling. Eeach of the combatence hadn't a minit for holering. So the conflick was naterally tremenjous! But soon by grate force the tail was bit complete- Ly of; but the eggzeration was too much For his delicate Constitootion; he felt a compression Onto his chest and generally over his body; When he ecspressed his breathing, it was with Grate difficulty that he felt inspired again onct more. Of course this state must suffer a revolootion. So the alegaiter give but one yel, and egspired. The water-snaik realed hisself off, & survay'd For say 10 minits, the condition of His fo: then wondering what made his tail hurt, He slowly went off for to cool. _J. W. Morris_. _ODD TO A KROKIS_ Selestial apoley which Didest inspire. the souls of burns and pop with sackred fir. Kast thy Mantil over me When i shal sing, the praiz Of A sweat flower who grows in spring Which has of late kome under the Fokis. of My eyes. It is called a krokis. Sweat lovly prety littil sweat Thing, you bloometh before The lairicks on High sing, thy lefs are neithir Red Nor yelly. but Just betwixt the two you hardy felly. i fear youl yet be Nippit with the frost. As Maney a one has known to there kost. you should have not kome out in such a hurrey. As this is only the Month of Febrywurrey. and you may expick yet Much bad wethir. when all your blads will krunkil up like Burnt leather. alas. alas. theres Men which tries to rime, who have like you kome out befor there time. The Moril of My peese depend upon it. is good so here i End my odd or sonit. _Anonymous_. _SOME VERSES TO SNAIX_ Prodiggus reptile! long and skaly kuss! You are the dadrattedest biggest thing I ever Seed that cud ty itself into a double bo- Not, and cum all strate again in a Minnit or so, without winkin or seemin To experience any particular pane In the diafram. Stoopenjus inseck! marvelous annimile! You are no doubt seven thousand yeres Old, and hav a considerable of a Family sneekin round thru the tall Gras in Africa, a eetin up little greezy Niggers, and wishin they was biggir. I wonder how big yu was when yu Was a inphant about 2 fete long. I Expec yu was a purty good size, and Lived on phrogs, and lizzerds, and polly- Wogs and sutch things. You are havin' a nice time now, ennyhow-- Don't have nothing to do but lay oph. And etc kats and rabbits, and stic Out yure tung and twist yur tale. I wunder if yu ever swollered a man Without takin oph his butes. If there was Brass buttins on his kote, I spose Yu had ter swaller a lot of buttin- Wholes, and a shu--hamer to nock The soals oph of the boots and drive in The tax, so that they wouldn't kut yure Inside. I wunder if vittles taste Good all the way down. I expec so-- At leest, fur 6 or 7 fete. You are so mighty long, I shud thynk If your tale was kold, yure hed Woodent no it till the next day, But it's hard tu tell: snaix is snaix. _Anonymous_. _A GREAT MAN_ Ye muses, pour the pitying tear For Pollio snatch'd away: For had he liv'd another year! --He had not dy'd to-day. O, were he born to bless mankind, In virtuous times of yore, Heroes themselves had fallen behind! --Whene'er he went before. How sad the groves and plains appear, And sympathetic sheep: Even pitying hills would drop a tear! --If hills could learn to weep. His bounty in exalted strain Each bard might well display: Since none implor'd relief in vain! --That went reliev'd away. And hark! I hear the tuneful throng; His obsequies forbid. He still shall live, shall live as long --As ever dead man did. _Oliver Goldsmith_. _AN ELEGY_ _On the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize_ Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word-- From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor-- Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways-- Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew-- But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow'd her-- When she has walk'd before. But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead-- Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more-- She had not died to-day. _Oliver Goldsmith_. _PARSON GRAY_ A quiet home had Parson Gray, Secluded in a vale; His daughters all were feminine, And all his sons were male. How faithfully did Parson Gray The bread of life dispense-- Well "posted" in theology, And post and rail his fence. 'Gainst all the vices of the age He manfully did battle; His chickens were a biped breed, And quadruped his cattle. No clock more punctually went, He ne'er delayed a minute-- Nor ever empty was his purse, When he had money in it. His piety was ne'er denied; His truths hit saint and sinner; At morn he always breakfasted; He always dined at dinner. He ne'er by any luck was grieved, By any care perplexed-- No filcher he, though when he preached, He always "took" a text. As faithful characters he drew As mortal ever saw; But ah! poor parson! when he died, His breath he could not draw! _Oliver Goldsmith_. _AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG_ Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short,-- It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran,-- Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad,-- When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. The dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets, The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits To bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied; The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. _Oliver Goldsmith_. _THE WONDERFUL OLD MAN_ There was an old man Who lived on a common And, if fame speaks true, He was born of a woman. Perhaps you will laugh, But for truth I've been told He once was an infant Tho' age made him old. Whene'er he was hungry He longed for some meat; And if he could get it 'T was said he would eat. When thirsty he'd drink If you gave him a pot, And what he drank mostly Ran down his throat. He seldom or never Could see without light, And yet I've been told he Could hear in the night. He has oft been awake In the daytime, 't is said, And has fallen asleep As he lay in his bed. 'T is reported his tongue Always moved when he talk'd, And he stirred both his arms And his legs when he walk'd; And his gait was so odd Had you seen him you 'd burst, For one leg or t' other Would always be first. His face was the drollest That ever was seen, For if 't was not washed It seldom was clean; His teeth he expos'd when He happened to grin, And his mouth stood across 'Twixt his nose and his chin. When this whimsical chap Had a river to pass, If he couldn't get over He stayed where he was. 'T is said he ne'er ventured To quit the dry ground, Yet so great was his luck He never was drowned. At last he fell sick, As old chronicles tell, And then, as folks say, He was not very well. But what was as strange In so weak a condition, As he could not give fees He could get no physician. What wonder he died! Yet 't is said that his death Was occasioned at last By the loss of his breath. But peace to his bones Which in ashes now moulder. Had he lived a day longer He'd have been a day older. _Anonymous_ _A CHRONICLE_ Once--but no matter when-- There lived--no matter where-- A man, whose name--but then I need not that declare. He--well, he had been born, And so he was alive; His age--I details scorn-- Was somethingty and five. He lived--how many years I truly can't decide; But this one fact appears He lived--until he died. "He died," I have averred, But cannot prove 't was so, But that he was interred, At any rate, I know. I fancy he'd a son, I hear he had a wife: Perhaps he'd more than one, I know not, on my life! But whether he was rich, Or whether he was poor, Or neither--both--or which, I cannot say, I'm sure. I can't recall his name, Or what he used to do: But then--well, such is fame! 'T will so serve me and you. And that is why I thus, About this unknown man Would fain create a fuss, To rescue, if I can. From dark oblivion's blow, Some record of his lot: But, ah! I do not know Who--where--when--why--or what. MORAL In this brief pedigree A moral we should find-- But what it ought to be Has quite escaped my mind! _Anonymous_. _ON THE OXFORD CARRIER_ Here lieth one, who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Made of sphere metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time, And like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath; Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd, "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers." Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light: His leisure told him that his time was come, And lack of load made his life burdensome. That even to his last breath (there be that say't), As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;" But, had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier. Obedient to the moon he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase: His letters are deliver'd all, and gone, Only remains the superscription. _John Milton_. _NEPHELIDIA_ From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses-- Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom--beats bound with the bliss-- bringing bulk of a balm--breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, under skies growing green'at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings. _A. C. Swinburne, in "The Heptalogia_." _MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM_ What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it? In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep? Shall the sea--storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it? Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep? When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom, When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow, When the cabman--in liquor--drives a blue roan, a kicker, Into the land of the dear long ago. Ah!--Ah, again!--You will come to me, fall on me-- You are _so_ heavy, and I am _so_ flat. And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me, But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat: I shall list to the stars when the music is purple, Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings; Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway That stands between speech and unspeakable things. As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted? Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray? Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted, Or is it a horse of the sun and the day? Is it a pony? If so, who will change it? O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds, And think of its paces--of owners and races-- Relinquish the links for the study of studs. Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder! Take me away to the land of my rest-- There where the Ganges and other gees wander, And uncles and antelopes act for the best, And all things are mixed and run into each other In a violet twilight of virtues and sins, With the church-spires below you and no one to show you Where the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins! In the black night through the rank grass the snakes peer-- The cobs and the cobras are partial to grass-- And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of Shakespeare That's not often found in a boy of his class, And a girl wanders out without any knowledge, And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out, Likewise one wether, and they wander together-- There's a good deal of wandering lying about. But it's all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir, That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight; I've tried with no meaning--to make 'em amends, Sir-- And find that this kind's still more easy to write. The title has nothing to do with the verses, But think of the millions--the laborers who In busy employment find deepest enjoyment, And yet, like my title, have nothing to do! _Barry Pain_. _COMPANIONS_ I know not of what we ponder'd Or made pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wander'd Tow'rd the pool by the limetree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone? What her eyes were like, I know not: Perhaps they were blurred with tears; And perhaps in your skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears. Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand? That I failed to remark;--it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond. Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine--was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! My eyes were p'raps blurr'd; and besides, I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare. And I--was I brusque and surly? Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early? Or why did we twain abscond, All breakfastless too, from the public view To prowl by a misty pond? What passed, what was felt or spoken-- Whether anything passed at all-- And whether the heart was broken That beat under that sheltering shawl-- (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone. Yes, gone from me past recall. Was I haply the lady's suitor? Or her uncle? I can't make out-- Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, and who on earth we were, And what this is all about. _C. S. Calverley_. _THE COCK AND THE BULL_ You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day-- I like to dock the smaller parts-o-speech, As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur (You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?) Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i' my poke, having given for same By way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange-- "Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term-- One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence--you are with me, sir?-- What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see--bar a spit o' rain!) In February, eighteen sixty nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei, Hm--hm--how runs the jargon? being on the throne. Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum--what you will-- Of the impending eighty thousand lines. "Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit. Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling--and for matter o' that, the pence-- I had o' course upo' me--wi' me say-- (_Mecum's_ the Latin, make a note o' that) When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratched ear, wiped snout, (Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff'd--tch!--at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed, Haw-haw'd (not he-haw'd, that's another guess thing): Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat; And _in vestibulo_, i' the lobby to-wit, (Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir,) Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i' my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you!) cas o' rain, I flopped forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes, (I do assure you there be ten of them) And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call-toy, This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D. That's proven without aid for mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated cardinal. (Isn't it, old Fatchops? You're in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling--having i' fact a lot-- And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (_lapis, lapidis, di, dem, de_-- What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchops, eh?) O the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun, For one-and-fourpence. Here we are again. Now Law steps in, biwigged, voluminous-jaw'd; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head. Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case. At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) _vice versa_ all the coin, _Rer juris operationem_, vests I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom; _In saecula saeculo-o-o-orum_; (I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them ... Confer some idiot on Conveyancing. Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, _Quodcunque pertinet ad em rem_, (I fancy, sir, my Latin's rather pat) Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should, _Subaudi caetera_--clap we to the close-- For what's the good of law in such a case o' the kind Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale. Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him, (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)-- And paid for 't, _like_ a gen'lman, on the nail. "Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit. Fiddlepin's end! Get out, you blazing ass! Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby _me_! Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?" --There's the transaction viewed in the vendor's light. Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes, The scum o' the Kennel, cream o' the filth-heap--Faugh! Aie, aie, aie, aie! [Greek: otototototoi], ('Stead which we blurt out, Hoighty toighty now)-- And the baker and candlestick maker, and Jack and Gill, Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that, Ask the Schoolmaster, Take Schoolmaster first. He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it _rite_ on the square, And carry it off _per saltum_, jauntily _Propria quae maribus_, gentleman's property now (Agreeable to the law explained above). _In proprium usum_, for his private ends, The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit I' the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by, (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,) Then _abiit_--What's the Ciceronian phrase? _Excessit, evasit, erupit_--off slogs boy; Off like bird, _avi similis_--(you observed The dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan!)--_Anglice_ Off in three flea skips. _Hactenus_, so far, So good, _tam bene. Bene, satis, male_,-- Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag? I did once hitch the Syntax into verse _Verbum personale_, a verb personal, _Concordat_--"ay", agrees old Fatchops--_cum Nominativo_, with its nominative, _Genere_, i' point of gender, _numero_, O' number, _et persona_, and person. _Ut_, Instance: _Sol ruit_, down flops sun, _et_ and, _Montes umbrantur_, out flounce mountains. Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad. You see the trick on't, though, and can yourself Continue the discourse _ad libitum_. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at; And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands Extend from here to Mesopotamy. _C.S. Calverley_. LOVERS AND A REFLECTION In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween; Thro' God's own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitter-bats wavered alow, above: Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, (Boats in that climate are so polite,) And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight! Thro' the rare red heather we danced together (O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours: By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green. We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes: Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky-- They reek of no eerie To-come, those birds! But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather), That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)-- Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms: And Willie 'gan sing--(Oh, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)-- Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry": Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William's carol--(O love my Willie!) Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe tomorrow I quite forget what--say a daffodilly. A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow," I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden-- A rhyme most novel I do maintain: Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, And all least furlable things got furled; Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with world. O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted or carried on wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out--ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be. _C.S. Calverley_ AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there-- It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow. The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing. The impulses of air and sky Have rear'd their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee-- Wagging their heads in mockery. Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reach'd their roots below. For they have gain'd the river's brink, And of the living waters drink. There's little Will, a five years child-- He is my youngest boy: To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:-- He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose,-- The blue-belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem. And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control-- A living vegetable soul,-- No human sorrow fearing. It were a blessed sight to see That child become a Willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long. _Catharine M. Fanshawe_. THE FAMOUS BALLAD OF THE JUBILEE CUP You may lift me up in your arms, lad, and turn my face to the sun, For a last look back at the dear old track where the Jubilee cup was won; And draw your chair to my side, lad--no, thank ye, I feel no pain-- For I'm going out with the tide, lad; but I'll tell you the tale again. I'm seventy-nine or nearly, and my head it has long turned gray, But it all comes back as clearly as though it was yesterday-- The dust, and the bookies shouting around the clerk of the scales, And the clerk of the course, and the nobs in force, and 'Is 'Ighness the Pr**ce of W*les. 'Twas a nine-hole thresh to wind'ard (but none of us cared for that), With a straight run home to the service tee, and a finish along the flat, "Stiff?" ah, well you may say it! Spot barred, and at five stone ten! But at two and a bisque I'd ha' run the risk; for I was a greenhorn then. So we stripped to the B. Race signal, the old red swallowtail-- There was young Ben Bolt and the Portland Colt, and Aston Villa, and Yale; And W. G., and Steinitz, Leander and The Saint, And the G*rm*n Emp*r*r's Meteor, a-looking as fresh as paint; John Roberts (scratch), and Safety Match, The Lascar, and Lorna Doone, Oom Paul (a bye), and Romany Rye, and me upon Wooden Spoon; And some of us cut for partners, and some of us strung for baulk, And some of us tossed for stations--But there, what use to talk? Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough for me, With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee! And I leaned and patted her centre-bit and eased the quid in her cheek, With a "Soh my lass!" and a "Woa you brute!"--for she could do all but speak. She was geared a thought too high perhaps; she was trained a trifle fine; But she had the grand reach forward! I never saw such a line! Smooth-bored, clean run, from her fiddle head with its dainty ear half-cock, Hard-bit, _pur sang_, from her overhang to the heel of her off hind sock. Sir Robert he walked beside me as I worked her down to the mark; "There's money on this, my lad," said he, "and most of 'em's running dark; But ease the sheet if you're bunkered, and pack the scrummages tight, And use your slide at the distance, and we'll drink to your health to-night!" But I bent and tightened my stretcher. Said I to myself, said I-- "John Jones, this here is the Jubilee Cup, and you have to do or die." And the words weren't hardly spoken when the umpire shouted "Play!" And we all kicked off from the Gasworks End with a "Yoicks!" and a "Gone Away!" And at first I thought of nothing, as the clay flew by in lumps, But stuck to the old Ruy Lopez, and wondered who'd call for trumps, And luffed her close to the cushion, and watched each one as it broke, And in triple file up the Rowley Mile we went like a trail of smoke. The Lascar made the running but he didn't amount to much, For old Oom Paul was quick on the ball, and headed it back to touch; And the whole first flight led off with the right as The Saint took up the pace, And drove it clean to the putting green and trumped it there with an ace. John Roberts had given a miss in baulk, but Villa cleared with a punt; And keeping her service hard and low the Meteor forged to the front; With Romany Rye to windward at dormy and two to play, And Yale close up--but a Jubilee Cup isn't run for every day. We laid our course for the Warner--I tell you the pace was hot! And again off Tattenham Corner a blanket covered the lot. Check side! Check side! now steer her wide! and barely an inch of room, With The Lascar's tail over our lee rail and brushing Leander's boom. We were running as strong as ever--eight knots--but it couldn't last; For the spray and the bails were flying, the whole field tailing fast; And the Portland Colt had shot his bolt, and Yale was bumped at the Doves, And The Lascar resigned to Steinitz, stalemated in fifteen moves. It was bellows to mend with Roberts--starred three for a penalty kick: But he chalked his cue and gave 'em the butt, and Oom Paul marked the trick-- "Offside--No Ball--and at fourteen all! Mark Cock! and two for his nob!" When W.G. ran clean through his lee and beat him twice with a lob. He yorked him twice on a crumbling pitch and wiped his eye with a brace, But his guy-rope split with the strain of it and he dropped back out of the race; And I drew a bead on the Meteor's lead, and challenging none too soon, Bent over and patted her garboard strake, and called upon Wooden Spoon. She was all of a shiver forward, the spoondrift thick on her flanks, But I'd brought her an easy gambit, and nursed her over the banks; She answered her helm--the darling! and woke up now with a rush, While the Meteor's jock, he sat like a rock--he knew we rode for his brush! There was no one else left in it. The Saint was using his whip, And Safety Match, with a lofting catch, was pocketed deep at slip; And young Ben Bolt with his niblick took miss at Leander's lunge, But topped the net with the ricochet, and Steinitz threw up the sponge. But none of the lot could stop the rot--nay, don't ask _me_ to stop! The villa had called for lemons, Oom Paul had taken his drop, And both were kicking the referee. Poor fellow! he done his best; But, being in doubt, he'd ruled them out--which he always did when pressed. So, inch by inch, I tightened the winch, and chucked the sandbags out-- I heard the nursery cannons pop, I heard the bookies shout: "The Meteor wins!" "No, Wooden Spoon!" "Check!" "Vantage!" "Leg Before!" "Last Lap!" "Pass Nap!" At his saddle-flap I put up the helm and wore. You may overlap at the saddle-flap, and yet be loo'd on the tape: And it all depends upon changing ends, how a seven-year-old will shape; It was tack and tack to the Lepe and back--a fair ding-dong to the Ridge, And he led by his forward canvas yet as we shot 'neath Hammersmith Bridge. He led by his forward canvas--he led from his strongest suit-- But along we went on a roaring scent, and at Fawley I gained a foot. He fisted off with his jigger, and gave me his wash--too late! Deuce--Vantage--Check! By neck and neck we rounded into the straight. I could hear the "Conquering 'Ero" a-crashing on Godfrey's band, And my hopes fell sudden to zero, just there, with the race in hand-- In sight of the Turf's Blue Ribbon, in sight of the umpire's tape, As I felt the tack of her spinnaker c-rack! as I heard the steam escape! Had I lost at that awful juncture my presence of mind? ... but no! I leaned and felt for the puncture, and plugged it there with my toe.... Hand over hand by the Members' Stand I lifted and eased her up, Shot--clean and fair--to the crossbar there, and landed the Jubilee Cup! "The odd by a head, and leg before," so the Judge he gave the word: And the umpire shouted "Over!" but I neither spoke nor stirred. They crowded round: for there on the ground I lay in a dead-cold swoon, Pitched neck and crop on the turf atop of my beautiful Wooden Spoon. Her dewlap tire was punctured, her bearings all red hot; She'd a lolling tongue, and her bowsprit sprung, and her running gear in a knot; And amid the sobs of her backers, Sir Robert loosened her girth And led her away to the knacker's. She had raced her last on earth! But I mind me well of the tear that fell from the eye of our noble Pr*nce, And the things he said as he tucked me in bed--and I 've lain there ever since; Tho' it all gets mixed up queerly that happened before my spill,-- But I draw my thousand yearly: it 'll pay for the doctor's bill. I'm going out with the tide, lad--you 'll dig me a numble grave, And whiles you will bring your bride, lad, and your sons, if sons you have, And there when the dews are weeping, and the echoes murmur "Peace!" And the salt, salt tide comes creeping and covers the popping-crease; In the hour when the ducks deposit their eggs with a boasted force, They'll look and whisper "How was it?" and you'll take them over the course, And your voice will break as you try to speak of the glorious first of June, When the Jubilee Cup, with John Jones up, was won upon Wooden Spoon. _Arthur T. Quiller-Couch_. A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES Lady, I loved you all last year, How honestly and well-- Alas! would weary you to hear, And torture me to tell; I raved beneath the midnight sky, I sang beneath the limes-- Orlando in my lunacy, And Petrarch in my rhymes. But all is over! When the sun Dries up the boundless main, When black is white, false-hearted one, I may be yours again! When passion's early hopes and fears Are not derided things; When truth is found in falling tears, Or faith in golden rings; When the dark Fates that rule our way Instruct me where they hide One woman that would ne'er betray, One friend that never lied; When summer shines without a cloud, And bliss without a pain; When worth is noticed in a crowd, I may be yours again! When science pours the light of day Upon the lords of lands; When Huskisson is heard to say That Lethbridge understands; When wrinkles work their way in youth, Or Eldon's in a hurry; When lawyers represent the truth, Or Mr. Sumner Surrey; When aldermen taste eloquence Or bricklayers champagne; When common law is common sense, I may be yours again! When learned judges play the beau, Or learned pigs the tabor; When traveller Bankes beats Cicero, Or Mr. Bishop Weber; When sinking funds discharge a debt, Or female hands a bomb; When bankrupts study the _Gazette_, Or colleges _Tom Thumb_; When little fishes learn to speak, Or poets not to feign; When Dr. Geldart construes Greek, I may be yours again! When Pole and Thornton honor cheques, Or Mr. Const a rogue; When Jericho's in Middlesex, Or minuets in vogue; When Highgate goes to Devonport, Or fashion to Guildhall; When argument is heard at Court, Or Mr. Wynn at all; When Sydney Smith forgets to jest, Or farmers to complain; When kings that are are not the best, I may be yours again! When peers from telling money shrink, Or monks from telling lies; When hydrogen begins to sink, Or Grecian scrip to rise; When German poets cease to dream, Americans to guess; When Freedom sheds her holy beam On Negroes, and the Press; When there is any fear of Rome, Or any hope of Spain; When Ireland is a happy home, I may be yours again! When you can cancel what has been, Or alter what must be, Or bring once more that vanished scene, Those withered joys to me; When you can tune the broken lute, Or deck the blighted wreath, Or rear the garden's richest fruit, Upon a blasted heath; When you can lure the wolf at bay Back to his shattered chain, To-day may then be yesterday-- I may be yours again! _W.M. Praed_. TRUST IN WOMEN When these things following be done to our intent, Then put women in trust and confident. When nettles in winter bring forth roses red, And all manner of thorn trees bear figs naturally, And geese bear pearls in every mead, And laurel bear cherries abundantly, And oaks bear dates very plenteously, And kisks give of honey superfluence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When box bear paper in every land and town, And thistles bear berries in every place, And pikes have naturally feathers in their crown, And bulls of the sea sing a good bass, And men be the ships fishes trace, And in women be found no insipience, Then put them in trust and confidence. When whitings do walk forests to chase harts, And herrings their horns in forests boldly blow, And marmsets mourn in moors and lakes, And gurnards shoot rooks out of a crossbow, And goslings hunt the wolf to overthrow, And sprats bear spears in armes of defence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When swine be cunning in all points of music, And asses be doctors of every science, And cats do heal men by practising of physic, And buzzards to scripture give any credence, And merchants buy with horn, instead of groats and pence, And pyes be made poets for their eloquence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When sparrows build churches on a height, And wrens carry sacks unto the mill, And curlews carry timber houses to dight, And fomalls bear butter to market to sell, And woodcocks bear woodknives cranes to kill, And greenfinches to goslings do obedience, Then put women in trust and confidence. When crows take salmon in woods and parks, And be take with swifts and snails, And camels in the air take swallows and larks, And mice move mountains by wagging of their tails, And shipmen take a ride instead of sails, And when wives to their husbands do no offence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When antelopes surmount eagles in flight, And swans be swifter than hawks of the tower, And wrens set gos-hawks by force and might, And muskets make verjuice of crabbes sour, And ships sail on dry land, silt give flower, And apes in Westminster give judgment and sentence, Then put women in trust and confidence. _Anonymous_. HERE IS THE TALE AFTER RUDYARD KIPLING _Here is the tale--and you must make the most of it! Here is the rhyme--ah, listen and attend! Backwards--forwards--read it all and boast of it If you are anything the wiser at the end_! Now Jack looked up--it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill, And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill, And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side; "Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun--ha' done with your games!" she cried; "You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size--finger and face are black, You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay--now up and wash you, Jack! Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame-- Well you know the weight of her blow--the supperless open shame! Wash, if you will, on yonder hill--wash, if you will, at the spring,-- Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!" "You must wash--you must scrub--you must scrape!" growled Jack, "you must traffic with cans and pails, Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails! The morning path you must tread to your bath--you must wash ere the night descends, And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmakers' dividends! But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill, By the sacred right of our appetite--haste--haste to the top of the hill!" They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far, They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are, They have taken the bucket and filled it up--yea, filled it up to the brim; But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him: "What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!) "You boast indeed of your wonderful speed--but what is the boasting worth? Now, if you can run as the antelope runs, and if you can turn like a hare, Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill--and prove your boasting fair!" "Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word) "Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard, For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:-- The first one down wins half-a-crown--and I will race you there!" "Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride) The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied; Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe: Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!" And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released, But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased; He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash-- Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash. Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair, Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear, The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell-- And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell: "You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid-- You have fallen down with a broken crown--the half-crown debt is paid!" They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are, And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar; While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth, She had felt the sting of a walloping--she hath paid the price of her mirth! _Here is the tale--and now you have the whole of it, Here is the story--well and wisely planned, Beauty--Duty--these make up the soul of it-- But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand_? _Anthony C. Deane_. THE AULD WIFE The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees. The piper he piped on the hill-top high, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) Till the cow said "I die" and the goose asked "Why;" And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas. The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard, The connection of which with the plot one sees. The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these. She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze. She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her best chemise. She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_), And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas. Her sheep followed her as their tails did them (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_), And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please. _Charles S. Calverley_. NOT I Some like drink In a pint pot, Some like to think, Some not. Strong Dutch cheese, Old Kentucky Rye, Some like these; Not I. Some like Poe, And others like Scott; Some like Mrs. Stowe, Some not. Some like to laugh, Some like to cry, Some like to chaff; Not I. _R.L. Stevenson_. MINNIE AND WINNIE Minnie and Winnie Slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well. Pink was the shell within, Silver without; Sounds of the great sea Wandered about. Sleep little ladies! Wake not soon! Echo on echo Dies to the moon. Two bright stars Peep'd into the shell, What are they dreaming of? Who can tell? Started a green linnet Out of the croft; Wake, little ladies, The sun is aloft! _Lord Tennyson_. THE MAYOR OF SCUTTLETON The Mayor of Scuttleton burned his nose Trying to warm his copper toes; He lost his money and spoiled his will By signing his name with an icicle quill; He went bareheaded, and held his breath, And frightened his grandame most to death; He loaded a shovel and tried to shoot, And killed the calf in the leg of his boot; He melted a snowbird and formed the habit Of dancing jigs with a sad Welsh rabbit; He lived on taffy and taxed the town; And read his newspaper upside down; Then he sighed and hung his hat on a feather, And bade the townspeople come together; But the worst of it all was, nobody knew What the Mayor of Scuttleton next would do. _Mary Mapes Dodge_. THE PURPLE COW I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one. ENVOI Ah yes, I wrote the Purple Cow, I'm sorry now I wrote it. But I can tell you anyhow, I'll kill you if you quote it. _Gelett Burgess_. THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE I'd Never Dare to Walk across A Bridge I Could Not See; For Quite afraid of Falling off, I fear that I Should Be! _Gelett Burgess_. THE LAZY ROOF The Roof it has a Lazy Time A-lying in the Sun; The Walls they have to Hold Him Up; They do Not Have Much Fun! _Gelett Burgess_. MY FEET My feet, they haul me Round the House, They Hoist me up the Stairs; I only have to Steer them and They Ride me Everywheres. _Gelett Burgess_. THE HEN Alas! my Child, where is the Pen That can do Justice to the Hen? Like Royalty, She goes her way, Laying foundations every day, Though not for Public Buildings, yet For Custard, Cake and Omelette. Or if too Old for such a use They have their Fling at some Abuse, As when to Censure Plays Unfit Upon the Stage they make a Hit, Or at elections Seal the Fate Of an Obnoxious Candidate. No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen, Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen. _Oliver Herford_. THE COW The Cow is too well known, I fear, To need an introduction here. If She should vanish from earth's face It would be hard to fill her place; For with the Cow would disappear So much that every one holds Dear. Oh, think of all the Boots and Shoes, Milk Punches, Gladstone Bags and Stews, And Things too numerous to count, Of which, my child, she is the Fount. Let's hope, at least, the Fount may last Until _our_ Generation's past. _Oliver Herford_. THE CHIMPANZEE Children, behold the Chimpanzee: He sits on the ancestral tree From which we sprang in ages gone. I'm glad we sprang: had we held on, We might, for aught that I can say, Be horrid Chimpanzees today. _Oliver Herford_. THE HIPPOPOTAMUS "Oh, say, what is this fearful, wild, Incorrigible cuss?" "This _creature_ (don't say 'cuss,' my child; 'Tis slang)--this creature fierce is styled The Hippopotamus. His curious name derives its source From two Greek words: _hippos_--a horse, _Potamos_--river. See? The river's plain enough, of course; But why they called _that_ thing a _horse_, That's what is Greek to me." _Oliver Herford_. THE PLATYPUS My child, the Duck-billed Platypus A sad example sets for us: From him we learn how Indecision Of character provokes Derision. This vacillating Thing, you see, Could not decide which he would be, Fish, Flesh or Fowl, and chose all three. The scientists were sorely vexed To classify him; so perplexed Their brains, that they, with Rage at bay, Call him a horrid name one day,-- A name that baffles, frights and shocks us, Ornithorhynchus Paradoxus. _Oliver Herford_. SOME GEESE Ev-er-y child who has the use Of his sen-ses knows a goose. See them un-der-neath the tree Gath-er round the goose-girl's knee, While she reads them by the hour From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er. How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend! But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend What Scho-pen-hau-er's driv-ing at? Oh, not at all; but what of that? Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she; And, for that mat-ter, nor does he. _Oliver Herford_. THE FLAMINGO _Inspired by reading a chorus of spirits in a German play_ FIRST VOICE. Oh! tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo? Oh! tell me have you ever yet seen him the water in go? SECOND VOICE. Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've seen a red long-leg'd Flamingo, Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've there seen him the water in go. FIRST VOICE. Oh! tell me did you ever see a bird so funny stand-o When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o? SECOND VOICE. No! in my life I ne'er did see a bird so funny stand-o When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o. FIRST VOICE. He has a leg some three feet long, or near it, so they say, Sir. Stiff upon one alone he stands, t'other he stows away, Sir. SECOND VOICE. And what an ugly head he's got! I wonder that he'd wear it. But rather _more_ I wonder that his long, thin neck can bear it. FIRST VOICE. And think, this length of neck and legs (no doubt they have their uses) Are members of a little frame, much smaller than a goose's! BOTH. Oh! isn't he a curious bird, that red, long-leg'd Flamingo? A water bird, a gawky bird, a sing'lar bird, by jingo! _Lewis Gaylord Clark_. KINDNESS TO ANIMALS Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf, Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh! Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear, Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare! Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh, And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie! But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,-- Be always kind to animals wherever you may be! Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram, And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb. Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp, Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp. Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly, Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry; Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,-- Be always kind to animals wherever you may be! Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs, And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs; Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese, And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese. Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive, Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive; When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee-- Be always kind to animals wherever you may be. _J. Ashby-Sterry_. SAGE COUNSEL The lion is the beast to fight, He leaps along the plain, And if you run with all your might, He runs with all his mane. I'm glad I'm not a Hottentot, But if I were, with outward cal-lum I'd either faint upon the spot Or hie me up a leafy pal-lum. The chamois is the beast to hunt; He's fleeter than the wind, And when the chamois is in front, The hunter is behind. The Tyrolese make famous cheese And hunt the chamois o'er the chaz-zums; I'd choose the former if you please, For precipices give me spaz-zums. The polar bear will make a rug Almost as white as snow; But if he gets you in his hug, He rarely lets you go. And Polar ice looks very nice, With all the colors of a pris-sum; But, if you'll follow my advice, Stay home and learn your catechissum. _A.T. Quiller-Couch_. OF BAITING THE LION Remembering his taste for blood You'd better bait him with a cow; Persuade the brute to chew the cud Her tail suspended from a bough; It thrills the lion through and through To hear the milky creature moo. Having arranged this simple ruse, Yourself you climb a neighboring tree; See to it that the spot you choose Commands the coming tragedy; Take up a smallish Maxim gun, A search-light, whisky, and a bun. It's safer, too, to have your bike Standing immediately below, In case your piece should fail to strike, Or deal an ineffective blow; The Lion moves with perfect grace, But cannot go the scorcher's pace. Keep open ear for subtle signs; Thus, when the cow profusely moans, That means to say, the Lion dines. The crunching sound, of course, is bones; Silence resumes her ancient reign-- This shows the cow is out of pain. But when a fat and torpid hum Escapes the eater's unctuous nose, Turn up the light and let it come Full on his innocent repose; Then pour your shot between his eyes, And go on pouring till he dies. Play, even so, discretion's part; Descend with stealth; bring on your gun; Then lay your hand above his heart To see if he is really done; Don't skin him till you know he's dead Or you may perish in his stead! Years hence, at home, when talk is tall, You'll set the gun-room wide agape, Describing how with just a small Pea-rifle, going after ape You met a Lion unaware, And felled him flying through the air. _Owen Seaman_. THE FROG Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog," Or likewise, "Uncle James," Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong," Or "Billy-Bandy-knees;" The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these. No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair, At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare). _Hilaire Belloc_. THE YAK As a friend to the children commend me the yak, You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string. A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know! Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich, He will buy you the creature--or else he will not, (I cannot be positive which). _Hilaire Belloc_. THE PYTHON A python I should not advise, It needs a doctor for its eyes, And has the measles yearly. However, if you feel inclined To get one (to improve your mind, And not from fashion merely), Allow no music near its cage; And when it flies into a rage Chastise it most severely. I had an Aunt in Yucatan Who bought a Python from a man And kept it for a pet. She died because she never knew These simple little rules and few;-- The snake is living yet. _Hilaire Belloc_. THE BISON The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain) The Door-mat you see on his head Is not, as some learned professors maintain, The opulent growth of a genius' brain; But is sewn on with needle and thread. _Hilaire Belloc_. THE PANTHER Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young, In thy country far over the sea, 'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mamma, And had several mouthfuls of thee! Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide The depths of his badgerly soul? And think of the tapir when flashes the lamp O'er the fast and the free-flowing bowl. Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine Ever put up his bactrian back; And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag, Nor venture to give her the sack. Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope To have such a stomach as it? And when the proud day of your bridal shall come, Do give the poor birdie a bit. Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget To have it on Tuesday to tea; But butter the crumpets on only one side, Save such as are eaten by thee. Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal In the light of thy love have a share; And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail, And have lots of larks in its lair. Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird, And humor its wishes and ways; And when the poor elephant suffers from bile, Then tenderly lace up his stays! _Anonymous_. THE MONKEY'S GLUE When the monkey in his madness Took the glue to mend his voice, 'Twas the crawfish showed his sadness That the bluebird could rejoice. Then the perspicacious parrot Sought to save the suicide By administering carrot, But the monkey merely died. So the crawfish and the parrot Sauntered slowly toward the sea, While the bluebird stole the carrot And returned the glue to me. _Goldwin Goldsmith_. THERE WAS A FROG There was a frog swum in the lake, The crab came crawling by: "Wilt thou," coth the frog, "be my make?" Coth the crab, "No, not I." "My skin is sooth and dappled fine, I can leap far and nigh. Thy shell is hard: so is not mine." Coth the crab, "No, not I." "Tell me," then spake the crab, "therefore, Or else I thee defy: Give me thy claw, I ask no more." Coth the frog, "That will I." The crab bit off the frog's fore-feet; The frog then he must die. To woo a crab it is not meet: If any do, it is not I. _From Christ Church MS., I. 549_. THE BLOATED BIGGABOON The bloated Biggaboon Was so haughty, he would not repose In a house, or a hall, or _ces choses_, But he slept his high sleep in his clothes-- 'Neath the moon. The bloated Biggaboon Pour'd contempt upon waistcoat and skirt, Holding swallow-tails even as dirt-- So he puff'd himself out in his shirt, Like a b'loon. _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_. WILD FLOWERS "Of what are you afraid, my child?" inquired the kindly teacher. "Oh, sir! the flowers, they are wild," replied the timid creature. _Peter Newell_. TIMID HORTENSE "Now, if the fish will only bite, we'll have some royal fun." "And do fish bite? The horrid things! Indeed, I'll not catch one!" _Peter Newell_. HER POLKA DOTS She played upon her music-box a fancy air by chance, And straightway all her polka-dots began a lively dance. _Peter Newell_. HER DAIRY "A milkweed, and a buttercup, and cowslip," said sweet Mary, "Are growing in my garden-plot, and this I call my dairy." _Peter Newell_. TURVEY TOP 'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawn That into a doze I chanced to drop, And thence awoke in the gray of dawn, In the wonder-land of Turvey Top. A land so strange I never had seen, And could not choose but look and laugh-- A land where the small the great includes, And the whole is less than the half! A land where the circles were not lines Round central points, as schoolmen show, And the parallels met whenever they chose, And went playing at touch-and-go! There--except that every round was square And save that all the squares were rounds-- No surface had limits anywhere, So they never could beat the bounds. In their gardens, fruit before blossom came, And the trees diminished as they grew; And you never went out to walk a mile, 'Twas the mile that walked to you. The people there are not tall or short, Heavy or light, or stout or thin, And their lives begin where they should leave off, Or leave off where they should begin. There childhood, with naught of childish glee, Looks on the world with thoughtful brow; 'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow, And cry, "We have done with it now!" A singular race! what lives they spent! Got up before they went to bed! And never a man said what he meant, Or a woman meant what she said. They blended colours that will not blend, All hideous contrasts voted sweet; In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd, And considered it rather neat. They didn't believe in the wise and good, Said the best were worst, the wisest fools; And 'twas only to have their teachers taught That they founded national schools. They read in "books that are no books," Their classics--chess-boards neatly bound; Those their greatest authors who never wrote, And their deepest the least profound. Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land, A curious people, as you will own; But are there none of the race abroad, Are no specimens elsewhere known? Well, I think that he whose views of life Are crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd, Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes-- Sees himself and believes it God, Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill, Curses a world he cannot mend; Who measures life by the rule of wrong And abuses its aim and end, The man who stays when he ought to move, And only goes when he ought to stop-- Is strangely like the folk in my dream, And would flourish in Turvey Top. _Anonymous_. WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT I dreamt it! such a funny thing-- And now it's taken wing; I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing? It had a Dragon; with a tail; A tail both long and slim, And ev'ry day he wagg'd at it-- How good it was of him! And so to him the tailest Of all three-tailed Bashaws, Suggested that for reasons The waggling should pause; And held his tail--which, parting, Reversed that Bashaw, which Reversed that Dragon, who reversed Himself into a ditch. * * * * * It had a monkey--in a trap-- Suspended by the tail: Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd, And his countenance was pale. And he had danced and dangled there; Till he grew very mad: For his tail it was a handsome tail And the trap had pinched it--bad. The trapper sat below, and grinn'd; His victim's wrath wax'd hot: He bit his tail in two--and fell-- And killed him on the spot. * * * * * It had a pig--a stately pig; With curly tail and quaint: And the Great Mogul had hold of that Till he was like to faint. So twenty thousand Chinamen, With three tails each at least, Came up to help the Great Mogul, And took him round the waist. And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands; And so it came to pass, That twenty thousand Chinamen Sat down upon the grass. * * * * * It had a Khan--a Tartar Khan-- With tail superb, I wis; And that fell graceful down a back Which was considered his. Wherefore all sorts of boys that were Accursed, swung by it; Till he grew savage in his mind And vex'd, above a bit: And so he swept his tail, as one Awak'ning from a dream; And those abominable ones Flew off into the stream. Likewise they hobbled up and down, Like many apples there; Till they subsided--and became Amongst the things that were. * * * * * And so it had a moral too, That would be bad to lose; "Whoever takes a Tail in hand Should mind his p's and queues." I dreamt it!--such a funny thing! And now it's taken wing; I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing? _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_. THE DINKEY-BIRD In an ocean, 'way out yonder (As all sapient people know), Is the land of Wonder-Wander, Whither children love to go; It's their playing, romping, swinging, That give great joy to me While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing In the Amfalula-tree! There the gum-drops grow like cherries, And taffy's thick as peas,-- Caramels you pick like berries When, and where, and how you please: Big red sugar-plums are clinging To the cliffs beside that sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree. So when children shout and scamper And make merry all the day, When there's naught to put a damper To the ardor of their play; When I hear their laughter ringing, Then I'm sure as sure can be That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree. For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras And staccatos are so sweet-- His roulades, appogiaturas, And robustos so complete, That the youth of every nation-- Be they near or far away-- Have especial delectation In that gladsome roundelay. Their eyes grow bright and brighter, Their lungs begin to crow, Their hearts get light and lighter, And their cheeks are all aglow; For an echo cometh bringing The news to all and me. That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree. I'm sure you'd like to go there To see your feathered friend-- And so many goodies grow there You would like to comprehend! _Speed, little dreams, your winging To that land across the sea Where the Dickey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-Tree_! _Eugene Field_. THE MAN IN THE MOON Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon, "My! Sakes! What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon! But people that's been up to see him like Me, And calls on him frequent and intimutly, Might drop a few hints that would interest you Clean! Through! If you wanted 'em to-- Some actual facts that might interest you!" "O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back; Whee! Whimm! Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to _dream_ even he looks at the sun,-- So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise-- My! Eyes! But isn't he wise-- To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?" "And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-- Whee! Whing! What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,-- There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,-- He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in,-- Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! Whang! Ho! Why certainly so!-- It might be a dimple turned over, you know!" "And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee, Gee! Whizz! What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan, Whing! Whann! What a marvellous man! What a very remarkably marvellous man!" "And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man, "Gits! So! Sullonesome, you know! Up there by himself since creation began!-- That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,-- Till--well, if it wasn't for _Jimmy-cum-Jim_, Dadd! Limb! I'd go pardners with him! Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!" _James Whitcomb Riley_. THE STORY OF THE WILD HUNTSMAN This is the Wild Huntsman that shoots the hares; With the grass-green coat he always wears; With game-bag, powder-horn and gun, He's going out to have some fun. He finds it hard without a pair Of spectacles, to shoot the hare. He put his spectacles upon his nose, and said, "Now I will shoot the hares and kill them dead." The hare sits snug in leaves and grass, And laughs to see the green man pass. Now as the sun grew very hot, And he a heavy gun had got, He lay down underneath a tree And went to sleep as you may see. And, while he slept like any top, The little hare came, hop, hop, hop,-- Took gun and spectacles, and then Softly on tiptoe went off again. The green man wakes, and sees her place The spectacles upon her face. She pointed the gun at the hunter's heart, Who jumped up at once with a start. He cries, and screams, and runs away. "Help me, good people, help! I pray." At last he stumbled at the well, Head over ears, and in he fell. The hare stopped short, took aim, and hark! Bang went the gun!--she missed her mark! The poor man's wife was drinking up Her coffee in her coffee-cup; The gun shot cup and saucer through; "Oh dear!" cried she, "what shall I do?" Hiding close by the cottage there, Was the hare's own child, the little hare. When he heard the shot he quickly arose, And while he stood upon his toes, The coffee fell and burned his nose; "Oh dear," he cried, "what burns me so?" And held up the spoon with his little toe. _Dr. Heinrich Hoffman_. THE STORY OF PYRAMID THOTHMES Thothmes, who loved a pyramid, And dreamed of wonders that it hid, Took up again one afternoon, His longest staff, his sandal shoon, His evening meal, his pilgrim flask, And set himself at length the task, Scorning the smaller and the small, To climb the highest one of all. The sun was very hot indeed, Yet Thothmes never slacked his speed Until upon the topmost stone He lightly sat him down alone To make himself some pleasant cheer And turned to take his flask of beer, For he was weary and athirst. Forth from the neck the stopper burst And rudely waked the sleeping dead. In terror guilty Thothmes fled As rose majestic, wroth and slow, The Pharaoh's Ka of long ago. "Help! help!" he cried, "or I am lost! Oh! save me from old Pharaoh's ghost!" Till, uttering one fearful yell, He stumbled at the base and fell Where Anubis was at his side, And, by the god of death, he died. The wife of Thothmes learned his tale First from the "Memphis Evening Mail," And called her son, and told their woe; "Alas!" said she, "I told him so! Oh, think upon these awful things And mount not on the graves of kings! A pyramid is strange to see, Though only at its base you be." _Anonymous_. THE STORY OF CRUEL PSAMTEK Here is cruel Psamtek, see. Such a wicked boy was he! Chased the ibis round about, Plucked its longest feathers out, Stamped upon the sacred scarab Like an unbelieving Arab, Put the dog and cat to pain, Making them to howl again. Only think what he would do-- Tease the awful Apis too! Basking by the sacred Nile Lay the trusting crocodile; Cruel Psamtek crept around him, Laughed to think how he had found him, With his pincers seized his tail, Made the holy one to wail; Till a priest of Isis came, Called the wicked boy by name, Shut him in a pyramid, Where his punishment was hid. --But the crocodile the while Bore the pincers up the Nile-- Here the scribe who taught him letters, And respect for all his betters, Gave him many a heavy task, Horrid medicines from a flask, While on bread and water, too, Bitter penance must he do. The Crocodile is blythe and gay, With friends and family at play, And cries, "O blessed Land of Nile, Where sacred is the crocodile, Where no ill deed unpunished goes, And man himself rewards our foes!" _Anonymous_. THE CUMBERBUNCE I strolled beside the shining sea, I was as lonely as could be; No one to cheer me in my walk But stones and sand, which cannot talk-- Sand and stones and bits of shell, Which never have a thing to tell. But as I sauntered by the tide I saw a something at my side, A something green, and blue, and pink, And brown, and purple, too, I think. I would not say how large it was; I would not venture that, because It took me rather by surprise, And I have not the best of eyes. Should you compare it to a cat, I'd say it was as large as that; Or should you ask me if the thing Was smaller than a sparrow's wing, I should be apt to think you knew, And simply answer, "Very true!" Well, as I looked upon the thing, It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?" And then I knew its name at once-- It plainly was a Cumberbunce. You are amazed that I could tell The creature's name so quickly? Well, I knew it was not a paper-doll, A pencil or a parasol, A tennis-racket or a cheese, And, as it was not one of these, And I am not a perfect dunce-- It had to be a Cumberbunce! With pleading voice and tearful eye It seemed as though about to cry. It looked so pitiful and sad It made me feel extremely bad. My heart was softened to the thing That asked me if it, please, could sing. Its little hand I longed to shake, But, oh, it had no hand to take! I bent and drew the creature near, And whispered in its pale blue ear, "What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can! Sing on, sing loudly, little man!" The Cumberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its little head, In tones of awful longing, said: "Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies, And why the sea is wet, Of jelly-fish and conger-eels, And things that I forget. And I would hum a plaintive tune Of why the waves are hot As water boiling on a stove, Excepting that they're not!" "And I would sing of hooks and eyes, And why the sea is slant, And gayly tips the little ships, Excepting that I can't! I never sang a single song, I never hummed a note. There is in me no melody, No music in my throat." "So that is why I do not sing Of sharks, or whales, or anything!" I looked in innocent surprise, My wonder showing in my eyes. "Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried, "Did you come walking at my side And ask me if you, please, might sing, When you could not warble anything?" "I did not ask permission, sir, I really did not, I aver. You, sir, misunderstood me, quite. I did not ask you if I _might_. Had you correctly understood, You'd know I asked you if I _could_. So, as I cannot sing a song, Your answer, it is plain, was wrong. The fact I could not sing I knew, But wanted your opinion, too." A voice came softly o'er the lea. "Farewell! my mate is calling me!" I saw the creature disappear, Its voice, in parting, smote my ear-- "I thought all people understood The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!" _Paul West_. THE AHKOND OF SWAT Who, or why, or which, or _what_, Is the Ahkond of Swat? Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat, The Ahkond of Swat? Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or Trot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat, or a Cot, The Ahkond of Swat? When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his t's and finish his i's with a Dot, The Ahkond of Swat? Can he write a letter concisely clear, Without a speck or a smudge or smear or Blot, The Ahkond of Swat? Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or Plot, At the Ahkond of Swat? If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or Shot, The Ahkond of Swat? Do his people prig in the lanes or park? Or even at times, when days are dark, Garotte? Oh, the Ahkond of Swat? Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion a Jot, The Ahkond of Swat? To amuse his mind do his people show him Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or What, For the Ahkond of Swat? At night if he suddenly screams and wakes, Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a Lot, For the Ahkond of Swat? Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe, Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe or a Dot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he like to lie on his back in a boat Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, Shalott. The Ahkond of Swat? Is he quiet, or always making a fuss? Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ, or a Scot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave? Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a Grott, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he drink small beer from a silver jug? Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a Pot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe, When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or Rot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends, And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a Knot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies? When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or Not, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake? Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a Yacht, The Ahkond of Swat? Some one, or nobody knows I wot Who or which or why or what Is the Ahkond of Swat! _Edward Lear_. A THRENODY What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean--he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead! For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow Swats!) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to Victory, As the case might be, Sorrow Swats! Tears shed, Tears shed like water, Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter! Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But lain 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthly walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And sceptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies-- The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries-- He knows what's Swat. Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength, Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not! _George Thomas Lanigan_. DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL _Rival of the Akhoond of Swat_ I. Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot Kotal--though where or what On earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot; Further than this indeed he knoweth not-- It borders upon Swat! II. When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battal- Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies Upon Kotal, On sad Kotal, whose people ululate For their loved Moolla late. Put away his little turban, And his narghileh embrowned, The lord of Kotal--rural urban-- 'S gone unto his last Akhoond, 'S gone to meet his rival Swattan, 'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten. III. His rival, but in what? Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat Kotal's lamented Moolla late, As it were, emulate? Was it in the tented field With crash of sword on shield, While backward meaner champions reeled And loud the tom-tom pealed? Did they barter gash for scar With the Persian scimetar Or the Afghanistee tulwar, While loud the tom-tom pealed-- While loud the tom-tom pealed, And the jim-jam squealed, And champions less well heeled Their war-horses wheeled And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field? Was Kotal's proud citadel-- Bastioned, and demi-luned, Beaten down with shot and shell By the guns of the Akhoond? Or were wails despairing caught, as The burghers pale of Swat Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas"? --Or what? Or made each in the cabinet his mark Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck? Did they explain and render hazier The policies of Central Asia? Did they with speeches from the throne, Wars dynastic, Ententes cordiales, Between Swat and Kotal; Holy alliances, And other appliances Of statesmen with morals and consciences plastic Come by much more than their own? Made they mots, as "There to-day are No more Himalayehs," Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are No more Himalaya"? Oi, said the Akhoond, "Sah, L'État de Swat c'est moi"? Khabu, did there come great fear On thy Khabuldozed Ameer Ali Shere? Or did the Khan of far Kashgar Tremble at the menace hot Of the Moolla of Kotal, "I will extirpate thee, pal Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat"? Who knows Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did? Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes, And in their deaths not very much divided? If any one knows it, Let him disclose it! _George Thomas Lanigan_. RUSSIAN AND TURK There was a Russian came over the sea, Just when the war was growing hot; And his name it was Tjalikavakaree- Karindobrolikanahudarot- Shibkadirova- Ivarditztova Sanilik Danerik Varagobhot. A Turk was standing upon the shore-- Right where the terrible Russian crossed, And he cried: "Bismillah! I'm Ab-El Kor- Bazarou-Kilgonautosgobross- Getfinpravadi- Kligekoladji Grivino Blivido- Jenikodosk!" So they stood like brave men long and well; And they called each other their proper names, Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell They buried them both by the Irdesholmmes Kalatalustchuk Mischtaribusiclup- Bulgari- Dulbary- Sagharimsing. _Anonymous_. LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy, Shall we seek for communion of souls Where the deep Mississippi meanders, Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls? Ah no,--for in Maine I will find thee A sweetly sequestrated nook, Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook. There wander two beautiful rivers, With many a winding and crook; The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis, The other--the Skoodoowabskook. Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned In geography, atlas, or book, How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis, When joining the Skoodoowabskook! Our cot shall be close by the waters Within that sequestrated nook-- Reflected in Skoodoowabskooksis And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook. You shall sleep to the music of leaflets, By zephyrs in wantonness shook, And dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook. When awaked by the hens and the roosters, Each morn, you shall joyously look On the junction of Skoodoowabskooksis With the soft gliding Skoodoowabskook. Your food shall be fish from the waters, Drawn forth on the point of a hook, From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis, Or wandering Skoodoowabskook! You shall quaff the most sparkling of water, Drawn forth from a silvery brook Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis, And then to the Skoodoowabskook! And you shall preside at the banquet, And I will wait on thee as cook; And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And sing of the Skoodoowabskook! Let others sing loudly of Saco, Of Quoddy, and Tattamagouche, Of Kennebeccasis, and Quaco, Of Merigonishe, and Buctouche, Of Nashwaak, and Magaguadavique, Or Memmerimammericook,-- There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis, Excepting the Skoodoowabskook! _Anonymous_. COBBE'S PROPHECIES When the day and the night do meete And the houses are even with the streete: And the fire and the water agree, And blinde men have power to see: When the Wolf and the Lambe lie down togither, And the blasted trees will not wither: When the flood and the ebbe run one way, And the Sunne and the Moone are at a stay; When Age and Youth are all one, And the Miller creepes through the Mill-stone: When the Ram butts the Butcher on the head, And the living are buried with the dead. When the Cobler doth worke without his ends, And the Cutpurse and the Hangman are friends: Strange things will then be to see, But I think it will never be! --_1614_. AN UNSUSPECTED FACT If down his throat a man should choose In fun, to jump or slide, He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth, Nor dirt his own inside. But if his teeth were lost and gone, And not a stump to scrape upon, He'd see at once how very pat His tongue lay there by way of mat, And he would wipe his feet on _that_! _Edward Cannon_. THE SORROWS OF WERTHER Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sigh'd and pined and ogled, And his passion boil'd and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. _W.M. Thackeray_. NONSENSE VERSES Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep! The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills? Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em working a poor body's wheels? Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own if she lose it. _Charles Lamb_. THE NOBLE TUCK-MAN Americus, as he did wend With A. J. Mortimer, his chum, The two were greeted by a friend, "And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?" He spread a note so crisp, so neat (Ho, and Hi, and tender Hum), "If you of this a fifth can eat I'll give you the remainder. Come!" To the tuck-shop three repair, (Ho, and Hum, and pensive Hi), One looks on to see all's fair, Two call out for hot mince-pie. Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns (Hi, and Hum, and gorgeous Ho), Lobster cakes (the butter'd ones), All at once they cry, "No go." Then doth tuck-man smile. "Them there (Ho, and Hi, and futile Hum) Jellies three and sixpence air, Use of spoons an equal sum." Three are rich. Sweet task 'tis o'er, "Tuckman, you're a brick," they cry, Wildly then shake hands all four (Hum and Ho, the end is Hi). _Jean Ingelow_. THE PESSIMIST Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude. Nothing to breathe but air, Quick as a flash 'tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on. Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead. Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back. Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got; Thus thro' life we are cursed. Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes. _Ben King_. THE MODERN HIAWATHA He killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside, Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside. _Anonymous_. ON THE ROAD Said Folly to Wisdom, "Pray, where are we going?" Said Wisdom to Folly, "There's no way of knowing." Said Folly to Wisdom, "Then what shall we do?" Said Wisdom to Folly, "I thought to ask you." _Tudor Jenks_. UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM Uncle Simon he Clum up a tree To see what he could see When presentlee Uncle Jim Clum up beside of him And squatted down by he. _Artemus Ward_. POOR DEAR GRANDPAPA What is the matter with Grandpapa? What can the matter be? He's broken his leg in trying to spell Tommy without a T. _D' Arcy W. Thompson_. THE SEA-SERPENT All bones but yours will rattle when I say I'm the sea-serpent from America. Mayhap you've heard that I've been round the world; I guess I'm round it now, Mister, twice curled. Of all the monsters through the deep that splash, I'm "number one" to all immortal smash. When I lie down and would my length unroll, There ar'n't half room enough 'twixt pole and pole. In short, I grow so long that I've a notion I must be measured soon for a new ocean. _Planché_. MELANCHOLIA I am a peevish student, I; My star is gone from yonder sky. I think it went so high at first That it just went and gone and burst. _Anonymous_. THE MONKEY'S WEDDING The monkey married the Baboon's sister, Smacked his lips and then he kissed her, He kissed so hard he raised a blister. She set up a yell. The bridesmaid stuck on some court plaster, It stuck so fast it couldn't stick faster, Surely 't was a sad disaster, But it soon got well. What do you think the bride was dressed in? White gauze veil and a green glass breast-pin, Red kid shoes--she was quite interesting, She was quite a belle. The bridegroom swell'd with a blue shirt collar, Black silk stock that cost a dollar, Large false whiskers the fashion to follow; He cut a monstrous swell. What do you think they had for supper? Black-eyed peas and bread and butter, Ducks in the duck-house all in a flutter, Pickled oysters too. Chestnuts raw and boil'd and roasted, Apples sliced and onions toasted, Music in the corner posted, Waiting for the cue. What do you think was the tune they danced to? "The drunken Sailor"--sometimes "Jim Crow," Tails in the way--and some got pinched, too, 'Cause they were too long. What do you think they had for a fiddle? An old Banjo with a hole in the middle, A Tambourine made out of a riddle, And that's the end of my song. _Anonymous_. MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP Mr. Finney had a turnip And it grew and it grew, And it grew behind the barn, And that turnip did no harm. There it grew and it grew Till it could grow no longer; Then his daughter Lizzie picked it And put it in the cellar. There it lay and it lay Till it began to rot; And his daughter Susie took it And put it in the pot. And they boiled it and boiled it As long as they were able, And then his daughters took it And put it on the table. Mr. Finney and his wife They sat down to sup; And they ate and they ate And they ate that turnip up. _Anonymous_.. THE SUN The Sun, yon glorious orb of day, Ninety-four million miles away, Will keep revolving in its orbit Till heat and motion reabsorb it. _J. Davis_. THE AUTUMN LEAVES The Autumn leaves are falling, Are falling here and there. They're falling through the atmosphere And also through the air. _Anonymous_. IN THE NIGHT The night was growing old As she trudged through snow and sleet; Her nose was long and cold, And her shoes were full of feet. _Anonymous_. POOR BROTHER How very sad it is to think Our poor benighted brother Should have his head upon one end, His feet upon the other. _Anonymous_. _THE BOY_ Down through the snow-drifts in the street With blustering joy he steers; His rubber boots are full of feet And his tippet full of ears. _Eugene Field_. _THE SEA_ Behold the wonders of the mighty deep, Where crabs and lobsters learn to creep, And little fishes learn to swim, And clumsy sailors tumble in. _Anonymous_. _THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL_ There was a little girl, And she had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good She was very, very good, And when she was bad she was horrid. One day she went upstairs, When her parents, unawares, In the kitchen were occupied with meals And she stood upon her head In her little trundle-bed, And then began hooraying with her heels. Her mother heard the noise, And she thought it was the boys A-playing at a combat in the attic; But when she climbed the stair, And found Jemima there, She took and she did spank her most emphatic. _H. W. Longfellow_. FIN DE SIÈCLE The sorry world is sighing now; _La Grippe _is at the door; And many folks are dying now Who never died before. _Newton Mackintosh_. MARY JANE Mary Jane was a farmer's daughter, Mary Jane did what she oughter. She fell in love--but all in vain; Oh, poor Mary! oh, poor Jane! _Anonymous_. TENDER-HEARTEDNESS Little Willie, in the best of sashes, Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes. By and by the room grew chilly, But no one liked to poke up Willie. _Col. D. Streamer_. IMPETUOUS SAMUEL Sam had spirits naught could check, And to-day, at breakfast, he Broke his baby sister's neck, So he sha'n't have jam for tea! _Col. D. Streamer_. MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY Making toast at the fireside, Nurse fell in the grate and died; And, what makes it ten times worse, All the toast was burned with Nurse. _Col. D. Streamer_. AUNT ELIZA In the drinking-well (Which the plumber built her) Aunt Eliza fell,-- We must buy a filter. _Col. D. Streamer_. SUSAN Susan poisoned her grandmother's tea; Grandmamma died in agonee. Susan's papa was greatly vexed, And he said to Susan, "My dear, what next?" _Anonymous_. BABY AND MARY Baby sat on the window-seat; Mary pushed Baby into the street; Baby's brains were dashed out in the "arey"; And mother held up her forefinger at Mary. _Anonymous_. THE SUNBEAM I dined with a friend in the East, one day, Who had no window-sashes; A sunbeam through the window came And burnt his wife to ashes. "John, sweep your mistress away," said he, "And bring fresh wine for my friend and me." _Anonymous_. LITTLE WILLIE Little Willie hung his sister, She was dead before we missed her. "Willie's always up to tricks! Ain't he cute? He's only six!" _Anonymous_. MARY AMES Pity now poor Mary Ames, Blinded by her brother James; Red-hot nails in her eyes he poked,-- I never saw Mary more provoked. _Anonymous_. MUDDLED METAPHORS _By a Moore-ose Melodist_ Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes recede! I never loved a tree or flower That didn't trump its partner's lead. I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its dappled hide, But when it came to know me well, It fell upon the buttered side. I never taught a cockatoo To whistle comic songs profound, But, just when "Jolly Dogs" it knew, It failed for ninepence in the pound. I never reared a walrus cub In my aquarium to plunge, But, when it learned to love its tub, It placidly threw up the sponge! I never strove a metaphor To every bosom home to bring But--just as it had reached the door-- It went and cut a pigeon's wing! _Tom Hood, Jr_. VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES "_Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells_" Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? Suppose you duff? or nose and lag? Or get the straight, and land your pot? How do you melt the multy swag? Booze and the blowens cop the lot. Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; Or moskeneer, or flash the drag; Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag; Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; Rattle the tats, or mark the spot; You cannot bag a single stag; Booze and the blowens cop the lot. Suppose you try a different tack, And on the square you flash your flag? At penny-a-lining make your whack, Or with the mummers mug and gag? For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag! At any graft, no matter what, Your merry goblins soon stravag: Booze and the blowens cop the lot. THE MORAL It's up the spout and Charley Wag With wipes and tickers and what not Until the squeezer nips your scrag, Booze and the blowens cop the lot. _W. E. Henley_. ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART Blind Thamyris, and blind M. æonides, Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, To point a moral or adorn a tale. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, Like angels' visits, few and far between, Deck the long vista of departed years. Man never is, but always to be bless'd; The tenth transmitter of a foolish face, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest, And makes a sunshine in the shady place. For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled, To waft a feather or to drown a fly, (In wit a man, simplicity a child,) With silent finger pointing to the sky. But fools rush in where angels fear to tread, Far out amid the melancholy main; As when a vulture on Imaus bred, Dies of a rose in aromatic pain. _Laman Blanchard_. IMERICKS There was an old person of Ware Who rode on the back of a bear; When they said, "Does it trot?" He said: "Certainly not, It's a Moppsikon Floppsikon bear." There was an old person of Wick, Who said, "Tick-a-Tick, Tick-a-Tick, Chickabee, Chickabaw," And he said nothing more, This laconic old person of Wick. There was an old person of Woking, Whose mind was perverse and provoking; He sate on a rail, With his head in a pail, That illusive old person of Woking. There was once a man with a beard Who said, "It is just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren Have all built their nests in my beard." There was an old man of Thermopylae, Who never did anything properly; But they said: "If you choose To boil eggs in your shoes, You cannot remain in Thermopylae." There was an Old Man who said, "Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush!" When they said, "Is it small?" He replied, "Not at all; It is four times as big as the bush!" There was an Old Man who supposed That the street door was partially closed; But some very large Rats Ate his coats and his hats, While that futile Old Gentleman dozed. There was an Old Man of Leghorn, The smallest that ever was born; But quickly snapt up he Was once by a Puppy, Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn. There was an Old Man of Kamschatka Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur; His gait and his waddle Were held as a model To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka. _Edward Lear_. [_From books printed for the benefit of the New York Fair in aid of the Sanitary Commission_, 1864] There was a gay damsel of Lynn, Whose waist was so charmingly thin, The dressmaker needed A microscope--she did-- To fit this slim person of Lynn. There was a young lady of Milton, Who was highly disgusted with Stilton; When offered a bite, She said, "Not a mite!" That suggestive young lady of Milton. There was a dear lady of Eden, Who on apples was quite fond of feedin'; She gave one to Adam, Who said, "Thank you, Madam," And then both skedaddled from Eden. There was a young lady of Wales, Who wore her back hair in two tails; And a hat on her head That was striped black and red, And studded with ten-penny nails. There was an old man who said, "Do Tell me how I'm to add two and two? I'm not very sure That it doesn't make four-- But I fear that is almost too few." There once was a man who said, "How Shall I manage to carry my cow? For if I should ask it To get in my basket, 'Twould make such a terrible row." _Anonymous_. There once was an old man of Lyme Who married three wives at a time; When asked, "Why a third?" He replied, "One's absurd! And bigamy, sir, is a crime." There once was a person of Benin, Who wore clothes not fit to be seen in; When told that he shouldn't, He replied, "Gumscrumrudent!" A word of inscrutable meanin'. There once was a girl of New York Whose body was lighter than cork; She had to be fed For six weeks upon lead, Before she went out for a walk. _Cosmo Monkhouse_. There was a young man who was bitten By twenty-two cats and a kitten; Sighed he, "It is clear My finish is near; No matter; I'll die like a Briton!" There was a princess of Bengal, Whose mouth was exceedingly small; Said she, "It would be More easy for me To do without eating at all!" There was an old stupid who wrote The verses above that we quote; His want of all sense Was something immense, Which made him a person of note. _Walter Parke_. VERS NONSENSIQUES À Potsdam, les totaux absteneurs, Comme tant d'autres titotalleurs, Sont gloutons, omnivores, Nasorubicolores, Grands manchons, et terribles duffeurs. Un vieux due (le meilleur des époux) Demandait (en lui tâtant le pouls) À sa vielle duchesse (Qu'un vieux catarrhe oppresse):-- "Et ton thé, t'a-t-il ôté ta toux?" II naquit près de Choisy-le-Roi; Le Latin lui causait de l'effroi; Et les Mathématiques Lui donnaient des coliques, Et le Grec l'enrhûmait. Ce fut moi. Il etait un gendarme, à Nanteuil, Qui n'avait qu'une dent et qu'un oeil; Mais cet oeil solitaire Etait plein de mystère; Cette dent, d'importance et d'orgueil. "Cassez-vous, cassez-vous, cassez-vous, O mer, sur vos froids gris calloux!" Ainsi traduisit Laure Au profit d'Isadore (Bon jeune homme, at son futur epoux.) Un marin naufrage (de Doncastre) Pour prière, an milieu du désastre Répétait à genoux Ces mots simples et doux:-- "Scintillez, scintillez, petit astre!" _George du Maurier_. * * * * * There was a young man of Cohoes, Wore tar on the end of his nose; When asked why he done it, He said for the fun it Afforded the men of Cohoes. _Robert J. Burdette_. * * * * * I'd rather have habits than clothes, For that's where my intellect shows. And as for my hair, Do you think I should care To comb it at night with my toes? I'd rather have ears than a nose, I'd rather have fingers than toes, But as for my hair: I'm glad it's all there; I'll be awfully sad when it goes. I wish that my Room had a Floor; I don't so much care for a Door, But this walking around Without touching the ground Is getting to be quite a bore! _Gelett Burgess_. H was an indigent Hen, Who picked up a corn now and then; She had but one leg On which she could peg, And behind her left ear was a wen. _Bruce Porter_. Cleopatra, who thought they maligned her, Resolved to reform and be kinder; "If, when pettish," she said, "I should knock off your head, Won't you give me some gentle reminder?" _Newton Mackintosh_. When that Seint George hadde sleyne ye draggon, He sate him down furninst a flaggon; And, wit ye well, Within a spell He had a bien plaisaunt jag on. _Anonymous_. There was a young lady of Niger Who smiled as she rode on a Tiger; They came back from the ride With the lady inside, And the smile on the face of the Tiger. _Anonymous_. There was a young maid who said, "Why Can't I look in my ear with my eye? If I give my mind to it, I'm sure I can do it, You never can tell till you try." _Anonymous_. INDEX OF TITLES ABSTEMIA _Gelett Burgess_ Abstrosophy _Gelett Burgess_ Aestivation _O. W. Holmes_ Ahkond of Swat, The _Edward Lear_ Alone As with my Hat upon my Head _Dr. Johnson_ Auld Wife, The _C. S. Calverley_ Aunt Eliza _Col. D. Streamer_ Autumn Leaves, The BABY AND MARY Ballade of the Nurserie _John Twig_ Ballad of Bedlam Ballad of High Endeavor, A Ballad with an Ancient Refrain Bison, The _Hilaire Relloc_ Bloated Biggaboon, The _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_ Blue Moonshine _Francis G. Stokes_ Boy, The _Eugene Field_ Bulbul, The _Owen Seaman_ Buz, quoth the Blue Fly _Ben Jonson_ CENTIPEDE, A Chimpanzee, The _Oliver Herford_ Chronicle, A Classic Ode, A _Charles Battell Loomis_ Cobbe's Prophecies Cock and the Bull, The _C. S. Calverley_ Collusion between a Alegaiter and a Water-Snaik _J. W. Morris_ Companions _C. S. Calverley_ Cossimbazar _Henry S. Leigh_ Cow, The _Oliver Herford_ Cruise of the "P. C.", The Cumberbunce, The _Paul West_ DARWINITY _Herman Merivale_ Dinkey-Bird, The _Eugene Field_ Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal _George T. Lanigan_ ELDERLY GENTLEMAN, THE _George Canning_ Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog _Oliver Goldsmith_ Elegy on Madam Blaize _Oliver Goldsmith_ FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY _Thomas Hood_ Famous Ballad of the Jubilee Cup, The _A. T. Stiller-Couch_ Father William Ferdinando and Elvira _W. S. Gilbert_ Fin de Siecle _Newton Mackintosh_ Flamingo, The _Lewis Gaylord Clark_ Forcing a Way Frangipanni Frog, The _Hilaire Belloc_ GENERAL JOHN _W. S. Gilbert_ Gentle Alice Brown _W. S. Gilbert_ Great Man, A _Oliver Goldsmith_ Guinea Pig, The HEN, THE _Oliver Herford_ Her Dairy _Peter Newell_ Here is the Tale _Anthony C. Deane_ Her Polka Dots _Peter Newell_ Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell, The _A. C. Swinburne_ Hippopotamus, The _Oliver Herford_ Holiday Task, A _Gilbert Abbott a Becket_ Hunting of the Snark, The _Lewis Carroll_ Hyder iddle diddle dell Hymn to the Sunrise IF If Half the Road If a Man who Turnips Cries _Dr. Johnson_ I Love to Stand Imitation of Wordsworth _Catharine M. Fanshawe_ Impetuous Samuel _Col. D. Streamer_ Incidents in the Life of my Uncle Arly _Edward Lear_ Indifference In Immemorian _Cuthbert Bede_ In the Dumps In the Gloaming _James C. Bayles_ In the Night Invisible Bridge, The _Gelett Burgess_ JABBERWOCKY _Lewis Carroll_ John Jones _A. C. Swinburne_ Jumblies, The _Edward Lear_ KEN YE AUGHT O' CAPTAIN GROSE _Robert Burns_ Kindness to Animals _J. Ashby-Sterry_ King Arthur LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE, YE _Henry A. Beers_ Lazy Roof, The _Gelett Burgess_ Like to the Thundering Tone _Bishop Corbet_ LIMERICKS: Cleopatra, who thought they maligned her _Newton Mackintosh_ H was an indigent H _Bruce Porter_ I'd rather have habits than clothes _Gelett Burgess_ I wish that my room had a door _Gelett Burgess_ There once was a girl of New York _Cosmo Monkhouse_ There once was a man who said "How" There once was an old man of Lyme _Cosmo Monkhouse_ There once was a person of Benin _Cosmo Monkhouse_ There was a dear lady of Eden There was a gay damsel of Lynn There was an old man in a tree _Edward Lear_ There was an Old Man of Kamschatka _Edward Lear_ There was an Old Man of Leghorn _Edward Lear_ There was an old man of St. Bees _W. S. Gilbert_ There was an old man of Thermopylae _Edward Lear_ There was an old man who said "Do" There was an Old Man who said "Hush" _Edward Lear_ There was an Old Man who supposed _Edward Lear_ There was an old person of Ware _Edward Lear_ There was an old person of Wick _Edward Lear_ There was an old person of Woking _Edward Lear_ There was an old stupid who wrote _Walter Parke_ There was once a man with a beard _Edward Lear_ There was a princess of Bengal _Walter Parke_ There was a small boy of Quebec _Rudyard Kipling_ There was a young lady of Milton There was a young lady of Niger There was a young lady of Wales There was a young maid who said "Why" There was a young man at St. Kitts There was a young man of Cohoes _Robert J. Burdette_ There was a young man who was bitten _Walter Parke_ Vers Nonsensiques _George du Maurier_ When that Seint George hadde sleyne ye dragon Lines by a Fond Lover Lines by a Medium Lines by a Person of Quality _Alexander Pope_ Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon Lines to a Young Lady _Edward Lear_ Little Billee _W.M. Thackeray_ Little Peach, The Little Willie Lobster wooed a Lady Crab, A Lovers and a Reflection _C.S. Calverley_ Love Song by a Lunatic Lugubrious Whing-Whang, The _James W. Riley_ Lunar Stanzas _H.C. Knight_ MALUM OPUS _J. Appleton Morgan_ Man in the Moon, The _James W. Riley_ Martin Luther at Potsdam _Barry Pain_ Martin to his Man Mary Ames Mary Jane Master and Man Mayor of Scuttleton, The _Mary Mapes Dodge_ Melancholia Metaphysics _Oliver Herford_ Minnie and Winnie _Lord Tennyson_ Misfortunes _Col. D. Streamer_ Mr. Finney's Turnip Modern Hiawatha, The Monkey's Glue, The _Goldwin Goldsmith_ Monkey's Wedding The Monsieur McGinté Moon is up, The Moorlands of the Not Mors Iabrochii Muddled Metaphors _Tom Hood, Jr_. My Dream My Feet _Gelett Burgess_ My Home My Recollectest Thoughts _Charles E. Carryl_ Nephelidia _A. C. Swinburne_ Noble Tuckman, The _Jean Ingelow_ Nonsense Nonsense _Thomas Moore_ Nonsense Verses _Charles Lamb_ Not I _R.L. Stevenson_ Nyum-Nyum, The Ocean Wanderer, The Odd to a Krokis Ode to the Human Heart _Laman Blanchard_ Of Baiting the Lion _Owen Seaman_ Oh, my Geraldine _F.C. Burnand_ Oh, Weary Mother _Barry Pain_ On the Oxford Carrier _John Milton_ On the Road _Tudor Jenks_ Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The _Edward Lear_ PANTHER, THE Parson Gray _Oliver Goldsmith_ Parterre, The _E. H. Palmer_ Personified Sentimental, The _Bret Harte_ Pessimist, The _Ben King_ Platypus, The _Oliver Herford_ Pobble who has no Toes, The _Edward Lear_ Poor Brother Poor Dear Grandpapa _D'Arcy W. Thompson_ Psycholophon _Gelett Burgess_ Puer ex Jersey Purple Cow, The _Gelett Burgess_ Python, The _Hilaire Belloc_ QUATRAIN RIDDLE, A Rollicking Mastodon, The _Arthur Macy_ Russian and Turk SAGE COUNSEL _A. T. Quiller-Couch_ Sailor's Yarn, A _James Jeffrey Roche_ Sea, The Sea-Serpent, The _Planché_ She's All my Fancy Painted Him _Lewis Carroll_ She Went into the Garden _S. Foote_ Shipwreck, The _E. H. Palmer_ Silver Question, The _Oliver Herford_ Sing for the Garish Eye _W. S. Gilbert _ Singular Sangfroid of Baby Bunting, The _Guy W. Carryl_ Some Geese _Oliver Herford_ Some Verses to Snaix Song of Impossibilities _William M. Praed_ Song of the Screw, The Song on King William III Sonnet Found in a Deserted Madhouse Sorrows of Werther, The _W. M. Thackeray_ Spirk Troll-Derisive _James W. Riley_ Story of Cruel Psamtek, The Story of Prince Agib, The _W. S. Gilbert_ Story of Pyramid Thothmes Story of the Wild Huntsman _Heinrich Hoffman_ Sun, The _J. Davis_ Sunbeam, The Superior Nonsense Verses Susan Swiss Air _Bret Harte_ Sylvie and Bruno _Lewis Carroll_ Tender-Heartedness _Col. D. Streamer_ Tender Infant, The _Dr. Johnson_ There was a Frog There was a Little Girl _H. W. Longfellow_ There was a Monkey Three Acres of Land Three Children Three Jovial Huntsmen Threnody _George T. Lanigan_ Thy Heart Timid Hortense _Peter Newell_ Timon of Archimedes _Charles Battell Loomis_ 'Tis Midnight and the Setting Sun 'Tis Sweet to Roam To Marie To Mollidusta _Planché_ Transcendentalism Trust in Women Turvey Top Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee Uffia _Harriet R. White_ Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim _Artemui Ward_ Unsuspected Fact, An _Edward Cannon_ Uprising See the Fitful Lark Villon's Straight Tip _W. E. Henley_ Walloping Window-Blind, The _Charles E. Carryl_ Walrus and the Carpenter, The _Lewis Carroll_ Ways and Means _Lewis Carroll_ Whango Tree, The What the Prince of I Dreamt _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_ When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas _W.M. Thackeray_ Where Avalanches Wail Wild Flowers _Peter Newell_ Wonderful Old Man, The Wreck of the "Julie Plante" _W.H. Drummond_ Yak, The _Hilaire Belloc_ Yonghy-Bonghy-BO, The _Edward Lear_ INDEX OF AUTHORS À BECKET, GILBERT ABBOTT A Holiday Task ASHBY-STERRY, J. Kindness to Animals BAYLES, JAMES C. In the Gloaming BEDE, CUTHBERT In Immemoriam BEERS, HENRY A. Ye Laye of ye Woodpeckore BELLOC, HILAIRE The Bison The Frog The Python The Yak BLANCHARD, LAMAN Ode to the Human Heart BURDETTE, ROBERT J. Limerick BURGESS, GELETT Abstemia Abstrosophy The Invisible Bridge The Lazy Roof Limericks My Feet Psycholophon The Purple Cow BURNAND, F. C. Oh, my Geraldine BURNS, ROBERT Ken ye Aught o' Captain Grose? CALVERLEY, CHARLES S. The Auld Wife The Cock and the Bull Companions Lovers and a Reflection CANNING, GEORGE The Elderly Gentleman CANNON, EDWARD An Unsuspected Fact CARROLL, LEWIS The Hunting of the Snark Jabberwocky She's All my Fancy Painted Him Sylvie and Bruno The Walrus and the Carpenter Ways and Means CARRYL, CHARLES E. My Recollectest Thoughts The Walloping Window-Blind CARRYL, GUY WETMORE The Singular Sangfroid of Baby Bunting CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL, H. The Bloated Biggaboon What the Prince of I Dreamt CLARK, LEWIS GAYLORD The Flamingo CORBET, BISHOP Like to the Thundering Tone DAVIS, J. The Sun DEANE, ANTHONY C. Here is the Tale DODGE, MARY MAPES The Mayor of Scuttleton DRUMMOND, W.H. Wreck of the "Julie Plante," The DU MAURIER, GEORGE Vers Nonsensiques FANSHAWE, CATHARINE M. Imitation of Wordsworth FIELD, EUGENE The Boy The Dinkey Bird FOOTE, S. Farrago of Nonsense GILBERT, W.S. Ferdinando and Elvira General John Gentle Alice Brown Sing for the Garish Eye The Story of Prince Agib There was an Old Man of St. Bees GOLDSMITH, GOLDWIN The Monkey's Glue GOLDSMITH, OLIVER Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog Elegy on Madam Blaize A Great Man Parson Gray HARTE, BRET The Personified Sentimental Swiss Air HENLEY, W.E. Villon's Straight Tip HERFORD, OLIVER. The Chimpanzee The Cow The Hen The Hippopotamus Metaphysics The Platypus The Silver Question Some Geese HOFFMAN, HEINRICH The Story of the Wild Huntsman HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL Æstivation HOOD, THOMAS Faithless Nelly Gray HOOD, THOMAS, JR. Muddled Metaphors INGELOW, JEAN The Noble Tuckman JENKS, TUDOR On the Road JOHNSON, SAMUEL As with my Hat If a Man who Turnips Cries The Tender Infant JONSON, BEN Buz, quoth the Blue Fly KING, BEN The Pessimist KIPLING, RUDYARD Limerick KNIGHT, HENRY C. Lunar Stanzas LAMB, CHARLES Nonsense Verses LANIGAN, GEORGE T. Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal A Threnody LEAR, EDWARD The Ahkond of Swat Incidents in the Life of my Uncle Arly The Jumblies Limericks Lines to a Young Lady The Owl and the Pussy-Cat The Pobble There was an Old Man in a Tree The Yonghy-Bonghy-BO LEIGH, HENRY S. Cossimbazar LONGFELLOW, H.W. There was a Little Girl LOOMIS, CHARLES BATTELL A Classic Ode Timon of Archimedes MACKINTOSH, NEWTON Fin de Siècle Limerick MACY, ARTHUR The Rollicking Mastodon MERIVALE, HERMAN Darwinity MILTON, JOHN On the Oxford Carrier MONKHOUSE, COSMO Limericks MOORE, THOMAS Nonsense MORGAN, JAMES APPLETON Malum Opus MORRIS, J. W. Collusion between a Alegaiter and a Water-Snaik NEWELL, PETER Her Dairy Her Polka Dots Timid Hortense Wild Flowers PAIN, BARRY Martin Luther at Potsdam Oh, Weary Mother PALMER, E. H. The Parterre The Shipwreck PARKE, WALTER Limericks PLANCHÉ The Sea-Serpent To Mollidusta POPE, ALEXANDER Lines by a Person of Quality PORTER, BRUCE Limerick PRAED, W. M. Song of Impossibilities QUILLER-COUCH, A. T. The Famous Ballad of the Jubilee Cup Sage Counsel RILEY, JAMES W. The Lugubrious Whing-Whang The Man in the Moon Spirk Troll-Derisive ROCHE, JAMES JEFFREY A Sailor's Yarn SEAMAN, OWEN The Bulbul Of Baiting the Lion STEVENSON, R. L. Not I STOKES, FRANCIS G. Blue Moonshine STREAMER, COL. D. Aunt Eliza Impetuous Samuel STREAMER, COL. D.--_Continued_ Misfortunes Tender-Heartedness SWINBURNE, A. C. The Higher Pantheism John Jones Nephelidia TENNYSON, LORD Minnie and Winnie THACKERAY, W.M. Little Billee The Sorrows of Werther When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas THOMPSON, D'ARCY W. Poor Dear Grandpapa TWIG, JOHN Ballade of the Nurserie WARD, ARTEMUS Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim WEST, PAUL The Cumberbunce WHITE, HARRIET R. Uffia