LIBRARY OF.CONGRESS. 
 
 ^rj^^ 
 
 Cliap.\.-^-. Copyright No, 
 
 Shelfii_l5_. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE ACROBATIC MUSE 
 
/ 
 
 RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK 
 THE 
 
 ACROBATIC MUSE 
 
 CHICAGO ^^'"^ 
 
 WAY AND WILLIAMS \5^^ 
 
 1897 
 
 K. 
 

 COPYRIGHT 
 
 By way and WILLIAMS 
 
 MDCCCXCVI 
 
TO 
 
 CAMERON MUNKITTRICK 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Songs of Summer ... - - g 
 
 En Voyage - 25 
 
 To Miguel De Cervantes Saavadra - - 27 
 
 My Garden 28 
 
 Winter Dusk ...--- 31 
 
 The Vain Mountain - . . - 32 
 
 A Fireside Dream 34 
 
 Unsatisfied Yearning ... - 36 
 
 Under the Influence of Coffee - - - 37 
 
 A Legend ------ 39 
 
 To the Christmas Goose - - - - 41 
 
 A Critic's Complaint - - - - 46 
 
 What's in a Name? 47 
 
 October -..---- 49 
 5 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ballade of the Rural Prospectus - - 51 
 
 To the Editor of Puck - - - - 53 
 
 My Pleasant Settle ----- 56 
 
 The M.D.'s Songful Soliloquy - - 59 
 
 A Flower Fancy 62 
 
 "To Puck" ------ 63 
 
 To the Poet of the Garden - - - 65 
 
 Put to Sleep 67 
 
 At Uewy Morn 68 
 
 At Last 71 
 
 At the Shrine - 73 
 
 Fame 74 
 
 A Critic on Nature 75 
 
 Ballade of the Declining Year - - ^^ 
 
 Dawn 79 
 
 Reciprocity ------ 80 
 
 A Clergyman on June - - - - 84 
 
 The Jolly Plumber - - . 86 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To a Certain Kind of Poet - - - 91 
 
 An Old Beau 94 
 
 The Beetle 96 
 
 Ballade of the Tea Cigarette - - 98 
 
 My Chickens ------ 100 
 
 The Poets of Printing House Square - 103 
 
 The Wunk 107 
 
 An Epitaph ------ 109 
 
 Mastery - - no 
 
 The Joys of Rural Life - - - - m 
 
 In Defence of the Advertising Muse - - 114 
 
 Strawberries 116 
 
 A Dirge 118 
 
 At 8:30 P.M.- ----- 120 
 
 But - - 122 
 
 Through Garden and Meadow - - 124 
 
 A Summer Memory 126 
 
 The Academic Kitchen . - - - 130 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGS 
 
 Sea Dreams in the City - - - - 135 
 
 A Rosary of Antique Gems - - - 138 
 
 Ballade of Triumphant Time - - - 143 
 
 IMITATIONS. 
 
 Morning 147 
 
 Hollyhocks 149 
 
 The Fruit Peddler - - - - - 151 
 
 To a Virtuous Vender .... 15^ 
 
 To At Campobello • - - 158 
 
 A Dog Day Jingle 159 
 
 A Dream 163 
 
 The Sun 165 
 
 The Sleepy Day 166 
 
 My Ship .--...- 167 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! It 
 
 is here, a golden boon, 
 And the lily is besilvered by the tresses 
 
 of the moon. 
 Oh! the rosebud's fondly dreaming on 
 
 the dainty garden tree. 
 And the butterfly is drifting o'er the 
 
 meadow with the bee. 
 Oh! the fleecy cloudship's anchored in 
 
 the peaceful sapphire sky, 
 And the zephyr through the kitchen 
 steals across the cherry pie. 
 And the beer we gayly guzzle 
 
 As along the way we jog, 
 For the bloom is on the muzzle 
 And the muzzle's on the dog. 
 9 
 
lO SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! It 
 
 has come on pinions free, 
 And the populace is flying to the moun- 
 tain and the sea. 
 Now the bathing suit is flapping like a 
 
 banner overhead. 
 Where the lemonade of commerce is a 
 
 symphony in red. 
 Oh! it's now upon the bluefish and the 
 
 lobster that we dine, 
 While Myrtilla is cavorting like a siren in 
 
 the brine. 
 
 All the earth is perfume laden — 
 
 All the earth's a flower bed, 
 For the bloom is on the maiden 
 And the maiden's on the wed. 
 
 Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! Now 
 
 the mermaid is employed 
 Doing up her hair in papers in her cave 
 
 of celluloid. 
 Now the Coney Island Sausage glows 
 
 within the carven bun 
 And the baseball player's sliding on his 
 
 nose to make a run. 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. n 
 
 Nature in her flowered tunic is serenely- 
 beautiful, 
 While the horsefly knocks the glamour 
 off the visions of the bull. 
 And the locust like a rattail 
 
 File is rasping loud and flat, 
 
 For the bloom is on the cattail 
 
 And the cattail's on the cat. 
 
 Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! 'tis 
 
 a season short and sweet; 
 'Tis a span of rippling sunshine from its 
 
 head unto its feet. 
 'Tis a time for golf and tennis, when the 
 
 orchards richly glow. 
 And the blazer brightly blazes on Susan- 
 na, don't you know? 
 When upon the fiz's bosom drifts a berry 
 
 red and ripe. 
 And we hear the birds with rapture in 
 the woodland madly pipe. 
 Then we know life's not a mock tale 
 As we drift, neath Fortune's star, 
 When the bloom is on the cocktail 
 And the cocktail's on the bar. 
 
12 SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, the hot wave is a melter, 
 
 And it makes us swoon and swelter 
 
 While we hustle helter-skelter 
 
 Through the city's rat-tat-tat! 
 And the cambric handkerchieflet 
 Won't assuage our greasy grieflet, 
 Though assisted by the leaflet 
 
 Of the cabbage in the hat. 
 
 Oh, the hot wave now is booming, 
 And the atmosphere's simooming, 
 While old Sirius is looming, 
 
 And the ice man is on top. 
 While the perspiration's dropping 
 From the brows we're madly mopping- 
 On the ear the corn is popping 
 
 With a populistic pop. 
 
 Oh, the poodle's melancholic, 
 And he cannot frisk and frolic, 
 For upon the parabolic 
 
 Now the lasso wildly tears. 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. 13 
 
 And the vendor's shirt front sunders 
 While he eloquently thunders 
 Of the marvels and the wonders 
 Of his meretricious wares. 
 
 Now the vitreous mosquito, 
 With the bill no man can veto — 
 Yea, from Dan to Sausalito, 
 
 On our nasal's rapture pent — 
 Oh, this diabolic hummer, 
 Of a rumpty-tumpty tummer. 
 Simply means this is the summer 
 
 Of our disconcircustent. 
 
 Oh, we're yearning for the beaches. 
 Where the seagull wildly screeches, 
 And no bloated curbstone peaches 
 
 Full of typhoid wake our wrath. 
 Where the beaker, ripe and rosy. 
 Gilds each fancy like a posy. 
 And we make the waiter "mosey" 
 
 For a blooming aftermath. 
 
 Oh, it's while we thus are dreaming 
 Of the siren on us beaming, 
 
H SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 And her golden ringlets gleaming 
 
 On the billow rolling high 
 That beneath the "incandescent,' 
 We perform the grind incessant 
 For the shekels evanescent, 
 To assure our daily pie. 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. 15 
 
 III. 
 
 When the pie is on the fly, 
 And the fly is on the pie, 
 Oh, the fairy 
 Of the dairy 
 Doth the custard shyly shy 
 Down the counter with a movement 
 That is quite a great improvement 
 On the action of the waiter-man who 
 
 makes your spirits droop 
 When he boomerangs the checklet till it 
 circles in your soup. 
 
 Oh, she blossoms in a blush 
 
 That's as lovely as the dawn 
 When she smiles upon the mush 
 
 And the crullers and suppawn. 
 When she grabs the shining spoon 
 
 And instanter, like a shot, 
 Stirs the unsuspecting prune 
 
 And the guileless apricot. 
 
l6 SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 Oh, she is a living dream 
 When she serves the red ice cream, 
 While the band discourses Wagner for 
 
 the highly cultured ear 
 And its owner makes the doughnut and 
 
 the baked bean disappear; 
 Oh, she hums a merry ditty while she 
 
 flips the blazing tart 
 Like a quoit across the counter with a 
 light and dainty art. 
 But she knows that indigestion 
 Is of time a simple question 
 With the man who eats those dishes by 
 machinery swiftly made; 
 But his soul doth she environ 
 With the songlet of the siren 
 And he daily doth the dairy in his reck- 
 lessness invade. 
 
 Oh, beware the sandwich siren 
 Who's a huckleberry pie-ren. 
 
 Avoid the mush 
 
 That with her blush 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. 17 
 
 Is gaily gilded o'er, 
 Or you'll straightway 
 Through life's gateway 
 Fly unto the Golden Hence, 
 Where upon your happy harplet you will 
 
 suddenly commence 
 To discourse those merry measures so 
 
 mellifluently sweet 
 That accompanied the cruller which you 
 gulped on Nassau street — 
 While the fairy 
 Of the dairy 
 
 In a manner light and airy 
 Smiled a smile that fairly thrilled you 
 from your hatband to your feet. 
 
1 8 SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, the swish and the swash of the blue 
 summer sea 
 
 Is the music of music that ripples 
 through me. 
 Oh, I list to its saline soblet 
 
 As the blue gulls about me skim, 
 And I'm certain my mental goblet 
 Is full to the fragile brim. 
 
 As I flounder about on the crest of the 
 wave 
 
 While it rolls o'er the mermaiden's mus- 
 ical cave. 
 
 Oh, the wave with the symphony swirl 
 
 on it, 
 And the glamor of glimmering pearl 
 
 on it, 
 
 And the tresses of red 
 
 All attached to the head 
 Of the lithe Summer, blithe Summer girl 
 
 on it! 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. 19 
 
 Oh, the cloudland I note 
 
 As I tumble and toss 
 On the billow afloat 
 
 Like the swift albatross; 
 On a fairyland shore 
 
 With red lilies abeam, 
 Amid houris galore 
 
 Do I linger and dream. 
 
 Of the bough with the blossom of pink 
 
 on it, 
 Of the twig with the gay bobolink on it, 
 
 And a fair witching face. 
 
 With its dimples of grace 
 And the bar with the ripe rosy drink on 
 
 it. 
 
 Oh, these are the visions that people my 
 brain 
 As I turn somersaults in the riotous sea, 
 As I caper about on the wind-rippled 
 main, 
 While I duck 'neath the shaft of the 
 swift stingaree. 
 
20 SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 Oh, I think of the city's sizzle 
 
 And the roast, and the fry, and the 
 
 frizzle, 
 With not a cool raindrop to drizzle; 
 Where the gin fiz is now a gin fizzle. 
 
 Aloft upon the breaker 
 
 I lose all sense of care 
 While I'm thumping, 
 And a-bumping 
 
 Most serenely here and there. 
 Out of happy dreams a waker 
 
 From the wave I now emerge, 
 And I listen to the rumpty 
 Tumpty tumpty 
 Of the surge. 
 And I make a line instanter 
 For the arabesque decanter. 
 Yes, I fly on a straight Indian arrow line, 
 On a bee line, and not on a sparrow line ; 
 And I gather the drink 
 From the plump, peachy pink 
 Little hand of my own little Caroline. 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. 21 
 
 And it's then that I fly, like a gull, fancy 
 
 free, 
 To the table where glimmers the gem of 
 
 the sea. 
 Oh, it's there, with a heart full of joy, I 
 
 salaam 
 To the fish-ball's twin sister, the fragrant 
 
 fried clam. 
 
22 SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 V. 
 
 Now the billow's caracoling 
 
 'Neath the cloudless Summer sky, 
 And upon the sand I'm rolling 
 That I may not roast or fry, 
 And I note a gentle pathos on the throb- 
 bing, bobbing sea, 
 Where the devilled crab and fishball are 
 
 disporting fancy free. 
 And the white sail in the distance in the 
 
 sunshine brightly beams, 
 And the fairyland about me is a fairy- 
 land of dreams; 
 Where the gull on happy winglet 
 
 At the ocean makes a dip, 
 While his dingaling a linglet 
 
 Madly ripples with a rip. 
 And he nabs the napping fishlet down 
 his inner gull, to slip. 
 
 Like the clumsy armadillo 
 I am dreaming on apace, 
 
SONGS OF SUMMER. 23 
 
 With my knuckles for a pillow 
 At my brainlet's second base. 
 Oh, my heels I'm gaily kicking in the air 
 
 in childish glee, 
 For these happy golden moments will 
 
 return no more to me. 
 They are fleeting, they are flitting to a 
 
 realm of yester-years. 
 Where the ghosts of youth are winging 
 on a sea of vanished beers; 
 And I'm in Joy's airy limbo. 
 
 Where I know a gracious host. 
 While the soft crab glows akimbo 
 
 On the bosom of the toast, 
 Which is just the sort of background 
 that it beautifies the most. 
 
 Oh, the shale is on the shingle. 
 
 And the shingle's on the shale, 
 And the bathers troop and mingle 
 Where the porpoise wags his tail. 
 And I'm in a seventh heaven, on the sand 
 so blazing hot, 
 
24 SONGS OF SUMMER. 
 
 For the clam is in the chowder, and the 
 
 chowder's in the pot; 
 And upon the sea of pleasure Fancy 
 
 spreads her glowing sail, 
 While the sea puss with a sea mew's on 
 the lobster's scarlet trail, 
 And my fingers like a rat trap 
 
 Do I close in fiendish glee 
 On the diabolic satrap 
 
 Of a bridled stingaree, 
 Which is all I know of Summer by the 
 margin of the sea. 
 
EN VOYAGE. 
 
 In the shadows coldly flitting, 
 
 Solemn as the tomb, 
 Charon in his boat was sitting. 
 
 Wrapt in ashen gloom. 
 
 Through the gray shades softly groping 
 Round the shore he steered; 
 
 For a pilgrim fondly hoping, 
 In the mist he peered. 
 
 Soon a youth both tall and stately 
 
 Did the oarsman greet; 
 Said he was at Harvard lately, 
 
 As he took a seat. 
 
 Charon saw him sigh and shiver 
 
 On those murky shores, 
 While he pushed out in the river 
 
 And resumed his oars. 
 
 25 
 
26 EN VOYAGE. 
 
 In the silence all unbroken, 
 
 Desolate, supreme, 
 Not a syllable was spoken — 
 
 All was like a dream. 
 
 Through the leagues of gray unending, 
 
 Still the pilgrim lone 
 At the oars watched Charon bending 
 
 For the great unknown. 
 
 Charon swaying backward, forward. 
 
 Onward urged his bark, 
 And was moving surely shoreward 
 
 O'er the current dark. 
 
 Then the pilgrim wan and weary. 
 
 Broke the mystic spell. 
 When his accents faint and dreary, 
 
 On the waters fell. 
 
 And to day 't is not known whether 
 
 Charon made reply. 
 When the student said: "You feather 
 
 Just a bit too high!" 
 
TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES 
 SAAVADRA. 
 
 A bluebird lives in yonder tree, 
 
 Likewise a little chickadee, 
 
 In two woodpecker's nests — rent free! 
 
 There, where the weeping willow weeps, 
 A dainty housewren sweetly cheeps — 
 From an old oriole's nest she peeps. 
 I see the English sparrow tilt 
 Upon the limb with sun begilt — 
 His nest an ancient swallow built. 
 
 So it was one of your old jests. 
 Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests 
 *'There are no birds in last year's nests?" 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 RoxBURY, N. Y., August 10, 1883. 
 Dear Sir: Vows of the 2d has but just reached 
 me. The bluebird often builds in the cavity of an 
 old woodpecker' s nest, so does the chickadee, so does 
 the nuthatch. The houseivren will sometimes ft 
 Mp an old oriole' s nest. The English sparrow will 
 appropriate an old swallow's nest. I can think of 
 no others just now. Truly yours, 
 Mr. R. K. Munkittrick. John Burroughs. 
 
 27 
 
MY GARDEN. 
 
 I have twelve pretty garden beds 
 
 Where green things greenly blow; 
 Where, soldierlike, the cabbage heads 
 
 Are ranged in many a row; 
 Where radishes and sugar beets, 
 
 By pearly showers nurst. 
 With peas and other garden sweets 
 
 Upon my vision burst. 
 
 I often pause and fondly muse 
 Upon these sprouts galore ; 
 
 But all the garden truck we use 
 I purchase at the store. 
 
 It's pleasant, in my slippered feet, 
 When smiles the rosy morn, 
 
 To linger at the garden seat 
 And watch the bannered corn; 
 28 
 
MY GARDEN. 29 
 
 To note within the rustling tree 
 
 The merry piping wrens, 
 And from my egg-plants, blowing free, 
 
 To chase my neighbor's hens. 
 
 Then to the grocer, smiling gay, 
 
 I say in tones polite: 
 "Oh bring two cans of peas, I pray. 
 
 And three of corn to-night!' 
 
 When through the air as sweet as wine 
 
 The gold bees swiftly flash, 
 I love to linger on my spine 
 
 And watch the succotash; 
 I never handle, e'en in play. 
 
 The spade, or rake, or fork; 
 I never work when I can pay 
 
 The gentleman from Cork. 
 
 It is a garden for the eye 
 
 That every passer scans. 
 My fruitful garden I must buy 
 
 All ready-made in cans. 
 
30 MY GARDEN. 
 
 My garden is a spot serene 
 
 Where blows the crimson rose, 
 And apples drop from branches green 
 
 To dislocate my nose. 
 I love to watch the butterfly 
 
 Tilt on the flower cup, 
 But when my garden bright I spy 
 
 On paper figured up — 
 
 And how I buy store beets and peas 
 I have to shout '"T would not 
 
 Cost half as much upon the seas 
 To sail a pleasure yacht!" 
 
WINTER DUSK. 
 
 The prospect is bare and white, 
 And the air is crisp and chill; 
 
 While the ebon wings of night 
 Are spread on the distant hill. 
 
 The roar of the stormy sea 
 
 Seem the dirges shrill and sharp 
 
 That winter plays on the tree — 
 His wild Aeolian harp. 
 
 In the pool that darkly creeps 
 In ripples before the gale, 
 
 A star like a lily sleeps, 
 And wiggles its silver tail. 
 
 31 
 
THE VAIN MOUNTAIN. 
 
 There once was a small, respectable 
 mount, 
 
 That considered itself a wonder; 
 The sea it imagined of no account. 
 
 And it kindly smiled at the thunder. 
 
 It would laugh to itself, and softly say: 
 
 "Those clouds, in the distance looming, 
 Remind me of smoke-flowers light and 
 gay 
 'Round the pipe of some Dutchman 
 blooming. 
 
 *'The stars are a handful of third-rate 
 gems. 
 And the blue sky is only a flagon; 
 The forest's a tangle of whining stems. 
 And the moon's the wheel of a wagon. 
 32 
 
THE VAIN MOUNTAIN. 33 
 
 *'The moon and the sun a chance afford 
 
 For the game of philopena; 
 And the grandest cyclone that ever 
 roared 
 
 Is a petulant concertina. 
 
 "But I — I am sure, I am wildly grand, 
 I'm majestic, and I'm stately; 
 
 My sublimity well I understand. 
 And enjoy my greatness greatly. " 
 
 And then did a low, self-satisfied laugh 
 From the mountain begin to sally — 
 
 When an earthquake suddenly split it in 
 half 
 And turned it into a valley 
 
A FIRESIDE DREAM. 
 
 The sky is growing bleak and gray; 
 
 The dead leaves tremble on the bough; 
 The geese are flying south away — 
 
 The quail is in the market now. 
 Flown are the humming bird and bee; 
 A snowflake wanders in the lea. 
 
 So I will draw an easy chair, 
 
 And place my heels upon the dogs, 
 
 And watch the blossoms red and rare 
 That wreath the moaning droning logs. 
 
 And Musta, while they hiss and crack, 
 
 Will brew the steaming apple-jack. 
 
 That summer apple juice will bring 
 A dream of Summer to my heart, 
 
 And rapturously will I sing, 
 
 Untrammeled by the laws of art, 
 
 Of blue-eyed, golden-haired Elaine 
 
 I met upon the coast of Maine. 
 34 
 
A FIRESIDE DREAM. 35 
 
 My '87 Summer girl, 
 
 Elaine, demure, serene, petite 
 I see the wavelets curl and swirl. 
 
 To kiss her dainty sandaled feet, 
 While o'er us on the strand, care free 
 The white moon silvers all the sea. 
 
 My name I hear her softly call. 
 
 Which fills my soul with sad, sweet pain, 
 
 Because I knoM the secret all : 
 
 John Henry's down with croup again, 
 
 And I must fly at once, alack. 
 
 To drop the soothing ipecac. 
 
UNSATISFIED YEARNING. 
 
 Down in the silent hallway 
 
 Scampers the dog about, 
 And whines, and barks, and scratches, 
 
 In order to get out. 
 
 Once in the glittering starlight, 
 He straightway doth begin 
 
 To set up a doleful howling 
 In order to get in. 
 
 36 
 
UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF 
 COFFEE. 
 
 A poet's day dream. 
 
 He sees through odorous sprays a land- 
 scape soft, 
 
 Songful with birds; 
 Meadows where blossoms subtlest in- 
 cense waft 
 
 Round lazy herds, 
 
 Where all is brighter than the brightest 
 dream 
 
 That pleasure knows. 
 Where the calm bosom of the crystal 
 stream 
 
 Pictures the rose. 
 
 He sees the temple of the gorgeous East 
 
 In glory rise ; 
 And in the fountain sees Zuleika feast 
 
 Her dusky eyes. 
 37 
 
38 UNDER INFLUENCE OF COFFEE. 
 
 He stt?< portieres of dazzling silken stuff 
 
 Cool breezes fret; 
 He sees the sleepy caliph idly puff 
 
 His cigarette. 
 
 Amid the spicy odors strangely sweet 
 
 By him are seen 
 The twinkle of the supple dancer's feet 
 
 And tambourine. 
 
 These pictures through the poet's vision 
 flit, 
 
 The East he sees, — 
 Although his coffee's brewed of common 
 split 
 
 Canadian peas. 
 
A LEGEND. 
 
 Once winter, old and bent and white, 
 Sat on a drift of snow to rest. 
 
 When Spring appeared with footsteps 
 light, 
 And crimson roses on her breast. 
 
 Her hair with meek anemones 
 
 Was sprinkled till the air was sweet; 
 
 She moved as softly as the breeze. 
 With twinkling sandals on her feet. 
 
 She scattered flowers, blue and white, 
 And red and purple, as she went — 
 
 Old Winter watched her with delight 
 Enravished with the spicy scent. 
 
 He saw the grass beneath her feet 
 
 Turn to a light green flecked with gold, 
 
 Where crocus cups, all dewy sweet. 
 Would softly in her smile unfold. 
 39 
 
40 A LEGEND. 
 
 Old Winter shook aside the snow, 
 And followed where the goddess led; 
 
 He felt the airy zephyr blow 
 
 Each foot-print to a blossom red. 
 
 He followed to her rosy lair, 
 
 And fanned her with love's pleasant 
 wing; 
 And wedded were the happy pair — 
 
 Whining Winter and sighing Spring. 
 
 Since love these two as one did mold, 
 These seasons but one season form; 
 
 The Winter's always warm and cold. 
 The Spring is always cold and warm. 
 
 We know in Feb. a mild May day; 
 
 In March what odorous breezes glow 
 A tempest comes along in May, 
 
 And April has a fall of snow 
 
 Oh, that divorce may shortly flap 
 
 About this match its gruesome wing! — 
 
 We want no Spring in Winter's lap, 
 Nor Winter in the lap of Spring. 
 
TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 
 
 Oh, snowy goose, with burnished golden 
 bill. 
 You are the dear old Santa Claus for 
 me, 
 You glad my bosom with a childish thrill, 
 
 Until I caper rampant in my glee. 
 My mental stocking to the brim you fill 
 
 With lush ineffable felicity, 
 Until your smile gilds with effulgence 
 
 rare. 
 The fftayground of my lost lamented hair. 
 
 I've seen you at the incense-breathing 
 morn, 
 Lining your inner bird with t\7inkling 
 grass. 
 Hymning the symphony of pleasure 
 born — 
 I've seen ^^ou into perfect goosehood 
 pass 
 
 41 
 
42 TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 
 
 And now when you the Christmas board 
 adorn, 
 I close my eyes and fondly sigh, ''alas!* 
 And drift unto an houri haunted sphere, 
 E'en as you drifted o'er the lilied mere. 
 
 You bear me back to childhood's rosy 
 shore. 
 And at the hearth I take the stocking 
 down, 
 And empty on the bed its sweets galore — 
 The brindled tiger with the painted 
 frown, 
 The shaggy lion and a dozen more 
 Wild beasts and birds of colors yellow, 
 brown, 
 Red, green and gray, such as the cock- 
 atoo, 
 The quagga, wombat, ape, and kangaroo. 
 
 Still as a child I love your drumstick 
 plump, 
 I love your neck, your breast, your 
 folded wing. 
 
TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 43 
 
 Your luscious dressing makes me skip 
 and jump, 
 Turn moral somersaults and dance and 
 sing, 
 
 As lively as a milkman at the pump. 
 When in the East day's rose is blos- 
 soming. 
 
 To take you all in all, most noble goose, 
 
 You are the grandest minstrel e'er let 
 loose. 
 
 To me you are a swan antique and rare, 
 That haunts the bright wild region of 
 romance, 
 Oh, classic fowl, you're quite beyond 
 compare, 
 Juicy and brown upon the plate's ex- 
 panse. 
 You're even whiter then and far more fair 
 Than when with neck projecting like 
 a lance 
 You flapped your wings and chased the 
 
 freckled boy. 
 Who eats you now with apple sauce and 
 joy. 
 
44 TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 
 
 You're e'en more lovely than the Christ- 
 mas tree, 
 You're sweeter than its very sweetest 
 toy, 
 You are a pungent roasted melody, 
 
 That fills my soul with rare poetic joy, 
 
 Until I flutter round you as the bee 
 
 Flutters around the tulip chaste and 
 
 coy. 
 
 And glide into a vision bright and sweet, 
 
 That from my ringlets ripples to my feet. 
 
 A merry Christmas you have made for me, 
 And cast me 'neath a most romantic 
 spell, 
 My dreams are rose-embroidered like 
 the sea, 
 When morn's faint kiss glows on the 
 dimpled swell. 
 And now I'll brew a hot Scotch steaming 
 free. 
 To make me merry as a Christmas bell, 
 And while my skull is full of fancies ripe, 
 I'll blow quaint smoke wreaths from my 
 corn-cob pipe. 
 
TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 45 
 
 Within tliat smokescape, noble goose, 
 I'll see 
 Your ghostly gooseship float with 
 wings outspread, 
 A sylph of grace and rippling drapery, 
 In turquoise beauty lightly overhead. 
 And when the pipe is out I'll think, ah 
 me. 
 How very fast the merry Christmas 
 sped, 
 Because it sped with all its pretty things, 
 Oh, goose, upon your toothsome roasted 
 wings. 
 
A CRITIC'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 The critic sat beneath a breezy tree 
 By Spring's fair fingers to a snow-drift 
 
 wrought ; 
 Upon the bough a bluebird, rapture 
 fraught, 
 Poured forth a strain of joyful minstrelsy. 
 The critic drew his pencil out care free 
 All from sheer force of habit, when he 
 
 caught 
 The ripple of the notes, his only 
 thought 
 Being of the song's artistic quality. 
 "It is inconsequential on the whole," 
 He wrote, "and alien quite to music's 
 
 laws; 
 *T is strident and metallic, and, there- 
 fore, 
 'T is cold and flat, and all devoid of soul 
 And not original or new, because 
 I' ve heard the thing a thousand times 
 before." 
 
 46 
 
WHAT'S IN A NAME ? 
 
 In letters large upon the frame, 
 
 That visitors might see, 
 The painter placed his humble name: 
 
 O' Caliaghaft Ale Gee. 
 
 And from Beersheba unto Dan, 
 
 The critics with a nod 
 Exclaimed: "This painting Irishman 
 
 Adores his native sod. 
 
 *'His stout heart's patriotic flame 
 There's naught on earth can quell; 
 
 He takes no wild romantic name 
 To make his pictures sell." 
 
 Then poets praised in sonnets neat 
 His stroke so bold and free; 
 
 No parlor wall was thought complete 
 That hadn't aMcGee! 
 
 All patriots before McGee 
 Threw lavishly their gold; 
 47 
 
4S WHAT'S IN A NAME? 
 
 His works in the Academy 
 Were very quickly sold. 
 
 His "Digging Clams at Barnegat," 
 His "When the Morning Smiled, 
 
 His "Seven Miles from Ararat," 
 His "Portrait of a Child." 
 
 Were purchased in a single day 
 
 And lauded as divine. — 
 
 * * * * 
 
 That night as in his atelier 
 
 The painter sipped his wine, 
 
 And looked upon his gilded frames, 
 He grinned from ear to ear: — 
 
 "They little think my real name's 
 V. Stuyvesant De Vere!" 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 This is old gold-stoled October, 
 
 In its glowing flowing gown; 
 And its spirit, blithe and sober. 
 All the woodland's gay disrober. 
 Turns the grasses gray and brown. 
 Not a vestige 
 Of the prestige 
 Now remains of Summer's crown. 
 
 Through the wood the brooklet babbles 
 
 In melodious unrest. 
 While the small boy coyly dabbles 
 In his neighbor's fruit, or scrabbles 
 Barefoot, free of hat and vest, 
 Like Terpsichore, 
 Up the hickory 
 For the ashen hornet's nest. 
 
 Through the valley, gloom-invaded, 
 Plaintively the cattails sigh, 
 49 
 
50 OCTOBER. 
 
 While the shaded, jaded, faded 
 Ribbon grasses, zephyr-braided, 
 Are paraded far and nigh 
 And the vesper 
 Hour sees Hesper 
 Like a scarf pin deck the sky. 
 
 On the branch the leaf is curling 
 
 Like the caudal of a pug. 
 And a lilac mist's unfurling. 
 All the touchful scene impearling, 
 While the humble tumblebug 
 Gaily tumbles 
 Bumps and stumbles 
 Round his glossy, mossy, rug. 
 
 As the days are waxing duller, 
 
 Ceres wanders by the weir. 
 Ruddy as a homespun cruller — 
 In the drifting, shifting color 
 Sail her ringlets, gold and sere, 
 While beguiling 
 She is smiling — 
 On the corn — from ear to ear. 
 
BALLADE OF THE RURAL 
 PROSPECTUS. 
 
 Next year the Keene Observer will 
 Appear in dress entirely new. 
 
 It will be bold and fearless still. 
 The tariff it will oft review. 
 A pretty chromo, "Howdy do?" 
 
 i8 X lo, eclipsed by none, 
 
 'Twill give to dangle from a screw. 
 
 All kinds of printing neatly done. 
 
 The local maw 'twill weekly fill 
 
 With local gossip always true. 
 As, for example, "Simon Hill 
 
 His henhouse lately painted blue. 
 
 Mark Quigley's horse has cast a shoe. 
 Take note, at Music Hall next Mon- 
 
 Day night the Taming of the Shrew.' ^ 
 All kinds of printing neatly done. 
 51 
 
52 BALLADE. 
 
 No cabbages can pay a bill ; 
 
 For gold its course it will pursue! 
 The wisdom of its old goose-quill 
 
 Will be its rival's bugaboo. 
 
 Besides short stories, and a few 
 Sweet poems, and the prankful pun 
 
 There'll be ''Home Notes" by Aunty 
 Lou. 
 All kinds of printing neatly done. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 On patrons I would this imbue: 
 
 It is n't printed just for fun. 
 Terms cash ! — to boil the Irish stew. 
 
 All kinds of printing neatly done. 
 
TO THE EDITOR OF PUCK. 
 
 With some June Dandelions. 
 
 The poets who write on plants and flowers 
 should learn something of botany and garden- 
 ing. Here, for instance, is Mr. Clinton Scol- 
 lard, and a poet beyond the average he is, 
 writing in Harper' s Young People: 
 
 " When June has come, and all around 
 The dandelions dot the ground." 
 
 All in tranquil ignorance that in this latitude 
 the dandelions appear in March sometimes, in 
 April always; and are gone before May is over, 
 so that if they dot the ground in June, the dots 
 must be very few and far apart. — A^. Y. Sun^ 
 June 6, 1891. 
 
 I send some dandelions gay 
 
 I plucked this morn 
 The while the dew all pearly lay 
 
 On bud and thorn. 
 While all the robins sang in tune 
 In the rose banks of June. 
 53 
 
54 TO THE EDITOR OF PUCK. 
 
 A many more along the lawn 
 
 On waving stems 
 Shone in the dewy kiss of dawn 
 
 Like Indian gems. 
 I found them blowing by the score 
 On June's bright sunny shore. 
 
 I never saw them sweeter look 
 
 Than on this day 
 In every shadow-haunted nook; 
 
 April or May 
 No finer specimens could show 
 Than these in June a-blow. 
 
 I see them now the mead invade 
 
 Like shining coins, 
 Just where some trembling apple-shade 
 
 Another joins, 
 Waving in delicate unrest 
 Upon June's fragrant breast. 
 
 A fancy of the marriage moon 
 
 Unto them clings. 
 With their suggestive golden boon 
 
 Of wedding rings. 
 
TO THE EDITOR OF PUCK. 55 
 
 Warm breezes kiss these flowers rare 
 Entangled in June's hair. 
 
 Oh, let them on your table fade 
 
 Softly away. 
 When mellow autumn paints the glade 
 
 In colors gay, 
 May they remind you sweetly of 
 Bright June, the month of love. 
 
 Summit, N. J., June 6, 1891. 
 
MY PLEASANT SETTLE. 
 
 That is my cushioned settle over there 
 Which wears my clothes threadbare. 
 No king upon his throne, 
 In this or that or any other zone, 
 Can call such perfect happiness his own 
 As that which fills my soul 
 When on it at full length I find true rap- 
 ture's goal. 
 
 I love my hammock rocked between two 
 trees ; 
 
 I love on lazy seas 
 
 To drift in idlesse sweet, 
 
 But sweeter far to lie upon this seat, 
 
 And rest 'neath curtained panes my slip- 
 pered feet. 
 
 And pile my old bald crown 
 
 On raw silk 'broidered bags of balsam, 
 sage and brown. 
 56 
 
MY PLEASANT SETTLE. 57 
 
 As the gull floats upon the Summer air 
 
 Without a thought of care, 
 
 So on this couch I float 
 
 Through cloudless realms, as in a fairy- 
 boat 
 
 That drifts on lilied seas to lands remote. 
 
 Where Eastern scenes are met 
 
 In the smoke-vistas of my odorous ciga- 
 rette. 
 
 I'm in the shadow of a low-limbed tree, 
 
 When May-time gilds the lea 
 
 And clover scents the air; 
 
 While on the songful boughs the robins 
 
 pair, 
 And butterflies and flowers flutter fair, 
 When on it I uncoil. 
 And wonder how a man can fall in love 
 
 with toil. 
 
 Labor is grand and noble, but with me, 
 Somehow, does not agree — 
 Give me this cosy nest, 
 This warm empurpled nook of hallowed 
 rest. 
 
58 MY PLEASANT SETTLE. 
 
 With One near by to make the bower 
 
 blest, 
 And just a beaten track : 
 Over the rugs into the dining-room — 
 
 and back. 
 
THE M.D.'S SONGFUL 
 SOLILOQUY. 
 
 When May with blossoms was aglow, 
 Their way my patients wended 
 
 To me and asked: " Where shall we go 
 This summer to be mended?" 
 
 The careworn mortal, long and thin, 
 With features sere and yellow, 
 
 I told if he would color win 
 To go to Campobello. 
 
 The maiden with a weary look. 
 Who'd for next season rally, 
 
 I sent unto a quiet nook 
 Way up the Mohawk valley. 
 
 The girl who thought she had a throat 
 
 Affection growing chronic 
 Departed on the Hartford boat 
 
 To find the Housatonic. 
 59 
 
6o THE M.D.'S SONGFUL SOLILOQUY. 
 
 I sent some up to Ponkapog, 
 
 Nantucket, Lynn, New Bedford, 
 
 Secaucus, Saratoga, Quoque, 
 Lake Saranac and Medford. 
 
 Now while September tones the air, 
 
 I'm working like a beaver. 
 For now my patients need my care 
 
 Through chills and typhoid fever. 
 
 They went away serene and sound 
 To bracing sea and mountain, 
 
 And in those lovely places found 
 Disease's murky fountain. 
 
 I send those people off each May 
 
 With antelopic quickness. 
 And make things in the autumn pay 
 
 Through many a case of sickness. 
 
 Hurrah ! for all the rural charm 
 That makes my triumph stellar! 
 
 Hurrah ! for every undrained farm 
 That doesn't know a cellar! 
 
THE M.D.'S SONGFUL SOLILOQUY. 6i 
 
 The town such healthful methods courts 
 
 I have this grave misgiving: 
 The doctors, but for health resorts, 
 
 Could scarcely make a living. 
 
A FLOWER FANCY. 
 
 The lissome vine has climbed the wand 
 of green 
 
 With infinite delight, 
 And at the top, with pleasure rare and 
 keen, 
 
 It sports a blossom white. 
 That vine's a cashless boy with smiles 
 abeam; 
 
 The wand's a pole, gaunt, tall; 
 And the white flower's his happy, happy 
 dream. 
 
 Watching a game of ball. 
 
 62 
 
**T0 PUCK." 
 
 The day is dull, and so am I, 
 And here's the knotty question: 
 
 Where is the theme that I may try 
 Upon your kind digestion? 
 
 What shall I write I ask of you? 
 
 Because this dreary weather, 
 My mind is cracked — I haven't two 
 
 Ideas to rub together. 
 
 No fruit blooms in my study brown, 
 I'm feeling worse than feeble, 
 
 In vain for fun I've taken down 
 And scanned my vellum Keble. 
 
 I've looked my Milman's Gibbon o'er, 
 My Burton and my Hervey; 
 
 In vain — my soul is limp and sore. 
 My brains are topsey-turvey. 
 63 
 
64 TO PUCK. 
 
 "The drugget is a little drug," 
 
 I write, and this but dazes 
 My reason, and across the rug 
 
 I toss it to the blazes. 
 
 ^'Suppose the ship should lose her hold,' 
 
 My fancy, what a thesis! 
 "Suppose a Spanish soldier bold, 
 
 Called General Pa-resis!" 
 
 Alas, I can not raise a laugh 
 
 To-day for love or money; 
 If I rhyme "seraph" with "giraffe," 
 
 It's stupider than funny. 
 
 And so I'll lay my pen aside. 
 And boil the Medford kettle; 
 
 And then I'll indolently glide, 
 And settle on the settle. 
 
 And then I'll smoke till day is done 
 
 The weed of Carolina, 
 And sing, "Begone, dull care, begone, 
 
 Begone to Dresden China." 
 
TO THE POET OF THE 
 GARDEN. 
 
 " But you never can put beans into poetry." — 
 " My Summer in a Garden." — 
 
 Charles Dudley Warner. 
 
 Dear Mr. Warner: In your book you say- 
 That there can be no poetry in beans, 
 Which dainty hails from those poetic 
 
 scenes 
 That glow a paradise in Omar's lay. 
 
 If after you've observed the bean's bloom 
 spray 
 Flower the wind 'mid other alien 
 
 greens 
 You hold your harsh opinion, it but 
 means 
 The effete down East has rendered you 
 blase. 
 
 6S 
 
66 TO THE POET OF THE GARDEN. 
 
 Poet and peasant for the sweet bean sigh, 
 Whether of Lima or St. Botolph's 
 town — 
 O luscious banquet, fit for kings and 
 
 queens! 
 Fit for the gods upon Olympus high — 
 I can't believe that, growing or baked 
 brown, 
 Poetically, you do not know beans. 
 
PUT TO SLEEP. 
 
 Back and forth in the rocker. 
 
 Lost in a reverie deep, 
 The mother rocked while trying 
 
 To sing the baby to sleep. 
 
 The baby began a-crowing, 
 For silent he could n't keep, 
 
 And after a while the baby 
 
 Had crowed his mother to sleep. 
 
 67 
 
AT DEWY MORN. 
 
 The east is blushing, 
 The landscape flushing, 
 The water 's glowing 
 
 A silver dream. 
 A faint light-billow 
 Illumes hiy pillow; 
 The rooster 's crowing 
 
 With joy supreme. 
 
 The morning in shimmering gold is 
 moulded, 
 The robin chants in the tree-top tall ; 
 And at last the mosquito 's softly folded 
 His murmurous wing on the cottage 
 wall. 
 
 Where shadows darkle, 
 The dew-drops sparkle 
 68 
 
AT DEWY MORN. 69 
 
 On lilies, roses, 
 
 And other things. 
 And for the lakelet, 
 Ducklet and drakelet. 
 Project their noses 
 
 And spread their wings. 
 
 The flower that seems of the softest silk 
 made 
 Cradles the bee on the mountain brow; 
 And out in the sunshine the rosy milk- 
 maid 
 Adroitly manipulates the cow. 
 
 The frisky heifer 
 Inhales the zephyr. 
 Scented with clover, 
 
 Snowy and deep. 
 Though bent on rising. 
 With ease surprising 
 I turn me over 
 
 And fall asleep. 
 
70 AT DEWY MORN. 
 
 Oh, I drop in a cat-nap, sweet and sooth- 
 ing, 
 And wander through meadows green 
 and bright, 
 And forget that the blooming infant 
 toothing, 
 Has kept me prancing the floor all 
 night. 
 
AT LAST. 
 
 She tips to-and-fro in the old rocking 
 chair, 
 
 Her forehead is wrinkled, and white is 
 her hair, 
 
 While her grand-children romp in a tur- 
 bulent throng 
 
 She reads the fond words of a tender 
 love-song. 
 
 That love-song was writ her one sunshiny- 
 day, 
 
 When her heart was as light as the 
 breezes in May, 
 
 When her figure was graceful, her cheek 
 like a rose. 
 
 And never were spectacles perched on 
 her nose. 
 
 71 
 
72 AT LAST. 
 
 The lover that wrote her that sonnet, 
 alas, 
 
 Has peacefully slept 'neath the long 
 tangled grass 
 
 For years — and the words of his elo- 
 quent lay 
 
 *'Miss Violet" reads for the first time to- 
 day. 
 
 You ask why that poem thus lingered 
 
 unseen? 
 He had sent it that time to a great 
 
 magazine, 
 And the publishing man let the musical 
 
 waif 
 Unprinted remain fifty years in the safe. 
 
AT THE SHRINE. 
 
 A pale Italian peasant, 
 
 Beside the dusty way, 
 Upon this morning pleasant 
 
 Kneels in the sun to pray. 
 
 Silent in her devotion, 
 
 With fervent glance she pleads; 
 Her fingers' only motion, 
 
 Telling her amber beads. 
 
 Dreaming of ilex bowers 
 Beyond the purple brine 
 
 Once more she sees the flowers 
 Bloom at the wayside shrine. 
 
 And, while the mad crowd jostles, 
 She, with a visage sweet. 
 
 Prays where the bisque apostles 
 Are sold on Barclay street. 
 
 73 
 
FAME. 
 
 In mediaeval Persia 
 
 The critics, rapture-fraught, 
 Paid homage to Firdousi, 
 
 And Omar was as naught. 
 
 But now the rarest judges 
 Who song divinely love. 
 
 Place the neglected Omar 
 Firdousi far above. 
 
 Look to your crown, Lord Alfred, 
 
 For in the future far 
 You may be as Firdousi, 
 
 And Tupper as Omar. 
 
 74 
 
A CRITIC ON NATURE. 
 
 Old nature *s dear and good enough, 
 
 To love her is a duty; 
 But all this fol-de-rol and sturf 
 
 About her endless beauty 
 Quite sickens me; for often I, 
 
 A-dream in by-ways sunny, 
 Observe a tone along the sky 
 
 That 's funnier than funny. 
 
 I like old Nature when she can't 
 
 Provoke my honest strictures — 
 When, conscientious, I can chant 
 
 Her charms as seen in pictures. 
 When I am sure her dreamy tones 
 
 Of sky and middle distance 
 Are equal to the tones of Jones, 
 
 They '11 be beyond resistance. 
 
 Those clouds that right and left I see, 
 In grouping and in movement 
 
 75 
 
7^ A CRITIC ON NATURE. 
 
 Beneath the hand of Brown Magee 
 Would show a vast improvement. 
 
 Old Nature in the studios 
 Of Robinson McKesson 
 
 Could gain a point on afterglows, 
 On setting suns a lesson, 
 
 I laugh at Nature and her themes, 
 
 Until I think I 'm fainting; 
 I only like her when she seems 
 
 To imitate a painting. 
 Her foaming sea to me is wool 
 
 And like flock of poodles. 
 You ought to see the beautiful 
 
 Marines by Toodles Toodles. 
 
 I love her in the Autumn glow 
 
 Of flames all turvey topsey, 
 For then she kindly holds, I know, 
 
 The mirror up to Cropsey. 
 When this she does, her praise I sing; 
 
 And,^ no more pessimistic, 
 I idolize the dear old thing 
 
 For being so artistic. 
 
BALLADE OF THE DECLINING 
 YEAR. 
 
 The butterfly has left the lea, 
 
 Where golden rods and asters blow; 
 No more the little honey bee 
 
 Swings on the lily to and fro. 
 The rustling sheaf betokens snow, 
 
 And from the poet's innermost 
 Recesses doth this songlet flow: 
 
 There are no quail on last year's toast. 
 
 No robin carols in the tree. 
 
 The garden wears the weeds of woe, 
 And o'er the cornfield circles free 
 
 That pirate of the air — the crow. 
 And now the happy schoolboys go 
 
 Chestnutting in a merry host; 
 Sad is the hazy afterglow: 
 
 There are no quail on last year's toast. 
 77 
 
78 BALLADE. 
 
 Upon the lonely shore the sea 
 
 The livelong day is moaning low, 
 Where, 'neath a silken canopy 
 
 We once saw soft eyes softer grow. 
 Where are they — Maud, Louise and Jo 
 
 We met upon the Jersey coast? 
 Those days again we '11 never know — 
 
 There are no quail on last year's toast. 
 
 ENVOL 
 Poets that "note," "mark," "ween," 
 and trow," 
 The summer soon gives-up the ghost — 
 The circus is a fleeting show. 
 
 There are no quail on last year's toast. 
 
DAWN. 
 
 Behind the tangled forest, dark and deep 
 
 It burns, a sea of rose. 
 Whose airy billows o'er the wild wastes 
 creep 
 
 And sparkle on the snows. 
 
 A white star gayly trembles in the blue, 
 
 A crow the silence breaks. 
 And from the high limb of the solemn 
 yew, 
 
 The wind a snow-wreath shakes. 
 
 The air is clear and sweet as golden wine. 
 Warmed by day's early beam ; 
 
 The distan. hills in rolling purple shine. 
 And, from a poet's dream, 
 
 I wake to hear Myrtilla play a great 
 
 Tattoo with vim and dash. 
 Chopping the pickled beeve to formulate 
 
 The matutinal hash. 
 
RECIPROCITY. 
 
 The Christmas Morning soliloquy of a Com- 
 mission Maid Servant. 
 
 When the lush-blush rose smiled upon 
 the tree, 
 And the earth blossomed 'neath the 
 young May moon, 
 Into the barrel, with an air care-free, 
 I cast the chicken, dish and knife and 
 spoon; 
 I gave my poor relations coffee, tea; 
 And often on a summer afternoon 
 I wasted ice to make the ice-man glad; 
 And on this happy day my heart's not 
 sad. 
 
 For here the sealskin sacqite behold. 
 
 The grocer's recognition 
 Of all my services untold 
 
 To strengthen his position. 
 80 
 
RECIPROCITY. 8l 
 
 The ice-man^ sinister and grim. 
 
 Within my dream reposes. 
 He knows that I looked out for him 
 
 Throughout the time of roses. 
 
 When whistling winter reddened ear and 
 
 nose, 
 I stopped the fire and made the kitchen 
 
 cold; 
 And soon the leaden pipes all stiffly 
 
 froze, 
 And on the princely plumber showered 
 
 gold. 
 I wasted coal, and that is, I suppose, 
 Why I have got the dealer in my 
 
 hold. 
 I see the presents in my vision glow: 
 To-morrow for the Safe Deposit Co. 
 
 Oh, look at this porcelain pitcher! 
 
 Oh! look at this bright cJiatelaine! 
 The plumber through me has grown richer; 
 
 The coal dealer, also, ^tis plain. 
 
82 RECIPROCITY. 
 
 Oh my, but I have a position 
 
 That fills 77ie with joy through and 
 through ! 
 Because, while I work on commission, 
 
 I work upon salary too. 
 
 I '11 leave the fresh meat on the tubs to- 
 night 
 That it may spoil, and make the 
 
 butcher dance 
 With rapture; and till morn I'll burn 
 
 each light, 
 To waste the oil at which they never 
 
 glance. 
 I'll fall down stairs, and in my rapid 
 
 flight 
 Shatter a tray of "Dresden " bought 
 
 in France — 
 And let these princes very plainly see 
 What a warm friend they have in Madge 
 
 McGee. 
 
RECIPROCITY. S3 
 
 And they '11 remember me when next 
 the year 
 Piles high its snowdrifts at the gar- 
 den gate; 
 When all the earth is sad, and bleak and 
 drear, 
 With gold and gem they '11 make my 
 heart elate. 
 I know that to them I am very dear, 
 Because I make them powerful and 
 great, 
 And unto me they with high favor lean — 
 I, their commission culinary queen. 
 
A CLERGYMAN ON JUNE. 
 
 The world with blooming beauty now is 
 bright, 
 Sweet hope and promise in all things 
 
 I see; 
 Pathetic grows the cough assumed by 
 me 
 To gain a furlough and the Isle of 
 
 Wight; 
 I walk the odorous meads with pure 
 delight, 
 Where the blithe lambkin gambols wild 
 
 and free, 
 As I observe the dusty-belted bee 
 Into the waving lily sink from sight. 
 A rosy peace the day serenely fills; 
 The dimpled clouds lie still against 
 
 the blue; 
 A benison lies on the land and sea. 
 
A CLERGYMAN ON JUNE. 85 
 
 Oh, June, whose generous verdure robes 
 the hills. 
 
 Of all the months my favorite are you. 
 Sweet moon of mating-song and wed- 
 ding fee! 
 
THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 
 
 There was once a jolly plumber in a lit- 
 tle country town, 
 And a very jolly plumbing knight was 
 he. 
 Once I heard him skip and sing like a 
 poet in the spring, 
 In a sort of rapture-drunken ecstasee; 
 "I'm the great big man 
 From Beersheba unto Dan, 
 
 For my bill is always longer than the 
 snipe's; 
 And I drive my patrons frantic 
 When I use my strength gigantic 
 
 In a happy hammer solo on their pipes, 
 And I shout heigh ho. 
 Woe is me, by Jo! 
 
 With a heigh, ho, tra la la la lee — 
 I'm a hummer of a plumber, 
 86 
 
THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 87 
 
 In the winter and the summer, 
 
 And the monarch of the mountain and 
 the sea!" 
 And the sea, 
 
 And the monarch of the mountain 
 and the sea. 
 
 Then he crawled beneath the boiler in 
 his sky-blue overalls — 
 Oh, he started with a spartan spunk 
 and vim; 
 And he diagnosed the job with his cran- 
 ium a-bob 
 While he caroled like a bluebird on the 
 limb: 
 **0h, there's naught wrong here, 
 That is very, very clear. 
 
 But I '11 make a fracture quicker than 
 a shot — 
 For the gold to paint the chateau, 
 Smiling sweetly on the plateau. 
 
 And to put new sails upon the sum- 
 mer yacht. 
 With a high ho ho, 
 
88 THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 
 
 Wo is me — me is wo, 
 
 With a rip rap fol de loddy lay, 
 I'm the lordly old mechanic 
 That can make Titanic panic 
 
 With the customer that stumbles in 
 my way, 
 In my way. 
 
 With the customer that stumbles in 
 my way. 
 
 Then his kit did he unbuckle, and the 
 hammer took in hand 
 For to deal the heavy death-blow like 
 a flash; 
 When the boiler quickly burst, and the 
 plumber got the worst 
 Of the bargain, for he flitted with the 
 crash. 
 He was there no more, 
 For a-flying through the door 
 
 With the swiftness of the humming- 
 bird went he; 
 And no more he '11 gayly caper 
 'Neath the tubs with lighted taper 
 
 On a mission of most fell iniquitee. 
 
THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 89 
 
 Oh, no more he '11 hear 
 In this care-fraught sphere 
 
 His unhallowed critics while they 
 rudely carp; 
 And his family supposes, 
 While he dozes 'neath the roses 
 
 That his spirit free discourses on the 
 harp. 
 On the harp. 
 
 That his spirit free discourses on 
 the harp. 
 
 Still when loudly blows the blizzard, and 
 the snow is drifted high, 
 And the frost is on the rattling 
 window pane — 
 In the middle of the night do we shudder 
 in our fright, 
 While we listen to a ghostly, weird 
 refrain ; 
 Oh it sadly moans 
 In the dolefulest of tones 
 
 While uncanny phantoms round the 
 threshold hang: 
 
90 THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 
 
 "Oft I visit earth's dominions, 
 On the whirlwind's icy pinions, 
 
 Just to see the pipes a-busting with 
 a bang: 
 To the scenes of my crimes 
 I delight to come at times, 
 
 And to shout, though in the flesh I 
 cannot be; 
 I'm a hummer of a plumber, 
 In the winter and the summer. 
 
 And the monarch of the mountain 
 and the sea, 
 And the sea. 
 
 And the monarch of the mountain 
 and the sea." 
 
TO A CERTAIN KIND OF 
 POET. 
 
 Daisies, Praises, 
 
 Meadows, Shadows, 
 
 Roses, Posies 
 Gay. 
 These are rhymes this poet mingles 
 When he merrily be-gingles merry, merry 
 
 May. 
 
 These are ancient rhymes, and, therefore, 
 
 Should be cast aside; 
 Wherefore, wherefore, wherefore, where- 
 fore 
 
 Has the bard no pride? 
 
 Better far to say that stucco 
 Shields the nest on high 
 
 Of the phoebe or the cuckoo. 
 Though it be a lie. 
 91 
 
92 TO A POET. 
 
 Better far upon the greensward, 
 
 Say his spirit springs 
 Radiantly pork and beansward 
 
 On delighted wings. 
 
 But this poet, inspired, impassioned, 
 Will stick to his rhymes old-fashioned. 
 
 "Blossom," "blossom," "blossom," 
 
 These will rhyme forever 
 With "bosom," "bosom," "bosom," 
 
 Like "river" with "endeavor." 
 Like "river" with "endeavor," 
 
 Will "blossom" rhyme with "bosom," 
 As "ever" rhymes with "river," 
 
 Will "bosom" rhyme with "blossom." 
 There are no extra charges for this Ten- 
 
 nysonian touch, 
 'T is a little vagrant fancy, and it 's all 
 the same in Dutch. 
 
 But this poet, not "staccato," 
 E'er will jingle with ''tomato," 
 When "grove" and "shove" and "grass" 
 and "case" remain. 
 
TO A POET. 93 
 
 He will rhymeward feebly grope, 
 Quite like Alexander Pope, 
 And he '11 fill our tuneful soul with ache 
 and pain. 
 
 When we read his airy jingles from Ver- 
 mont to Colorado, 
 
 In the magazine that circulates from 
 Oregon to Yeddo, 
 
 AVith his "blossom" and his "bosom" 
 and his"meadow" and his "shadow" 
 
 And his "praises" and his "daisies" and 
 his "shadow" and his "meadow." 
 
AN OLD BEAU. 
 
 Oft I think with a smile in my trim swal- 
 low-tail, 
 
 At the rout where fresh roses their 
 fragrance exhale, 
 
 Of the days when my pate was a bower 
 of curls. 
 
 And I danced with the grandmas of 
 all these dear girls. 
 
 When I look on the charms that their 
 
 beauties unfold, 
 They 're to me the same damsels, though 
 
 I have grown old — 
 While I feel like white winter without a 
 
 warm ray. 
 They appear like the rosebuds a-tremble 
 
 in May. 
 
 94 
 
AN OLD BEAU. 95 
 
 But the winter may look with its shiver 
 and chill 
 
 Through the pane at the flowers that 
 bloom on the sill — 
 
 And I think I '11 ask Maud with the ring- 
 lets of jet 
 
 If she '11 only be mine for the next min- 
 uet. 
 
 Oh, I know that I'm not quite so old as 
 
 I look, 
 For my voice has no crack, and my back 
 
 has no crook — 
 And I 'd feel like a prince if May, Maud, 
 
 and Lucile 
 Would but treat me like one who's as 
 
 young as I feel. 
 
THE BEETLE. 
 
 Along the balmy tide of night 
 
 He drifts about the dreaming rose, 
 Until I stop his happy flight 
 
 Abruptly with my freckled nose. 
 He hits me, then he flies away, 
 
 Then back into the room he flits, 
 To roast and toast within the ray 
 The weary, wheezing lamp emits. 
 Oh, now he throbs. 
 And bangs, and bobs 
 With all his might and main, 
 A chunketty chunk, 
 A plunketty plunk. 
 Against the window pane. 
 
 Upon the air he seems to swim. 
 
 And when he circles round my head 
 
 I think if I'd escape from him 
 That I must tumble into bed; 
 96 
 
THE BEETLE. 97 
 
 Then at him with a towel damp 
 
 I strike with vigor, vim and dash, 
 And laugh to see him graze the lamp 
 And singe his whiskers and moustache. 
 Oh, still he throbs, 
 And bangs, and bobs, 
 With all his might and main, 
 A chunketty chunk, 
 A plunketty plunk. 
 Against the window pane. 
 
 From high to low his frou-frou shifts; 
 
 He is so far and yet so near. 
 That when he down the ceiling drifts. 
 
 He seems tip-tilting on my ear. 
 He moves, methinks, on wings of song; 
 I watch him skim and twist and turn, 
 And he will circle just so long 
 
 As this old lamp holds out to burn 
 For still he throbs. 
 And bangs, and bobs 
 With all his might and main, 
 A chunketty chunk, 
 A plunketty plunk. 
 Against the window pane. 
 
BALLADE OF THE TEA 
 CIGARETTE. 
 
 Away with sugar, spoon and cream, 
 With burnished samovar away. 
 
 And earthen pot emitting steam. 
 And fragile china blue and gay. 
 With Spring-like flowers in a spray 
 
 Anemone and violet. 
 
 We drink no tea, but smoke to-day 
 
 The dainty oolong cigarette. 
 
 We see sweet Angelina beam 
 
 With smiles that round her dimples 
 play. 
 The snow of the "electric's" gleam 
 
 Kissing her beauty pink as May, 
 
 She is not "pouring" as they say; 
 But know we nought of fume and fret, 
 
 When she rolls (all our cares to slay) 
 The dainty oolong cigarette. 
 98 
 
BALLADE. 99 
 
 With butterflies the parlors teem — 
 Smoke butterflies, all pearly gray, 
 
 That drifting toward the ceiling seem 
 O'er Chinese tulip beds to stray 
 Till some light wind creeps in to fray 
 
 Them into dome and minaret — 
 
 Oh, here supplants the Henry Clay, 
 
 The dainty oolong cigarette. 
 
 ENVOL 
 Against the weed we '11 all inveigh, 
 
 O rare and dimple-cheeked Babette, 
 When you serve on the lacquered tray 
 
 The dainty oolong cigarette. 
 
MY CHICKENS. 
 
 The chickens that I used to own 
 Were birds of high degree ; 
 
 Both far and favorably known 
 And beautiful to see. 
 
 I'd watch the Cochin proudly trot 
 
 And tower o'er the flock, 
 Composed of Leghorn, Wyandotte, 
 
 Brahma and Plymouth Rock. 
 
 I'd greet them in the rosy morn 
 
 In complimentary terms, 
 And throw them grains of shining corn 
 
 And early angle worms. 
 
 A roof of glass kept off the storm 
 
 But not the sunny ray — 
 I had a stove to keep them warm 
 
 Against a Winter day. 
 
MY CHICKENS. lOl 
 
 About them on the train I 'd boast, 
 
 I o'er their beauty sighed; 
 My costly chickens were almost 
 
 My only joy and pride. 
 
 They are no more — their days are told, 
 
 And in their places now 
 The meanest fowls that come for gold 
 
 Are roosting on the bough. 
 
 They are an ornery-looking lot, 
 They 're scrawney, with no style; 
 
 Observe them and upon the spot 
 You can't withhold a smile. 
 
 Their crops with corn I never fill, 
 But set them free, and then 
 
 They gayly skirmish round until 
 They clothe the inner hen. 
 
 Their fruit abundant, though it 's fried 
 Or poached, or boiled, or shirred, 
 
 Makes me rejoice to think I 've tried 
 The common barn-yard bird. 
 
I02 MY CHICKENS. 
 
 This bird shall always round me prowl, 
 
 Or linger on one leg, 
 And ne'er the prize, blue -blooded fowl 
 
 That never lays an egg. 
 
THE POETS OF PRINTING 
 HOUSE SQUARE. 
 
 [to a. b. p.] 
 They 're a jolly good set, and they live 
 not in vain; 
 I have known them for many a year, 
 E'en when youth was a dream that I 'm 
 dreaming again. 
 When we sat o'er the pipes and the 
 beer. 
 Oh, Bohemia was happy and halcyon 
 then, 
 And its roses were fragrant and fair 
 Though the wealth of the Indies bloomed 
 not in the ken 
 Of the Poets of Printing House Square. 
 
 Then the bays and the laurels Fame's 
 wind set aglow 
 When the muse lent her favoring wing, 
 103 
 
I04 THE POETS. 
 
 And the singers to-day with the beards 
 white as snow 
 Were the butterflies then of the spring. 
 Oh, our Ultima Thule of gold was the 
 price 
 Of the beaker that banished all care, 
 While it made all the earth like a green 
 paradise 
 To the Poets of Printing House Square. 
 
 To those bowers in spirit I often repair, 
 
 And I linger in glee on the scenes 
 Where we builded the castles that crum- 
 bled to air 
 In McGuffey's pavilion of beans. 
 Oh, the coffee and doughnuts within us 
 instilled 
 Inspiration to do and to dare, 
 And their beautiful mission was ever 
 fulfilled 
 For the Poets of Printing House 
 Square. 
 
THE POETS. 105 
 
 There was Frank, who would dream in a 
 cigarette-joy, 
 While he watched the smoke ripple 
 and swirl ; 
 There was Caleb, who made all the world 
 love his boy. 
 When he sang of the Little Brown Curl. 
 There was Jack, who the methods of pub- 
 lishers curst, 
 AVho would soar on song pinions most 
 rare. 
 For the shekels to quench his unquench- 
 able thirst 
 With the Poets of Printing House 
 Square. 
 
 Oh yes, though we 're older and still 
 deep in debt. 
 Do we sing with the spirit of yore ; 
 And we '11 all keep it up till the canvas 
 is set 
 For a sail to the opposite shore. 
 
io6 THE POETS. 
 
 But upon that grim day, with its shiver 
 and chill, 
 When to some other realm we must 
 fare. 
 Though we 're seraphs or not, you may 
 wager, we '11 still 
 Be the Poets of Printing House Square. 
 
THE WUNK. 
 
 The wunk is a variety of dog peculiar to 
 Central Asia. — Morning Paper. 
 
 From Central Asia's sunny clime, 
 
 In Gotham to cavort, 
 Through Summer time and Winter prime, 
 
 In revelry and sport. 
 Has come, we hope and trust to stay. 
 
 And make his downy bunk, 
 And bark and jump and have his day, 
 The winky-wanky wunk. 
 The festive little wunk. 
 The playful little wunk, 
 The frisky, smiling. 
 Care-beguiling 
 Winky-wanky wunk. 
 
 The wunk is quite a moral dog. 
 That never shirks or steals; 
 107 
 
lo8 THE WUNK. 
 
 Upon a chain he '11 gayly jog 
 
 At Isabella's heels. 
 And soon that beauty '11 cast aside 
 
 Her bulldog, full of spunk, 
 And have in sky-blue ribbons tied, 
 The winky-wanky wunk. 
 The clumsy little wunk. 
 The wabbling little wunk, 
 The rolling, tumbling. 
 Stocky, stumbling 
 Winky-wanky wunk. 
 
 When e'er the wunk the cat detects 
 
 The backyard roaming free. 
 He howls, and at her neck projects 
 
 Himself in fiendish glee. 
 And when on her he swiftly lands, 
 
 With rosy rapture drunk, 
 She in a jiffy understands 
 The winky-wanky wunk. 
 The watchful little wunk. 
 The wary little wunk. 
 The cat-annoying, 
 Pie-destroying, 
 Winky-wanky wunk. 
 
THE WUNK. 109 
 
 Long may the wunk so shaggy wave 
 
 His caudal on our rug, 
 And trot behind us o'er the pave, 
 
 As nimbly as the pug. 
 All other doggies far above, 
 
 From Texas to Podunk, 
 We '11 hymn the golden glories of 
 The winky-wanky wunk. 
 The gray-eyed little wunk, 
 The blinking little wunk. 
 The rapture-crazy. 
 Lazy, daisy, 
 Winky-wanky wunk. 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 Beneath this quiet, turfy, 
 And flower-scented green 
 
 Lies Arabella Murphy, 
 As usual — Kerosene. 
 
MASTERY. 
 
 A mighty wrestler, walking through a 
 
 wood, 
 Proud of his wond'rous strength and 
 
 prowess, spoke: 
 *'Quick could I hurl, were I but in the 
 
 mood, 
 To the four winds, yon century-rooted 
 
 oak! 
 
 A sorry figure in my hold 't would cut, 
 Although defiant in the cyclone's 
 track — " 
 His heel then came in contact with a nut. 
 That quickly turned, and stretched him 
 on his back. 
 
THE JOYS OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 [ SUMMER ] 
 
 Oh, it 's lovely in the country, when the 
 birds are gay and merry, 
 And upon the slender trellis blows the 
 lavender wistaria, 
 And you watch the gold bee booming in 
 the blossoms of the berry, 
 While you 're quaking, while you 're 
 shaking, while you 're aching with 
 malaria. 
 
 Airs so shifting, lightly drifting blossoms 
 through the limbs are sifting. 
 Woodbines clamber like the amber of 
 the tipple of Bavaria, 
 As you view the dimpled cloudlets in 
 the blue horizon lifting. 
 While you 're quaking, while you 're 
 shaking, while you 're aching with 
 malaria. 
 
 Ill 
 
112 JOYS OF RURAL LIFE. 
 
 In a nooklet with a booklet by a brook- 
 let where the cattle 
 Came to drink, you list the ripple of 
 the bobolinkum aria, 
 Though you 're lips are painted purple 
 and your bones all crack and rattle. 
 While you 're quaking, while you 're 
 shaking, while you 're aching with 
 malaria. 
 
 [ WINTER ] 
 
 Oh the country is as lovely in the winter 
 as in May time, — 
 With the wind that lights your fea- 
 tures with a rosy posy glow. 
 It 's the farmer's merry play time, not 
 potato time or hay time — 
 With a cellarful of water and a gar- 
 retful of snow. 
 
 With its holly, pretty Polly, it is jolly, 
 never crisper 
 Are the airs that make the windrows 
 where the rabbit footprints show, 
 
JOYS OF RURAL LIFE. 113 
 
 And around the logs we linger while they 
 sputter and they whisper — 
 With a cellarful of water and a garretful 
 of snow. 
 
 There is leisure, there is pleasure, with- 
 out measure from each quarter — 
 
 Oh, the coasting and the skating that 
 these fleeting moments know — 
 
 With a garretful of snow and a cellarful 
 of water, 
 And a cellarful of water and a garret- 
 ful of snow. 
 
IN DEFENCE OF THE 
 ADVERTISING MUSE. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE SPEAKS. 
 
 Sometimes when I 'm not at work on a 
 play 
 
 Historic and full of warfare, 
 I try my hand, in a casual way, 
 
 At an ad. to keep me in carfare. 
 
 Why should n't I praise the bilious pill 
 And in loftiest numbers chirrup, 
 
 And make the popular heartstrings thrill 
 With a poem on soothing syrup? 
 
 Why should n't I cleave the cloudless 
 dome 
 Through the billow of light that's polar, 
 To rhapsodize on Excelsior Foam 
 That preserves the fleeting molar. 
 114 
 
ADVERTISING MUSE. 115 
 
 Sing ho! for the laurels won by me 
 On the lotion prepared for freckles! 
 
 My harp shan't hang on the willow tree 
 While the soap muse brings me shekels. 
 
 For I know in a general sort of a way, 
 While with laughter I 'm sorely shaken, 
 
 That the critics will rise in their might 
 and say 
 That they all were written by Bacon. 
 
STRAWBERRIES. 
 
 We wandered in the woodland dim, 
 And there amid the leafy gloom, 
 
 I plucked, to please her airy whim, 
 The fragile snow-white strawberry 
 bloom. 
 
 'Twas when the strawberries were ripe 
 I wooed her by the sapphire sea, 
 
 And heard the mating bluebirds pipe 
 A prescience full of joy to me. 
 
 And when the wedding bells rang free, 
 And all our thoughts flowed on like 
 rhyme, 
 
 The blush was on the strawberry — 
 The strawberry was in its prime. 
 
 Two years have swiftly flown since then — 
 Two happy years — once more the birds 
 ii6 
 
STRAWBERRIES. 117 
 
 And strawberries are in the glen, 
 
 That heard of love our whispered 
 words. 
 
 The honeysuckle freights the breeze, 
 The garden blows rose-red with June, 
 
 And on his plate of strawberries 
 
 The baby's drumming with his spoon. 
 
A DIRGE. 
 
 All nature 's now as sad and gray 
 
 As ever it can be, 
 The leaflets through the garden stray- 
 No tulips can I see; 
 The rabbits skip about all day, 
 
 The daisies softly flee. 
 The chickens all have ceased to lay. 
 
 And on the locust tree 
 The squirrels gaily frisk and play — 
 
 And one thing's plain to me 
 The pasture fields are not so gay 
 
 As when cavorting free, 
 I saw the lambkins of the May 
 
 Within the blooming lea. 
 The coal man now is making hay 
 
 Which is not timo-thee 
 While I parade the woodland way 
 
 Spellbound unto my tea, 
 iiS 
 
A DIRGE. 119 
 
 And smoke my pipe — my Henry Clay, 
 
 And do not care a "d;" 
 But sing my old ratooral-a 
 
 Ritooral ooral-e 
 
AT 8:30 P. M. 
 
 The music of the distant sea 
 
 Now murmurs through the balmy air; 
 No longer butterfly and bee 
 
 Flit round the garden here and there. 
 The first white star is in the sky, 
 
 The hoptoad rests beneath the weed, 
 And in a heap 
 The cow's asleep 
 Upon the bosom of the mead. 
 
 The bat is circling wild and free, 
 
 The frog is croaking loud and long, 
 Mine ear, methinks, discovers the 
 
 Mosquito's rude, unhallowed song. 
 I hear the shrieking whip-poor-will. 
 That keeps it up with Spartan spunk. 
 While on yon pane 
 A wild refrain, 
 The June bug goes "kerplunk, ker- 
 plunk!" 
 
AT 8:30 P.M. I 
 
 The banners of the mellow corn 
 
 Now ripple like a silver lake 
 Beneath the rising moon, whose horn 
 
 Keeps yon infernal dog awake. 
 The dew drop 's on the lily bell, 
 The hollyhock 's asleep, and hence 
 I '11 tilt my chair 
 In comfort rare, 
 And rest my heels upon the fence. 
 
 The night is grand, no cloudlets sail 
 
 Across the star-besprinkled sky; 
 The turkey resting on the rail 
 
 Is not one-eighth so glad as I. 
 Oh, golden rapture brims my cup, 
 I dream on pleasure's pearly shore — 
 And here I 'II sport. 
 And hold the fort 
 While this old jug holds out to pour. 
 
BUT— 
 
 She ever wears the selfsame gracious 
 smile — 
 A smile of Maytime sweet, 
 Which doth my visions with its cheer be- 
 guile 
 Upon the dusty street. 
 
 Her manner's ever chic and debonair, 
 
 Her spirits e'er serene, 
 And, like the snowy Summer rose, she 's 
 fair 
 
 And of majestic mien. 
 
 Her eyes are black — as black as blackest 
 night — 
 
 She is a poet's dream; 
 As lovely as the lily blowing white 
 
 Upon time's crystal stream. 
 
BUT— 123 
 
 I watch the colors of her flowered gown, 
 
 Wind-dimpled all the day; 
 I note her fondly as I walk down town 
 
 Each morning on my way. 
 
 While through the working day I gayly 
 build 
 
 The ode and vitelay, 
 I dream about the wistful smiles that gild 
 
 This tricksy urban fay. 
 
 I think about the happy, happy bud 
 
 Upon her jaunty hat. 
 And then my thoughts become a whirl- 
 ing flood — 
 
 My heart goes pit-a-pat. 
 
 And yet this stately damosel divine — 
 This nymph of beauty rare — 
 
 So airy, sweet, of dimpled curve and line. 
 Can not my sorrows share. 
 
 Because this dainty dream of smiling love 
 That makes my fancies soar. 
 
 Is a lay figure in the window of 
 McGuflin's dry goods store. 
 
THROUGH GARDEN AND 
 MEADOW. 
 
 In eighteen-carrot raptures 
 I wander round the place 
 
 My pensive spirit captures 
 Its flower-scented grace. 
 
 Hibiscus, ampelopsis, 
 
 Alyssum, cyclamen, 
 Lobelia, ipomopsis 
 
 Are blooming in my ken. 
 
 The Indian pipe, which surely 
 Should be the calumet, 
 
 I watch while I demurely 
 Enjoy my cigarette. 
 
 The pinks blow in perfection. 
 The ice-plant melts away; 
 
 For Tammany's election 
 The tiger lily 's gay. 
 124 
 
GARDEN AND MEADOW. 125 
 
 I murmur unto Phyllis: 
 
 "Sweet William 's not afraid 
 
 To sport with Amaryllis — 
 See Milton — in the shade." 
 
 The blue and gold lantana, 
 
 The red-hot poker plant, 
 The gay virumque canna 
 
 Inspire my little chant. 
 
 The muse my spirit masters 
 Till here I seem to bide, 
 
 As rich as all the asters 
 
 That blossom in their pride. 
 
A SUMMER MEMORY. 
 
 'Twas at the seaside last July, 
 
 Upon an evening still, 
 When, as I took my promenade 
 
 Along old Hemlock Hill, 
 A maiden fair looked down on me 
 
 From a vine-clad window sill. 
 
 She was a lily-fashioned dream, 
 
 Symbolic of the Spring; 
 She was angelic, pure and sweet. 
 
 And all that sort of thing; 
 The bangles on her snowy wrist 
 
 Went ding-a-ling-a-ling. 
 
 Her hair was gold, her eyes were blue. 
 Her teeth were pearly white; 
 
 And all the sweetness of her face 
 Was lit with morning light. 
 
 These similes are ancient, but 
 They fill the bill aright. 
 126 
 
A SUMMER MEMORY. i: 
 
 I said she was my Northern star 
 
 At twilight in the dell; 
 I said she was a regal rose, 
 
 And naught my love could quell, 
 And flashed on her enraptured gaze 
 
 The winning caramel. 
 
 With her I laughed at every fate. 
 And life's unpleasant bumps; 
 
 I fondly called on her each night 
 With nervous skips and jumps, 
 
 In beaver hat and Sunday cane. 
 And patent leather pumps. 
 
 To walk with her beside the sea 
 
 At dusk I ne'er would fail, 
 And in the waltz at hops and balls 
 
 We 'd madly, wildly sail — 
 She in her latest Paris gown, 
 
 I in my swallow-tail. 
 
 At last the golden Summer passed, 
 
 With all its listless fun, 
 Its yachting parties, moonlight walks, 
 
 Croquet at set of sun ; 
 
138 A SUMMER MEMORY. 
 
 And scarlet lemonade, with straws, 
 But then, the girl I won. 
 
 Yet, when the Autumn o'er the glade 
 Advanced on rustling feet, 
 
 And epicures began to dream 
 Of quail and sausage meat, 
 
 I primed my heart and suddenly 
 Gave up this maiden sweet. 
 
 She sent me back the diamond ring 
 
 I gave her, love-elate; 
 She sent me back the shaggy skye 
 
 Presented at the gate. 
 The Tupper, Owen Meredith, 
 
 And Poet Laureate. 
 
 And yet this rosebud of a maid 
 
 Was e'er my love elect; 
 I thought without her I should be 
 
 Irrevocably v/recked ; 
 But had to coldly cast her off. 
 
 Because of self respect. 
 
 Alas, her father tried to sail 
 One sunny morn away. 
 
A SUMMER MEMORY. 129 
 
 As "Jotham Heatherbee " he felt 
 
 In spirits blithe and gay; 
 But ere the good ship '^Bothnia" 
 
 Went skimming down the bay, 
 
 A big detective on the wharf 
 
 The bulwarks bounded o'er, 
 And that white-haired bank president 
 
 From stateroom eighty-four • 
 Most quickly brought, and handcuffed 
 
 him 
 
 And walked him up the shore. 
 
 Full soon was he transported north 
 
 Upon the flying cars, 
 And now at Sing Sing on the Hud 
 
 He dreams behind the bars. 
 And in the daytime works, and wears 
 
 The stripes without the stars. 
 
 Now, that 's the only reason why 
 
 I gave the maiden up, 
 And got from her most suddenly 
 
 My diamond ring and pup, 
 My vellum Owen Meredith, 
 
 My Tennyson and >Tup. 
 
THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 
 
 Mrs. Richards has been discoursing upon 
 the old but ever timely subject of school lun- 
 cheons, and predicts that perfectly appointed 
 kitchens will soon be included in the plans of 
 every school building. — Morning Paper, 
 
 All hail, all hail, most dear kind-hearted 
 dame. 
 You 're now the object of the school- 
 boy's love; 
 His love 's the tender halo of your name 
 For placing lobster salad far above 
 The soggy sandwich, and the broiled 
 wood dove. 
 Above the saline pickle, which no more 
 Shall fit his rubber stomach like a 
 glove. 
 He 's like a dreamer on a sun-lit shore, 
 Who sees his ship come in laden with 
 gold galore. 
 
 130 
 
THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 131 
 
 Now when he wrestles with arithmetic 
 He '11 dream about the pleasant time of 
 noon, 
 And of the airy, evanescent brick 
 
 Of pink ice cream, flanked by a silver 
 
 spoon. 
 'T will blend with him e'en as the lush 
 raccoon 
 Blends with the son of Afric's burning 
 sand. 
 And joyful he will be from hat to shoon 
 To know that learning's kitchen's close 
 at hand, 
 To breathe the incense rare of silken 
 Samarand. 
 
 Begone, begone, grim doughnut of ill 
 fame, 
 Away, away from here to other-where. 
 O baleful pie, for which there's no fit 
 name. 
 To culture's bowers you shall not re- 
 pair. 
 Virgil with veal will be a pleasure rare; 
 
132 THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 
 
 Livy with liver, Socrates with soup 
 
 Should lift the pupil to Olympus fair 
 And high, whereon the meads the glad 
 
 gods group. 
 Just as sponge cake and prunes should 
 
 make his spirits droop. 
 
 Philosophy is very dull and dry, 
 
 And metaphysics is a blooming snare, 
 From differential calculus all fly 
 As from a brindled tiger in his lair; 
 But when these studies with a potted 
 hare 
 Digested are, 'tis quite another thing. 
 The school boy plods along with con- 
 science rare 
 Through Homer, while he eats the turkey 
 
 wing 
 And with the pork chop's fame makes 
 the blue welkin ring. 
 
 When fish and Greek will thus assimilate, 
 The school bell and the dinner bell are 
 one. 
 
THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN 
 
 00 
 
 And education will associate 
 
 Itself with beef, and spurn the burnish- 
 ed bun, 
 That like the cheesecake, when the 
 day is done 
 Creates dyspepsia with an iron hand 
 
 Until the boy the baker shop will shun, 
 And shout in joy the gods may under- 
 stand, 
 "Catullus and clam broth, oh combina- 
 tion grand!" 
 
 The boy when grown, upon the bill of fare 
 Will read the Greek hexameter divine, 
 Theocritus will lend a classic air 
 
 Unto the blue fish from Nantucket's 
 
 brine. 
 And that quaint poet of the farm 
 Sabine — 
 Quintus Horatius Flaccus, B. C. 8, 
 
 Along the vegetable list will shine, 
 And make the hungry scholar's soul 
 
 elate. 
 While playfully he throws his radishes 
 at fate. 
 
134 THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 
 
 Long live the atlas and the frying pan, 
 Long live the spelling book and coffee 
 pot, 
 To foster, from Beersheba unto Dan, 
 Brains for Bostonian, Hindoo, Hot- 
 tentot! 
 Let the chef make the schoolboy's 
 dinner hot, 
 Let the professor make the light appear 
 On gravest problems tough as any 
 knot; 
 The healthy stomach makes the head 
 
 that 's clear; 
 Long wave the teacher with the codfish 
 ball, his peer! 
 
SEA DREAMS IN THE CITY. 
 
 Far from the noisy city's glaring pave 
 The rolling billow breaks upon the 
 shore ; 
 The sail is dimpling on the distant wave 
 That rolls in madcap joy the wind be- 
 fore ; 
 The blue gull circles indolently o'er 
 The cloud ship that is drifting down 
 the sky, 
 White as a lily with a golden core, 
 Or as the dainty sculptures that we spy— 
 A white rose dream upon the fragile 
 fleeting pie. 
 
 I see the small boy with his pail and 
 spade 
 Building the fort the waves will wash 
 
 away; 
 
 135 
 
13^ SEA DREAIVIS IN THE CITY. 
 
 I see fair Angelina shyly wade 
 
 Into the water through, the wind- 
 tossed spray, 
 It is a perfect, shining summer day. 
 And, while I hear the ocean's endless 
 boom, 
 And in a day dream smoke my Henry 
 Clay, 
 And watch its smoke wreaths softly drift 
 
 and bloom, 
 I languish on a cot in a hot hall bed-room. 
 
 Yet I am looking on the back yard, where 
 
 A parched red rose is fading on a slat; 
 
 No gracious raindrop comes to cool the 
 
 air, 
 
 No gentle breeze drifts through the 
 
 humid flat. 
 The moth lays eggs upon the urban 
 cat 
 That doth the alien window sill usurp. 
 Ah, now I note the swallow and the 
 bat, 
 
SEA DREAMS IN THE CITY. 137 
 
 And hear the stray mosquito's wistful 
 
 chirp, 
 And sympathize with yon chain-choked 
 
 enpurpled purp. 
 
 Now to the high roof-garden will I go, 
 And breathe the air that savors of the 
 sea, 
 And dream about the swirling undertow 
 And of the fabled serpent in its glee; 
 Then while the music's flowing wild 
 and free. 
 And the sea nymph is singing at my ear, 
 
 I '11 order in my boundless revel-ree 
 The servitor most quickly to appear. 
 And then joy's shore I '11 find in seas of 
 foaming beer. 
 
A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE 
 GEMS. 
 
 The jocund bluebird capers on the lawn, 
 
 The bee is booming on the mignonette, 
 
 And from her old associates withdrawn. 
 
 The setting shanghai 's full of fume 
 
 and fret. 
 
 Now the soft glimmer of the kiss of dawn 
 
 Trembles serenely on the sign To Let, 
 
 And gilds the pansy by the crystal 
 
 stream, 
 And wakes the bullfrog from his winter's 
 dream. 
 
 The rich and costly rug from Ispahan 
 
 Upon the line in gaudy beauty blows — 
 On the sward shines last year's tomato 
 
 can — 
 Last year's tomato — where is that — who 
 knows? 
 
 i3« 
 
A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 139 
 
 On all our rosy hopes fate lays the ban, 
 All joy is fleeting like the shine that 
 
 glows 
 Upon the light three-dollar russet shoe 
 A moment, then takes flight without 
 
 ado. 
 
 This is the time the poet's fancy swells. 
 Each bursting bud 's to him a tender 
 hope; 
 He lifts his voice in homage when he 
 knells 
 The spot-cash paean of some lilac soap, 
 Which he asserts is like the purple bells 
 That scatter incense on the mossy 
 slope, 
 Along the way when breaks the balmy 
 
 morn, 
 While the shad vender blows his myrtled 
 horn. 
 
 The blush rose at the window still dis- 
 ports 
 And dips with dreamy joy into the 
 breeze, 
 
HO A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 
 
 And now the taurine quadruped cavorts, 
 Ringing his bell beneath the apple 
 
 trees. 
 The vender all his strawberries assorts, 
 Like sparkling gems plucked from the 
 
 Indian seas, 
 According to their size — the big ones 
 
 loom 
 On top — For at the top there 's always 
 
 room. 
 
 Myrtilla, with her arms as snowy white 
 As moon-kissed lilies swings the gar- 
 den rake, 
 Where colocynths and tulips shining 
 bright 
 Sweet dreams of beauty in her bosom 
 wake. 
 The yellow dog, be-flagoned, howls in 
 fright, 
 The cloud ship is reflected in the lake; 
 Ho, for blue skies above the lone blue 
 
 hills, 
 Likewise blue birds, blue violets, blue 
 pills! 
 
A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 141 
 
 The grim mosquito grinds his cimeter. 
 Preparing for the summer's golden 
 feast — 
 The golden feast beneath the silver star, 
 When man's from all his gnawing 
 care 's released — 
 Till Phoebus gliding in her blazing car, 
 
 Effulgent, of a sudden, paints the East, 
 His frou frou will be heard throughout 
 
 the land. 
 While he eludes the ill-aimed hostile hand. 
 
 The earth is now a smiling lotus land, 
 
 It is an island in a sapphire sea. 
 Where the treed monkey smiling blithe 
 and bland. 
 Hurls down the unmilked cocoanut to 
 me. 
 The organ grinder by chaste zephyrs 
 fanned 
 Grinds "Gentle Spring." No sense of 
 humor he 
 Can boast as he unleashes all agape, 
 The stocky, bilious, mercenary ape. 
 
142 A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS 
 
 The happy gull about the heavens reels, 
 And bobs upon the bosom of the sea, 
 From the wishbone the porous plaster 
 peels 
 Of him, who 's held it seven moons in 
 fee. 
 The pessimist in joy kicks up his heels. 
 And quite forgets in his unbounded 
 glee. 
 To moan and groan of his unhappy lot: 
 "Alas, alack, Bismillah scat, god-wot!" 
 
BALLADE OF TRIUMPHANT 
 TIME. 
 
 Oh, time is ever upon the wing, 
 
 It flies like a gull o'er the shining sea; 
 It gathers the white bloom of the spring, 
 
 And the immature apple upon the tree ; 
 
 It gathers all matter from A to Z — 
 From the trouser's seat to the lamb of 
 May: 
 
 Oh, time is fleeting in ruthless glee — 
 To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 
 
 Where is last summer's engagement 
 
 ring? 
 
 Where is last Summer itself, and she? 
 
 Mosquito, mosquito, where is thy sting, 
 
 New Jersey, oh where is thy victo- 
 
 ree? 
 
 ^3 
 
'44 BALLADK. 
 
 The ])1 umber must crumble, ah me, 
 ah me! 
 Like the snow he must fade from the 
 earth away ; 
 No purse can imprison the green- 
 winged V: 
 To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 
 
 Not long to the skull can the front hair 
 cling— 
 The reaper is swinging his scythe care- 
 free. 
 One day doth the bird in the garden sing. 
 Then akimbo on Annabel's hat is he; 
 To time all subjects must bend the 
 knee; 
 All beauty must dwindle in slow decay; 
 
 All flesh is grass and some grass is tea: 
 To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 Prince, even the Presidential Bee, 
 
 A frost benumbs in the sunny ray; 
 Our idols fall and our shekels flee — 
 
 To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 
 
IMITATIONS, 
 
MORNING. 
 
 [CALVERLY.] 
 
 Now the lily on the lake 
 Glads the vision of the drake, 
 And the golden batter cake 
 
 Gilds the table; 
 Now the soft shell crab is spied 
 On the platter, richly fried, 
 And I see the swallow glide 
 Round the stable. 
 
 Now the zephyr lightly blows 
 All the dewdrops off the rose. 
 And the Shanghai loudly crows. 
 
 On his mettle; 
 And the goat in joyous state 
 Makes the saucer and the plate 
 And the hat assimilate 
 
 With the kettle. 
 M7 
 
148 MORNING. 
 
 Like a sailor down the mast, 
 For the dining room at last 
 I will hurry just as fast 
 
 As I 'm able; 
 And my joy will be complete, 
 When I land in visions sweet. 
 So to speak, upon my feet 
 At the table. 
 
HOLLYHOCKS. 
 
 [CALVERLY.] 
 
 In the garden's fragrant way, 
 Through the drowsy Summer day 
 Which the robin's merry lay 
 
 Ripples through, 
 They adorn the flower-bed 
 With their blooms, which, be it said. 
 Glow in tones of dainty red. 
 
 White and blue. 
 
 Oft the booming bumble-bee 
 With his customary glee 
 On the noonday's golden sea 
 
 Gayly rocks. 
 And, according to his whim. 
 Lights serenely, or with vim, 
 On the petals of the prim 
 
 Hollyhocks. 
 
 149 
 
150 HOLLYHOCKS. 
 
 In the sun they gayly nod, 
 While their shadows on the sod 
 Dance, as if with music shod, 
 
 Zephyr-blown. 
 For, of course, they cannot hear 
 In their joy, the locust near 
 Rattling madly on his queer 
 
 Xylophone. 
 
 In their vanity supreme, 
 
 While in gems of dew they gleam, 
 
 They perchance unto this dream 
 
 Fondly cling: 
 That they 're fairer than the white 
 Roses climbing with delight 
 In the day and in the night 
 
 Up a string. 
 
 So its natural that they 
 Should be happy all the day — 
 Sweet Sultanas blithe and gay. 
 
 Rare and tall. 
 Soon they '11 flutter here and there 
 To the realm of otherwhere, 
 From the garden o'er the fair 
 
 Garden wall. 
 
THE FRUIT PEDDLER. 
 
 [CALVERLY.] 
 
 He is from all care a fleet 
 
 Fugitive, 
 Who for any throne his seat 
 
 Would n't give. 
 In the rattle of the cable, 
 There he smiles as at the table, 
 Selling peaches to enable 
 
 Him to live. 
 
 In the weather, cool or hot, 
 
 Wet or dry. 
 How he from the apricot 
 
 Flicks the fly. 
 While he eloquently screeches 
 All the virtues of the peaches 
 Which he fervently beseeches 
 
 You to buy. 
 
 151 
 
152 THE FRUIT PEDDLER. 
 
 Oh, a song of Tusca-nee, 
 
 Oft he chants 
 In enthusiastic glee, 
 
 Then he rants. 
 And his blood begins to tingle, 
 While he grabs at his surcingle, 
 For suspenders never mingle 
 
 With his "pants." 
 
 Oh, he smokes his cigarette 
 
 In the hum 
 Of the bustle, and no fret 
 
 Seems to come 
 O'er his soul with rapture seething, 
 While a smile his face is wreathing. 
 And to polish it he 's breathing 
 
 On the plum. 
 
 Now he 's vision-thrilled, I know, 
 
 Through and through, 
 From his ear-rings to the toe 
 
 Of his shoe. 
 So I '11 leave him grim and greasy, 
 To his dreams so light and breezy, 
 Nor disturb him with an easy 
 
 Howdy-do! 
 
TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER, 
 
 [CALVERLY.] 
 
 Patiently and hard thou ploddest, 
 Through the long and sultry day, 
 
 With thy stock-in-trade so modest 
 Resting on a humble tray. 
 
 On the corner calm thou standest, 
 In the shower-driven mud, 
 
 Casting smiles the sweetest, blandest, 
 On the two-cent collar stud. 
 
 There thou art, in clothing shoddy, 
 All thy bosom full of song, 
 
 With thy salver to thy body 
 
 Fastened with a leathern thong. 
 
 When the weary cit thou sightest. 
 
 Seeking his abode of rest. 
 Then thou bowest, with politest 
 
 Invitations to invest. 
 153 
 
154 TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 
 
 E'er thine oculars out-twinkle 
 
 All thy meretricious gems, 
 E'en when water wagons sprinkle 
 
 Thy misshapen trousered stems. 
 
 E'er thou seemest bright and happy 
 
 As the orioles that wing 
 Swiftly round the maple sappy 
 
 In the moving days of Spring. 
 
 Often have I seen thee standing 
 With a rapture wildly strange, 
 
 Selling horse-shoe pins, and handing 
 Customers the proper change. 
 
 I have seen warm visions wreathing 
 Round that countenance of thine, 
 
 While upon thy trinkets breathing 
 To excite a selling shine. 
 
 I have seen thee many, many 
 
 Moments pause, and, thoughtful scan 
 All the fleeting show, like any 
 
 Gentlemanly clergyman. 
 
TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 155 
 
 When at night thou softly foldest 
 Up thine enterprise and cares — 
 
 Then thou flyest in thy boldest 
 Style up seven flights of stairs. 
 
 Where, serenely in thy rocker, 
 Soon thou'rt rocking to and fro, 
 
 Reading Tennyson and Locker — 
 Dreaming of the long ago; 
 
 When the days were bright and sunny. 
 And thy cheek was like a rose, 
 
 And financial milk and honey 
 Drowned life's ordinary woes; 
 
 When with bosom love-elated, 
 Down the pathway like a shot, 
 
 Thou didst sally saturated 
 With a wealth of bergamot; 
 
 In a manner light and airy, 
 In thy kids and coat of blue, 
 
 To the residence of Mary 
 Dusenbury Montague. 
 
156 TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 
 
 How she eyed thy whiskers sandy, 
 While she touched them with her glove ! 
 
 How thy packages of candy 
 
 In her mouth she deigned to shove! 
 
 How, while Summer winds were blowing 
 
 Flower-petals in the brake, 
 Thou wouldst crack thy spinal, rowing 
 
 Her upon the moonlit lake! 
 
 All these facts excite my pity — 
 Make me shed a tearful flood — 
 
 Knowing thou must roam the city. 
 Vending pin and collar-stud. 
 
 But we all have our romances, 
 Pop to damosels with stealth; 
 
 Tell their sires, with coolest glances, 
 Falsehoods of our golden wealth. 
 
 And, who knows, thou fate, that carvest 
 Rudely all our visions sweet, 
 
 May not we, in lifetime's harvest, 
 Stand upon the noisy street? 
 
TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 1 57 
 
 In the day-time hot and dusty. 
 In straw hat and ulster drest. 
 
 Yelling in a manner lusty. 
 With a tray upon our chest? 
 
 W^hile before us beauty's daughter 
 
 Passes like a shooting star: 
 *' Nobby horseshoe pins — a quarter 
 
 Of a dollar — here you are!" 
 
TO AT CAMPOBELLO. 
 
 [ CALVERLY ] 
 
 When the morning bright and rosy 
 
 Trembles on the purple sea, 
 And the marigold and posy 
 
 Wake the buttertiy and bee ; 
 When the lilac mist is shifting 
 
 Softly o'er the dimpled swell, 
 And the humming bird is drifting 
 
 Round the dainty flower bell, 
 
 When the zephyr glides serenely 
 
 O'er the white-capped ocean bar, 
 And the dewdrop on the queenly 
 
 Lily glistens like a star; 
 Then, oh pearl of my devotion, 
 
 Little blue-eyed fairy, Rose, 
 Prithee do n't forget the lotion 
 
 For the freckles on your nose. 
 158 
 
A DOG DAY JINGLE. 
 
 [ CALVERLY, ] 
 
 Like a leaf before the gale, 
 Flies the doggie with a wail — 
 Tied upon his shrivelled tail 
 
 Flaps a flagon. 
 And the "catcher" runs elate 
 At a very lively gait, 
 For the doggie will not wait 
 
 For the wagon. 
 
 Down the dusty thoroughfare 
 Flies he swiftly as the hare: 
 While he circles here and there 
 
 Like the sparrow. 
 With this thought the doggie's filled, 
 That his bark will soon be stilled, 
 And he 's naturally chilled 
 
 To the marrov/. 
 159 
 
l6o A DOG DAY JINGLE. 
 
 Oh, the "catcher" clears the ground, 
 While before him lopes the hound 
 With the light and airy bound 
 
 He inherits. 
 O'er the plaza's stormy bed 
 Fly the man and quadruped — 
 Each one flying, be it said. 
 
 On his merits. 
 
 Through the alleyway and out. 
 While the gamins gayly shout; 
 Madly puffs and pants the stout, 
 
 Clumsy fellow. 
 Then he throws the airy line 
 In a manner fit to shine, 
 O'er the head of the canine 
 
 Sere and yellow. 
 
 In the wagon he is met 
 By the dogs of every set; 
 Scrawny cur and pampered pet 
 
 In a collar. 
 Maiden never on him beamed, 
 He 's a mongrel unesteemed, 
 That will never be redeemed 
 
 For a dollar. 
 
A DOG DAY JINGLE. l6l 
 
 He 's without a ray of hope — 
 They '11 convert him into soap, 
 Primed with pansy, heliotrope, 
 
 Rose, or dahlia. 
 And he 's also much afraid 
 Into buttons he '11 be made 
 And the sausage meat purveyed 
 
 In Westphalia. 
 
 Never more he '11 for the rat. 
 That is over-fed and fat, 
 With his bosom pit-a-pat 
 
 Strike a bee line. 
 And he '11 ne'er with joy intense, 
 Through the alleyway, and thence 
 O'er the tubs and up the fence 
 
 Chase the feline. 
 
 For the cruel hand of fate 
 
 Soon will drown him in the crate — 
 
 Oh, his green eyes will dilate 
 
 While he prances! 
 That he '11 terror-stricken be. 
 When he finds he cannot flee, 
 Will be natural under the 
 
 Circumstances. 
 
l62 A DOG DAY JINGLE. 
 
 " Now, how long, O Lord, how long? ' 
 Is the vagrant doggie's song, 
 While he chafes beneath the wrong 
 
 Fate devises. 
 And the ''catcher" says, " The fun, 
 Little doggie, won't be done 
 While old Sirius with the sun 
 
 Sets and rises." 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 [locker.] 
 
 Now I linger in a dream 
 
 By a lisping woodland stream 
 
 In a dell, 
 And again we romp and play 
 In the meads in merry May, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 Roses red your features crest, 
 In the east or in the west — 
 
 South or north ; 
 There is naught so gay and sweet, 
 So enchanting and petite, 
 &c. 
 
 As yourself, for it 's as true 
 As your loving eyes are blue — 
 You 're divine. 
 163 
 
164 A DREAM. 
 
 As when playing on the green 
 With the lamb in May, 18 — 
 59. 
 
 Oh, you feed the sparrows still, 
 As they twitter at the sill 
 
 And the pump; 
 And the birds their singing stop 
 When you pass them with a hop, 
 
 Skip and jump. 
 
 Blossoms bright your ringlets deck, 
 And around your dimpled neck 
 
 White as snow, 
 Still a ribbon blows and plays 
 As it did in happy days, 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 Now the vision quickly breaks. 
 While the rosy zephyr wakes 
 
 Wren and jay; 
 And I rise without a sigh. 
 And meander down to my 
 
 Dijeuner. 
 
THE SUN. 
 
 [STEVENSON.] 
 
 It rises over yonder hill, 
 
 A flaming golden ball, 
 It creeps across the window sill 
 
 And dances on the wall. 
 
 It gilds the cloudlet's fleecy wing, 
 
 It draws the purple sea, 
 Spills blossoms in the lap of Spring 
 
 And wakes the belted bee. 
 
 I see it now its tresses shake 
 'Way down the west, and know 
 
 It flies to China-land to make 
 The sweet tea-roses blow. 
 
 165 
 
THE SLEEPY DAY. 
 
 [STEVENSON.] 
 
 The day is growing dull and sleepy, 
 While twilight's tide about it flows 
 
 Among the misty hosts of shadows 
 It 's nodding to repose. 
 
 I see the white star softly rising 
 In sparkling beauty overhead — 
 
 The kind old nursie with the candle 
 To light the day to bed. 
 
 z66 
 
MY SHIP. 
 
 [STEVENSON.] 
 
 My pony is the pleasant ship 
 
 On which I sail care-free, 
 Where daisies, like foam-blossoms, dip 
 
 Into the green-grass sea. 
 
 The fresh breeze is my riding whip; 
 
 Grasshoppers big and gray, 
 Are flying fish about my ship. 
 
 Whose cargo 's oats and hay. 
 
 A jagged reef that bodes no good 's 
 
 That stone wall over there ; 
 Great icebergs are those white dogwoods. 
 
 That sheep 's a polar bear. 
 
 That black rock is a whale asleep 
 Above rich coral caves, 
 167 
 
1 68 MY SHIP. 
 
 Those butterflies are gulls that sweep 
 Above the clover waves. 
 
 I see my wharf — the shaky stile — 
 
 To hurry there I think ; 
 Beside this rill I '11 stop awhile 
 
 To give the ship a drink. 
 
PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS 
 
 BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS CO. 
 
 MDCCCXCVI 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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