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FROG HOLLOW 
 POST BAG 
 
 AS SORTED AND ARRANGED BY 
 THE HERMIT 
 
 HENRY D. MUIR 
 
 Bacchus — From whom? 
 Charon — From swans, the frogs, 
 
 the wondrous ones\ — Arzsiophaties 
 
 BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 (Ctc <J5or?)am JBre?? 
 
 1904 
 
 
( i .H- 
 
 u 
 
 Copyright, 1903, by Henry D. Muir 
 
 t 
 
 A// rights 7-eserved 
 
 THE LIBRARY Of 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 "^m -16 \m^ 
 
 COPVRWHT Ewnnv 
 • COPY B. 
 
 IJ3SF7 
 
 !Q 
 
 PRINTED AT 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 
 BOSTON 
 

 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Introduction, 
 
 
 5 
 
 Letter 
 
 I. 
 
 The Hermit to Aristophanes, 
 
 II 
 
 Letter 
 
 IL 
 
 Aristophanes to The Hermit, . 
 
 13 
 
 Letter 
 
 in. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 16 
 
 Letter 
 
 IV. 
 
 Polyandra to Sir Leaper, 
 
 17 
 
 Letter 
 
 V. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 18 
 
 Letter 
 
 VI. 
 
 Polyandra to Sir Leaper, 
 
 19 
 
 Letter 
 
 VII. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 20 
 
 Letter 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 21 
 
 Letter 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 22 
 
 Letter 
 
 X. 
 
 Polyandra to Sir Leaper, 
 
 23 
 
 Let'ier 
 
 XI. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 27 
 
 Letter 
 
 XII. 
 
 Polyandra to Sir Leaper, 
 
 31 
 
 Letter 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 35 
 
 Letter 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Polyandra to Sir Leaper, 
 
 38 
 
 Letter 
 
 XV. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 40 
 
 Letter 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Polyandra to Sir Leaper, 
 
 42 
 
 Letter XVH. 
 
 Sir Leaper to Polyandra, 
 
 44 
 
 A Post Card. 
 
 The Hermit to The Gentle Reader 
 
 . 47 
 
FROG HOLLOW POST BAG 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In latest March the frogs begin to sing, 
 
 Or croak — if so you term that chorusing — 
 
 In fields bucolic ; but to my fine ear 
 
 No lark may lift a throat of happier cheer 
 
 Than did Sir Leaper Bullfrog of the Marsh, 
 
 When, to the general, his song rang harsh 
 
 And set the scornful critic crows a-laughing. 
 
 The music's in the hearer. Sneers ^nd chaffing 
 
 I take to be but light perverted rills 
 
 That have gone wildering from the sacred hills 
 
 Into the envious tangle of a wood — 
 
 Oh, they'd be mighty rivers, if they could! 
 
 Enough, say I, of crows and buzzard tribe, 
 
 Enough of satire and the carper's gibe ; 
 
 Our thought shall take the gentle ways and green, 
 
 Of light, of truth, of trust, of hearts serene — 
 
 The honest frog-croak and the honest frog 
 
 Shall be our theme. On, then, Pegasus! Jog! 
 
 For, on a day, as through the fields I went, 
 With such a heart as only may be sent 
 Briefly abroad in the releasing spring 
 To find the new-lit heart in everything, 
 Sir Leaper hailed me, grandly, from his bog; 
 And I bent ear to list the knightly frog. 
 
, " I do percein^e," that bold amphibian said, 
 " You have no chib wherewith to dent my head, 
 Nor gun, nor net; and so I deem, dear sir. 
 You are a scholar and philosopher 
 Of the old school, and own too much respect. 
 Even to frogs, to kill or vivisect." 
 
 '' Nay, frog," said I, " I am myself alone ; 
 Schools old or new, I do belong to none ; 
 A poet, I, a dreamer, a recluse, 
 A cynic, a misogynist, a" goose — 
 Whate'er you will ! Yet a few maxims sun 
 My life, and this, ' Live and let live,' is one." 
 
 " I care not what you are," Sir Leaper croaked, 
 " So long as these " (and his plump legs he 
 
 stroked) 
 " Be not your quest. — And yet, indeed, I care," 
 He said, after a pause, with serious air, 
 " For you may help me span the luckless years." 
 
 Forthwith he poured, tumultuous, to my ears, 
 A tale so strange I could not credit it 
 By fondest stretch of my elastic wit, 
 But which he swore, by Jupiter, was truth. 
 For, it would seem, in his batrachian youth. 
 Ere this his last humble reincarnation. 
 He had been frog of proud, exalted station — 
 Had even acted in Greek comedies. 
 Head chorister, for Aristophanes. 
 And many a story told he, of those days. 
 And many a chorus sang, to win my praise 
 And drive home proof of sound veracity. 
 'Twas somewhat in these strains he sang to 
 
 me: — 
 
 " Brekekekex, coax, coax ! 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax! 
 
" Marshy offspring 
 Of the fountains, we 
 
 Now shall sing 
 Our sweet-sounding harmony — 
 Hymns we sung so free, 
 
 Coax, coax, 
 
 Once in Limnse, 
 Round the Nysaean Bacchus, son of Jove : 
 What time the people strove, 
 
 In drunken revelry. 
 On the sacred festival 
 
 Of the Chytrse, 
 Through my demesne marching all. 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax! 
 
 " Nay, rather, will we sing the more ! 
 'Twas ever on the sunny days we'd rove, 
 Leaping through sedge and galingale. 
 Delighting, so, our strains to pour. 
 
 Our chanted song; 
 Or, 'scaping, blithe, with nimble dive, the 
 hail 
 
 And rain of Jove, 
 And safe from surface troubles, 
 Our choral watery music would prolong 
 Mid noise of bursting bubbles. 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax ! " 
 
 On ceasing which, Sir Leaper puffed his chest 
 So self-importantly I feared his vest 
 Of yellowish white would fly in strips apart 
 And bare his cords, his lungs, his coxcomb heart ; 
 And, for the moment, I was almost fain 
 Myself to play a Jovian part, and rain, 
 Sudden, a storm of gravel round his head ; 
 But I forbore, close barkening, while he said: 
 
" By this yott see I am no fraud but true; 
 
 Of line — how ancient ! and of blood — how blue ! 
 
 Did not great Homer, oft, himself recite 
 
 Our battles with the mice, in epic flight? 
 
 Sir, ev'n with haughty shades we range and 
 
 mix : 
 When dusky Charon, paddling o'er the Styx, 
 Is questioned by a ' fare ' on dulcet tones. 
 He answers : ' Swans, the frogs, the wondrous 
 
 ones.' 
 But now you know -me for myself indeed, 
 I'll sound no further trumpet, but proceed 
 To that bright hope which so ungloomed my 
 
 mind 
 When first I spied your form and visage kind. 
 For know, dear sir, by river Acheron, 
 Croaks still my sweetheart of the days agone, 
 Miss Polyandra Speckleback, by name ; 
 Nor fairer she lives in batrachian fame 
 Than she, the nonpareil of queenly frogs. 
 As fresh to-day this bosom catalogues 
 Her gracious beauty as 'twere yesterday 
 Had felt the stylus — not the B. C.'s gray. 
 Ah! if her graces I arrayed and set 
 Against my present wives' — I do forget 
 Their exact number, fifty or sixty odd — 
 A scene 'twould be to stir to tears a god. 
 Enough ! enough ! you know my heart. And 
 
 now, 
 How bridge the backward chasm ? — how, O, 
 
 how ! " 
 
 He gulped his grief, yet ampler tears distilled. 
 Respected I his sorrow ; pity filled 
 My heart, upwelling; my own eyes grew dim 
 To watch such dole. But soon I said to him, — 
 " Cheer thee, old frog ; dry up your tears, I say ; 
 
 8 
 
We'll find a way — I'm sure we'll find a way. 
 Write ye a letter to your love this night; 
 On some fair leaf your soulful passion write, 
 And give it me upon the dawn to-morrow. 
 Meanwhile, this flattened puffball will I borrow, 
 And shape a mail pouch — ay, will signal, sir, 
 To Jove's own bird to be our messenger ; 
 And (for a misdirection all would stop) 
 To Aristophanes myself will drop, 
 This very afternoon, a line or two. 
 Adieu, Sir Leaper — now sweet dreams to you ! " 
 
 Nay, my keen reader, your intelligence 
 I'll not insult with vapory-thin pretence. 
 The letters, copied, that herein you find ^ 
 Were largely mine and did our lover blind. 
 To fool Sir Leaper was an easy thing; 
 To hoodwink you — that were no task for spring ! 
 '' But," you may ask, *' was't honest to deceive 
 A poor and doting frog with make-believe ? " 
 " Ah, friend," I answer ; " in this world of 
 
 spleens. 
 When good results, why quibble at the means — 
 Sir Leaper's heart was jocund with the May ; 
 And, for myself, 'twas springtime holiday." 
 
Letter I. 
 
 THE HERMIT TO ARISTOPHANES. 
 
 Renowned Athenian, great Plato's friend, 
 Thou who, in arm with ThaHa, didst wend, 
 BHthely, through bHthe domains of Comedy, 
 The first great lord to rule the States of Glee, 
 Thy scepter barbed beneath its gilt of fun, 
 Thy voice like lark's, high soaring to the sun 
 That warmed those days of glory, — listen now 
 To one who bears no laurel on his brow. 
 But whose rude heart the gentle sisters long 
 Have cheered and sanctified and stirred to song, 
 So that he takes the burdens of his days 
 With gladness. 
 
 Preface enough! For you raise, 
 No doubt, the question, through satiric laugh- 
 ter, — 
 "By Jove! I wonder what this fellow's after?" 
 Nay, thou great shade, I would not trouble thus 
 One moment in your days luxurious, 
 (For, I presume, you are embowered rare. 
 And roam Elysian fields, and joyous fare) 
 If 'twere some trivial matter of my own : 
 It is my friend's ; sometimes (it hath been shown) 
 To cheer a friend — the dear, pernicious elf ! — 
 We blunder where we would not go for self. 
 This friend of mine, ycleped Sir Leaper Frog, 
 Is a true heart and no loud demagogue. 
 Like Cleon, to be railed at. He, it seems. 
 Unless he speak but through the woof of dreams, 
 
 1 1 
 
Was in a former body known of you, 
 Chief in the chorus of the croaking crew 
 Of your bright comedy, when Bacchus went 
 Even to Hades with the vowed intent 
 To bring a poet worthy of the name 
 To Athens and the rhythming hucksters shame. 
 This is the suit: Write me one hue, to tell 
 Where Polyandra Speckleback doth dwell. 
 His once affianced ; and if this you do. 
 He'll eat ten mice and croak a week for you. 
 Myself will also take ,it "as a favor, 
 And read your plays again, for lyric savor 
 They do contribute still to jaded Earth, 
 And glean old fields for heart-renewing mirth. 
 Again, with birds, Cloud-Cuckoo-town I'll fly ; 
 Or, with distressed Tryg?eus, mount the sky, 
 Astride the beetle, free the goddess Peace, 
 And bid the gods their mad destruction cease ; 
 Or '* Ladies' Parliament " may, bold, attend 
 (Disguised, be sure) ; or with blind Plutus wend, 
 Distributing his gold with reckless zest; 
 Or chant with shades, while rival bards contest, 
 In Hades ; or shoot, swift and keen and straight. 
 Reproving arrows at the doting State. 
 That round good Socrates you drew a net 
 Of ridiculing satire, I regret ; 
 But sure am I the sage did laugh, as gay 
 As merriest, and pufifed all clouds away 
 That might engender hatred. Sir, good-by. 
 I thank you in advance. May all peace lie 
 Upon your heart. My regards to Apollo. 
 Sincerely yours. 
 The Hcriiiit of Frog Hollow. 
 
 12 
 
Letter II. 
 ARISTOPHANES TO THE HERMIT. 
 
 Dear Sir and Hermit, — 
 
 Your late letter I 
 Received, and hasten promptly to reply. 
 'Tis true I knew this frog, this Leaper you 
 Solicit for, " and pity 'tis, 'tis true " — 
 If I may quote the Thespian that lives 
 A few doors south, who cracks a jest and gives 
 The time o' day, when, friendly, we do meet, 
 The smoothest, wittiest fellow on the street — 
 For this " Sir " Leaper, but plain Leaper then, 
 Though fuller voiced than any from the Fen, 
 Was a sad scamp and unreliable ; 
 And, if paid in advance, one could not tell 
 How soon again he'd hear that strenuous croak, 
 Until (how do you term it?) he'd '' gone broke." 
 For oboli and drachmas, in a trice, 
 He'd spend for juicy ducklings, snails, and mice, 
 And bear no mind for contracts. However, 
 I must acknowledge him superbly clever — 
 A genius, in his line. And so I took 
 The trouble to consult their '' Frogtown Book " — 
 The last directory — and soon I found, 
 Among the " Specklebacks " that there abound, 
 This reading, — *' Polyandra, spinster lone ; 
 Home, Bulrush street, beneath the Third Gray 
 Stone." 
 
 But hence with frogs and all their croak- 
 eries ! 
 I'll write a further line, my mind to ease 
 
 13 
 
Dn portlier maftter, ere I close and seal. 
 For though I know your gripping age of steel 
 May never catch the far Athenian spirit, 
 There's slander 'gainst my name, and I would 
 
 clear it. 
 They dub me gross and a conservative — 
 But O, my sir, if you those days could live 
 Your judgments would be softer ! A flux mob, 
 Like ours, you know not, nor such passions throb 
 To-day for headlong . mischief. Now, you 
 
 smother. 
 With press, your demagogues, or 'gainst each 
 
 other 
 Pit them for brief destruction ; but with me 
 I had no weapon save my comedy. 
 To drive a truth, to curb, or to cajole, 
 By well-known jest, the dull unlettered soul. 
 Old Socrates to-day doth bear no grudge 
 That I misused him somewhat : he doth trudge 
 Often to see me ; and my nectar drinks 
 With right good relish, as sedate as Sphinx. 
 Nor doth Euripides hold me in scorn 
 For failure to perceive that he was born 
 Before his time. Ev'n Father Cratinus, 
 Apparently, hath quite forgot the fuss 
 Of former days, and greets me. 
 
 Hermit Sir, 
 Believe me still a most true worshiper 
 In one world-shrine, the poet's trinity — 
 Wine, Woman, Song. Yet late there came to me 
 A low-browed vassal of your own sad times 
 Who said the age had long outgrown its rhymes, 
 Hexameters, and all, and dressed in prose 
 Severe and guiltless of ruffed furbelows. 
 " Why, man," said he, " the average reader now, 
 Though for his fodder stomached as a cow, 
 
 H 
 
Had rather buy a condor or a snake 
 
 Than the best poems that our bardlings make — 
 
 Had rather read a last year's almanac 
 
 Than brightest epic of Apollo's pack. 
 
 And women? O lord! O lord, save the mark! 
 
 There are no women now, or light or dark — 
 
 You see but throngs of imitation men : 
 
 The rooster's comb and spurs adorn the hen ; 
 
 With crowing all the yard is inundated, 
 
 And eggs are scarce, and chicks are incubated 
 
 In frigid warmth ; eager from shell they dart — 
 
 But find no mother wing, no nesting heart. 
 
 And wine? worse, worse! you may tell by the 
 
 label 
 What you are drinking, but no palate's able — 
 Oh, send not Samian worldward ! " So he said ; 
 But I'll not deem your world so utter dead — 
 I cling to memories blither. Sir, adieu. 
 Full glad am I to have advantaged you ; 
 You are most welcome to all courtesies. 
 
 Yours, very truly, 
 Aristophanes. 
 
 15 
 
^ Letter III. 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 Last night I swept two thousand years away, 
 And more, at a mere dreaming thought of thee, 
 Dear love and dearest frog of old Limnse, 
 
 And stood, renewed, all luminous, — my clay 
 
 Upgathered from the ages. Fairest fay 
 Of rushy marshlands rippling silverly 
 In the young day, list to thy lover's plea, 
 
 As thou didst listen, charmed, in the young day. 
 
 Ay, Polyandra, 'neath his sullen night. 
 
 Your Leaper's form reared luminous and light, 
 
 And his heart sang and his feet danced the 
 strain 
 
 Of music once agreed betwixt us twain — 
 You must remember. O, sweet Polly, write 
 
 That wild-mild song that wakes this soul again ! 
 
Letter IV. 
 
 POLYANDRA TO SIR LEAPER. 
 
 Sonnet me not — how dare, how dare you, sir! 
 Write in plain Frogish. Let not this occur 
 Again. But, better still, write not at all ; 
 In rhyme, in prose, I shall not read your scrawl. 
 What! base deserter! dost at this late day 
 Resume the lover's guise thou threw'st away, 
 At light caprice, while vanishing, as smoke, 
 From my strained eyes, ere one might say " croak, 
 
 croak " ? 
 If thou be'st he, the Leaper of those times, 
 Read moles thy sonnets and feed bats thy 
 
 rhymes, 
 But send not them to me that still have eyes 
 And am quite done with such hypocrisies. 
 Dost know there's filed against you, in our court, 
 A suit for fifty field-mice, ev'n for sport 
 Thou hadst with this same trusting heart of mine, 
 When it was flushed and brimmed with Love's 
 
 glad wine 
 And beat no pulseless tune for shades that row 
 These brooding rivers? Well, then, 'tis truth. 
 
 Know 
 The full-faced glance, thou shell of worthless- 
 
 ness ; 
 And keep thy distance ever, sir ! 
 
 P.S. 
 
 17 
 
^ Letter V. 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 Nay, you mistake me, Polly, dearest Polly! 
 Into a green and yellow melancholy 
 I fell, when thy sharp missive I perused 
 And found Love's golden arrow so misused — 
 The same I plucked thee from one quivering 
 
 heart, 
 My humble own, enchantress that thou art! 
 But close re-reading, "twixt those lines of spite, 
 Anon I saw the glint of cheering light : 
 For you mistake me, Polly ; you mistake 
 My strange desertion, through the nodding brake, 
 In fair spring sunshine of Hellenic vale, 
 ril strip the mystery; brief is the tale. 
 As you sat smiling, Oh, my darling frog, 
 In the green warmth, upon that oozy log, 
 Accepting graciously what flies I caught 
 With appetite divine, I farther sought 
 My quarry, and pressed hard a mouse's track. 
 A stork upsnapped us both. Alack! alack! 
 Dost marvel that your Leaper ne'er returned ? 
 This is the truth — Oh, let these legs be burned 
 For Gallic fete day, if it be not so! 
 Ah ! write me, Polyandra ; let me know 
 Sweet peace again, and dreams, and slumbers 
 
 sweet ; 
 And may again this heart at thy dear feet 
 Lie vivified, forgiven. I would sing 
 Again, for thee, our ancient song of spring, 
 As old as Love's and yet as ever-young — 
 But whether hate or pardon find a tongue 
 In thee, my love, my love can ne'er be deeper 
 Than now it is. 
 
 Your own eternal, 
 
 Leaper. 
 
 i8 
 
Letter VI. 
 
 POLYANDRA TO SIR LEAPER. 
 
 Sir, I confess my mind a trifle shaken, 
 
 Yet scarce do feel that I have been mistaken ; 
 
 For once I knew thy speech so plausible 
 
 That flies buzzed to their fate, as drawn by spell. 
 
 But what saith Toadicus the tree-top seer — 
 
 " Who barbeth vengeance doth his own heart 
 
 spear." 
 So, Leaper, let the past be closed and done ; 
 Or, if remembered, be as spring and sun — 
 Not clouds and darkness. But presume no more 
 On that snapped tie that graced the days of yore : 
 Our love must be Platonic — I, a shade 
 Of Hades ; you, a worldling, sadly frayed 
 By numerous incarnations and strange fate. 
 Some age to come, perchance, will set all straight, 
 And we may chant a lovers' hymn together, 
 Plutonian ; or roam Elysium heather. 
 Enfranchised from all gloom. However, this 
 Is but a too presumptuous dream of bliss, 
 I fear. You are forgiven, quite; but still 
 Be chary of fine vows, nor rhetoric spill. 
 
 Polyandra. 
 
 19 
 
, Letter VII. 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 Yours to command, in life, in hell, in heaven ; 
 All's well again, now that I rest forgiven 
 For being forked and storked — Oh, clumsy one ! 
 So inconsiderate, too; but — well, all's done. 
 And I have paid most dearly for my folly, 
 Missing two thousand years your bright eves, 
 
 Polly. , • . . 
 
 Dear ! save for kindly hermit, nigh the Marsh, 
 Who proffers aid, my fate were still as harsh. 
 But now the songsters, that were erst so drear, 
 Make music merry, and each tiny spear 
 Is redolent of promise and of joy ; 
 Nay, not a chirp, an odor, now doth cloy 
 Sheer happiness but addeth to the sum — 
 A crumb's a banquet, a banquet's a crumb. 
 The brooks, the meadow, the slow forest budding. 
 The marshland swept with river's gentle flood- 
 ing. 
 The grassing hill, the blue and white of sky. 
 The ardent sun, sing all, and I reply. 
 Make answer, too ; so thou respond to me. 
 Not Jove himself will share my ecstasy. 
 
 Leaper. 
 
 20 
 
Letter VIII. 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 No answer to my last. But, dear, I know 
 
 How loth you were of old to write, and so 
 
 I marvel not, nor fret, nor feel offence. 
 
 But trust still fondly in your good frog sense, 
 
 Your judgments cool, your unromantic heart. 
 
 But I, who am to the Cadmean art 
 
 A poor bondslave, — I, whom the Muses goad, 
 
 Though he hath naught to say, to hymn, to ode, 
 
 To epic, ev'n, — I, who have sore contracted 
 
 The writer's itch, and am by words distracted 
 
 (Mere words!) or made most happy — I, in 
 
 brief. 
 Who have grown literary, must fill leaf 
 This night or languish. Dearest heart, I pray 
 Cast not these notes of love unread away, 
 But humor them and answer when you've time. 
 Oh, be not like this same erratic clime 
 Wherein I live — one moment, sun and fair ; 
 The next, keen blizzard and a freezing air 
 That pierces to the bone. Why, in my last, 
 You read how rapt I was that Spring had cast 
 Her magic o'er the earth so goldenly ; 
 To-day a driving snow hath silenced me 
 And my compeers, and, save a protest harsh, 
 At intervals, no sound doth thread the marsh. 
 'Tis horrible! And only that my love 
 Doth shield and warm me, even as a glove, 
 I should like others droop into a trance 
 Or die. Nature, though garmented for dance. 
 Sits sullen and dejected. The mistaken 
 Birds of the south that did at dawn awaken 
 To joy, are chilled and somber and nigh dead. 
 
 21 
 
To-morrow ? — snows or flowers may lie out- 
 spread. 
 So the emotions of this whimsy earth ; 
 I trust thy fare is better. Tell the mirth 
 And sorrows of thy life ; ay, tell to me 
 Thy minor pastimes — though they trifling be, 
 They all shall charm; and I will catalogue, 
 In fair return, the pleasures of thy frog. 
 
 Leaper. 
 
 Letter IX. 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 No word from thee — what, still no gentle word ! 
 It cannot be this careful hand hath erred 
 In the addressing? Rather, some foul hap 
 Bechanced the messenger ; or else the strap 
 Did slip and wry, and all the mail was strewn 
 Above some field, like leaves in autumn blown, 
 Surprising rustics with untimely shower. 
 If not, I humbly bide your will, my flower 
 Of beauty, and await your queenly pleasure 
 And some deigned token of your favoring leisure 
 To solace and renew this heart of mine — 
 Or thine, for all I have, dear love, is thine. 
 Make answer, if it please thee ; if it troubles. 
 Silence — but still I blow my loving bubbles. 
 
 Leaper. 
 
 22 
 
Letter X. 
 
 POLYANDRA TO SIR LEAPER. 
 
 Judge my surprise, emerging from the pool. 
 To find three letters in the vestibule ; 
 And all from thee, thou tried and faithful soul ! 
 But know that here 'tis worse than at your Pole, 
 Where one long day and night comprise the 
 
 year — 
 Our hours are never portioned. Leaper, here. 
 In Hades, 'tis monotony of gloom. 
 While, in Elysium, their flowers bloom 
 Thrice in the twelvemonth and the sun ne'er sets. 
 Pardon me, dear, and cancel now my debts 
 Of correspondence; for, you plainly see, 
 A day of mine might stretch a week for thee. 
 
 It was of late so irksome in this street 
 I watched my chance, and, 'twixt the hairy feet 
 Of Cerberus, did spring, with heart athump, 
 And landed safe and sound in grassy clump. 
 Anon I heard the faint, delicious hum 
 Of chanting heroes, in Elysium, 
 And eagerly hopped thither through the grass, 
 Which comelier grew, and lured me swift to pass 
 O'er Limbo's field, full west, unto the Isles. 
 There Rhadamanthus rules, and naught defiles 
 The sacred realm. Waveless, the rivers flow ; 
 Caressing cool, the even zephyrs blow 
 O'er meadows, fragrant ever — purple-hued 
 Those healthful airs, and with sea-breath imbued ; 
 Nor rain, nor snow, nor pelting storms distress, 
 But always tempered sun and peacefulness. 
 And there the heroes of the earth — the just. 
 The wise, the brave — and all aspiring dust 
 Pardoned of stain, may tread the meads, beguile 
 
The gentle hours with games, or talk and smile, 
 Or sing, or harken to completest strains 
 Of magic-woven sound, from godly plains 
 Wafted. Old Homer there I saw ; his eyes. 
 Renewed for kindlier seas and shores and skies 
 Than thwarted man's, were shining blue and 
 
 clear, 
 And round him brightest forms gave laugh or 
 
 cheer 
 Or hung on thrilling words, soul-earnestly. 
 Priam and his brave tlock, all enmity 
 At end between them and the radiant Greeks, 
 Now mingled with their victors : now no piques 
 Revived like serpent coils ; but honest Hector 
 Pledged haughty Achilles, in cups of nectar ; 
 And kindly jest and friendship's golden words 
 Were bandied light, when once had mirthless 
 
 swords 
 Of braced opponents made sole argimient. 
 Another group was clustered close, intent 
 On old philosophies. Plato did throttle, 
 Half-humorously, the humdrum Aristotle, 
 In fair good part ; while Socrates looked on 
 With merry eyes, or aided in the fun ; 
 And friend Diogenes, minus his tub. 
 Was a free-lance and all alike did club. 
 As I stood list'ning, down the flowery road 
 A band of poets came, chanting an ode 
 Of Pindar's, softly : and one, spying me, 
 Lifted me high, by legs, for all to see. 
 Cried gay Alenandcr, — " What a theme for 
 
 sport ! 
 Let's try this culprit by poetic court. 
 Meting poetic justice to the same ; 
 Fix penalty, or quite dismiss from blame." 
 So I was carried blithely to a grove ; 
 And long the rhyming lawyers o'er me strove, 
 
 24 
 
With squib, with epigram, with chance conceit. 
 Ah, wits were sharpened in that battle's heat! 
 And rare and nimble play brought smiles to all — 
 Except to me, the shivering criminal ! 
 Your patron, Leaper, Aristophanes, 
 Led the defense, and brilliant were his pleas 
 For my acquittal ; while Apollodorus 
 The prosecution led — a bloody chorus. 
 Spurred well the Judge, well guided, curbed and 
 
 reined. 
 '' ' The quality of mercy is not strained ' — 
 To quote myself," said he, with laughing eyes. 
 When one dropped hintings for a compromise ; 
 *' So I declare the prisoner at bar 
 Not guilty, in the main particular — 
 The charge of spying for invasive host 
 (A second plague of Egypt !), round our coast — 
 And grant her freedom ; but herewith command 
 That she be borne directly from the land. 
 'Twas aptly said by you of the defense 
 No spy would show such indiscriminate sense 
 As to stand laughing while our Socrates 
 Amused his friends with ancient repartees. 
 The prisoner is harmless. But, I pray 
 Some kind on-looker bear her home straightway." 
 By lot they chose ; and. Oh, the irony ! 
 Euripides, of known antipathy 
 To frail poor things of feminine persuasion, 
 Became the jest and butt for this occasion. 
 Drawing the fatal bean. Mid quib and joke, 
 He thrust me brusquely well beneath his cloak 
 Of filmiest texture, and, more swift and light 
 Than earth's proud eagle in superior flight, 
 Brushed o'er the flowering meads with sandaled 
 
 feet, 
 As Hermes might, wing-heeled. Asphodel sweet 
 At first was way ; then, coarser but still fair, 
 
 25 
 
Carpeting blooms, until the murky lair 
 
 Of Pluto we had neared — there all the heath 
 
 Lay blasted, and the general thought was 
 
 DEATH. 
 A triple bark was heard — 'twas Cerberus, 
 The giant watch-dog subterraneous — 
 At which my escort, as one palsied, stood, 
 And let me drop to ground with shadow thud. 
 *' Art feared of dogs ? " I asked. " Know'st not," 
 
 said he, 
 '' The hounds of Archelaus ended me 
 And my career on earth? In a lone wood, 
 They sprang upon me and fierce lapped my 
 
 blood." 
 " Why, then, good-by ; I'll fare me in alone. 
 And many thanks," I added. He was gone. 
 
 So, Leaper, have I told you, to this length, 
 My mad excursion. I had barely strength 
 To fall into the river and swim home ; 
 From where, 'tis safe to say, I shall not roam 
 For many an eon. Write me when you will ; 
 I shall be flattered. And believe me still 
 
 Your Pollv- 
 
 26 
 
Letter XL 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 Now that was something Hke, dear Polly mine, 
 
 That charming; fat and liberal scroll of thine. 
 
 I used it for a pillow, when the last 
 
 Sweet word was read, re-read — ay, overcast 
 
 For the fifth time — and to reluctant rest 
 
 I went. And sure that pillow was thrice blessed 
 
 By dream genii and fairy sprites of Sleep, 
 
 That, while the mind is chained, do dance and 
 
 leap, 
 And laugh and sing, and play their phantasies 
 Of moving colors, fleeting harmonies, 
 To quaintest end. So that, when morrow came, 
 This life of pallor flashed the rosing flame 
 Of wondrous suns ; I was apparelled sweet 
 In dream tissues ; and odorously beat, 
 'Gainst caging heart, the fragile wings of Glad- 
 ness, 
 Eager for flights of sane delirious madness. 
 And when our sun was up, about my throat 
 I wound my brightest tie, and brushed my coat 
 Of dusky olive, blotched behind with black 
 (A comely garment for a shapely back). 
 And strolled so jauntily down to the Club 
 That old watchfrogs their guardian eyes did rub. 
 Astonished, and ejaculate, *' The deuce! 
 There Leaper goes, the debonair, the spruce. 
 Who late so slunk, or glared with gloomy scowl, 
 Or bowed his head — dejected as an owl." 
 
 27 
 
* 'Twas thee, my Polyandra, wrought the change. 
 While at the Chib, my thought did soar and range 
 Afar so wingedly that the Committee 
 Could not but recognize my genius witty 
 Nor fail to list me for that very night's 
 Debate. 
 
 At placid hour, when soft the lights 
 Of heaven were kindling in the shadowed sky, 
 Upon the rostrum, full, prepared, stood I. 
 Alone I fought, the argument to shield 
 'Gainst three opponents, and I won the field. 
 The subject was : ** Is Modern Poetry 
 Superfluous ? " With crass audacity 
 Those bourgeois voiced that poets should be 
 
 killed, — 
 Yes, one and all, — before more ink was spilled 
 And good thorns wasted; that our littering fry. 
 Poetic, should be baked in giant pie 
 And fed to ravens ; that their poems, straight. 
 Should all be confiscated by the State 
 And burned in a vast heap. They could not see 
 Why rhymers should be given a license free 
 To work their baleful worst, while merchant 
 
 frogs 
 Were taxed preposterously for hollowed logs. 
 And gamblers, secret, must their profits share 
 Or fly the Council's wrath to fresher lair. 
 'Twas rank injustice, a discrimination 
 Unfair indeed, an eye-sore aggravation 
 In ours, the grandest frog community 
 Ere founded in the world's late history. 
 Work and work's prose enough, no feathers, 
 
 fuss — 
 A bas the moonsliine bards superfluous! 
 So they. But I, with smooth engaging bow. 
 Began, and spread the wherefore, why, and how 
 
 28 
 
Of poesy and bards with quiet skill, 
 
 And won those ev'n that had cried, " Kill ! O, 
 
 kill ! " 
 In part, I said : " Love, beauty, light, and truth. 
 And all the spirit craves, and strength, and youth, 
 And wisdom, and divine heart-sympathies, 
 And Nature, deathless — these, and more than 
 
 these, 
 Move, glow, and breathe through all that quiver- 
 ing thing, — 
 A Poem. On Imagination's wing 
 Nestled, we leave the hooded world behind, 
 And what we dreamed of, vaguely, now we find 
 The natural, in clothed habitual form. 
 A poem true is rainbow to the storm 
 Of life, a hope eternal, more consoling-sweet 
 Than words of seer prophetic. Gods may beat 
 And blast with havoc dire and turn away 
 The radiant promise made but yesterday ; 
 But if one seed of sound from Muse's lyre 
 Springs quick in thee, what then is havoc dire 
 To thee or gift withdrawn, who hast hope's bow 
 And a gold world to delve in? Passion glow 
 Is one with light serene, to urge, to calm, 
 To wing as eager fire, to cool as balm ; 
 An eagle-nightingale, a serpent-dove, 
 A chaste voluptuary, breathes this love 
 In wisdom, — now both bounden, now both free. 
 Now both commingling — glorious poetry! 
 O, fellow frogs, who so adhere to prose, 
 Before I bring my argument to close, 
 I tell you fair and clear you do mistake 
 Most grievously when you such barriers make 
 And draw so prim a line. The wise frog knows 
 True prose is poetry, true verse is prose. 
 Ah, would that all might in the limpid spring, 
 That doth reflect and image everything 
 
 29 
 
And brimmeth 3ver ever with delight, 
 
 Look down, or bathe, or drink from goblets 
 
 bright, 
 And hear the very song of shadowy Joy! " 
 So I ; and all that audience, so coy 
 At first, and cold and clammy as the fog, 
 Became one voice, one wave of cheering frog ; 
 Which moderating, semi-chants did flatter 
 My heart — such as this : " Bravo ! What's the 
 
 matter 
 With Leaper ? " and 'quick answer " He's all 
 
 right ! " 
 So far that tumult sounded through the night 
 That well the fields were startled, and an owl 
 That had fared forth for diabolic prowl 
 Nocturnal, wheeled, and on the Club made dash. 
 Which did adjourn, that instant, with a splash. 
 
 So now my name, dear Polly, fair resounds 
 Through the green marsh, and fame your Leaper 
 
 crowns, 
 The which I lay most humbly at your feet. 
 And though, I do confess, my dear, 'tis sweet, 
 When down some public sluice, I, outing, g^d. 
 To be observed by every budding tad 
 And marveled at for orator supreme, 
 I'd give it all, — my heart's accomplished dream, 
 In high fulfillment ; that, and more, and more, 
 All that the on-coming days hold yet in store, 
 All, all, — to greet thee in thy dusky sedge. 
 And be thy frog indeed, in deathless pledge. 
 
 Leaper, 
 
 30 
 
Letter XII. 
 POLYANDRA TO SIR LEAPER. 
 
 So, Leaper, are you famous — and through me » 
 Fluff! fluff! — that last — 'tis gallant's flattery. 
 How well was I acquainted with that tongue — 
 Those honeyed cadences, moon-woven, sung 
 Beneath my bower of rushes ! Well I know 
 The magic sweep and oratorial flow 
 Which won your auditors, and brought you fame, 
 And shall perpetuate and gild your name 
 In the " Frog Annals." So lay not, I say, 
 On me your praise with trowel, but array 
 Those thoughts fantastic in sincerity — 
 If to none other, write the truth to me. 
 But, Oh, believe me proud ! Your victories 
 Are dear to me ; ay, like Demosthenes, 
 Whom late I saw, you too deserve the crown. 
 
 Well, well, things are so stupid in this town ! 
 Iheres naught to write of, really naught to sar 
 But the dull gossip of mere everyday. 
 I have not dared to venture forth again, 
 From my home plot, into the general fen. 
 Or mcognito pierce the farther glades, 
 Smce my adventure with the humorous shades. 
 A plague on funnymen, and jesting clowns 
 And scribbling acrobats, though their renowns 
 Rmg brave on earth ! Croak, croak ! they are lieht 
 trash, ^ 
 
 Not worth a scourger's stroke or one whiplash. 
 
 31 
 
Brief while *go came swimming to my door 
 A frog so dapper I had ne'er before 
 Seen equal fellow ; for, to him, our oglers 
 And corner dandies were but crudest bogglers 
 Or supercilious taddies. His broad neck 
 A tie of watered crimson flush did deck 
 And fluttered wide and free, and jewels shone 
 Magnificent, and his eye-glass alone, 
 Held deftly on, proclaimed him prince of beaux. 
 I am not one, dear Leaper, dazed by shows, 
 Though feminine ; and so I did assume 
 A distant look and rose to seek my room. 
 " Stay, charming lady ; I'm but messenger, 
 By others sent," croaked he. I answered " Sir ! " 
 Most icily, and moved more swift away. 
 But glancing back, at his insistent "Stay!" 
 I saw how gallant he had taken stand, 
 Adrip, on doorstone, holding out in hand 
 A woven basket, filled with luscious snails 
 And dainty things delicious, — writhing tails 
 Of worms, moUusks, and insects craftily 
 Secured and pinioned, — all consigned to me. 
 I could but smile — it was a feast to see ! 
 My tongue could scarce be held from darting 
 
 forth 
 For instant sampling of the token's worth. 
 But hard controlling, with a haughty look, 
 I said, " Be seated, sir " — and promptly, took 
 The precious basket from that embassy ; 
 Who bowed with frogly grace, respectfully, 
 While I the inscription read, — " From the Ladies 
 Elysian, to Miss Speckleback of Hades." 
 And therein nestled note, so dainty, writ 
 By Sappho ; and this is the gist of it : — 
 She did apologize right ardently 
 For my discomfort from the waggery 
 Of those wild poets, who (between us twain) 
 
 32 
 
Should ne'er have been released from Limbo's 
 
 plain 
 To joy in fields serener — truth to tell, 
 They would feel more at home in Pluto's hell ! 
 Nay, even there, would soon annoy with tricks 
 And be confined to cages by the Styx. 
 Such roisterers ! she knew how they could vex — 
 Coarse-fibered ; no fine feeling for the sex. 
 She did regret that she had not been near 
 To rescue me, and with her maidens dear 
 Dine me on rare ambrosias, and pour 
 Her nectar tea, far-famed, and guide me o'er 
 The fairer portions of that fairest land, 
 And waft me home, at end, with magic wand. 
 " Pardon," she wrote ; " we will make full 
 
 amends 
 When next you come. Pardon, and call us 
 
 friends. 
 This gift I send by special messenger, 
 A swift immortal frog, a worthy Sir. 
 His name ? — ' The Frog Who Would A-Wooing 
 
 Go, 
 Whether His Mother Would Let Him Or No.' 
 His end on earth was sudden ; but the gods 
 Admired his pluck, and raised him from the 
 
 clods ; 
 And, at the earnest plea of Mother Goose, 
 Entrusted to his charge their billet-doux. 
 With marked success — for he's adored of ladies. 
 And petted much, from here to lowest Hades. 
 If you'll forgive us for the mischief done. 
 He'll bear the word as swift as beam from sun.'* 
 
 So wrote she, Leaper, so great Sappho wrote 
 To me, a humble frog. The precious note. 
 Softly, I folded, pricked my skin, and when 
 The vapor blood oozed sluggish, with thorn pen, 
 
 Z2> 
 
Wrote fair o« bleached rush, — " Forgiven ; I 
 The debtor am." Before my ink was dry, 
 The Frog Who Would was keen on homeward 
 way. 
 
 Well, Leaper, 'twas a basketful! How gay 
 That succulent hour! how brimming! Though 
 
 shade 
 With no digestive organs, still, I made 
 A heavenly feast. But one regret was mine — 
 You were not there jto" watch me proudly dine, 
 And fan me gentle through the while, and sing. 
 And when, of all, remained no merest wing 
 Of fly, I saw the basket was fair lined 
 With poesy, and cunningly designed, 
 And rounded, as by magic, to quaint shape. 
 
 Now be good frog and get thee in no scrape 
 Among thy fellows, for, I've not a doubt, 
 Some envious croaker, bearing tales about. 
 Is working for thy downfall — even now, 
 Though all looks golden and thy sloping brow 
 Is crowned with glory. By prescience true. 
 Your Polly's sure she " smells a mouse or two." 
 So be ye warned, and let cool common sense 
 Mix with the dreaming and thy thoughts con- 
 dense 
 To solid wisdom. Be cautious ; go slow. 
 The Frog Who Would Be Ox — his fate you 
 
 know. 
 Or did, as ^sop told it. Leaper, do 
 Be careful ; and when next I write to you 
 (For I am thrifty, and the song will keep, 
 Being so tinctured with the ages deep), 
 I'll copy out those verses in my basket, 
 Which I have treasured since like jeweled casket. 
 
 Polly. 
 
 34 
 
Letter XIIL 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 I'm in a quandary, Polly ; my poor brain 
 Is so confused that oft I sit in rain 
 And mark it not, till some near friend cries, " O, 
 Sir Leaper, it is raining ; come below ! " 
 And sometimes am I lost in reveries 
 So deep the choicest of blue-bottle flies 
 Tongue-near may buzz, unheeded. This, in fine, 
 Is the shrewd knot which I would fain un- 
 twine : — 
 
 But short ago, since mailing you my last, 
 While swimming down Flag avenue, right fast, 
 I plunged into a burly thickset frog 
 And sent him panting 'gainst a submerged log. 
 " Your pardon, sir," said I. But quick as twink, 
 He answered, *' Certainly ; we'll have a drink 
 And call it square." With which, and willy 
 
 nilly. 
 He led me to a grotto cool and rilly. 
 And ordered drinks for both. " My name," 
 
 said he, 
 " Is Snapper, and our great democracy 
 Of frogs hail me as * boss,' salute me fair. 
 And humble knee, when I do take my air. 
 You saw how I the late election swayed — 
 The frog that cleaves to me, sir, he is made! 
 Ah, sir, I know you ; you are Leaper — trained 
 In oratory. You should be campaigned 
 And boomed to highest office in the State: 
 
 35 
 
So known you ^re, so talented, so great." 
 
 " You flatter me," I said. " Nay, nay," said he ; 
 
 ** Would that your eloquence were given to me — 
 
 Then were I doubly strong ! " '' No, sir ; not I ! 
 
 No politics for me ! " I made reply. 
 
 *' Well, no harm done." — Silent, he mused a 
 
 while ; 
 Then looked at me with bland expansive smile. 
 " As men — poor fools ! — "he said, " with bogus 
 
 brick 
 Of gold are still deluded, nor the trick 
 Perceive until too late, so, I regret 
 To say, our Frogish youth into the net 
 Of sharpers daily fall, from mad endeavor 
 To get rich quick and cut their dashes clever. 
 Seldom I listen, sir, to any scheme 
 For sudden wealth. I shrug, or say ' 'Tis 
 
 dream ! ' 
 But I've a friend, J. Paddleton Flap foot, 
 A gentlefrog of Terrace Willowroot, 
 (He'd charm you, sir, a prince of cultured fel- 
 lows. 
 Dressed always in immaculate green-yellows) 
 Who treasures plans, which we o'ertalked last 
 
 night, 
 And which my coolest judgments did invite 
 And satisfied. Now, brief, dear sir, I'll skate 
 (Barkeep', two more! wouldst see us estivate?) 
 Over the gleaming outlines, and, concise, 
 Reveal to you the merits in a trice. 
 This Flapfoot's father bequeathed him by will 
 A certain grant of land, 'neath Phantom Hill, 
 Descended with their family from time 
 Grandly remote, and on this tract is slime 
 And a green clay of wizard properties, 
 The which, when pressed to oil, is lure for flies 
 And worms innumerable. That frog that has 
 
 36 
 
But scantest drop may sit him in the grass 
 
 And dash a tiny speck from vial of reed, 
 
 Nor move two hops for days, but, gorging, feed. 
 
 Now, sir, lend this our golden enterprise 
 
 Your name. A Company I'll organize. 
 
 And issue shares so generously low 
 
 That working frogs may buy. Posters we'll 
 
 show — 
 LuRiNE, The Magic Oil. By all consent, 
 You, honored Sir, shall be the President." 
 
 Polly, enough! Your forging thought will 
 guess 
 The natural sequence and my present mess. 
 At first what roseate days ! Now days of doubt. 
 To-morrow ? — bankrupt, or my light blown out, 
 Complete, by shareholders grown clamorous. 
 Alas! already make they deadly fuss. 
 O, reptiles, all! Who paid the fewest worms 
 For stock are now most arrogant of terms. 
 
 My gentle frog, so placid, wise, and free 
 From earthly ills, send gentlest songs to me, 
 And tame my surges with the very wand 
 Of Love, which lieth ever to thy hand, — 
 Thou fairy shade of wonder ! — smoothing quite 
 The roiled stream to crystal. Dear, good night. 
 
 Leaper. 
 P. S.— 
 
 That Frog Who Would — in faith, I like him 
 
 not! 
 Banish him, Polly, from thy home and 
 thousfht. 
 
 Z7 
 
Letter XIV. 
 
 POLYANDRA TO SIR LEAPER. 
 
 This is the song I promised — 'tis a waif 
 From olden days, and here doth fret and chafe 
 And sigh. for wings of Hght ; 'twould be adorning 
 Some happier age ; 'tis called 
 
 A SONG OF MORNING. 
 
 Now I and my iriaidens, 
 
 Garland-weaving, 
 
 Plucking the delicate odor-giving 
 
 Blooms of the meadows, 
 
 Dancing with unsandaled feet 
 
 And garments white-flowing, 
 
 And foreheads, cool as the dew, 
 
 Filleted fair. 
 
 And eyes and lips, eyes and lips 
 
 Of laughter, 
 
 Came, with our joy and our gladness 
 
 And our songs of morning, 
 
 Down to the river. 
 
 There I and my maidens. 
 
 Garland-weaving, 
 
 Sang to the goddess divine, 
 
 The safifron-robed goddess, the golden, 
 
 The rosy-fingered, dew-dripping goddess, 
 
 Eos divine ; 
 
 Sang the song of our hearts, the whitest, 
 
 The dewiest soft-winging song, 
 
 Cool-raimented song, 
 
 Soothest song. 
 
 And brushed through the green flags for 
 
 lilies, 
 White gold-hearted lilies, 
 Down by the river. 
 
 38 
 
Then I and my maidens, 
 
 Garland-bearing, 
 
 Danced us back through the meadows, 
 
 Back to our white-gleaming city. 
 
 Fair Mitylene. 
 
 And now the immortal charioteer, 
 
 The health-breathing goddess, the rosy, 
 
 Free of the spray-tossing ocean, 
 
 Smiled, and we answered ; 
 
 Singing renewed chant, and heaping 
 
 High on the white shrine our garlands, 
 
 And crowning the fragrance with lilies 
 
 Pure from the river. 
 
 So runs the song, which you do not deserve ; 
 The song which writhed in many a charming 
 
 curve 
 Around the basket from Elysium sent. 
 And which I copy fair — thou scoundrel, bent 
 On abject ruin! Leaper, Leaper, when 
 Will you gain sense? Not once, aq-ain, again, 
 And ever still, you do befoul your days 
 With folly — 'tis plain reason for the maze 
 Of transmigrations lowly you have known ; 
 Else were you with me here some age agone. 
 Wilt still delay our meeting, dearest sinner! 
 Wouldst have thy Polly, though shade-thin, fade 
 
 thinner ? 
 Cut with those villains, and a statement write 
 To the great Public, and redeem thy plight, 
 As much as may be, in a compromise ; 
 If 'tis but ten per cent, still may you rise, 
 Clean-washed, again to honor. Now, my dear, 
 Nil desperandum — no, never despair ! 
 
 Polly. 
 
 39 
 
Letter XV. 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 Thanks for the song: it cheered. And thanks, 
 
 again, 
 For the ripe counsel of thy spirit-brain. 
 The crash came sooner than I could foresee, 
 And the full burden fell on hapless me. 
 Boss Snapper left the town, disguised, in hurry, 
 With bags of snail and worm. That visionary, 
 The frog aristocrat, J. Paddleton 
 Flapfoot, Esq., still had the brains to run. 
 Alone, I bore the brunt ; made sadly over 
 My property ; became a homeless rover — 
 The snubbed of former landers. Gave I all 
 To hungry creditors — my Flag Root Hall, 
 My grange, my moss, my aromatic sticks. 
 And all my wives, scheduled as fifty-six. 
 
 No more they find me, Polly, at the Club ; 
 No more they greet me fair, my shoulder rub 
 Aflfectionate, and croak, " Well met, well met ! 
 You'll surely dine this evening with our set?" 
 No more they ask me to theatricals. 
 To river parties, to gay moonlight balls. 
 To teas and banquets, or to country house, 
 In season proper, when they hunt the mouse. 
 Nay, nay, not they ! For me 'tis monologue. 
 No creature can cut cooler than a frog. 
 
 But what of that ! For, as one coarsely cried, 
 I should be thankful still to have a hide. 
 
 40 
 
But what of that ! I yet have life, and time 
 Shall show how will and skill can nimbly climb. 
 But what of that ! I know things as they are, 
 And see, beyond earth's best, the ideal star 
 Of love, and feel that, if I truly brave 
 This destiny to end, that star will save. 
 And so heart's-ease is mine — for worst is over, 
 Though I be bankrupt and a homeless rover. 
 
 Leaper. 
 
 4' 
 
Letter XVI. 
 
 POLYANDRA TO SIR LEAPER. 
 
 Glad am I, Leaper, you have found yourself. 
 There's nothing Hke misfortune and scant pelf 
 To open eyes and cast the scales therefrom, 
 Until we can distinguish crab from plum 
 And foe from friend. How strange ! that misery, 
 Shrouding our sun, doth sharpen wits to see ! 
 Glad am I, Leaper, that you so have found 
 Yourself — but keep your footing on sure ground. 
 
 Life here doth duskly flow its shadowy w^ay. 
 Save for a call or two, I ever stay 
 Indoors, or sit me by the Acheron 
 And watch the crowded quay where souls, fate- 
 spun. 
 Arrive each instant. Many things I see 
 For tears or laughter — such variety 
 Of natures there ! Now 'tis some swaggerer, 
 Some king on earth or lordly landed Sir, 
 Who seeks to cross before a lowly cobbler, 
 Or carpenter, or merest wayside hobbler. 
 And is rapped sharply back. Anon the dear 
 Souls feminine will be for smuggling gear 
 Into the boat ; 'tis useless — out it goes ! 
 What sighs, what murmurs, what rebellious 
 
 " Oh ! "s ! 
 Perhaps one kneels in fear, and some brave soul. 
 Serene in majesty and high control, 
 Comforts and cheers. Now 'tis a jest. — I see 
 So many natures, such variety! 
 
 42 
 
Soon may I pluck up courage and agree 
 To trip Elysian ; they are kind to me, 
 Those ladies blest ; for when we hear a knock — 
 Spotsy (my maid) and I — we feel no shock 
 Of wonder. And I always say, *' 'Tis he, 
 The Frog Who Would, with some new gift — go 
 
 see ! " 
 And, sure enough, their courier is there. 
 Bowing across the threshold, debonair 
 As knight of the old stories. So, if I 
 Green up my cheeks, and dress becomingly, 
 And dodge between the Cerberean feet 
 Again, and visit with the ladies sweet, 
 I'll write thee, Leaper. But, in the meantime, 
 Tread ve the sanest paths of prose and rhyme. 
 
 Polly. 
 
 43 
 
Letter XVII. 
 
 SIR LEAPER TO POLYANDRA. 
 
 Such news have I, dear Polly, that I write 
 With pen that dances. Sitting lone, last night. 
 At the marsh-edge, there came a tiny trill. 
 And this song tremhlod in the evening still : — 
 
 " Through the oak and fir, 
 
 Love, the zephyrs stir ; 
 
 Near you were, dear you were, 
 
 Were you only mine — 
 But thy fancy ranges ; 
 Thou'rt for other granges ; 
 Singing light, winging bright, 
 
 In this starry shine. 
 
 ** So I'll croon alone ; 
 Faithless olf, begone! 
 Maddest one, saddest one 
 
 Of a wanton line. 
 Ah ! thy heart upspringeth. . . . 
 Ah ! how fair he wingeth ; 
 Singing light, winging bright 
 
 Through the starry shine." 
 
 This ceasing, tlutterod down, as blossom might 
 From sweet May boughs, in delicate pink-white, 
 A fay so lovely that I held my breath ; 
 There stood she weeping, a mushroom beneath, 
 Ev'n at my elbow. Soon, in softest tone, 
 I said : ** At your true service, lady lone 
 And sorrowing. Accept me, as your knight. 
 Whether it be a scornful elf to fight. 
 Or gross field monster, swift I'll do your will ; 
 So that you cease those gleaming pearls to spill." 
 
" Alas, good frog, 'tis nothing you can mend," 
 Sighed she ; *' our fairy destinies do bend 
 Ever beyond your world. Yet come with me 
 To the Masked Ball, on yonder sloping lea. 
 Where flit the lights, and orchestras do sound 
 Concordant, and the dancers ring the ground, 
 And be my partner for a whimful measure — 
 Though Joy be prone, I'll kiss some wraith of 
 
 Pleasure." 
 So, to the ball, we went. Could I describe 
 The tricks and twirlings of that spritely tribe ; 
 How Oberon led oflf the march, and Queen 
 Titania, in dress of puzzling sheen 
 (By captive geniuses, from Spiderland, 
 Spun intricate, as royal mind had planned). 
 All hearts enchanted, save a rival few 
 Who deemed wild Mab the lovelier of the two; 
 How Robin Goodfellow, in gorgeous vest. 
 Became so boisterous and free of jest, 
 And showed so bibulous of honey-dew, 
 He was frowned down ; how Ariel light flew 
 Aboon the dancers, showering music sweet; 
 And how they danced to it, those elfin feet, 
 In circles merry — this, could I describe 
 In full perfection, quoting joke and gibe. 
 And songs and ditties light, and vows love-lorn, — 
 Why, then, this pen were more than mortal thorn. 
 But this I'll tell. The music, dance, the light 
 Of Jack o'Lantern and the writhers bright. 
 The heat, the drinking, and the laughter so 
 Bewitched my head and set my blood at flow 
 That, clasping partner-fay, I waltzed within 
 The circle ; and the ring did blither spin ; 
 And all, save goblins sour, gazed on, agog. 
 And cried, " Bless us ! what fairy guised as 
 
 frog?" 
 Long whirled I gracefully, at lissome best, 
 
 45 
 
.But, being moftal, could not brave the test 
 Forever — became dizzy and did drop 
 Headlong, which brought the dancing to full stop. 
 Then ran one forward, helped the lady rise. 
 And glared on me with fiercely jealous eyes. 
 Tearing his mask aside. My fairy gave 
 A gasp,. and plead, " Now, Dasher dear, behave! 
 But for this gentlefrog I had kept lone, 
 Till now, on oak-bough and no pastime known ;" 
 And whispered in my ear, " Get thee away. 
 To-morrow, at this hbur, wish what ye mav, 
 And 'twill befall thee. Go ! " — With giant hop 
 I cleared all heads and safe in marsh did flop. 
 
 Polly, impatient, I await the glow 
 Of Hesper. My heart-wish ? — you know ! — 
 you know ! 
 
 Leaper. 
 
 46 
 
A Post Card. 
 
 THE HERMIT TO THE GENTLE 
 READER. 
 
 No more have I; that letter was the last. 
 Long since, the mail pouch to the winds was cast. 
 For though next day was sunnv, and the bog 
 Rang free with sound, I missed my faithful frog 
 Whether to juvenile he'd fall'n a spoil, 
 Or loosed, himself, for love, the knotted coil ; 
 Or, gone clean daft o'er fairy phantasies. 
 Had wandered far from Frogland's tyrannies, — 
 I asked not of his fellows. Still was heard 
 The springtime merriment of beast and bird — 
 But homeward went this hermit, to his grot, 
 With lonelier heart than one would e'er have 
 thought. 
 
 47 
 
Mjy ^cJ 1903 
 
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