Class Book JQ z¥ Z 6 Copyright^? COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; IN OTHER WORDS IN OTHER WORDS By FRANKLIN P. ADAMS AUTHOR OF " TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS " Garden City New York DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1912 Copyright, 1912, by DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian COPYRIGHT, I906, I908, BY KEPPLER & SCHWARZMANN Publishers of " Puck " COPYRIGHT, I9IO, BY SUCCESS MAGAZINE COPYRIGHT, I9IO, BY COLLIER'S WEEKLY COPYRIGHT, 191 1, BY CENTURY COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 19II, 1912, BY THE EVENING MAIL COPYRIGHT, I9II, 1912, BY METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE CU328247 To THE W.-K. HUMAN RACE THIS BOOK IS HOPEFULLY DEDICATED Craving Your Attention Horace: Book I, Ode 32. "Poscimur. Si quid vacui sub umbra — " AD LYRAM Help me, my lute, if we have ever made Some deathless ode, some song to live for- ever, A verse to make them say: "Some serenade, Believe me, this her Flaccus guy is clever" — Come, Lesbian lyre, assist me with the verses To bring thee fame, to garner me sesterces. Stalling his motor-boat close to the shore, Thine erstwhile owner smote the strings to Bacchus And sang to Venus, in the midst of war, Be thou as kind to Mr. Q. H. Flaccus. Dear lute, I beg, implore, invoke thee do it; Give me thine aid, o lute! . . . Come, let's go to it. CONTENTS PAGE Craving Your Attention vi From the Rome Herald, Nov. 29, 71 A. D 1 T. R. to W. H. T 3 The Costorliving 5 It's Really Disheartening 7 More Advice 9 A Bid to a House-Party 11 What Cut into Horace's Work ... 13 Horace on Contentment 14 "Simplicity" 16 Getting Lydia's Number 17 Spring Pome 19 A Sealed Proposal 21 Cheer Up, Postumus 22 The Good Old Socialistic Days ... 24 A Plea for the Present 25 Indorsing Xanthias's Choice .... 26 Horace to Maecenas 27 "Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!" . . 29 Thoughts on Matters and Things . . 30 On an Upright Life 33 The Stinging of V. Catullus, Esq. . . 35 V. Catullus Said in Part 36 Vll Contents ¥*»B The Mathematics of Catullus ... 37 Catullus to His Knockers .... 38 Handing It to Cynthia 39 The Beefing of S. Propertius, Esq. . 41 Indorsing a w. k. Emotion .... 43 Propertius Confesses 44 Roman Innuendo 45 To Julia, on June 21 46 Martial's Bit of a Joke 47 A Ballade of Known and Unknown Mat- ters 48 The Translated Way 50 The Height of Disagreeableness . . 53 As to Eyes 54 The Truth About the Spratts ... 55 Campaign Thoughts 57 Everybody's Overdoing It .... 59 Baseball's Sad Lexicon 62 To Myrtilla, on Opening Day ... 63 A Ballplayer's Day 64 Ever See Her? 65 A Ballad of Baseball Burdens ... 66 John Jones, Clerk . 68 One More 69 "And the Only Tune That He Could Play" t Thorns, Rifts, Clouds, Flaws, Blemishes, Etc 71 "May Recover" 73 As John Howard Payne Said . - ... 74 For the Other 364 Dayi 75 vm Contents PAGE Us Potes 76 Footlight Motifs 77 Revised 82 The Lost Wheeze 8 3 From an Awningless Sanctum ... 85 "On Christmas Day in the Morning" 86 From a Paragrapher's Garden of Verses 87 Gilbert : - • • ; • 88 Lines to Margaret, a Singing and Whis- tling Cook 8 9 A Pathetic Bit of a Ballad .... 90 Song of the Costofliving 9 1 The Old Man's Discomforts .... 9 2 The Fool • 94 To the Wind: After Gilbert's "To the Terrestrial Globe" 95 To a Lady Complaining of Solitude . 90 The Pandean Is No Pipe 97 "The Poems of Eugene Field" ... 98 Success IQI Managerial Tradition i°3 " Christmas Comes but Once a Year " . 104 After Samuel Rogers IJ 4 The Diplomaniacs II0 Rondel XI 7 To the Waltonian Bards "» Triolettuce Salad XI 9 The Easy Giggle •••••••• I21 The Ballade of the Northern Girl . . 123 Lines on the Sabbath i 2 5 "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers" . 127 ix Contents PAGE The Exile of Erin 129 Of Course You Would 131 True Comfort 133 To Gelett Burgess 134 Bacchanalian Songs 135 On a Certain Propensity of Bootblacks to Toy with the Shoelaces of the Shinee 13° Christmas Cards 137 Thanking One and All 141 Lines in Appreciation of a Lady's Art . 143 For Cummuters Only 144 Inept Quotation's Artificial Aid . . 145 Some Speeches 148 No Trouble to Show Goods .... 150 From the Rome Herald, Nov. 2% 1\ A. D, Martial: Book IX, Epigram 81. Though for my stuff my readers {all, A poet likes it not at all. But, pshaw! what time I give a feast The cook, perhaps, is pleased the least. IN OTHER WORDS T. R. to W. H. T. "/ was a king in Babylon And you were a christian slave. " Henley. Or ever the knightly fight was on, The skirmish of smear and smudge, I was a King in Washington And you were a circuit judge. I saw, I took, I made you great, Friendly I called you Will, And back in Nineteen Hundred and Eight, Out in Chicago, 111., I made the convention nominate, And now — the terrible chill. For many a sun has set and shone On the path we used to trudge When I was a King in Washington And you were a circuit judge. I passed the lie and you passed it back; You said I was all untruth; I said that honesty was your lack; In Other Words You said I'd nor reck nor ruth. You called me megalomaniac — I called you a Serpent's Tooth. And now the convention days are gone And the past is full of grudge; Yet — I was a King in Washington, And you were a circuit judge! The Costofliving: This is the costofliving — $$ This is the retailer That raises the costofliving. This is the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving. This is the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving. This is the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving. This is the farmer That stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving. In Other Words This is the corn upon the farm Whose cost the farmer views with alarm; So he stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving. This is the cow with the crumpled horn, That must be fed on the farmer's corn — The corn the farmer grows on the farm — The corn whose cost he views with alarm: So he stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailers That raises the costofliving. This the consumer all forlorn Who pays for the cow with the crumpled horn — The cow that feeds on the farmer's corn That grows so fine on the farmer's farm — The corn whose cost he views with alarm: So he stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soakes the retailer That raises the costofliving. It's Really Disheartening: When Homer smote his you-know-what To sing about M. J. Ulysses, Old Constant Reader said 'twas not The thing to read to youths and misses. And Old Subscriber sent a note Whose words Hellenic I've forgotten — Translated, this is what he wrote: "Please can this Homer simp; he's rotten." WTien Q. Horatius penned a pome And put it in the Sabine Journal, Pro Bono Publico, of Rome, Wrote in: "This column is infernal. If that is humorous, good night! Don't tell me that you pay him money. W T hoever said this boob could write? Whoever told him he was funny?" And when a column, all in rhyme, In solid agate, signed "John Milton," Appeared, some cleped him "Quince" and "Lime," And said his stuff was very Stilton. When Avon's bard put on a play Those were who said: "He can't deliver, This William Shaxpur! Fade away! Good sooth, the fellow is a flivver!" 7 In Other Words His path is steep, his lot is hard, Who Rare and Wondrous Lines composes. Alas ! to be a famous bard Is not an ostermoor of roses! And if of those great poet-men Some folks would say: "This guy a shine is," What show have I? for now and then Their stuff was just as good as mine is. More Advice AD QCJINTIUM Horace: Book II, Ode n. "Quid bellicosus Cantaber et Scythes — " O Quintius, never mind the things Across the Adriatic; Let Scythian and Cantabrian kings Be never so emphatic, Our board and room and clothes are paid for; Why worry, then, what we were made for? As I have said a thousand times, (Please pardon my repeating. One has to, writing reams of rhymes.) The longest life is fleeting. (Bromidic and unesoteric — See Longfellow and Robert Heirick.) The flowers forget the vernal green, The moon has many phases. Why bother, then, the busy bean With the future's fogs and hazes? Nix on the worry! Us for Bacchus! You, Quintius, and your Uncle Flaccus. 9 In Other Words And while we're waiting for the drinks Here in the grotto shady, There may appear the well-known minx, That lovely Lyde lady, Who fixes up her hair so graceful — Grab it from me, she beats an ace full. 10 A Bid to a House-Party AD TORQUATUM Horace: Book I, Epistle 5. "Si poles Archiacis conviva recumbere lectis — " Torquatus, if you can recline On this cheap furniture of mine, If you are of a mind to dare My frugal vegetable fare, If six-year wine may pass your throat — Then come and visit this here pote. My house is clean, though far from sporty; I'll look for you about 5.40. Some years ago to-morrow morn Was old Augustus Caesar born. It is a legal holiday And so we needn't leave the hay Till noon. To-night we'll fool around Discussing light things and profound: Girls, poetry and aviation, And eke the future of the nation. 11 In Other Words What use is all my coin to me Without a friend or two or three? The guy who's cagey with his kale Should beat it quick to Bloomingdale. A little wine's the proper dope, It makes you talk and sing and hope, Peace it promotes, for who would bicker When plied with wine? Hooray for licker! The gifted author of this pome Shall tend to everything at home; The dishes will be clean and fine, And how the knives and forks will shine! Three other chaps I shall invite (Five-handed games — are they all right?) Nor care nor woe shall agitate us, Come on, old scout, come on, Torquatus! 12 What Cut into Horace's Work AD MAECENATEM Horace, Epode XIV. "Mollis inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis Oblivionem scnsibus — " "What is the cause of this tardy inspiring — Too many juleps traversing your throat? Thus, my Maecenas, your ceaseless inquiring. Chop it, old top, it arouses my goat. Blame not the stuff that is sacred to Bacchus; Cupid's the reason that pome isn't done. He is some deity, flip it from Flaccus, Keeps me from finishing work I've begun. Well, Old Anacreon had the bacillus; Burning affection kept him on the rack. He couldn't work when he thought of Ba- thyllus (Read what was written on that by Anack). As to your Beautiful Lady, Maecenas, Helen herself was no fairer a frail. Phryne the flirt, but consid'able Venus, Keeps me from work for The Evening Mail. 13 Horace on Contentment Book II, Ode 18. " Non cbur neque aureum Mea rcnidct in domo lacunar — " Within my modest home nor ivory gleams, Nor in my room a golden ceiling glitters; No pillars mine from Africa's extremes, No purple spun by lovely lady-knitters. I'm poor but honest, and — you'll give me credit — Some poet, too. Some poet's right; you said it. For further favors I do not implore The gods above nor any human being; My Sabine farm's enough. I ask no more. I never argue with the fates' decreeing. Day follows day. I never dared to doubt it. Suppose I did? What could I do about it? And yet the very marble newly hewn, The very stone you gaze at, eager, merry, That stone may lie above you very soon In Forest Hills, the well-known ceme-tery. And still, instead of charity and penance, You raise the rent and disposses your tenants. 14 Horace on Contentment But stay ! Despite your wondrous wealth and fame, None is so sure as Plato, so rapacious — You cannot beat, you cannot tie his game; The grave that yawns for rich and poor is spacious. (Translator's Note: Q. H. was euphemistic. They used to say. / call him socialistic.) 15 "Simplicity" AD PUERUM Horace: Book I, Ode 38. "Persicos odi, puer apparatus — " The Persian pomp and circumstance are things I do not like; I shall not buy a motor-car while I possess a bike; I will not buy a Panama to place upon my head, A simple sennitt bonnet, boy, purchase for me instead. For such a thatch will do for you as it has done for me — An ordinary straw hat, for a dollar thirty- three. Then to the coolest bar in town for some Milwaukee liquor Where I may watch the ball-game — as it comes over the ticker. 16 Getting Lydia's Number AD LYDIAM Horace: Book I, Ode 8. " Lydia, die, per omnis — " Lydia, by the gods above, Tell me why, O maid magnetic, You must ruin with your love Him that used to be athletic? Tell me why, O maid magnetic, Sybaris will not cavort — Him that used to be athletic, Him that used to be a sport? Sybaris will not cavort On the field or in the river — Him that used to be a sport With the quoit or with the quiver! On the field or in the river, On the court or on the links, With the quoit or with the quiver — You're his Jonah, you're his Jinx! On the court or on the links Sybaris was once a wonder, You're his Jonah, you're his Jinx — Why delight to drag him under? 17 In Other Words Sybaris was once a wonder You must ruin with your love. Why delight to drag him under? Lydia, by the gods above! 18 Spring: Pome AD SEXTIUM Horace : Book II, Ode 4. "Solvitur acris hiems grata — " The backbone of winter is shattered to pieces; The breezes are balmy that blow from the west; The farmer his cows from the stable releases; The ploughman gets up from his fireside domest; No more are the meadows all icy and snowy; Come columns on Mathewson, Sweeney and Kling; The strawberry shortcake is heavy and doughy — 'Tis Spring! Now Venus, the w. k. Cytherean, Cavorts Isadorably under the moon, Assisted by choruses gracile, nymphean, She dances a measure that's wholly jejune. 'Tis time to divert one's estraying attention To bonnets embowered with every old thing — Fruits, myrtle and parsley — again I must mention 'Tis Spring! 19 In Other Words 'Tis time for the sacrifice sacred to Faunus — He may get our lambkin, he may get our goat. O Sextius, ere death shall have wholly with- drawn us, Take this from Horatius, your favorite pote; Soon Pluto will call you, at some unforeseen time, You'll go, be you journalist-jester or king, You can't get away from it. But, in the meantime, 'Tis Spring! 20 A Sealed Proposal AD CHLOEN Horace: Book I, Ode 23. "Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloe — " Nay, Chloe, dear, forget your fear, Nor like a frightened fawn outrun me; No savage I to horrify — You shouldn't shun me. Come, Chloe, queen, you're seventeen; There's many a precedent to back us. Why shouldn't you be Mrs. Q. Horatius Flaccus? 21 Cheer Up, Postumus AD POSTUMUM Horace, Book II, Ode 14. " Eheut fugaces, Postume, Postume — " O Postumus, dear Postumus, Old Father Time's a sprinter, The summer of my life is spent, approaches now the winter; Nor all my Wit nor Piety, to quote Omar Fitz- gerald, Can keep my obit from appearing in the Sabine Herald. If for a daily sacrifice you killed three hundred cattle, Think you that it would keep from you the Dread and Final Rattle? Nix! Though you build eight colleges and lib'ries eighty-seven, You can't avoid what Rhyme demands I designate as Heaven. 22 Cheer Up, Postumus Your home, your wife, your family, your uncles, ay! and your aunts — You'll have to leave 'em all behind. (Have you enough insurance?) And O, the cobwebbed Caecuban now aging in your cellar You'll have to deed to some one who's a nice, deserving feller. 23 The Good Old Socialistic Days . IN SUI SAECULI LUXURIAM Horace: Book II, Ode 15. "Jam pauca aratro jugera regiae — " With skyscrapers building a dozen a day, I am anxious, I View- with- Alarm; And I'd like to know how there'll be room for the plow, And what's going to become of the farm. Time was when the olive was w. k., Now myrtle and violet are in. I urge on this nation of Rome, Conservation — This waste is a shame and a sin. When Romulus reigned and when Cato was king, Conditions were never so tough; The Morgans and such hadn't any too much, And the poorest had more than enough. Return once again, O ye days that I sing, When Labor was wearing a crown ! O life was more spacious, grab this from Horatius, When Rome was a Socialist town. 24 A Plea for the Present AD LEUCONOEM. Horace: Book I, Ode n. "Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas — " Be not, I pray, so curious For knowledge; it's injurious To know about the future And compute your Every chance. 'Twould be a source of pain to you To find what years remain to you To know your length of tether And the weather In advance. Life? Don't have such a thirst of it; The best you get's the worst of it ! You can't be here forever, They assever. Watch your step ! While I've been oratorical Pa Tempus (metaphorical) Has, as it were, been guying Me by flying. — Are you hep? 25 Indorsing Xanthias's Choice AD XANTHIUM PHOCEUM. Horace: Book II, Ode 4. "Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, Xanthia Phoceu!" Don't let your yearning for your cook, O Xanth, give you the willies. Remember how Briseis, though a slave, aroused Achilles; The Telamonian Ajax young Tecmessa made a hit with; And Agamemnon had a maid whom he was awful smit with. Why, I would give you 8 to 5 — and I am far from gambly — That Phyllis is descended from some fine old Southern fam'ly. Accept it from the occupant of this here con- ning steeple: As nice a girl as she is must have come from Lovely People. Look at her arms — they're perfect! So the beauty of her face is; And — as an artist — I indorse her — well, her other graces. Nay, be not jealous of the bard, my Xanthias! Remember Your uncle will be forty-one the seventh of September. £6 Horace to Maecenas THE BARD ASKED HIS PATRON FOR BASEBALL TICKETS Maecenas, in many an ode I've jollied and flattered and praised you, In metre Glyconic, alcaic, adonic, I've mentioned you dozens of times. The virtues that I have bestowed On you! and the heights where I've raised you! You pander and pet me, but what does it get me? I want some reward for my rhymes. I've called you a great little guy Right n. p. r. m., top o' colyum; I've pinned some verbenas on you, Bill Maecenas, And all that I got was a drink — A pint of Old Caecuban Rye! My verses to you'd fill a volume. You used to command me, but now, y'understand me, I've quit being Marcus O'Gink. 27 In Other Words Maecenas, you get me, I hope. I want a reply to my queries; They're plain and vocalic, in 8-point italic, And clear as a midsummer sky This, then, is the drift of my dope: Do I get a seat for The Series? Am I to be present next Sat. if it's pleasant? Maecenas, I pause for reply. 28 "Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!" AD PYRRHAM Horace: Book I, Ode 5. "Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa — " pretty Pyrrha, false as fair, For whom dost thou do up thy hair, Thy crown of gold, thy shining tresses? What gracile youth gives thee caresses? Alas ! How often shall he find The faithlessness of womankind ! As who should say, in utter wonder, " How fair it was ! Who thought of thunder? " Ah — wretched they that think thee fair, Enmeshed in thy seductive snare ! 1 vow, by Neptune, ne'er to woo thee Again, for I am jerry to thee. 40 Thoughts on Matters and Things AD GROSPHUM Horace: Book II, Ode 16. "Otium divos rogat itnpotenti Pressus jEgao — " Grosphus, a guy who's sailing in a tempest On the Aegean when the moon is hidden — He wants a rest, while stewing in his state- room, Weary and seasick. Weary of war, what do the Thracians yearn for? What seek the Medes, with quivers full of arrows? What can't you buy with purple, gold or rubies? Rest is the answer. Not Morgan's cash, nor Rockefeller's money, No blue-and-brass can drive away the willies Caused by the care of elegant apartments, Rugs and swell ceilings. 30 Thoughts on Matters and Things Wise the gazabe upon whose simple table Old-fashioned truck like salt-and-pepper castors Yet may be found. His bean is never both- ered — Sleeps like a hallboy. Why do we fuss for one thing and another? Why do we hike to Saranac or Newport? How can a human leave himself behind him? Answer: He cannot. Worry can get a guy on the Olympic; Worry can chase a colonel in the Army; Swift as the wind, to use a new expression — Care is some sprinter. Merry and bright, the citizen who's cheerful Won't worry much about to-morrow's break- fast. "No one," he smiles, "who faces Time the pitcher Wallops one thousand." There was Achilles, cut off in his twenties, And, an contraire, Tithonus was a hundred: I may be lucky; you might be run over Most any morning. 31 In Other Words You've got a farm with fancy sheep and heifers; You've got a mare all curry-combed and glossy; Purple silk socks and purple fancy weskits — You're a swell dresser. And what has Fate, the undeceitful, slipped me? Only a small apartment out in Harlem, And, with a trick of turning snappy Sapphics, Scorn for the roughnecks. On an Upright Life AD ARISTIUM FUSCUM Horace: Book I, Ode 22. [Those whom the original verbiage may confuse are advised to read only the italics: those who detest our efforts may read only Q. H. Flaccus's words, set of course in Roman; and the rest may combine them.] (Integer vitae) A man who's on the level, (Non eget . . . arcu) He needn't have a fear; (Nee venenatis) Not arrows of the devil (Fusee, pharetra) Can harm a conscience clear — (Sive per Syrtes) Whether he's in Peoria, (Sive facturus) New York or Newtonville, (Caucasum vel) East Orange or Emporia, (Lambit Hydaspes) Or Pocahontas, III. (Namque me . . . lupus) For once, when I was singing, (Dum meam . . . Lalagen) A wolf came up to me; (Terminum curis) He heard my lyric ringing, (Fugit inermem) And fled immejitlee. 33 In Other Words (Quale portentum.) Believe me, he was some wolf, (Daunias latis) Not wood from Noah's Ark, (Nee Jubae tellus) No little Daunian bum wolf (Arida nutrix) Like those in Central Park. (Pone me, pigris) O put me on the prairie, (Arbor aestiva) Or let me hire a hall, Quod latus mundi) Set me upon Mt. Airy, (Jupiter urget) Or anywhere at all. (Pone sub curru) Still I, on the equator, (Solis . . . negata) At ninety in the shade, (Dulce ridentem) Shall love — a poor trans- lator — (Dulce loquentem) My sweetly smiling maid. 34 The Stinging of V. Catullus, Esq. (Which is his 70th Ode, dry-cleaned and rekalsomined) Myrtilla says that there is none So strong, so fine, so cavalierly, From New Rochelle to Evanston, As yours sincerely. She says that no one else is half So utterly attractive to her, That she'd give Jove himself the laugh If he should woo her. I say she SAYS so . . . Ah, I find The words of Eve's most lovely daughter Ought to be written on the wind In running water ! 35 V. Catullus Said in Part: (Being a shy at the Fifty-first Ode.) Whose seat is opposite to thine, My Lesbia, seems to me divine; For it were heaven to be so near thee, To gaze upon thee and to hear thee. But, lowlife lyrist that I am, I see thee, and am like a clam; My tongue is mute; my heart's a lead one; Sight, hearing fail me — I'm a dead one! 36 The Mathematics of Catullus Ode 7. "Quaeris quot mihi basiationes Tuat, Lesbia, sint satis, super que?" Lesbia, you would have me state What the number is Of the times to osculate. Let your pote approximate, Namely, t'wit, and viz: Lesbia, count the sands that lie On the spicy shore; Sum the stars that in the sky Coruscate; and multiply That by thousands more — That, sweetest of your sex, Fails the full amount. Let the total number vex All the jealous rubbernex Trying to keep count! 87 Catulkts to His Knockers AD AURELIUM ET FURIUM Ode 16. If now and then I spill a pome That seems too peppery for a paper Subscribers take into The Home — Too filled with chili sauce and caper — Because I'm fresh and will not shut up You think that I'm an awful cut-up. A poet in the major league Must lead a life above suspicion, Though he may write of love, intrigue, Society and prohibition. His stuff has got to be so snappy That it will make all ages happy. Cease, lowlifes, then, to lamp my line; Your knocking never shall upset me. I lyricize of love and wine, And those who care for such will get me. And you who don't — oh, yes, I mean you, Aurelius, Furius — I'll bean you! 38 Handing It to Cynthia Propertius: Book II, Elegy 5. "Hoc verumst, tola te Jerri Cynthia Roma Et non ignota vivere nequitia?" O Cynthia, tell me, is it true That you're not acting fit to print? That Roman clubdom talks of you And whispers things I may not hint? What has this gossip of the street meant? Do I deserve that sort of treatment? Tush! I shall seek some other skirt Who loves to lamp her printed name In poems written by Propert. Me for a grateful kind of dame. Before you get a chance to con me, I'll do it — while the peeve is on me. For lovers' quarrels disappear As clouds before the southern wind, Wherefore I say, let's cut it here, Before we knot the ties that bind. You'll weep and wail and sob and sorrow, But you'll forget it all to-morrow. 39 In Other Words I shall not biff you with a brick Nor pull your hair. I scorn to spleen. I leave such actions to the hick Who wears no laurel on his bean. Far subtler you shall find my curses; Your cheek shall pale at these here verses ! 40 The Beefing of S* Propertius, Esq* AD TULLUM Book I, Elegy i. "Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepitocellis — " Cynthia first and the wonderful eyes of her Taught me the meaning of Love and Romance; Now I have sung to the stars and the skies of her — Love has diluted the pride of my glance. Ah! 'tis a year, yet the madness diminishes Never a fraction, a tittle, or jot, Though I anticipate well what the finish is, Though I bewail my unfortunate lot. Tullus, Milanion traveled the universe Till Atalanta was thrall to his heart, Futile my pleading and vain is my tuny verse, Zero's the sum of my amorous art. Witches that lure by some sorcery-ritual Luna right down from the regular sky, I shall concede that your power is habitual An ye make Cynthia paler than I ! 41 In Other Words And, my friends who have warned me too tardily, Let me but utter the truth in my mind, I'll endure iron and suffer foolhardily . . . Luck, wedded friends I am leaving behind! No luck for me . . . Here is counsel gratuitous : Cleave to your true love forever plus aye; Else, if your path be a trifle circuitous, How you'll remember my words of to-day! 42 Indorsing a w« k* Emotion AD TULLUM Propertius: Book I, Elegy 14. "Tu licet abjectus Tibernia molliter unda — " Though by the Tiber you recline, Luxurious, inert, supine, Drinking five quarts of Lesbian wine, Or six. I'm in the know, grab this from me: That, and the wealth of Old Johndee Plus seven multiplied by three, Is nix. Nope. Me for Love. When I'm with Cynth, I, modest writer of this Plinth, Am jutht ath good ath any printh; And, say, If she should suddenly grow cold, What then would help Pierp Morgan's gold? By millions could I be cajoled? Nay, nay! 43 Properties Confesses AD DEMIPHONEM Book II, Elegy 18. "Scis here mi multas pariter placuisse puellas. Sets mihi, Demophoon — " You know, my Dem, that each P. M. I comb the gay Rialto (Posterity will say I was a James Buchanan Brady, And any frail can have my kale, soprano or contralto — You're c. to k. the reason why my theme is only Lady. Tush: ask a guy the reason why the days are short in winter, And ask him why is water wet and why's a ballet dancer, And where's the snow of long ago, or ask why is a printer — Old top, it's just my temp'rament. There ain't no other answer. 44 Roman Innuendo Martial: Book I, Epigram 72. O Fidentinus, when you steal — My words are chosen and impartial — My stuff, it is a phony deal You put across on M. V. Martial. Thus Aegle thinks the teeth she wears, So sozodontalish and pearly, Are hers; thus black Lycoris swears, Daubed with white lead, she is Some Girlie. Bard of the Mrs. Harris school, (This stanza should be double-leaded), As you're a poet now, so you'll Have lots of hair when you're bald-headed! 45 To Julia, on June 2 J [In the Elizabethan manner.] 3Ti)0u ae&fst of me tabp to*riap, $®2 Ifulta, I Do lobf t&rr moc ; 9nD tbou art fain to babe mrr sate MXhtuiou 3 am affecteH ©or. an tl>ou toouIDist toit t|>e reaooun of ST#pj3cIf to*Da? bering more Dere STfcan overtime, it t0, mp lobr, 4I$e Ionceet Dap of a!! the per*. 46 Martial's Bit of a Joke Epigrams II, 38. Linus, you are C2k What I grow from day to day At my Sabine spot suburban. Pipe — and paste it in your turban: Try it on your piccolo, Linus: this is what I grow: (Get my snappy repartee, you) Happy that I do not see you. 47 A Ballade of Known and Unknown Matters By Francois Villon [Editor's Note: One of the things we know less than we do others is how to translate French. And so, to translate another of Mons. Villon's refrains, "We cry you mercy, every one. "] I'm not a simp; I'm not a joe; I'm on when cream is full of flies. By what they wear I always know A lot about these dressy guys. I know the black from sunny skies; I know a staller from a pep ; I know the phony from the prize — But to myself I am not hep. I'm jerry to the fashions, bo; I cop the clerics by their ties; I know the chieftain from Poor Lo, And cherry tarts from blueb'ry pies. I know the con men and the Cys; I know "Both gates!" and "Watch your step!"; I know the Bourbons from the ryes — But to myself I am not hep. 48 A Ballade of Matters A dray is not a tally-ho; (That is a thing I realize). I know 1 6 from Double-O, Ben Davises from Northern Spies. I know some frails who have some eyes; I know the honey from the skep; I know just how to balladize, But to myself I am not hep. Prince, I am Jeremiah Wise, Clutch it from me, that is my rep: Excepting only this revise: Bui to myself I am not hep. 49 The Translated Way I " Wenn ich in deine Augen seh\ So schwindet all mein Leid und weh " When I into your eyes do see So goes away my woe from me, And, too, when I your mouth do kiss So gains my health a benefice. When I upon your bosom lie It comes o'er me like joy from sky, And when you speak it: "I love thee! So must I weep quite bitterly. II "Ich nab' im Traum geweinet." I have in a dream been weeping, Medreamt thou didst lie underground, Then wakened I up and the tears flowed Still down from my cheek all around. I have in a dream been weeping, Medreamt thou didst me forget, Then wakened I up, I continued Crying long, bitterly yet. 50 The Translated Way I have in a dream been weeping, Medreamt thou wert to me yet good, Then wakened I up and still always My tears did come down in flood. Ill "Hor ich das Liedchen klingen, Das einst die Liebste sang," Hear I the songlet singing That once the dearest sang, From out my breast upspringing There comes wild painful pang. Impels me one dark languish That high wood to attain^ Dissolves in teardrops' anguish My extraordinary pain. IV "Was will die einsarae Thraene?" What wants the teardrop single? She mists my glance with pains. She back from olden times yet Within mine eye remains. She had many glittering sisters Who all have taken flight, With my torments and my gladnesses Dissolved they in wind and night. Like clouds have disappeared, also, The diminutive stars so blue That in every torment and gladness My heart would smile into. 51 In Other Words Oh, likewise my love has vanished Like to a trifling sigh, Though old, individual teardrop, Now too, disappear, pray I! 52 The Height of Disagreeableness A window rattling in the night When I am fain for sleep Gives me, I own, a sort of fright, And makes my flesh to creep. A discord jars my very soul; A peach-skin makes me feel As low within the depths of dole As a dentist's emery wheel. The brakes upon a Broadway car; A cat; a crying child; The filing of a saw — these are Some things that drive me wild. But of all creepy things accursed, Of various kinds and brands, I hold this as the very worst: A barber with cold hands. 58 As to Eyes Lady, better bards than I, Poets of an elder day, Seemed to love to versify On "her eyes," or blue or gray. 'T is an oft-recurrent theme For the bards who rhapsodize; Not a one but used to dream Of the loveliness of eyes. Shelley, Tennyson and Keats, Swinburne, Byron, Moore and Burns All had visual conceits, All had various optic yearns. Far from me to mimimize Elder, better bards, except This: they spoke of lady's eyes Haunting them what time they slept. Envy I those troubadours. I am such a helpless thrall, Lady, when I think of yours, I — I cannot sleep at all. 54 The Truth About the Spratts As to the meat that was upon The J. Spratts' bill-of-f are — Now, Mrs. Spratt liked hers well done While Jack preferred his rare. Jack Spratt liked lots of light, His wife desired it dim, For her the shaded lamp and low — The 32s for him. Jack Spratt liked lots of air, All windows opened wide, While Mrs. S. detested draughts — "This flat is cold!" she cried. Jack Spratt liked comedies. The missus liked to weep At dismal dramas, such as put Her lawful spouse to sleep. John Spratt, he hated bridge; His consort was a fiend. Who always would suggest a game Whenever friends convened. 55 In Other Words J. Spratt liked keeping house, His wife preferred to board. "Nothing like that for Colonel Spratt ! : Declared her liegest lord. Jack Spratt was all for prose, His wife was all for rhyme; And so betwixt them both, you see, They had a helova time. 56 Campaign Thoughts This is a presidential year. (An unassailable reflection.) "Things will be better," so we hear, "After election." Now comes the questing of the Vote, The Call to Arms, the Appeal to Reason, The Keynote Speech, the Clarion Note — This is the season When everywhere and roundabout, From coast to coast, and vicy-versy, The candidates will speak and spout, Sans fear or mercy; When from the Peerless Pines of Maine To California's Pebbly Beaches, We are enthralled by the campaign, And many speeches. Perhaps I ought to add "enthralled," (Cf. line 3, above tetrastich) As Mr. Ward once might have drawled Was wrote sarkastick. 57 In Other Words And therefore I demand a word, A message to This Glorious Nation. I crave the right of being heard On Conservation. On Conservation: Not of trees Of waterways, or fish, or horses — Of something greater far than these: Human Resources Resources wasted in campaigns, In oratory dry and juiceless. The waste of energy and brains Strikes me as useless. For him I'd vote who said "Enough! I scorn the terrible traditions Of the campaign. I leave that stuff To politicians. " That's all. I might do five or six More stanzas, but I find it dreary. Do you care much for politics? They make me weary. 58 Everybody's Overdoing It [Provoked by having heard, in a single week, "That Beautiful Tune, " "Alexander's Ragtime Band, " "That Swaying Harmony," "Banjo Tunes," "That Mesmer- izing Mendelssohn Tune," "Play Dat Barbershop Chord, " " Rum Turn Tiddle, " "Pick, Pick, Pick on the Mandolin," "That Haunting Melody," "That Coon- town Quartette, " "I Love to Hear an Irish Band Play on St. Patrick's Day," "That Slippery Slide Trom- bone," "The Ragtime Violin," "That Mysterious Rag," "Mello-Cello Melody," "That Raggedy Rag," "That Chicken Glide," "That Dramatic Rag," "That Italian Serenade" and "Brass Band Ephraim Jones."] Whenever I go to a vo-da-vil show — A thing that I frequently do — The stunts that I see which are pleasing to me Are painfully, fearfully few. The acrobats eight are an act that I hate; The monkeys and dogs I detest. And the comedy kind that are known as re- fined Are as dull as an almanac jest. But of all the sad things that variety brings The worst of the wearisome throng Is the fury and craze of these "musical" days: The song that entreats for a song. 59 In Other Words And when some one begins to demand violins, Or "That Sinewy So-and-So Strain," I want to get out, and, departing, to shout The following earnest refrain: CHORUS Cut out asking for that ragtime song As played by that melodious coon ! Cease to bellow for that syncopated 'cello ! Quit teasing for that tremulous tune! Stop that yearning for that raggedy rag ! Stop asking for that glidey guff! Cut out this thing of begging folks to sing, And cut out the " Please-Play " stuff! I've heard them demand a harmonica band; I've heard people crave a cornet; And even "Play some on that old kettle- drum!" Or "Fillip that flageolet!" I've heard singers long for that "Love's Old Sweet Song, " And yell for ''That Old Time Quadrille"; I've heard 'em insist on Puccini and Liszt, And yearn for that Trovatore trill; They ask for Bellini, Balfe, Wagner, Rossini, The while, in unscrupulous zeal. The people who "write" a new song in a night Grow rich on the tunes that they steal. 60 Everybody's Overdoing It And that's why I moan in this querulous tone, And that's what is deep in my heart; And if one should beseech me to offer a speech, I'd do it, responding, in part: CHORUS. Cut out asking for that "Magic Flute," And that "Tannhauser" overture! Cease to yell for that "William Tell,' , And "The Bride of Lammermoor!" Stop that music-hunger all around, Plenty is quite Enough. Stop your praying for incessant playing, And cut out the " Please-Sing " stuff! 61 Baseball's Sad Lexicon These are the saddest of possible words: "Tinker to Evers to Chance." Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds, Tinker and Evers and Chance. Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double — Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: "Tinker to Evers to Chance." 62 To Myrtilla, on Opening; Day Myrtilla, ere the season starts, Or e'er the primal ball be thrown If you would win this callous heart's Affection for your very own, This counsel, blooming, fresh and frondent — Accept it from your correspondent. Back in the days of Old Cap Anse 'Twas reckoned cute to spoof a dame, And famed was her incognitance About the so-called national game; And comment feminine was silly ._ That was before your day, Myrtilly. For, now, Myrtilla, I admit Your knowledge far transcends mine own; You know an error from a hit — A quaver from a semitone; You never say "How small the bat is!" You never have to ask who that is. Nay, Myrt, too well you like the game; You are too true a devotee; My Blue-Print is the kind of dame Whose love is less for ball than me; And so, my Myrt, that is the reason I think I'll go alone this season. 63 A Ballplayer's Day "Sweet are the uses of advertisement." OLD SONG The famous pitcher woke at eight To one of GUFF'S ALARUM CLOCKS, Put on a suit of AERO-GREAT, And donned a pair of SILKO-SOX. Then, lathered well with SMEAREM'S SOAP, He shaved with BOREM'S RUSTLESS BLADE; Did on a suit of heliotrope — THE KAMPUS KUT in every shade. Then berries served with JORDAN'S CREAM And eggs from BUNKEM'S DAIRY FARM; Then, as he read THE MORNING SCREAM, He smoked a pipe of LUCKY CHARM. Then, donning one of BEANEM'S HATS, He rode out in his WHATSTHECAR; Played ball; then home to RENTEM'S FLATS To smoke a SHUTEMOUT CIGAR. 64 A Ballplayer's Day He listened to his WAXAPHONE, Then lay — ending his day so rough — Upon a mattress widely known. ***** But, at the price, I've said enough. Ever See Her? There was a little fluff, And she wore a little puff And a rat made of shoddy and of cotton. When they were there She looked very, very fair, And when they were off she looked rotten. 65 A Ballad of Baseball Burdens The burden of hard hitting. Slug away Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb. Else fandom shouteth: "Who said you could play? Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!" Swat, hit, connect, line out, get on the job. Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom's ire Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob — This is the end of every fan's desire. The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight. Or in or out, or haply up or down, To puzzle him that standeth by the plate, To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renown: Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown, So pitch that every man can but admire And offer you the freedom of the town — This is the end of every fan's desire. 66 A Ballad of Baseball Burdens The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds ! The tumult and the shouting from the throats Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats. A mighty cheer that possibly denotes That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire; Or, as H. James would say, We've got their goats — This is the end of every fan's desire. The burden of a pennant. O the hope, The tenuous hope, the hope that's half a fear, The lengthy season and the boundless dope, And the bromidic; "Wait until next year." O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear, O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher That next October it shall flutter here: This is the end of every fan's desire. ENVOY Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase Be that to which most fondly we aspire! For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race — THIS is the end of every fan's desire. 67 John Jones, Clerk John Jones, he was a faithful clerk As any now alive; You'd always find him at his work From eight o'clock till five. Without a single minute's loss He worked the tedious days, Till once he said: "I'll strike the boss For just a little raise." "Why, Jones," replied the Leader then, "How can you be so base? Why, I could get a hundred men To-day to take your place. " So Jones apologized, and turned Back to his daily books, Until his nature fairly yearned For fields and trees and brooks. "I need a rest," requested Jones, "Please, sir, may I be spared?" Whereat the Boss in honeyed tones Accordingly declared : John Jones, Clerk "Why, John, old chap, I'd like to let You off for half a year; But how would this old business get Along without you here? " One More Another difference, meseems, Betwixt the twain, forsooth; The optimist has illusions, The pessimist knows the truth. "And the Only Tune that He Could Play" Jane, Jane, my upstairs neighbor, Learned to play with lots of labor, But the only thing she ever would play Was the sextet from "Lu-ci-a. " Tom, Tom, the man below, Plays for hours on the pi-an-o, Plays no tune but the "Melody in F," And only that in the treble clef. Across the court is a Fair Unknown Who loves to listen to the Talkiphone, And the only record she cares to spring Is that "Every Little Movement" thing. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, Loves to practise the "Miserere"; Ben, Ben, the gink next door us, Knows no tune but "The Pilgrims' Chorus." 70 Thorns, Rifts, Clouds, Flaws, Blemishes, Etc* ["The attitude of mind I have always believed in, is to answer, when anybody says how ugly Mrs. Blank's nose is, 'Yes, but hasn't she a lovely complexion?'" — Kate Douglas Wiggin.] Would I were constructed so ! Would I failed to find the flaws! But when people talk of Poe With consid'able applause I concede that he was There; That his name is deep engraven On the scroll; "But," I declare, "I can't see much in 'The Raven.'" People prate of Dryden's dope, But his rhymes were often false; There are some good things in Pope, But his meter often halts. Take the things that Wordsworth wrote, Some — I hate to hurl the hammer — Are not worthy of a pote; Shelley made some slips in grammar. 71 In Other Words Horace Greeley wrote a fist That a comp. could never read; Byron — yes, if you insist, He could write, I will concede — But his private history Was a riot and a panic — Inexcusable by me, Stern, unbending, Puritanic. Would I sensed a Thornless Rose! Would I heard a Riftless Lute! Would, despite that lady's nose, I could say "But she's a beaut." Would that I might ever see But the True, the Fair, the Youthful! Would — oh, would that I might be Optimistic — and untruthful ! 72 "May Recover n There was a man in our town, And he was wondrous hot; He jumped into a Broadway bar For the contents of a bot. And when he found it made him warm To drink of Scotch or rye, He jumped into another bar Another drink to buy. 73 As John Howard Payne said — There's a popular impression tantamount to an obsession, We have read of it in article and pome, That vacationers returning undergo a lot of yearning To be home. We have seen a lot of verses on the emptiness of purses Caused by going to the mountain or the shore, How the dolce far niente thing is often more than plenty, And a bore. Wheeze and whimsy, fact and fable on the poorness of the table, Gag and giggle on the hardness of the bed — Of the myriad deprivations to the goers on vacations We have read. As to all that sort of patter touching on va- cation matter, We arise in modest wise to interject That the folks who knock the rural thing — or things, to make it plural — Are correct. 74 For the Other 364 Days Christmas is over. Uncork your ambition! Back to the battle! Come on, competition! Down with all sentiment, can scrupulosity! Commerce has nothing to gain by jocosity; Money is all that is worth all your labors; Crowd your competitors, nix on your neigh- bors! Push 'em aside in a passionate hurry, Argue and bustle and bargain and worry ! Frenzy yourself into sickness and dizziness — Christmas is over and Business is Business. 75 Us Potes Swift was sweet on Stella; Poe had his Lenore; Burns's fancy turned to Nancy And a dozen more. Pope was quite a trifler; Goldsmith was a case; Byron'd flirt with any skirt From Liverpool to Thrace. Sheridan philandered; Shelley, Keats, and Moore All were there with some affair Far from lit'rachoor. Fickle is the heart of Each immortal bard. Mine alone is made of stone — Gotta work too hard. 76 Footlight Motifs ANNA HELD I shall not praise your Gallic ways, Nor say that you are sweet; Nor even tell about the spell That brings me to your feet. I shall devise about your eyes, Nor precious words nor choice; I shall not print a single hint In honor of your voice. I shall not sing of anything That makes me genuflect; Nor grace nor air, nor face nor hair In brief, in no respect. I shall not praise the heldian ways. If you must know, forsooth — Because that I detest a lie, And aim to print the truth. 77 In Other Words EMMY WEHLEN Lady stars from oversea, Twinkling in our firmament. Small the smash you make with me Be you ne'er so prominent. Keener critics may adore you; Frankly, though, I'm seldom for you. I was never one who raved O'er the pseudo-picturesque Nor, though young, was I enslaved By the art of H. Modjesk.; And I own I do not care a Lot about the Perfect Sarah. Polish ladies leave me cold; Dames Italian warm me not; And, if further truth be told, I'm electrified no jot, Trifle, fragment, ohm, iota, By th' entire foreign quota. But, however, still and yet, Maugre all my prejudice I am not so firmly set That I will not yield in this: If I like a lady's way, so Help me Robert, I will say so! 78 Footlight Motifs Fairy, elfin, pixie, sprite, Naiad, hamadryad, fay, Witch and Phantom of Delight Such-a-little flow'r-o'-May, Emmy Wehlen, more than pretty Subject of this Deathless Ditty! Wherefore I should like to hint, Caring not if it be seen, Here and now in public print, She's considerable queen. Nothing's left in my thesaurus — She's a peach, believe me, Mawruss. EVA TANGUAY Tell me not, in boastful hollers, What her salary may be; Though it be a million dollars It is all the same to me. Though the universal rumor Place her at the top of fun, To my narrow mind, of humor She has absolutely none. Lives of actresses remind us, We can make an awful Hit, If we only put behind us All our Piety and Wit. 79 In Other Words Let us then be up and pounding Piffle of the kind that flaunts Its inanity astounding! " Give the public what it wants!" THE CLASSIC DANCE Isadora, when you dance I am bounden by no thrall, And the Rhythm of old Romance Surges o'er me not at all. Critics with a keener eye, Judges with a broader view, Tell me that your Art is high — Wonderful the things you do. Banal I and low my brow, And my bean is built of bone, For allegiance I vow To Montgomery and Stone. KITTY GORDON "It is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. " These lyric lines are not my own; They're by an elder bard, unknown. 80 Footligfht Motifs And then he sings of lips and eyes, "A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks," Counting her charms in ancient wise, As was the custom of the Greeks; He ends his catalogue, whereat "They are but gauds," he says — like that. Which — pardon my discursive style, (Tis thus the British rhymers do; No vulgar haste to coax the smile. [I rather like the plan. Do you?]) Which, as I started out to say Before this unforeseen delay — Which brings me, after false alarms And hal tings, to this theme of mine: In brief, to Kitty Gordon's charms Gold, ivory and incarnadine. She is, meseems, a gaudy star Cold, distant, bright — and there you are. MARY GARDEN Mary had a little voice, (Unless the crits are wrong), And everywhere that Mary went She took the voice along. It followed her upon the stage (Which isn't far from fact), It made the audience applaud To see Miss Mary act. 81 In Other Words They crowded to the opery house; They filled each row and tier; And clapped their hands and split their gloves When Mary did appear. "What makes the folks love Mary so?" The eager public cry, "Why, Mary is the earth's best show!" And that's no Barnum lie. Revised When the pillow's warm and the sheet is torrid, When you put cold towels on your fervid fore- head. When the breeze won't blow, when the moments creep, When you toss all night and you get no sleep — It's hot, by George, it's hot! 82 The Lost Wheeze Seated last night at my table I was laboring for a laugh To work into this here colyum, In the form of a paragraph. I know not what I was thinking, Or what was within my brain, But I struck one chord of humor That was better than all Mark Twain. It flooded my littered table And my chair of mission oak, And I said, in my modest manner, To myself "That is sure some joke!" It quieted pain and sorrow Like love overcoming strife, It made me forget the premium Due on my well-known life. It would have made me famous All over the East and West, All people would have pointed To the Author of that Great Jest. In Other Words I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one Lost Wheeze divine That one last word in humor, That was- to-be-deathless line! It may be that Death's bright Angel Will slip me that joke, I guess, But that does me no good this morning When the page is going to press. S4 From an Awningfless Sanctum Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade? Milton. Dear Amaryllis (you mentioned in "Lycidas "), I'm no philanderer, truly I'm not, But in this office it's sticky and viscid as Crab-apple jelly and ten times as hot. Sternly forbidding, austere, puritanical, That is my nature, unardent, severe; Yet, though the bulk of my verse is mechanical This, Amaryllis, is warmly sincere. Dear Amaryllis, I hereby import with you: 'Ryllie, wo wohnst du, proverbial maid? Tell me, for, oh, I am anxious to sport with you, If, Amaryllis, you'll furnish the shade, 85 "On Christmas Day in the Morning: " Dreary the room where dun Despair Sits unmoved in a broken chair; Sad is the home where Want, confessed, Comes to the board a daily guest; And a woman sits and gazes and weeps As Innocence in the cradle sleeps. Bitter and hot are the woman's tears, And strong with the salt of hopeless years, And her heart is heavy with Dread and Hate And she questions Justice whose name is Fate; And she wonders, too, at the will to live, As she thinks of the things she cannot give. And the woman weeps in her selfish woe, But the grief of another she may not know — The grief of another she knows not of — Who hath nowhither to give her love. 86 From a Par agr apher's GarcJen of Verses In winter, when I have to write, I hate to do my work at night; In summer, quite the other way, I hate to have to write by day. What time the year is at the spring, I hate to work like anything ; And in the days of early fall I sort of hate to work at all. Oh, does it not seem hard to you That people should have work to olo? But I cannot afford to miss, And so I pen a pome like this. 87 Gilbert Prince of the lambent and elusive smile, Dispenser prodigal of light and cheer, Sweet knight that sable Care dost oft beguile, Poet of Truth, take tribute of a tear! 88 Lines to Mar garet, a Singing: and Whistling Cook Woman, attend my warning; Hark to mine ultimat; Done by my hand this morning, Done in my five-room flat, Hark to this warm effusion, Ponder on what I write. This is my firm conclusion, Come to but yesternight: Woman, respect my wishes — Can you not cease to sing While you are washing dishes? You are an Awful Thing. Melody is not in you You are from song immune. Will you not discontinue Trying to trail a tune? Peaceable I and lawful; Dreadful of stress and strife; But — you are worse than awful, Spoiling my Joy of Life. Here is my warning: Cop it. Ponder it con and pro. ^ Woman, unless you stop it, ONE OF US HAS TO GO. 89 A Pathetic Bit of a Ballad "You may say for me," said the banker, as he sat in his donjon keep, "That I thank the public for all they've done and " here he began to weep; And the sob reporter wrote a yarn that was destined to make you cry, And those who read said, "It's too bad. I'm sorry for him, poor guy!" The sob reporter went to the man as he came from the prison cell, And the man, released, said "On your way! I haven't a word to tell. " "But the people," the sob reporter said, "the people want to know. " And the man leaned back in his limousine and uttered a loud "Ho! Ho!" 90 Song of the Costoiliving Taking it on percentage with Tennyson. I come from hunger and from need: I make a sudden sally; I soar with an increasing speed; I scamper up an alley. Up, up I soar in eager flight Beyond the wildest rumors, Until I pass beyond the sight Of ultimate consumers. I chatter, chatter, as I fly, Of ice and eggs and leather, And what makes everything so high • The middlemen? The weather? Again I soar, and more and more, Into the heights I cherish; And chortle when a hundred score, Who cannot see me, perish. I rise, I soar, I dip, I fly — Descend to earth? Nay, never! For men may live and men may die. But I go up forever. 91 The Old Man's Discomforts With obeisances to the estate of R. Southey, dec'd. "You are cold, Father William," the young man cried, "You shiver the length of the day; "You are chill, Father William, your hands are as ice, Now tell me the reason, I pray. " "In the flat where I live," Father William replied, "Though it is an expensive demesne. The heat is turned off from eleven at night Till morning at seven-fifteen." "You are cold, Father William," the young man cried "Though you live in a beautiful flat, You constantly swear at the boreal air — Pray slip me the reason for that. " "In my costly abode," Father William replied, "The casements are fashioned so ill That the wind enters in till the temp-er-a-turc Of my bedroom is way below nil. " 92 The Old Man's Discomforts "You are cold, Father William," the young man cried, "As I animadverted before. And yet you pay many doubloons for your rent — Pray, Pa, juxtapose me once more. " "The rent that I pay," Father William re- plied, "Is paid not for windows nor steam; But the entrance downstairs is of marble and gold." And that's no impalpable dream. The Fool The Fool did on his motley And sighed, as who should say: "If all but me be sobbing, Why then must I be gay? "If all the world be weeping, And very life seem wrong, Why is it mine to fashion A whimsy and a song? "Pray, why must I be merry?" — But came no answering word. For that the world was weeping, And none the Fool had heard. APRIL 19, 191 2. 94 To the Wind: After Gilbert's "To the Terrestrial Globe " Also after two slumberless nights. Blow on, thou wind, blow on! Across, up, down the Drive, Blow on! What though I toss till half-past five? What though I have a charge to keep? What though I ululate and weep? What though I cannot get to sleep? Never you mind! Blow on! Blow on, thou wind, blow on! Across my little bed Blow on ! It's true there's aching in my head; It's true my room is twenty-two ; My feet are numb; my lips are blue — But please don't let that worry you! Never you mind ! Blow on — [It blows on.] 95 To a Lady Complaining of Solitude [Lines aroused on hearing a song across the area — or is it aria? — way.] Lady, I hear your moan, Set in a minor key, Pitched in a plaintive tone, Triste is your "All alone, Nobody here but me. " Lady, I know you not. Be you or dark or fair, Happy or hard your lot, Who you may be or what, Little I know — or care. But — when you sing that song Reeking with woe and ruth — Lady, to put it strong, Yours is a statement wrong, Far from the well-known truth. Lady, in brief, you lie. Think of me as I rage, Aiming to versify. "All alone!" Am not I, Too, in the vicinage? 96 The Pandean is no Pipe "Rat-a-tat!" go the rattle-y rivets Only a block from this Broadway abode. Though I were right as a legion of trivets, How could I pencil a perishless ode? "Ting-a-ling-ling!" goes the ring telephonic: Haste I to answer it, out in the hall, "Well?" I intone. Says the lady, laconic, "Hang your receiver up. I didn't call." Enters a boy who demandeth exchanges; Cometh a critic to borrow a match. Had I the poise of the Appenine ranges, Still inspiration would fail to attach. Day after day do I tease the afflatus, Wooing a muse that is too fax' aloft, And when I leave, a forlorn literatus, Office-mates say, "Gee, that guy's got it soft." 97 44 The Poems of Eugene Field n (Somewhat in the Fieldian manner.) No gold-reguerdoned poet I to puff a book for pelf, For even I am forced to buy the books I praise myself, Albeit there be those that think that when I laud a tome Its publisher invites me in to make myself at home. Could you but see the monthly bills that stare me in the face, You readily would see that such is not the happy case; Yet once again I toot the horn, again the pen I wield To advertise the Poetry of Eugene Field. Not Swinburne with his lovely lines that lilt their way along, Not Byron's burning poetry, nor Wordsworth's simple song, Not Kipling's virile balladry, nor Marlowe's mighty line, Not Tennyson's pellucid rhyme, nor Shelley's odes divine, 98 "The Poems of Eugene Field" Not Dobson's dainty triolets, nor Chaucer's sturdy verse; Not Southey, Calverley nor Hood, nor eke Sir Thomas Perc, To none of these I bring the bay, to none the laurel yield — My choice is for the Poetry of Eugene Field. How varied are the poem-themes in which that book abounds! The Apple Pies, the Gosling Stews, the Joys Unknown to Lowndes! And oh, how that dyspeptic apotheosized the cooks And longed for roast-beef very rare, but even rarer books ! And wit ye well, how hee ben fain to rede of ony knight Wyth mace and hauberk, helm and glaive, and mickle valoure dight; While in the odes of Q. H. F. his knowledge he revealed — Good sooth, he was a busy bard, was Old 'Gene Field. Exalted be the memory of him with whom we've smiled, But blessed thrice the name of him that sang a little child. - Let those who will declare the Gentle Poet insincere — 99 In Other Words I doubt it, like the Carpenter, and check a rising tear. The which is why I celebrate that poet and his rhyme And hint it were a goodly gift to give at Christmas time — Two dollars net, Charles Scribner's Sons — Why should it be concealed? Go, buy that brimming volume by Eugene Field! 100 Success Success, oh word so ill-defined, Oh word that means the same to few! A myriad meanings all combined Are rolled in you. Is it success to have great wealth And all the pleasures it will bring? Or is it poverty and health, As many sing? Is it success to own estates, Vast areas of mines and land, To have the pow'r to mock the fates; Supremely grand; To have a house with all the things That luxury and taste desire; Treasures to which the richest kings May well aspire. A beautiful and noble wife, To have, to hold and to caress — Is this — are these the things of life That make Success? 101 In Other Words Has he the great, the true success If Love and Fame and Wealth are his Is this the way to Happiness? You bet it is. 102 Managerial Tradition If one should say that Boston girls were pretty and athletic — As many of them' very likely be — If one should say Chicago maids were cultured and esthetic And Philadelphia fairies fast and free — If one depict a Western girl that isn't known as "breezy," If one should say a Gotham girl were slow — It all would be veracious and it should be very eas^do tjfq But who would ever dare produce the show? :bdl mis sna elidw arfT 9vif xlqmh au \o navoa sriT" ;si3ii moil y — \&b zamtehdO gi v^b- A " .iaoy b 93x10 iud 29m< ■ smil • has had & vnjsfn nl ■ bsrf I 9v nsaa I 9V£il risdj ^ai^ idvan 103 Christmas Comes but Once a Year" (As Wordsworth might simply have done it.) I met a little village child, A simple one and poor As ever crossed the heath at night Or went across the moor. "What do you out so late abroad?" I asked that simple child. She simply looked at me and said, The while she simply smiled: "The seven of us simply live A little way from here; And oh, to-day is Christmas day — It comes but once a year. " In many a land and many a clime Have I had cause to be, But never since then have I seen Such sweet simplicity. 104 "Christmas Comes but Once a Year" (As Austin Dobson might rondeau it, "To a Poet Bewailing the Paucity of Christmas. ") " Christmas comes but once a year?" Be it so! Why interfere? Melt but once the silver snows, Blossoms only once the rose — Does it make the rose less dear? Nay, my silly sonneteer, Other days may disappear, New Year's leaves and May-day goes — Christmas comes! Draws the day of Noel near, Light the log and mix the cheer! Vanish, Care! and perish Prose! 'Tis the season of rondeaux Intricately Gallic. . . . Here Christmas comes! (Being an attempt to parody an eminent young librettist, author, manager and actor.) Now, everybody knows that I'm a patriotic guy — {By the dawn's early light) My birthday and the country's is the 4th day of July. (Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! The boys are marching.) 105 But though I'd like to sing a song about Abe Lincoln's birthday, (Just before the battle, mother) I think that, on the level, Christmas ought to have the first say. >na lav lis odl sono iud iJaM - 3801 sriJCBORUS riosaoia : jh aasl 3201 3fl 1 oA&m il asod It's a grand old institution, (Zw Dixie laud Til take my stand) In the Western Hemisphere, S30*> . iff a ^ Columbia! Happy land!) Then give three cheers for Christmas, (And a tiger) It comes but once a year. , fifa ^ gW£l(3 :d3 3iii zirn brie go! srfj Jdgi You may have your Decoration Day, your New Year's and the rest, gfp (0 Columbia! the gem of the ocelA I BJmSl§ TO^ 115 The Diplomat! iacs "The Puritans and Liberty"; "The Power of the Press"; "The Portuguese in History"; And "What Is True Success?" "The Elements of National Wealth"; "The Fixedness of Mars"; "Is Money Greater than Good Health?" And "Night Brings Out the Stars." "The Greatness of Obedience"; "The Mission of Research"; "Will Hegel's Fame Have Permanence?" "Which Greater — State or Church? " "Audaces Fortuna Juvat"; "America and Spain"; "Hoc Opus Finis Coronat," "Psychology of Pain." "The Joy that Education brings"; "Antonian Triremes" — Are but a few of many things For graduation themes. 116 Rondel Bribery, suicide, crime — Ain't it a deuce of a note Trying to fashion a rhyme — One that exchanges will quote? Why do the papers devote Pages and pages to grime, Bribery, suicide, crime? Ain't it a deuce of a note? Once when the psalter I smote Sounds that were sweet and sublime Came; but to-day if a pote Echoes the theme of his time — Bribery, Suicide, Crime — Ain't it a deuce of a note? 117 To the Waltonian Bards (Aroused by the fact that fourteen of our exchanges this morning contain "Fishin"' poems.) Poets that prate of the worry of working During the days of a sultry July, Prate of the pleasure undoubtedly lurking, Lurking, we say, in the rod and the fly — Bards who descant on the wonders of fishing, Angling for pickerel, "muskie" and trout, Voicing that awful, inevitable "wishing" — Can it, forget it, let go, cut it out. Joys piscatorial may be delightful, Singing them, though, is a bit of a pest ; Ours not the wish to be acid or spiteful, But, brother bards, won't you give us a rest? 118 Triolettuce Salad Ingredients by Goldsmith, Mallet, Trowbridge and Coleridge. Stirred by us with a fountain pen this day. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song. Or slim or stout, or tall or short, Good people all, of every sort, Attend ye to my metric sport Until I sound the gong. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song. 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet. Within my cozy five-room bow'r, Twas at the silent solemn hour, When Bill, in tones of dreadful pow'r, Yelled: "HEY, GIDDAP THERE, PETE!" 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet! 119 In Other Words The night was made for cooling shade, For silence and for sleep. mighty line by Trowbridge made — " The night was made for cooling shade" 1 hear the garbage-can brigade, And murmur, cursing deep: "The night was made for cooling shade, For silence and for sleep " Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! Ah, Coleridge, thou who daredst to sing "Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing!" Thou never heardst the ash can's bing, Else blank had been that scroll: Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing Beloved from pole to pole! 120 The Easy Giggle Showing how the leading comedian may always get a certain hand. When the vein of comicality Is voided of vitality, And all the silly little Tattle-tittle Has been done, There always is a visible Assurance of the risible By dexterously using An amusing Little pun. CHORUS You can always get a laugh with that. Or by joshing any lady who is fat, When you sing the second stanza, Speak of Dressier or Friganza — You can always get a line with that, 121 In Other Words The ways of being humorous Are not so very numerous; They'll laugh until they're crying When you're guying New Rochelle; And nearly all humanity Will giggle at profanity — Tho whole entire gamut Clear from " " Down to " . " CHORUS You can always get a laugh with that — Never try to hit the crowd above the hat, If you want to get 'em shrieking, Imitate a lady speaking — You can always get a laugh with that. DANCE 122 The Ballade of the Northern Girl Her manner was perfectly sweet And golden the hue of her hair; She was pretty, of course, and petite; And when you would ask of her: " Where Are you from?" she would answer: "Eau Claire, Wisconsin, What? 'Baltimore'? Nixie! What made you think I was from there?" .... She always applauded at "Dixie." She was fair from her head to her feet; She was — oh, description's despair, As she rose from her orchestra seat And pounded her gloves to a tear - This dear little maid from Bellaire, Ohio. Ingenuous, tricksy. "New Orleans? No! . . . How you stare!" .... She always applauded at "Dixie." 123 In Other Words She is found in the shop and the street; She sits in a restaurant chair; She may be bourgeois or elite; But she thrills to the Southerner's air. From Portsmouth, N. H,, and Big Bear, N. Y., this ubiquitous pixie. Though blue was her grandfather's wear, She always applauded at "Dixie." L'Envoi O Epitaph-makers, prepare This sentence, and chisel it quick, see: HERE LIETH MISS LEGION, THE FAIR: 124 Lines on the Sabbath To a person loving leisure in a high and heap- ing measure What a joyaunce, what a treasure is a Sun- day afternoon ! Of diversions there are plenty, from the dolce far niente Joys to seventeen or twenty things to kill a day in June. One may journey in a motor, go to Coney in a boat, or Pass the rickey down the throat, or mix the julep with the mint; Do you love it cool and pretty, there are Deal, Atlantic City, And some others that my ditty hasn't room enough to print. For the Phyllises there's wooing while the Cory dons are suing; There is walking and canoeing, there are hammocks, there are swings; And for those that have the notion there's the broad Atlantic Ocean For a dip — and Land o' Goshen! — there's a myriad of things! 125 In Other Words One may read a little when it strikes one's fancy — Arnold Bennett, H. G. Wells, or what the Senate has to say on this or that — But of all the things delighting and alluring and exciting, Truly, none of them is writing in a stuffy Harlem flat. 1*6 ''The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers" (The Pilgrim Fathers have virtues ascribed to them which they never possessed — Prof. Albert Bushnell Hart.) The breaking waves dashed high On a warm and pleasant coast, And the woods against an azure sky Their Parrish branches toss'd; And the summer night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When those summer tourists moor'd their bark On the swell New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the weak-hearted, came. But, like a bunch of exiled bums, Trying to beat the game. There were men with thinning hair Amidst that pilgrim class; Why had they come to wither there In a burg like Plymouth, Mass.? 127 In Other Words What did they there for weeks? I do not know, I'm sure, Unless, perhaps, they made "Antiques" And "real old furniture. " 128 The Exile of Erin (Mr. Thomas Campbell's heirs are apologized to.) There came to the flat a poor exile of Erin, Her brogue was as thick as a shamrock puree, The calico dress that our Maggie was wearin' Was ragged as army flags all shot away; She was timid and meek, she would stand without hitchin' ; She labored all day in the hot little kitchen ; She washed and she ironed and hummed most bewitching The beautiful anthem of Erin go bragh. All friendless and lonely was Maggie O'Ryan, No sweethearts there came her lone heart to beguile; Yet cheerful and gladsome, nor sobbin' nor sighin', For friends that were left in the Emerald Isle; No threnody hers for the land she was born in; She always arose before six in the mornin', And sang the sweet strains of her "Erin Mavourneen" — The minor melodies of Erin go bragh. 129 In Other Words Alas, as the poet declares, Tempus fidgets! Tis only a month since she came to our shore. But since she's met Norahs and Katies and Bridgets, Ochone! our acushla is happy no more! She started to work for a weekly three-fifty; But now she gets seven, her habits are thrifty. Her dress it is faultless and stylishly nifty — And Tuesdays and Thursdays and Satur- days out. 130 Of Coarse You Would If you had to make some verses on the topics of the day, You would read the morning papers rather fully; For you'd like to find a theme to make your readers shout: "Hooray!" And to make your Dear Employer say: "That's bully!" You would scan aforesaid journals with a very fine-tooth comb (With the metaphors I'm something of a mixer.) For a nifty little subject you could pad into a pome; And you'd have to be about it pretty quick, sir. You would read the Morse indictment; you would read of plot and crime; You might read about a meeting suffragetty ; But you'd say: "Them ain't no matters for to put in classic rhyme," And no more would be the Central loans and Hetty. 131 In Other Words ¥ou would read how Mr. Vanderbilt and others had been robbed; You would read or skip some speeches at a dinner; You would see a Gothic headline saying: "Pretty Woman Mobbed," And you'd read a few critiques of Otis Skinner. You would read about the blow-up in the tun- nel yesternoon; You would read — oh, yes you would — the ice inquiry; You would read about the chap who lived a week in a balloon, And you'd find that every theme was uninspiry. Oh, you'd worry like the mischief on your foolish daily pome, For you'd want to do it prettily and nicely, And after doing all of this you'd hit the breeze for home. * * * * And that's the way that I should do, pre- cisely. 132 True Comfort (There is nothing quite so comforting in this life as a word of five syllables. — Mr. W. Pett Ridge.) Brevity! Heavens, what inefficaciousness! Brevity! Piffle! A mere fabulosity! Comfort is only a great ostentatiousness; Quiet is only in vociferosity. Shortness in writing denotes adolescency, Me for an erudite, big etymologist — One who can tell you the true delitescency Found in the brain of a phytopathologist. Still, I believe that a man pharmaceutical Seems, in a measure, to be reimbursable, Arguing thus, it seems quite therapeutical Voters for Taft are to be incoercible. Which, to a mind beyond doubt algebraical, Seems but the rankest of rank meretricious- ness, Silly and sad, not to say pharisaical; Bless you ! the thing is but old superstitious- ness! 133 In Other Words Ah ! How I flounder in mad inconclusiveness 1 Mad is this quinquepedalian verbosity. " Comfort?" Great heavings! What mad perdiff usiveness — Look at me here in complete comatosity! To Gclctt Burgess I never saw a Sulphite. No, I never hope to see one; I am acquiring brain fag, though, Endeavoring to be one. 134 Bacchanalian Songs (The American Magazine advances that most of the drinking songs are pretty poor stuff.) These endless aimless, footless airs! Carousers start and never end 'em: "We're Here Because"; " Nobody Cares"; "Nunc Est Bibendum." Tis true. The lyric of the souse Is often far from a divine song, Be it "Another on the House" Or Hovey's "Stein Song." A myriad more the drinking cuss Will carol as the hours grow slender? "Lang Soil Er Leben" and "Give Us A Drink, Bartender!" Poor stuff, in sooth. Yet though the loads May warble dithyrambics wishy, Meseems I know no stirring odes To Milk-and- Vichy. 135 On a Certain Propensity of Bootblacks to Toy with the Shoelaces of the Shinee Polishing little rapscallion, Shining away at my shoes, Be thou or Greek or Italian, Thou art the one I accuse; Ruin my tans with thy tarnish, That were a crime to condone, But, when thou smearest the varnish, Leave thou my laces alone! Utterly spoil and demolish All of the calfskin I wear, Wreak, with thy poisonous polish, Ruin — 'tis little I care. But, as thou needest thy nickel, Listen to me as I moan: "Cease thou mine ankles to tickle! Leave thou my laces alone!" Fiend, how thou watchest me wriggle! Ghoul, how thou watchest me wince! Whiles that thou hidest a giggle Under thy Genoan squints. Hark! I shall — be this a warning Final and straight from my throne! Kick in thy features some morning, An thou leav'st not my laces alone! 136 Christmas Cards Being the songs of an old Scrooge I. TO A JANITOR Native of Sweden or Norway, Tyrant of terrible type, Standing around in the doorway, Smoking a miserable pipe — Thou who refusest to steam up, Thou who denyest me heat, Thou who wilt not send my cream up, Thou who purloinest my meat — Father of infants whose weeping All through the perilous night Loudly inhibits my sleeping — Read, if thou canst, what I write: Why, at this holiday season, Should I drop into the slot Money? There isn't a reason ; Therefore, old chap, I shall not. 137 In Other Words II. TO A STENOGRAPHER Person feminine of gender, Pounding at the lettered keys, Think you that I should surrender Tribute, be it ne'er so slender? Lithe and listen, please: You who, chafing at your fetters, Say you "Do not have to work, Queen of pompadoured coquetters How you hate to take my letters! How you love to shirk! You who take two hours for luncheon Cake and soda, as it seems, Being all that make your nuncheon, While all afternoon you munch on Callow chocolate creams. Typist, it is truth I'm telling — Pardon mine insurgency — But, O maid at work rebelling, Scorner of the rules of spelling, Not a cent from me! 138 Christmas Cards III. TO AN ELEVATOR BOY You leave me waiting on my floor, Although I press the button hard. Day after day do you ignore This bard. I walk downstairs; a tiresome task For one aweary, worn and old. And now at Christmas-time you ask For gold! Shall I a good cigar deny Myself? A quarter? Make your lot A bit more bearable? Well, I Guess not! IV. TO A cook Foreign genius culinary, Proud but inefficient cook, Gretchen, Olga, Hulda, Mary, Look: Haply thou expect'st a present As the smallest of thy dues, Hearken! Thou shalt hear unpleasant News. 139 In Other Words Hast thou ever tried to study What my palate might allure? Dost thou make the coffee muddy? Sure. Though I like a peeled tomato, Do I get it thataway? Do I get a baked potato? Nay. Though I like my steak the rarest, Red as the Milwaukee bricks, Thy results but prove thou carest Nix. Therefore let this be the burden Of this bit of deathless dope: Dost thou get a Christmas guerdon? Nope! 140 Thanking One and AIL [If it were generally known how many writers who have achieved success have practically been made by editors endowed with the gift of helping the young author to find himself, the public would be indeed sur- prised. Once in a while one may be startled by some grateful communication or dedication expressive ot such literary indebtedness, but this is rare. It must be owned that the attitude of the successful author is usually one of self-congratulation. — Boston Herald. Of me, good sooth, none ever wrote "How sharper than a serpent's tooth It is to have a thankless pote!" For wit ye well, this Tower of Truth Had never seen the 1. of d. Unless the costly linotyper Had set my stuff, that it might be Emblazoned in this evening pyper. And if the make-up should refuse To place my gems as I request, Where then would be the motley muse? Where then my japery and jest? And if the paper mill shut down Or leaden type no more were minted, Where then would be my fair renown? Where I, with priceless pomes unprinted? 141 In Other Words So say not that the trait is rare; Us authors is a grateful crew. Our aim is ever to be fair, And give the angel all his due: Brown's grammar, Noah Webster's tome And Walker on Versification All help me when I pull a pome — My stuff is all collaboration. " Ungrateful? " Nay ! My lightest line Is due to others more than me. No paragraph is wholly mine; No verse I own in simple fee. If even the cashier himself, Some Saturday when I endeavor To grab my gold, refused me pelf, I'd give up Litrachoor forever. 142 Lines in Appreciation of a Lady's Aft Madura maid that o'er the stove holdeth despotic sway, Small is the labor that you do, though great your weekly pay, Far from a Savarin are you in the role that you have picked, Tortoni could have beaten you from clams to Benedict. Nay, I'll make one exception, and one that bids me sing Your o. f. strob'ry shortcake, a Rare and Perfect Thing. In many a line of cooking your ineptitude is great, You have three afternoons a week, you come each morning late. You burn an awful lot of gas, you waste a lot of stuff, Your soups are generally weak, your steaks are always tough, Yet here is to Virginia, the state that gave you birth, And your o. f. strob'ry short cake, the Finest Thing on Earth! 143 In Other Words Madura maiden, rob a bank, yet should you be enthroned, Commit a century of crime, yet shall you be condoned So long as you may build those joys, those Benisons of Bliss, Whose memory is with me now as I unlimber this; Whose recollection this here apostrophic stuff has stirred On your o. f. strob'ry shortcake, which is Cooking's Final Word. For Commuters Only PLAIN APPEARS THE PRINTED WORD IN THE LIGHT OF DAY; NOT A LETTER OF IT BLURRED- IT APPEARS THIS WAY. Goin gthr oughtatun nelth ough; Lett ersf lyandnit; Sylla blesa re wab bly — so — Evernoticeit? 144 Inept Quotation's Artificial Aid It was a friar of orders gray, And he stoppeth one of three: I chanced to see at break of day That not impossible She. "I was with Grant — " the stranger said By the nine gods he swore — For here, forlorn and lost I tread Beside a human door. Stay, lady, stay for mercy's sake! How glazed each weary eye! And could I ever keep awake Till a' the seas gang dry? Love still hath something of the sea, In the first sweet sleep of night; Whate'er the years may bring to me, Fond mem'ry brings the light. I hear a voice you cannot hear, Beside the Springs of Dove; And she is grown so dear, so dear, She never told her love. 145 In Other Words In Xanadu did Kubla Khan Look backward with a smile. The apparel oft proclaims the man, And only man is vile. I have set my life upon a cast — To die were far more sweet — As through on Alpine village passed The print of Lucy's feet. Drink to me only with thine eyes To drive dull care away. In Venice on the Bridge on Sighs, Upon a truss of hay. I never saw a purple cow Or nursed a dear gazelle; When pain and anguish wring the brow I only feel Farewell! She left us in the bloom of May, When night and morning meet, Yet some maintain that to this day Her voice is low and sweet. If this fair rose offend thy sight In faery lands forlorn, She was a Phantom of Delight Breast high amid the corn. 146 Inept Quotation's Artificial Aid For what avail the plough or sail? Men were deceivers ever. Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And let who will be clever. I prithee send me back my heart, Half hidden from the eye; 'Tis of man's life a thing apart — Good-bye, my lover, good-bye! 147 Some Speeches Now glory to our holy cause, from whence all glories spring, And glory to our candidate, who stands for everything. So, gentlemen, I nominate that leader of the cause, That noble man, that swerveless head, Wis- consin's [Great applause]. From where the pine-clad hills of Maine in fronded beauty stand, To where the jagged Rockies reach across this lovely land, Is heard the name that echoes over valley and through chasm, The name of — need I mention it — of [Great enthusiasm]. Ah, gentlemen assembled in this gre-eat con- vention hall, This land of ours is fairest on the whole terrestrial ball; And who so fit, from Boston to where rolls the Oregon, To steer the Ship of State as [Cries of "Louder!" and "Go on!"] 148 Some Speeches That brave, intrepid, fearless, dauntless, wise, courageous one, That plain and honest Democrat, Rhode Island's favorite son, Who loathes the predatory rich, the wicked trust and grafter, That sterling statesman, need I say [Continued cheers and laughter]. Ohio offers up a name requiring no laudation To gain for him the honor of this glorious nomination ; The choice of all this big broad land is he, to all appearing I bring the name of William Howard [Loud and mighty cheering]. But who has put the nation where it proudly stands to-day? What is the greatest, biggest name in all these U. S. A.? The name of Theo [Reader, this applause you'll have to guess, For truly, there be limits to the power of the press]. 149 NO TROUBLE TO SHOW GOODS [For the benefit of advertisers, present and pros pective, it should be stated that these are only a fei of the publisher's kinds of type.] Speak gently to the printer man, His