' §IF 1 ^K If ig|i , r a . >v , . ■ ■ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Chap Copyright No SheIi\E 5i3l4 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. IDLE IDYLS By the Same Author THE JINGLE BOOK THE STORY OF BETTY AT THE SIGN OF THE SPHINX IDLE IDTLS 'By CAROLYN WELLS Pictured by OLIVER HERFORD NEW YORK • DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY • MDCCCC Copyright, 1900, by DODD, Mead and Company < Ki , - - Library of Congress Tvc Copies Rei NOV 14 1900 J fc,,V\K3>.ft SECOND COPY Delivered to ORDER DIVISION No )1« UNIVERSITY PRESS ■ JOHN WILSON AND SON • CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. To OLIVER HERFORD GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, &■ FRIEND c o n r e n r s The Spelling Lesson 3 A Warning 4 Sighted 7 Tit for Tat 9 To Omar 10 To a Milkmaid 13 An Artistic Evening 15 A Secret Woe 16 The Derelict 19 A Patient Lover 20 Fate 21 My Choice 22 To a Poet 24 The Latest Fad 26 The Poster Girl's Defence 28 vii CONTENTS Ballade of Old Loves 30 Maiden Meditation 32 A Rara Avis 33 A Pastoral in Posters . 35 A Ballade of Revolt 36 The 111 Wind 38 The Whist Player's Soliloquy 40 My Friends 42 To Certain Conservatives 43 The Annual Sentence 46 A Ballade of Indignation 47 My Familiar 49 A Ballad of Christmas Burdens 51 The Poster Girl 54 Sonnet on the Sonnet on the Sonnet .... 56 Spring's Revenge 57 A Ballade of Petition 62 Cupid's Failure 64 The Celebrants 65 " They that go down to the Sea in Ships " . 66 A Maiden's No 69 The Original Summer Girl 70 viii CONTENTS The Debutante 71 Ballade of Wisdom and Folly 73 A Possibility 75 A Memory 76 The Vampire of the Hour 78 An Aquarelle 80 In Absence 83 From Vivette's Milkmaid 84 A Woman's Wail 85 The Discriminant 88 Nothing to Read 90 A Picture 94 A Problem 95 The Degenerate Novelist 98 Her Spinning- Wheel 99 Unkind Fate 100 Woman's Way 102 One Week 105 The Trailing Skirt 106 Quatrain 109 The Ballade of The Ad 110 Aubrey Beardsley's Pictures 112 ix CONTENTS Her Easter Morning 113 An Unwritten Poem 115 The Book Lifter 118 Utilitarian 121 Under a New Charter 122 Left 125 An Explanation 126 The Lay of Lothario Lee 127 Christmas Eve 132 Past and Present 133 Epitaph on a Ballet Dancer 13 5 An Important Trust 136 An Unorthodox Christmas 138 In the Klondike 140 Cela Va Sans Dire 142 The Thoughtful Yardstick 143 Auf Wiedersehen 144 Of Modern Books 145 The Horseless Age 147 The Tragedy of a Theatre Hat 148 Ballade of Ecclesiastes 154 IDLE IDYLS ' T AM nae Poet, in a sense, But just a Rhymer, like, by chance, An' hue to learning nae pretence, Yet, what the matter} Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jinglt at her." IDLE IDYLS THE SPELLING LESSON WHEN Venus said : " Spell no for me," " N-O," Dan Cupid wrote with glee, And smiled at his success ; " Ah, child," said Venus, laughing low, " We women do not spell it so, We spell it Y-E-S." A WARNING OH, you Summer Girl! You ridiculous, absurd, hackneyed, over- worked, adorable Summer Girl ! You shirt-waisted goddess And sailor-hatted sylph, You picturesque potpourri of outing effects, You think you 're great, Don't you ? And you are. You 're a power, and a queen, and a tyrant. And you know it, And you glory in it. And I don't blame you. I think you 're all right myself. But — Although you rule your young men, Your swains and gallants and cavaliers — Although you think All mankind bow beneath your sway, It is n't true. 1 defy you ! 4 A WARNING I! I am your lord and master, and of me you are afraid ; Abjectly, shrinkingly, and shudderingly afraid. Who am I ? I am Time, Father Time; your friend and ally now. But remember, I have you in my power, Irrevocably in my power, And at my will I can transform you into a crone, An old, wrinkled, haggard, toothless crone. But I won't do it — at least, not now. For a few years I will let you defy me. You may misuse me, waste me, and even try to kill me, And I will only serve you faithfully in return, And bring you triumphs and happinesses. But some day I will steal your treasures — Your bewitching gowns, And coquettish hats. Yes, and I will steal The roses from your cheeks And the sparkle from your eyes. And then, milady, 5 IDLE IDYLS What will you do ? But meanwhile, Summer Girl, Have all the fun you can. And now, Run away and play. SIGHTED CT, VALENTINE'S ship comes sailing ^ Across the Sea of Dreams ; Roses hang from the railing, The golden pennant gleams. Blown by the winds of Fancy, Careless of maps or charts ; Steered by Love's necromancy, And ballasted with hearts. Across the space between us She glides on even keel ; Her figurehead 's a Venus, And Cupid 's at the wheel. The turtle-doves are swinging In wreaths hung from the bow ; Youth at the helm is singing, And Pleasure at the prow. 7 IDLE IDYLS Freighted with fair Romances, Love-knots and ribbons blue ; As nearer she advances I hear the ringdoves coo. Ho ! maidens, all be merry, And, gallants, pay your court ; Fourteenth of February She will arrive in port. TIT FOR TAT QECURE from observation, ^ A Bookworm made his home And pursued his occupation In a dry and dusty tome, Made by some wise old sages That lesser minds might learn. The Bookworm turned the pages (For even a worm will turn) . He said, " What prosy leaders ! And, judging by its look, This book has bored its readers, Now I will bore the book." TO OMAR ( MAR KHAYYAM, you 're a jolly old Aryan, Half sybaritic and semi-barbarian, Not a bit mystic, but utilitarian, Fond of a posy and fond of a dram. Symbolist, poet, and clear-eyed philosopher, Had you a wife I am sure you were boss of her, Yet you 'd be ruled by the coquettish toss of her Garland-crowned head at you, Omar Khayyam. For there is vanity In your humanity, Else your urbanity Were but a flam ; And the severity Of your austerity Proves your sincerity, Omar Khayyam. Well I remember when first you were heralded, Persian-born poesy ably Fitzgeralded ; Impulse said buy you — and I to my peril did : Now a meek slave to your genius I am. IO TO OMAR Some of your doctrines to us may seem hatable, Though we admit that the themes are debatable ; But your ideas, are they really translatable Into our languages, Omar Khayyam ? In your society All inebriety Seems but propriety, Truth but a sham ; And the reality Of your carnality Courts immortality, Omar Khayyam. From the grave depths of your massive tranquil- lity Thoughts you produce, knowing well their fu- tility, Thoughts that you phrase with a fatal facility, — Hurl with the force of a battering-ram ! But we care not though your message be cynical, Not very creedal, and scarcely rabbinical, We, your adorers, put you on a pinnacle, For that we love you, old Omar Khayyam. Though you 're erroneous, Still you 're harmonious, And you 're euphonious 1 1 IDLE IDYLS In epigram. O'er the censorious You are victorious ; We hold you glorious, Omar Khayyam. 12 TO A MILKMAID T HAIL thee, O milkmaid ! •*• Goddess of the gaudy morn, hail ! Across the mead tripping, Invariably across the mead tripping, The merry mead with cowslips blooming, With daisies blooming, The milkmaid also more or less blooming ! I hail thee, O milkmaid ! I recognise the value of thy pail in literature and art. What were a pastoral poet without thee ? Oh, I know thee, milkmaid ! I hail thy jaunty juvenescence. I know thy eighteen summers and thy eternal springs. Ay, I know thy trials ! 1 know how thou art outspread over pastoral poetry. Rampant, ubiquitous, inevitable, thy riotings in pas- toral poetry, And in masterpieces of pastoral art ! How oft have I seen thee sitting ; On a tri-legged stool sitting ; On the wrong side of the cow sitting ; *3 IDLE IDYLS Garbed in all thy preposterous paraphernalia. I know thy paraphernalia — Yea, even thy impossible milk pail and thy improbable bodice. Short-skirted siren ! Big-hatted beauty ! What were the gentle spring without thee ? I hail thee ! I hail thy vernality, and I rejoice in thy hackneyed ubiquitousness. I hail the superiority of thy inferiorness, and 1 lay at thy feet this garland of gratuitous Hails ! i?-yu <■ > /'• AN ARTISTIC EVENING TURNER sunset flickered on the madly-scarlet hills, And the valley had a Wordsworth atmosphere ; The babbling little brooklet ran in Tennysonian rills, And a Rosa Bonheur cow was grazing near. A crescent moon was floating on the Vereshchagin sky, The heavens were with Ruskin clouds o'erspread ; A lanky Burne-Jones maiden, with a halo, wandered by, While a Millet rustic stood and hung his head. The primrose at the old stand blossomed by the river's brim, A nightingale or two began to sing, And Bouguereau's Bather murmured, as she went to take her swim : " I think that we shall have a Corot Spring." «5 A SECRET WOE A GIBSON Girl was hanging in a frame upon my wall ; She was exceeding graceful and she was exceeding tall. I suppose I must have dreamed it, though 1 thought 1 was awake, But that Gibson maiden softly sighed, and then she softly spake. Her voice was low and lovely, her diction was correct, Her language such as from a Gibson Girl one might expect ; But she seemed a bit unhappy, and a tear was in her eye, So I sympathetically begged that she would tell me why. She smiled a little sadly, and in a wistful tone She rather intimated she had troubles of her own. Then she folded her long Gibson arms and shook her Gibson head, Tossed back her wavy Gibson hair, and this is what she said: 16 A SECRET WOE " I know that I am stunning, I know I 'm chic and swell ; My costumes are perfection, and I pose extremely well. I can play at golf or tennis, I can skate or swim or ride; I 've been admired in every role from de'butante to bride. 1 look charming in a shirt waist, and I 'm given every chance To display my Gibson shoulders at a dinner or a dance. My features are patrician, and my figure is n't bad ; I 'm never out of drawing, and I am the present fad. And yet — 1 know 1 'm silly, but I 'm longing to be short — A little doll-faced girlie of the airy, fairy sort. To be caressed and petted, called Bebe and Petite ; To be told that I have tiny hands and Cinderella feet ; To be shielded and protected lest 1 overtax my strength ; To wear coats and skirts and dresses of an ordinary length. And besides," — her sweet voice faltered, and her Gibson eyelids drooped, And round her fingers nervously her handkerchief she looped, — * 17 IDLE IDYLS " I met my fate this summer, — I did, really, — and you see 1 'm awfully in love with him, and he 's in love with me. He 's the dearest man in all the world, but he is n't very tall, So that 's another reason why I wish that 1 were small. When I think of all my Gibson beaus of six feet, eight, or more, 1 marvel that I 've given my heart to a man of five feet four." She said no more, but silently she hung there in her place ; A Gibson impassivity stole o'er her perfect face : And I love her and admire her as a. clever work of art, But I pity that poor Gibson Girl, because 1 know her heart. 18 THE DERELICT UPON the sad, illusive Sea of Dreams, A phantom barque, tossed by the billows, rides At mercy of the shifting winds and tides ; And on its ghostly sail the moonlight gleams. Abandoned by all mariners it seems ; No staying hand its reckless rudder guides, Yet smoothly o'er the trackless deep it glides, Unheeding that its course with danger teems. Across the watery dark my way I grope, I will adopt this derelict so fair ; I raise my flag and float my colours there — But with its waywardness I cannot cope ; I, too, abandon it in my despair, It is unseaworthy. Its name is Hope. *9 A PATIENT LOVER MY sweetheart is a treasure And I love her beyond measure, And each day 1 have discovered some new and charming trait ; But it made me feel the saddest When I found she was a faddist, And that I must be neglected for caprices up to date. At one time it was Browning, Then, First Aid to the Drowning, Then Trying to Discover why Cats Land on their Feet; Then Bric-a-brac Collecting, Then Views on Vivisecting, Then a dainty Kind of Slumming in a very dirty Street. Goodness knows what next it will be, For a long time it was " Trilby," Until unto Napoleon she became a devotee ; Now it 's Joan of Arc and her Age ; But I try to keep up courage, For I hope the time is coming when she '11 make a fad of me. FATE TWO shall be born the whole world wide apart, And speak in different tongues, and pay their debts In different kinds of coin ; and give no heed Each to the other's being. And know not That each might suit the other to a T, If they were but correctly introduced. And these, unconsciously, shall bend their steps, Escaping Spaniards and defying war, Unerringly toward the same trysting-place, Albeit they know it not. Until at last They enter the same door, and suddenly They meet. And ere they 've seen each other's face They fall into each other's arms, upon The Broadway cable car — and this is Fate ! 21 MY CHOICE POETS in dainty verse express The charms of maid or lady fair ; They rhyme their praises of her dress, Or laud the snood that binds her hair. Sylvia's shoe 's beyond compare, — {Catherine's kirtle 's tightly laced, — But in these themes 1 have no share, I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. The stately ruff of good Queen Bess, Or Cleopatra's mantle rare, Have each a charm, I will confess, — The peasant's garb is debonair; The Gainsborough with its flaunting flare, Demure Priscilla's kerchief chaste, — None of these may my heart ensnare, I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. Although the white veil seems to bless The novice as she kneels in prayer ; Though cap and gown achieve success In college or professor's chair ; MY CHOICE Toilettes which 'neath the gas-light's glare The haughty ball-room belle have graced, — For praise of these, go, search elsewhere, I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. L'ENVOI Princess, I mind not what you wear, Your royal robes suit not my taste ; For silks and gems I do not care, I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. 23 YES, Poet, I am coming down to earth, To spend the merry months of blossom-time ; But don't break out in pagans of glad mirth Expressed in hackneyed rhyme. 24 TO A POET — BY SPRING For once, dear Poet, won't you kindly skip Your ode of welcome ? It is such a bore ; I am no chicken, and 1 've made the trip Six thousand times or more. And as I flutter earthward every year, You must admit that it grows rather stale When I arrive, repeatedly to hear The same old annual " Hail ! " Time was when I enjoyed the poets' praise, Will Shakspere's song, or Mr. Milton's hymn ; Or even certain little twittering lays By ladies quaint and prim. Chaucer and Spenser filled me with delight, — And how I loved to hear Bob Herrick woo ! Old Omar seemed to think 1 was all right, And Aristotle, too. But I am sated with this fame and glory, Oh, Poet, leave Parnassian heights unsealed ; This time let me be spared the same old story, And come for once unhailed ! 25 THE LATEST FAD N ANNETTE is just the dearest girl; To her I vow my love and duty ; From slipper-tip to shining curl She 's my ideal of dainty beauty. She 's all a fiancee should be, No words are fond enough to praise her ; But life has lost its charm for me Since Nan became a crystal-gazer. The passing fad of each new day Has caught her somewhat fickle fancy ; It nearly took my breath away When she went in for Chiromancy. She studied Psychical Research, And Hypnotism did n't faze her ; She even joined the Buddhist church ; But now she is a crystal-gazer. Some of her fads 1 rather liked, — Her cult of Ibsen, or of Browning, Her swagger costume when she biked, Her Dress Reform and Delsarte gowning ; 26 THE LATEST FAD I liked it when she tried to cook Crabs a la Newburg in her blazer ; But life takes on a different look Since Nan became a crystal -gazer. Her fervid gaze she concentrates, — That crystal ball her constant focus ; She ardently invokes the Fates And all their mystic hocus-pocus, With muscles tense, and head erect, Until the gleaming crystal sways her (I 've known it to have that effect, Though I am not a crystal-gazer) . Of course I know it 's but a freak, The very latest London notion ; She may forget it in a week And find some other new devotion. But with my heart too long she 's played, I wonder if it would amaze her If I should woo another maid While Nan remains a crystal -gazer. 2 7 THE POSTER GIRL'S DEFENCE TT was an Artless Poster Girl pinned up against -*■ my wall, She was tremendous ugly, she was exceeding tall ; I was gazing at her idly, and 1 think 1 must have slept, For that poster maiden lifted up her poster voice, and wept. She said between her poster sobs, " I think it 's rather rough To be jeered and fleered and flouted, and I 've stood it long enough ; I 'm tired of being quoted as a Fright and Fad and Freak, And I take this opportunity my poster mind to speak- " Although my hair is carmine and my nose is edged with blue, Although my style is splashy and my shade effects are few, 28 THE POSTER GIRL'S DEFENCE Although 1 'm out of drawing and my back hair is a show, Yet I have n't half the whimseys of the maidens that you know. " I never keep you waiting while I prink before the glass, I never talk such twaddle as that little Dawson lass, I never paint on china, nor erotic novels write, And I never have recited ' Curfew must not ring to- night.' " 1 don't rave over Ibsen, I never, never flirt, I never wear a shirt waist with a disconnected skirt ; I never speak in public on ' The Suffrage,' or ' The Race,' 1 never talk while playing whist, or trump my partner's ace." 1 said : " O artless Poster Girl, you 're in the right of it, You are a joy forever, though a thing of beauty, nit ! " And from her madder eyebrows to her utmost purple swirl, Against all captious critics I '11 defend the Poster Girl. 29 BALLADE OF OLD LOVES T X 7 HO is it stands on the polished stair, ' V A merry, laughing, winsome maid, From the Christmas rose in her golden hair To the high-heeled slippers of spangled suede ? A glance, half daring and half afraid, Gleams from her roguish eyes downcast ; Already the vision begins to fade — *T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. Who is it sits in that high-backed chair, Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed, With a mockery gay of a stately air As she rustles the folds of her old brocade, — Merriest heart at the masquerade ? Ah, but the picture is passing fast Back to the darkness from which it strayed — T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. Who is it whirls in a ball-room's glare, Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid, Like a radiant lily, tall and fair, While the violins in the corner played 3° BALLADE OF OLD LOVES The wailing strains of the Serenade ? Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last — E'en now my fancy it will evade — 'T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. L'ENVOI Rosamond ! look not so dismayed, All of my heart, dear love, thou hast. Jealous, belove'd ? Of a shade ? — T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. 3* MAIDEN MEDITATION (A RONDEAU) MYRTILLA thinks ! be still, oh, breeze, Ye birds, cease warbling in the trees, Ye wavelets, your light plash subdue, Ye turtle-doves, neglect to coo, And silent be, ye buzzing bees, Lest even your soft harmonies Intrude upon such thoughts as these, For though astonishing, 't is true, Myrtilla thinks ! Plunged in profoundest reveries, Fair visions her rapt fancy sees ; So undecided what to do — Shall she wear pink ? shall she wear blue ? Amid her pretty fineries Myrtilla thinks ! 3 2 A RARA AVIS O , NCE there was an Easter Bonnet With some wings and feathers on it, And a tiny shiny buckle in a bit of ribbon shirred. Said the ladies, " Please inform us Why its bill is so enormous," And that foolish little Easter Bonnet thought it was a bird ! 3 33 IDLE IDYLS It slyly watched its chances, And escaping people's glances, It flew straight out the window and it lighted on a tree. With fear its wings were quaking, And its little frame was shaking, But it sat there smiling bravely though 'twas frightened as could be. Said the birds, " You 're of our feather, Come and let us flock together," But the Bonnet answered proudly, " I 'm exclusive and select ; And although 1 could be pleasant To an ostrich or a pheasant, For me to herd with common birds you really can't expect." Said a hunter, " This is pretty, I will take it home to Kitty," Then he aimed his gun and shot it and it fell with- out a word. Then it gave a final flutter, And pertly seemed to mutter, " Well, after all, 1 'd rather be a Bonnet than a bird." 34 A PASTORAL IN POSTERS / "T" V HE mid-day moon lights up the rocky sky ; •*■ The great hills flutter in the greenish breeze ; While far above the lowing turtles fly And light upon the pinky-purple trees. The gleaming trill of jagged, feathered rocks I hear with glee as swift I fly away, And over waves of subtle woolly flocks Crashes the breaking day ! 35 A BALLADE OF REVOLT VyASHINGTON'S cherry-tree I prize, * * And Jonah's whale, — and how I hate Iconoclasts who would revise The old traditions, small or great. Yet there be fools who idly prate Of late research ; and some buffoon Declares the old man out of date, — Now there 's a woman in the moon. Aggressive women 1 despise, Yet they are everywhere of late ; Insistent, bold, and overwise, They meddle with affairs of state. Unending trouble they create, And deem their services a boon ; Much grave disturbance I await, Now there 's a woman in the moon. I know just how she '11 scrutinise Each timid lover and his mate ; She '11 slyly peer with curious eyes, When Dick and I shall stroll or skate ; 3 6 A BALLADE OF REVOLT I 'm positive, at any rate, I would n't even dare to spoon With Robbie Smithers at the gate, Now there 's a woman in the moon. L'ENVOI Sweetheart, it is a cruel fate, Her advent 's most inopportune ; It spoils our moonlight tete-a-tete, Now there 's a woman in the moon. 37 T THE ILL WIND HE Little 111 Wind that blows nobody good Came puffing along as fast as he could. And he thought to himself as he wickedly blew, " What mischief a little ill wind can do ! " He came on the wild-rose bush with a bound, And the prettiest petals fell off on the ground. The leaves on the trees he kept ashake Till their poor little stems began to ache. Oh, he was a bad little, mad little wind, In every possible way he sinned. If a passer-by sniffed the new-mown hay, He blew its fragrance the other way. He tickled the grasses until they shook, And tirelessly ruffled a placid brook. He broke the string of Tot's balloon, And carried it upwards toward the moon. 38 THE ILL WIND He blew back the tress of Clorinda's hair, — Which her lover had just resolved to dare. Then he came to my window, with cheeks puffed out, And blew my papers all about. Till I threatened to put him in print some day, — Which frightened him so that he blew away And hid himself in the depths of the wood, That little 111 Wind that blows nobody good. 39 THE WHIST PLAYER'S SOLILOQUY TO trump, or not to trump, — that is the ques- tion; Whether 't is better in this case to notice The leads and signals of outraged opponents, Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds, And by opposing, end them ? To trump, — to take, — No more ; and by that trick to win the lead And after that return my partner's spades For which he signalled, — 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To trump, — to take, — To take ! perchance to win ! Ay, there 's the rub ; For if we win this game, what hands may come When we have shuffled up these cards again ! Play to the score ? Ah ! yes, there 's the defect That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work. For who would heed the theories of Hoyle, The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish, The Short-suit system, leads American, The Eleven Rule Finesse, the Fourth-best play, 40 THE W HIST PLAYER'S SOLILOQUY The Influence of Signals on the Ruff, When he himself this doubtful trick might take With a small two-spot ? Who would hesitate But that the dread of something afterward, An undiscovered discard, or forced lead When playing the return, puzzles the will, And makes us rather lose the tricks we have To win the others that we know not of. Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all ; And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And good whist players of great skill and judgment, With this regard their formulas defy, And lose the game by ruffing. 41 MY FRIENDS WITHIN one room, around one desk Consorted scribblers three ; Each one was more or less renowned, — Kipling and Howells and me. Kipling - sat there with pen in hand, But not a word wrote he ; And Howells, too, seemed lost in thought, - Which was the case with me. And Kipling smiled a blooming smile In sympathetic glee, As from his heights of cleverness He kindly looked on me. Howells leaned back and closed his eyes Quite introspectively ; Which somehow seemed to make me think That he approved of me. They '11 never write, they '11 never speak, — They 're photographs, you see ; But still, we are a jolly crowd, — Kipling and Howells and me. 42 TO CERTAIN CONSERVATIVES WHY this tempest in a teapot ? Why this much ado for naught ? Why this worry lest some literary wares be cheaply bought ? Our Few Books lie at our elbow, then what matters it to us If the Average Reader's stock of books is multi- tudinous ? If the publishers are issuing editions large and cheap, Tis because the Average Reader will not pay the prices steep. We should smile on them benignly and feel very glad indeed ; For when books were rare and costly, these same people did n't read. And I think that the Enlightened surely ought to understand That the Cheapening Process came to meet a Popular Demand. 43 IDLE IDYLS Just as in all other branches imitators imitate — Since we eat with sterling silver, must there be no triple plate ? We may have a clever chef, yet some there be who use canned soups, — Though we own a rare Bacchante there's demand for Rogers' Groups. And there is no use in talking to our Unenlightened Friend, If he has the Cheap Book habit, nothing can his fate forfend. T is the manner not the matter that is cheapened, for there be Fausts for thirty-seven cents and Rubaiyats fcr twenty-three. And the Average Reader buys them at a large De- partment Store, Next day delivered carriage free at his suburban door. But what is this to us ? What boots it with inces- sant care To try to change the leopard's spots ? It is n't our affair. 44 TO CERTAIN CONSERVATIVES And if our neighbour's cheapened books are cheapen- ing his cheap brain, It only proves all efforts to reform him would be vain. We Enlightened will continue as of yore to buy our books, Not The Handy Gimcrack Series, nor editions de luxe; But with calm discrimination we will buy the books we need, And our brains will not be cheapened as absorbedly we read. 45 THE ANNUAL SENTENCE SOCIETY in wig and gown Sat in the judge's place, The sternest kind of legal frown Upon her charming face. She sadly shook her pretty head : " On account of their wicked ways, The World, the Flesh, and the Devil," she said, " Are sentenced for forty days ! " 4 6 A BALLADE OF INDIGNATION NOW if there is one thing I hate It is lame vers de societe, And I cannot help feeling irate With the versemongers writing to-day. They rhyme a thing any old way, They regard neither science nor schools ; But when the French Forms they essay, At least they might follow the rules. They consider themselves " up-to-date " If they 've written a Sonnet to May, And fancy they feel on their pate A chaplet of laurel or bay. At a triolet or virelai They rush, like proverbial fools, — But in their wild, wordy display At least they might follow the rules. In their ignorance boldly elate, To rhymes no attention they pay ; They ride at a rollicking gait On a Pegasus madly astray. 47 IDLE IDYLS No hindrance their progress will stay, No remonstrance their mad ardour cools, But in their syllabic array At least they might follow the rules. L'ENVOI Calliope, pardon, I pray, These workmen without any tools, And to them this message convey : At least they might follow the rules. 4 8 MY FAMILIAR THERE 'S a little Lincoln Devil that hangs above my desk, An ugly, yellow plaster imp, exceedingly grotesque ; But a human, real intelligence in his weird face I see, And a subtle sympathy exists between my imp and me. He 's a grinning, graceless rascal, like Kipling's Gunga Din, And he has a sense of humour that is marvellously keen ; He hears gravely all my joking, and then when I have done, He seems to shake his shaggy sides, convulsed with silent fun. I confide to him my secret woes, reveal to him my grief, For somehow, from his elfish eyes he 's sure to blink relief ; All my highest aspirations and my fondest hopes I bring, For he hears me with a thoughtful gaze that 's most encouraging. 4 49 IDLE IDYLS I acknowledge my shortcomings, and he scowls in glum reproof, As with his lean and horny claws he grips his cloven hoof. And then the day my heart broke, — when I told it all to him A sort of yearning tenderness stole o'er his features grim; But the dogged, brave endurance of his fixed and stony stare, His hard-drawn mouth and firm-set teeth, said only, " Grin and bear ! " So I love my little Devil, for he '11 help me win the strife, With his comprehensive grasp of the philosophy of life. 50 A BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS BURDENS THE burden of gay greeting. Vain delight, — For who among us means a word we say ? In hackneyed speech we clothe our message trite, And idly voice the wishes of the day. We smile and bow in our accustomed way, While our indifference we try to hide, Stifling our boredom, striving to be gay — This is the end of every Christmas-tide. The burden of much giving. Every year We realise anew the fearful fraud This custom is. And then, albeit we sneer, We buy afresh the bauble and the gaud, Hoping thereby to win a hollow laud, Or gain a compliment to feed our pride ; Contented if the giddy world applaud — This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 5* IDLE IDYLS The burden of scant shekels. Woe impends The wight whose way is with this danger fraught ; Lured by the Spirit of the Times he spends More than he meant to and more than he ought. And when he views the gew-gaws he has bought, And sees his empty pockets yawning wide, He sadly bows his head in anxious thought — This is the end of every Christmas-tide. The burden of swift shopping. Crowded streets And rushing messengers our way impede. Our innocence the wily fakir cheats, And fleeces us, weak victims to his greed ; Or haply haughty clerks pay us no heed : At our approach they partly turn aside Until our ire our patience doth exceed — This is the end of every Christmas-tide. The burden of great eating. Other days It matters not so much how we may dine ; But at this festival tradition says We must bestir, and kill the fatted kine. The board must groan 'neath rarest food and wine, Boar's head and wassail bowl we must provide, That our digestion we may undermine — This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 52 A BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS BURDENS ENVOY Comrades, and ye who Christmas pleasures seek, These timely thoughts to you I would confide ; Hearken unto the wisdom that I speak : This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 53 THE POSTER GIRL THE blessed Poster Girl leaned out From a pinky-purple heaven ; One eye was red and one was green ; Her bangs were cut uneven ; She had three fingers on her hand, And the hairs on her head were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No sunflowers did adorn ; But a heavy Turkish portiere Was very neatly worn ; And the hat that lay along her back Was yellow, like canned corn. It was a kind of wobbly wave That she was standing on, And high aloft she flung a scarf That must have weighed a ton. And she was rather tall, — at least She reached up to the sun. 54 THE POSTER GIRL She curved and writhed, and then she said, Less green of speech than blue : " Perhaps I am absurd — perhaps I don't appeal to you ; But my artistic worth depends Upon the point of view." I saw her smile, although her eyes Were only smudgy smears ; And then she swished her swirling arms, And wagged her gorgeous ears. She sobbed a blue -and -green checked sob, And wept some purple tears. 55 SONNET ON THE SONNET ON THE SONNET WHAT is the sonnet on the sonnet ? Well, It is a bit of verbal filigree, A mass of metaphor and simile, A little wooden poem made to sell. What does the sonnet on the sonnet tell ? It murmurs of the murmurs of the sea, Or buzzes of the buzzing of the bee, Or tinkles of the tinkling of a bell. Why is the sonnet on the sonnet writ ? Forsooth, he deems that he a boon confers Who paints the lily or pure gold refines ; And so the writer glories in his wit, And calls himself a poet ; yet he errs : He gives us only fourteen prosy lines. 56 SPRING'S REVENGE FATHER TIME in his office was sitting, When he happened to spy A calendar nigh. " Goodness me ! " he exclaimed, " how I 'm flitting ■ My days are just scurrying by ! " The world has used up the whole winter, And demands the next stage At the turn of the page ; I declare, one must be a real sprinter To keep up with the pace of this age. 57 IDLE IDYLS " Here, Spring, get your garlands and flowers ; With laughter and mirth You must skip down to earth, Take plenty of sunshine and showers, And hurry for all you are worth." Then said Spring, with a pout of unreason, " Oh, please, Father dear, Let me off just this year ; I hate the Earth more every season, It 's a silly, absurd little sphere ! " SPRING'S REVENGE " Why, my child," said old Father Time, frowning, " They are waiting, you know, And of course you must go, The poets their Queen would be crowning. What on Earth has offended you so ? " " Spring odes, lays, and ballads they fashion ; I 've known one man to pen As many as ten ! And I vow " — here she flew in a passion — " I never will go there again ! " " Well, of course you can't help their admiring," Said Time, looking wise, " So 1 would advise That you travel incog., by attiring Yourself in some sort of disguise." " Oh, Time, what a clever suggestion ! 'T is the very best thing," Exclaimed giddy young Spring. " Now what shall I wear ? — that 's the question, When my merry way earthward I wing. 59 IDLE IDYLS " Here 's a snow robe of Winter's, that 's jolly ; I '11 take it to wear, And I '11 stick in my hair Some mistletoe sprays and some holly — They '11 never know me, I declare ! " SPRING'S REVENGE " Come, come," said old Time, " you must hurry, T is Feb. 28, March 1 is your date, And I'm in a sad state of worry, For I am morally sure you '11 be late." " All right," answered Spring, " I am going." Her mantle she drew Around her and flew Down to Earth, where 't was blowing and snowing — She crept in and nobody knew.