807.73 ^ Carolyn 6133 Baubles &^ 5 x Wel1 *' arolyn / Baubles 6133 LIBRARY OF THE WALT DISNEY STUDIO BAUBLES BAUBLES BY CAROLYN WELLS LJBKARY OF TH WAL* DISNEY STU Author of "A Nonsense Anthology," "The Rubaiyat of a Motor Car," etc. PICTURED BY OLIVER HERFORD NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1917 Copyright, 1900, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY As "Idle Idyls" Copyright, 1917 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. To OLIVER HERFORD GUIDE. PHILOSOPHER, & FRIEND CONTENTS I Am nae Poet 2 The Spelling Lesson 3 A Warning 4 Sighted 7 The Moss in the Wood 9 To Omar 10 To a Milkmaid 13 The Lure of the Unknown 1 5 Impressions of Chicago 16 The Derelict 18 Ifs for Cubists 19 Fame 21 To a Poet 23 The Glorious West 25 A Recollection 27 Ballade of Old Loves 30 Maiden Meditation 32 A Rara Avis 33 A Pastoral in Posters 35 Country in Summer 36 vii CONTENTS The 111 Wind 37 A Tantalus Number 39 My Friends 41 To Certain Conservatives 42 The Annual Sentence 45 A Ballade of Indignation 46 My Familiar 48 A Ballad of Christmas Burdens. ... 50 The Poster Girl 53 Sonnet on the Sonnet on the Sonnet. . 55 Spring's Revenge 56 A Ballade of Petition 61 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 The Debutante 71 Ballade of Wisdom and Folly .... 73 A Possibility 75 A Memory 76 On Meeting an Old Friend 79 An Aquarelle 81 In Absence 84 From Vivette's Milkmaid 85 A Woman's Wail 86 viii CONTENTS The Discriminant 89 Transcendence 92 Personal Impressions of Texas .... 93 A Picture 95 A Problem 96 The Degenerate Novelist 99 Her Spinning- Wheel 100 Woman's Way 101 One Week 104 How to Tell The Wild Animals . ... 105 A Christmas Petition 107 Quatrain 108 An Illusion 109 Baby's Laugh Ill Her Easter Morning 112 An Unwritten Poem 115 The Book Ufter 118 Utilitarian 121 Under a New Charter 122 Left 125 Trifles 126 The Lay of Lothario Lee 127 Christmas Eve 132 Past and Present 133 Epitaph on a Ballet Dancer 135 An Important Trust 136 CONTENTS An Unorthodox Christmas 138 In the Klondike 140 Cela Va Sans Dire 142 The Thoughtful Yardstick 143 My Favorite Author . 144 Of Modern Books 146 The Horseless Age 148 With Trumpets Also and Shawms . . . 149 An Overworked Elocutionist iSl Ballade of Ecclesiastes .- 155 The Order of The Literati . 1 57 BAUBLES 'T AM nae Poet, in a sense, * But just a Rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretense, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her." BAUBLES 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 , 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 isn't true. I 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. 5 BAUBLES And then, milady, What will you do? But meanwhile, Summer Girl, Have all the fun you can. And now, Run away and play. SIGHTED . 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 BAUBLES Freighted with fair Romances, Love-knots and ribbons blue; As nearer she advances 1 hear the ringdoves coo. Ho! maidens, all be merry, And, gallants, pay your court; Fourteenth of February She will arrive in port. THE MOSS IN THE WOOD T AST Saturday, living around in the Spring, *-' With a dogwood abloom and a flicker awing, As the sun wriggled down through the branches a-toss, I chanced on a patch of new, young baby moss. You never have lived if you never have seen The rapturous hue of that gold-glinted green! And I penned up my ink as fast as I could To write of that darling young moss in the wood. But no words seemed to come, for no words could express The color of that vernant, wild loveliness. That moss in the wood! That moss in the wood! The heart-breaking green of that moss in the wood! 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 philospher, 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 Khayydm. 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. 10 TO OMAR Some of your doctrines to us may seem hate- able, 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 Khayydm. From the grave depths of your massive tran- quillity 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, ii BAUBLES Still you're harmonious, And you're euphonious In epigram. O'er the censorious You are victorious; We hold you glorious, Omar Khayyam. 12 TO A MILKMAID TH AIL 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! I know how thou art outspread over pastoral poetry. Rampant, ubiquitous, inevitable, thy riotings in pastoral 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; 13 BAUBLES Garbed in all thy preposterous paraphernalia. 1 know thy paraphernalia Yea, even thy impossible milkpail and thy im- probable 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 hack- neyed ubiquitousness. I hail the superiority of thy inferiorness, and I lay at thy feet this garland of gratuitous Hails! THE LURE OF THE UNKNOWN T 'VE often wondered, for the nonce, What people do when they ensconce. I've sat on sofas and on chairs, On davenports and on the stairs, On hammocks and piazza swings; On ruined thrones of ancient kings, But, whether upon this or that, I've simply, solely, plainly sat. And ere I'm laid upon the shelf, I'm anxious to ensconce myself. It's often done in story-books Mostly editions de luxe, Where ladies of patrician mien, Attired in robes of silken sheen, Ensconce themselves on divans rich, Behind the arras in a niche (Or some such place, at any rate; I am not sure I have it straight) And when they are ensconced, they meet Some great adventure dire or sweet. Of course, I count such things as naught. Twas but a passing, idle thought. But I'd ensconce just once, to see What then would happen unto me! 15 IMPRESSIONS OF CHICAGO CHICAGO is, I think, out West. ^ I've not been there, but 1 like best To write of local matters in Places where I have never been. It seems to me, from what I hear, It's like those pictures strange and queer That interest me, when I look, In my big Dante picture-book. Chicago people, I am told, Have hearts and dinner plates of gold. But as to that, I cannot say; I never have been out that way. Their independence is their pride; Convention's knots they have untied. Their conversation's full of spice, Chicago must be very nice. I've heard it is extremely gay; 'Most every street's a Great White Way. Men freely spend what they call "chink"; It sounds attractive don't you think? 16 IMPRESSIONS OF CHICAGO I've heard, too, of their earnest crowd; Extension-souled, and most high-browed. They chase the Beautiful and True, And only use Thought that is new. And so you readily can see, What a nice place it seems to be; I've not been there and I don't know Just when I can arrange to go. In fact, I oftenest keep out Of places that I write about. Their great attractions I admit, But I take others' word for it. THE DERELICT T TPON the sad, illusive Sea of Dreams, ^ A phantom barque, tossed by the bil- lows, 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. 18 IPS FOR CUBISTS T F you can paint a head, when all about you * Seem standing on their own to look at you. If you can draw a stair though all men doubt you, Yet make them swear it is a staircase, too. If you can fake and not get caught at faking, If you can paint a disembodied pain, Or symbolise a very young earth quaking; And yet don't paint too good nor draw too plain. If you can catch expressions with a lasso, Or spear emotions with unerring aim; If you can study Matisse and Picasso, Yet call those two, Impostors, just the same. If you can bear to see the Cubes you've painted Jeered by the wise to make a joke for fools, And hear your Masterpiece, "An Angel Fainted," Jibed by the worn-out codes of worn-out schools. 19 BAUBLES If you can make one heap of all your scrapings, And sling it at your canvas, pitch-and-toss; Then with a palette-knife suggest some shap- ings Of crabs cavorting in a Skein of Floss. If you can force committee men to view it; Although they swear long after they are gone; And get it hung, when there is nothing to it Except the palette-scrapings you flung on. If you can draw a crowd and keep your temper, Or paint a Nude, nor lose the Cubist touch ; If you can kalsomine her in distemper, And indicate her soul, but not too much. If you can gull the unsuspecting critic With sixty pictures that do not exist; You'll have the Artists all struck paralytic; And what is more you'll be a Futurist. FAME TF I go with my friends to ride, Perhaps in some historic town, They say with ill-concealed pride, "That used to be the home of Brown!" Or if I'm in some other State, They say, "By dint of much research, We have discovered, sure as fate, That's where Jones used to go to church!" Or eagerly they cry, "Look there!" I see a heap of bricks and sod! "We think that was the smithy where Robinson had his horses shod!" Ah me! 'tis great to be renowned! I long to think, in years long hence, People may slowly drive around My somewhat battered garden fence! 21 BAUBLES I love to think, as at a shrine, Their awestruck gaze will rove about, And reverently they'll opine, "That's where she hung her washing out! 1 22 \7ES, Poet, I am coming down to earth, * To spend the merry months of blossom- time; But don't break out in pasans of glad mirth (Expressed in hackneyed rhyme.) 23 BAUBLES For once, dear Poet, won't you kindly skip Your ode of welcome? It is such a bore; I am no chicken, and I'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 poet's 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 I 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! THE GLORIOUS WEST OF all locations, I love best Our great and glorious golden West, The sort of life they live out there Keeps one out in the open air. I love to see the cowboys stride O'er pike and peak. Or else they ride A bucking broncho or mustang And join a fierce and fearsome gang. The cowboys all wear lovely suits, With sharp, spiked holsters on their boots, And buckskin lassos, trimmed with fringe. They're never known to blench or cringe, But to a foe they say, "Drop that!" And shoot him with their lariat. The cowboys are so good and brave The lives of sweet young girls they save, And standing in their ranch's door They shoot marauders by the score. And picking up his wounded pal He lays him safe in the corral! Then there are thrilling scenes indeed, 25 BAUBLES When the Sombrero mounts his steed, And ranges o'er his pronto claim To brand the cattle with their shame! Then he encounters in a den A band of big bloodthirsty men, Who just play cards and smoke and drink. They call them Coyotes, I think. But, anyway, they fight and rage Until they're all pushed off the stage. Oh, all about the West I know; I've seen the Moving-Picture Show. A RECOLLECTION TTOW dear to my heart are the old Christ- * * mas presents, When fond recollection presents them to view; The hand-painted "game sets" with woodcock and pheasants, The lambrequins, crewel-worked in olive and blue. The bead sofa cushion, the knit afghan nigh it, The tile-pipe umbrella-stand, meant for the hall; The big Rogers' Group (father loved so to buy it!) And the worsted-work motto to hang on the wall. The old worsted motto, The Bristol-board motto, The rustic framed motto that hung on the wall. 27 BAUBLES How well I remember the wording upon it; Twas "God Bless Our Home" in letters quite wild. And a worsted-work lady in worsted-work bon- net, Who held in her arm a worsted-work child. Some Florida grasses were bunched in behind it; (Quite dusty, though cleaned in the spring and the fall.) I'd give a round sum if I only could find it, That old worsted motto that hung on the wall. The old worsted motto, The Bristol-board motto, The rustic framed motto that hung on the wall. Though now 1 have many a painting and etch- ing, Though I have engravings and Japanese prints; And quaint old framed samples (considered quite fetching), And Impressionist pictures in marvellous tints; And photographs of every temple and grotto, A RECOLLECTION I think I'd be willing to part with them all If I could recover that precious old motto, That old worsted motto that hung on the wall. The old worsted motto, The Bristol-board motto, The rustic framed motto that hung on the wall. N. B. The above is entirely mendacious, That motto was really a perfect old fright. And should I recover it, my goodness gra- cious! How quickly I'd tuck it away out of sight. But poets, you know, at this glad Christmas season, Must be reminiscent, and tender withal; We must strike a heart-interest, so that is the reason I sing the old motto than hung on the wall. The old worsted motto, The Bristol-board motto, The rustic framed motto that hung on the wall. BALLADE OF OLD LOVES WHO is it stands on the polished stair, 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 Tis 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 Tis 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 30 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 Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past. L'ENVOI Rosamond! look not so dismayed, All of my heart, dear love, thou hast. Jealous, beloved? Of a shade? Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past. MAIDEN MEDITATION (A RONDEAU) IVyTYRTILLA 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, 'tis 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 Mvrtilla thinks! A KARA AVIS 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 ! 33 BAUBLES 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 ex- clusive and select; And although I 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 without a word. Then it gave a final flutter, And pertly seemed to mutter, "Well, after all, I'd rather be a Bonnet than a bird." 34 A PASTORAL IN POSTERS E midday 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 COUNTRY IN SUMMER /COUNTRY in golden Summer! Far away, ^^ O'er sunlit hills the purple shadows loom; Nearer, the fields of grain, that wave and sway: And closer still, the garden's soft perfume. Ay, every hour of every passing day Reveals new phase of beauty and of bloom. A heavenly hush pervades the limpid air; Tis an event if one rose-petal fall. The hollyhocks, lulled by the midday glare, Lean drowsily against the garden wall; Vanished is every troubling thought or care A silent peace broods softly over all. I scan the vistaed slope, the nearby knoll, All the green gamut of the foliage tones; While at my elbow, in a poppy's bowl, A heavy golden bee incessant drones. And do I love it? No! my very soul Is dumbly shrieking for the city's stones! 36 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. 37 BAUBLES He broke the string of Tot's balloon, And carried it upwards toward the moon. 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. A TANTALUS NUMBER T LOVE to read the magazines, I read them, * every word; The stories are so foolish, the poems so absurd. The articles so erudite, the essays so abstruse; And so invaluable the Hints for Happy House- hold Use. I never miss a copy, I read them every time; The thirty-five cent issues and those that cost a dime. My tastes are catholic, I own but never have I seen Such a fascinating number as "next month's magazine." I hold my breath in wonder, as I sit and read about The dazzling contributions "next month's is- sue" will bring out! Twould seem that all great writers and great artists had combined To make that next month's issue the greatest of its kind. 39 BAUBLES Such masterworks of prose and verse, such sapience astute! Such forceful, brilliant authors, all of world- wide repute! Ah, me! I've never seen one, but my interest is keen To read the next month's issue of any maga- zine. 40 MY FRIENDS TIT'ITHIN 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'll never write, they'll never speak, They're photographs, you see; But still, we are a jolly crowd, Kipling and Howells and me. 41 TO CERTAIN CONSERVATIVES TTT'HY 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 mul- titudinous? 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 didn't read. And I think that the Enlightened surely ought to understand 42 TO CERTAIN CONSERVATIVES That the Cheapening Process came to meet a Popular Demand. 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 de- mand for Rogers' Groups. And there is no use in talking to our Unen- lightened Friend, If he has the Cheap Book habit, nothing can his fate forfend. Tis the manner not the matter that is cheap- ened, for there be Fausts for thirty-seven cents and Rubaiyats for twenty-three. And the Average Reader buys them at a large Department Store, Next day delivered carriage free at his subur- ban door. 43 BAUBLES But what is this to us? What boots it with incessant care To try to change the leopard's spots? It isn't our affair. And if our neighbour's cheapened books are cheapening 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 ab- sorbedly we read. 44 THE ANNUAL SENTENCE OOCIETY 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!" 45 A BALLADE OF INDIGNATION 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. 46 A BALLADE OF INDIGNATION 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. 47 MY FAMILIAR HERE'S a little Lincoln Devil that hangs above my desk, An ugly, yellow plaster imp, exceedingly gro- tesque, 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 mar- vellously 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; 48 MY FAMILIAR All my highest aspirations and my fondest hopes I bring, For he hears me with a thoughtful gaze that's most encouraging. 1 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 fea- tures 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'll help me win the strife, With his comprehensive grasp of the philoso- phy of life. 49 E burden of gay greeting. Vain de- light, 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, so A BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS BURDENS 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. Si BAUBLES Boar's head and wassail bowl we must provide, That our digestion we may undermine This is the end of every Christmas-tide. ENVOY Comrades, and ye who Christmas pleasures seek, These timely thoughts to you I would con- fide; Hearken unto the wisdom that I speak: This is the end of every Christmas-tide. T THE POSTER GIRL : 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. 53 BAUBLES 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. 54 SONNET ON THE SONNET ON THE SONNET TIT" HAT 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. 55 SPRING'S REVENGE T7ATHER TIME in his office was sitting, ^ When he happened to spy A calendar nigh. "Goodness me!" he exclaimed, "how I'm flit- ting 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. 56 SPRING'S REVENGE "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!" BAUBLES "Why, my child," said old Father Time, frown- ing, "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 "1 never will go there again!" "Well, of course you can't help their admir- ing," Said Time, looking wise, "So I would advise That you travel incog., by attiring Yourself in some sort of disguise." "Oh, Time, what a clever suggestion! Tis the very best thing," Exclaimed giddy young Spring. "Now what shall I wear? that's the question, When my merry way earthward I wing. 58 SPRING'S REVENGE "Here's a snow robe of Winter's, that's jolly; I'll take it to wear, And I'll stick in my hair Some mistletoe sprays and some holly They'll never know me, I declare!" 59 BAUBLES "Come, come," said old Time, "you must hurry, Tis Feb. 28, March 1 is your date, And I'm in a sad state of worry, For I am morally sure you'll be late." 60 SPRING'S REVENGE "All right," answered Spring, "I am going." Her mantle she drew Around her and flew Down to Earth, where 'twas blowing and snowing She crept in and nobody knew. 61 A BALLADE OF PETITION "The Blue Skalallatoot stories are all morning stories" (RUDYARD KIPLING) PRINCE of the Pen, your work comprises Love and Glory and Fame and Gore, Your versatile genius authorises The babble of babes and the jungle roar, Tales you tell of the crew and corps, The old official and young recruit; We've read all these, and we beg for more- We want the Blue Skalallatoot. The weird name baffles all surmises, Its strange uncertainty we'd explore; For ever the heart of man despises The mysteries he has solved before; We only delve for the hidden ore, We crave unknown, not forbidden fruit; Give us the treasure you have in store, We want the Blue Skalallatoot. 62 A BALLADE OF PETITION Tell us, we pray, what his shape and size is, Did he reside on the sea or shore? Recount his exciting enterprises, Tell what he lived on and what he wore; Over his story we fain would pore, Sharpen your quill or tune your lute; In verse or story or old folk-lore We want the Blue Skalallatoot. L'ENVOI Kipling, we've read your tales of yore, How Bagheera growled and Mulvaney swore. Now whether he's Man or Thing or Brute, We want the Blue Skalallatoot. 63 CUPID'S FAILURE one day, in idle quest, ^ Fitted a dainty dart And aimed it at Priscilla's breast, To strike Priscilla's heart. Clean through it went, no heart was there; Said Cupid, "I believe Priscilla's just the girl to wear Her heart upon her sleeve." But there, alack! it was not found; "Aha!" cried Cupid, "note Her frightened air; now I'll be bound Her heart is in her throat." Failure again. On slender chance He one more arrow shoots; Assuming from her downcast glance Her heart is in her boots. Foiled, Cupid threw aside his bow; "She has no heart," said he. (He did not know that long ago She gave her heart to me.) 64 THE CELEBRANTS 'ITT'ITH a shout of joy the rocket stars Shot up through the evening air, Triumphantly they reached the sky, And the stars of God were there. "Make way!" the rocket stars cried out, "Make way, and give us place: We have a mission to perform, We've travelled leagues of space. We're sent up here to celebrate A glorious country's birth Make way! But a moment we can stay, Ere we die and fall to earth." Then spake the old and kindly stars: "Ye be bright, oh, rocket-spawn, But we are here since the morning stars Sang at Creation's dawn. By the Master Hand we were hurled on high To celebrate the Day. We, too, but shine for the moment, Time, And then we fade for aye. But have your way, oh, tiny sparks, And while ye may, shine on." Ere the kindly voices ceased to speak, The rocket stars were gone. 65 "THEY THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS" with the rest of us Down to the sea! There is where we Show out the best of us. Holiday keep, Chums with the waves; When saucy winds sing, All of our cares Back to them fling; Doldrums, despairs Burying deep In the upspringing caves. Come then with me, Down to the sea, Down to the sea. 'Neath the sun blinking, All the forenoon On deck I lie, And look without shrinking 66 THEY THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA" My soul in the eye, Hearing the croon Of wandering waves That have lost their way; Then a dashing of spray, Like all April let loose, Now daring the braves, Now calling a truce. Then under our view Grey melts to blue, Blue hardens to grey. Oh, what a day! Is there such thing as Sorrow or age? Is there such sting as Rancour or rage? How much he misses Who knows not the sea! Its lingering kisses Are salt on our lips How the boat skips, Dipping and scooping! Here is a sight, Here is delight Out of all whooping! 67 BAUBLES Vogue-la-galere, Devil-may-care, We know the Master-Word, We have its summons heard. Come then with me Down to the sea, Down to the sea. A MAIDEN'S NO Maidens turn their heads away. Meaning yes, and saying nay. OLD SONG. 'HE thought to mask her heart from me With jest and laughter gay; I knew she loved me by her glance (She looked the other way). I sent her roses, begging she Would wear them. The coquette Told me she loved me by her choice (She wore some mignonette). And when a rival claimed my waltz, By her capricious whim She plainly showed she cared for me (She gave the dance to him). She loved me well; and one fair night I asked her if 'twere so; I knew it by her whispered word (She softly murmured "No"). 69 THE ORIGINAL SUMMER GIRL A FTER much biologic research, * * From evidence strong, I believe That I have found out Beyond shadow of doubt That the first Summer Girl was Eve. She had unconventional ways, She lived out-of-doors, and all that; She was tanned by the sun Until brown as a bun, For she roamed 'round without any hat. To a small garden-party she went, Where the men were exceedingly few; But she captured a mate And settled her fate, As often these Summer Girls do. Now, my statement of course I have proved, But as evidence that isn't all; A Summer Girl she Is conceded to be Because she stayed there till the Fall. 70 THE DEBUTANTE HpHERE'S a new heart awaiting a tenant; * To whom shall its portals unclose ? Dan Cupid is flying his pennant At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. This heart is not offered for selling, The owner all freely bestows A hostelry fit for Love's dwelling, At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. There's a happy smile caught in her dimple, That only a debutante shows; And chatter is guileless and simple At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. She's pleased with the veriest trifles, No artful bewitchment she knows; But Cupid a sigh or two stifles At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. BAUBLES And, indeed, the poor fellow has reason, As he thinks of the long string of beaux Who'll successively stop for a season At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. 72 I BALLADE OF WISDOM AND FOLLY (A DOUBLE REFRAIN) STUDY wise themes with rigid care, Logic and law and philosophy, Sermons and science, and I declare Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. But when I read with a lively glee Rollicking tales of fun and mirth, I laugh to myself, and I clearly see Folly's the fairest thing on earth. To copy the masters I oft repair, Of Rubens and Rembrandt a devotee; I study line and school with care, Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. Then I see a sketch in a lighter key, Ah, line and school were never worth This little French bit of frivolity, Folly's the fairest thing on earth. 73 BAUBLES I know a girl who is calm and fair, Of ancient and noble pedigree; She's wise and learned beyond compare,- Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. But another holds my heart in fee, Without her, life were a dreary dearth; Fickle and foolishly fond is she, Folly's the fairest thing on earth. L'ENVOI Prince, 1 am sure you must agree Wisdom's the goodliest gain for me. But ever I'll give it the widest berth, Folly's the fairest thing on earth. 74 I A POSSIBILITY ONLY kissed her hand; Is that why Lisette dislikes me? I cannot understand I only kissed her hand, 1 deserved a reprimand; But another notion strikes me, I only kissed her hand; Is that why Lisette dislikes me? 75 A MEMORY TTOW dear to this heart are the old-fash- * ioned dresses, When fond recollection presents them to view! In fancy I see the old wardrobes and presses Which held the loved gowns that in girlhood I knew. The wide-spreading mohair, the silk that hung by it; The straw-coloured satin with trimmings of brown; The ruffled foulard, the pink organdy nigh it; But, oh! for the pocket that hung in each gown! The old-fashioned pocket, the obsolete pocket, The praiseworthy pocket that hung in each gown. That dear roomy pocket I'd hail as a treasure, Could I but behold it in gowns of to-day; 76 A MEMORY I 'd find it the source of an exquisite pleasure, But all my modistes sternly answer me "Nay!" Twould be so convenient when going out shopping, Twould hold my small purchases coming from town; And always my purse or my kerchief I'm drop- ping Oh, me! for the pocket that hung in my gown! The old-fashioned pocket, the obsolete pocket, The praiseworthy pocket that hung in my gown. A gown with a pocket! How fondly I'd guard it! Each day ere I'd don it, I'd brush it with care; Not a full Paris costume could make me dis- card it, Though trimmed with the laces an Empress might wear. But I have no hope, for the fashion is ban- ished ; 77 BAUBLES The tear of regret will my fond visions drown; As fancy reverts to the days that have vanished, I sigh for the pocket that hung in my gown. The old-fashioned pocket, the obsolete pocket, The praiseworthy pocket that hung in my gown. ON MEETING AN OLD FRIEND T WANDERED, wondering, through Italy, Through aureate orchards, riotous with trees, One to another draped with grapery. I saw far hills, by daedal sunsets backed; And skies that grasped and held my helpless gaze; And poppies, popping up continual. And here and there, I stumbled on a town; Rome, Florence, Venice, names I'd heard be- fore, And in the towns were statues several, And pleasing pictures, much to be admired, And architecture of the braver sort. Then came I unto Milan. Lo! I found Not the Cathedral, not da Vinci's feat, Those quickly sank to nothingness beside The Treasure of the city. For I saw In some Hotel-like place, a rocking-chair! Yea, verily, a real rocking-chair! It was bow-legged, floppy as to arms, 79 BAUBLES Of a strange balance and uncertain pitch; It threw one out as fast as one got in, But still a rocking-chair. 1 held my breath. How came this alien on this foreign shore? This coal, so far from any Newcastle ? This fish, out of its liquid element? This cat, in garret so exceeding strange? This pearl, cast before (No, that's not po- lite.) I mused, and ruminated as I mused. But found no answer. Now, I reminisce, And, lolling in Italian memories, I idly dream. But ever far above All other architecture, other art, Paramount looms that Milan rocking-chair! A AN AQUARELLE MERMAID, people sometimes think, Has nothing else to do But to sit on the rocks And comb her locks The livelong summer through. But I will tell you of Mermaid Smith, And I'll tell you of Mermaid Brown, Who would oft dispense O'er the garden fence The gossip of the town. On summer mornings, Mermaid Smith With her apron o'er her head, And Mermaid Brown In a calico gown And a sun-bonnet striped with red, At their garden gate for an hour or more Would loiter with idle fins, The little twirls Of their golden curls Done up in crimping-pins. 81 BAUBLES And Mermaid Brown would tell Mermaid Smith How her jellyfish wouldn't jell; It had simmered and boiled, Till she feared it was spoiled. Said Mermaid Smith, "Do tell!" And Mermaid Smith had trouble too. She had set her sponge to rise, And it hadn't riz. "What a shame that is!" Said Mermaid Brown with sighs. Then perhaps they'd discuss Miss Lorelei Green Who disappeared one day; With a gay sea-urchin, While her parents were searching She wickedly ran away. And the two good fishwives deeply sighed, And expressed a heartfelt wish That both of their daughters In calm, placid waters Should attend a polite school of fish. Then one would say, "This won't do for me! It's time my work began." 82 AN AQUARELLE "And I must away," The other would say, "I've some ocean currents to can." And so the Mermaids, as you see, Are very much like us; A little work, A little shirk, A little fluster and fuss. 83 IN ABSENCE (A RONDEAU) Christmas Day as far and near The bells ring out their message clear, Your thoughts will turn to me, I know, And mine to you as swift will go, To tell you that 1 love you, dear. And those whom you may see and hear Will not give greeting more sincere Than this I send across the snow On Christmas Day. Amid the mirth and merry cheer Of this glad time that crowns the year, Haply beneath the mistletoe, I'll shyly whisper, sweet and low, A soft je t'aime just for your ear, On Christmas Day. 84 FROM VIVETTE'S MILKMAID A MAYDE ther was, semely and meke enow, ** She sate a-milken of a Purpil Cowe: Rosy hire Cheke as is the Month of Maye, And sikerly her merry Songe was gay As of the Larke uprist, washen in Dewe. Like Shene of Sterres sperkled hire Eyen two. Now came ther by that Way a hendy Knight, The Mayde espien in morwening Light. A faire Person he was, of Corage trewe, With lusty Berd and Chekes of rody Hewe: Dere Ladye (quod he), far and wide I've straied, Uncouthe Aventure in strange Contree made, Fro Berwike unto Ware. Parde I vowe Erewhiles I never sawe a Purpil Cowe! Fayn wold I knowe how Catel thus can be? Tel me, I praie you, of yore Courtesie! The Mayde hire Milken stent. Goode Sir, she saide, The Master's mandement on us ylaid Decrees that in these yclept Gilden H cures Hys Kyne shall ete of nought but Vylet Floures. 85 A WOMAN'S WAIL WHY do I wear a veil? Tis of no use, Tis always fetching loose, A plaything of the winds, that takes delight In ever being wrong and never right. Though of my costume 'tis a chief detail, It makes me fret and fume and fuss and rail. This veil! I cannot get it off when it is on, And once 1 doff it, then I cannot don. Why do I wear it? Tis a nuisance great, Beyond all words to state. And an expense Immense! This wretched, flimsy veil! It is so frail, To-day I buy a new one, and, behold, To-morrow it is old! Forth to the shops then angrily I hie Another veil to buy. On every side I see rare bargain sales, 86 A WOMAN 'S WAIL But not of veils. And so I pay an awful price, For I must have it nice; With knots, Or spots, Or tiny polka dots; Or simple plain illusion. But of such I buy six times as much. And so, You know, The cost is just as great. Oh, how I hate A veil! Do you suppose I like to feel it rubbing 'gainst my nose? Forever catching on my eyelash tips, Persistently adhering to my lips, The while the ill-dyed blackness of its lace Makes grimy smudges on my face. Or if the veil be white, Itself it smudges till it is a sight! Why do I wear it? Why? It is a crime thus daily to enwrap One's self in such a microbe-trap! Death and disease lurk hidden in its curves. 87 BAUBLES A pest! A bane! A blot upon our sex, Just made to vex A burdened woman's overburdened nerves. Oh, Fashion, hear my wail! Or is my plea to go without a veil Without avail? 88 THE DISCRIMINANT IVE me no colonial novel, give me no best- selling screed, For I'm told Emotional Studies are the only things to read, Questions of the Inner Ego by some stylish woman writ; Analytic introspection of capacities is It. Morbider than Henry James's, capabler than Meredith's, See the Elementary Heroines struggling like Hellenic myths! Oh, the joy of knowing surely how an elemen- tal mind Is affected by emotion of an elemental kind! Oh, the deep delight of learning just what's psychically true, By impressive demonstration from a subtle point of view! What extraordinary insights and reactions most complex 89 BAUBLES Follow elemental kisses from the elemental sex. And ecstasy unspeakable through simple souls is sent When the psychical and physical are nebulous- ly blent. And how deeply we Discriminating Readers have enjoyed The poetry of th' Impalpable effectively em- ployed. So give me no more novels of historical import, No frivolous romances of a wishy-washy sort; No stories of adventure or tales of hidden crime, For on these themes Discriminating Persons waste no time. And though my baser nature all longingly may look Toward Howells's new novel or Kipling's lat- est book; Though in a thoughtless moment it seems to me I'd like To read of Tommy's Grizel or of Stringtown on the Pike; 90 THE DISCRIMINANT Such desires I sternly banish, for I'm bound, at any rate In my fictional selection I will discriminate; And nothing written shall my literary palate please But a Psychic Impressivity in subtle harmonies. TRANSCENDENCE DEAR HEART, although Ambition's trum- pet-call Arouses thee in triumph to respond; Remember that its guerdon is not all, I am beyond. Dear Heart, though Love and Passion beckon thee, And charm thee with alluring cadence fond; Bethink thee in their highest ecstasy, I am beyond. Dear Heart, when grief and sorrow bow thee low, And hold thee in a grim and silent bond, Though to their farthest confines thou mayst go, I am beyond. PERSONAL IMPRESSIONS OF TEXAS O UR Texas is a noble State, It's very big, it's very great. Its area (I think I've heard) Is bigger by almost a third Than England, France and part of Spain! (Or, maybe, that's the size of Maine.) But anyway, from side to side, The State of Texas is quite wide. The people there are fierce and bold ; They live in ranches, I am told. They gallop wildly o'er the plain, Then swiftly gallop back again. The Texas plain is very vast, And so they have to gallop fast. Some Texans have quite breezy manners And wear sombreros and bandannas; And some have black mustachios And wear eccentric evening clothes. 93 BAUBLES Perfectly awful words they say, And go out shooting every day. They shoot most any one they see, And scowl and frown ferociously. The rolling prairies, it would seem, Are vast and spacious in extreme. The prairie grass is known as lush; Across the prairies cattle rush. The scenery is pretty fine, The foothills rise in broken line, The red gold sun sinks to its rest Adown the glowing, lighted West. The twilight falls, the stars peep out, The ranchers grandly pose about, What happens next I cannot tell, Because just there the curtain fell. You see, I've only seen in plays These Texan scenes and Texan ways. But I've no doubt that every act Is founded on authentic fact. 94 A PICTURE '"pHE hollyhock lifts its flowery torch, * The meadow is starred with daisies fair; The roses clamber about the porch, And bees swing by with an idle air. On the hillside linger the sheep sedate, Down in the fields are the lowing kine; A maiden stands by the farmhouse gate Embowered by the sprays of a framing vine. A bird-note trills through the sunny sky; A rustic swain comes up the road With a merry smile in his twinkling eye, As he guides his ox-team's heavy load. But what does she care for his flattering look, Or the buzzing bees, or the cows' sweet breath, Or the clustering vine, or the babbling brook? She's a city girl who is bored to death. 95 A PROBLEM HERE'S a whimsey in my noddle, there's a maggot in my brain, There's a doubt upon my spirit that I cannot quite explain. Tis a grave, important question over which 1 vacillate, Does Enlightenment enlighten, and does Cul- ture cultivate? We are of the Cognoscenti, and intuitively know Just the shades of thoughtful fancy that an author ought to show. But from our exalted level should we drop a poisoned hint To the placid ones who wallow in the sordid slums of print? Should the Unenlightened Readers be sardon- ically hissed If they like a Duchess novel better than The Egoist ? 96 A PROBLEM Should we rare ones who inhabit the exalted realms of thought, Dictate to the Unenlightened what they oughtn't or they ought? To the masses should our classes offer Ibsen when we find Mr. Caine and Miss Corelli better please the massy mind? Should we shudder to discover that they cannot get the pith Of the tenebrastic subtleties of Mr. Meredith ? Should we rudely contradict them when they confidently say, "Omar wrote The Iliad and Holmes' first name was Mary J."? Or shall we abandon flatly this whole altruistic fight, With the philosophic dictum that "Whatever is, is right"? Then, instead of wasting time in teaching oth- ers how to think, 97 BAUBLES We can spend those precious moments with Hafiz or Maeterlinck. Let us stop our futile task of pointing to the open door, Let the Enlightened cease enlightening and the Cultured cult no more. THE DEGENERATE NOVELIST "DENEATH a sheltering pseudonym *-* He writes those grisly tales and grim, That sicken and depress; A primrose by a river's brim A yellow aster is to him, And it is nothing less. 99 HER SPINNING-WHEEL T TER spinning-wheel she deftly guides, ** As by the homely hearth she bides; Within a quaint, old straight-backed chair, A damsel with a modest air, Over the treadle swift, presides. But through the years Time onward glides, Careless if good or ill betides; Nor will his ruthless changes spare Her spinning-wheel. Another cycle he provides, Though censor carps and critic chides, The modern maid, fearless and fair, Daintily gay and debonair; Trimly equipped, triumphant rides Her spinning-wheel. IOO WOMAN'S WAY PATHER TIME sat in his study -* Lounging in his easy-chair. Nice old chap, so hale and ruddy, With his long white beard and hair. Suddenly unto his portal Came a sound of flying feet Prettier than any mortal April entered, fair and sweet. In a gown of primrose yellow, With a manner gay and blithe "Daddy Time, you dear old fellow!" Said she, fingering his scythe. Father Time looked wisely at her, And indulgently he smiled. "I don't care to hear you flatter; Tell me what you want, my child.' 101 r JJT'AF};- ..; DISMV BAUBLES Then said April, coming closer, By the forelock taking him, "Easter's almost here and oh, sir, I've my Easter hat to trim. "Such a pretty Easter bonnet But, you see I really need Some spring birds and posies on it." But Time thundered "No, indeed! "Such audacity's appalling! Birds and flowers belong to May." Then the crystal tears came falling (Crafty April knew the way). And she said, though April showers Almost drowned her plaintive words, "Can't I have a few small flowers And a half a dozen birds? " "There, there! do not cry, my poppet" (Time was just like other men). "Don't cry! If you'll only stop it You may have your posies then." IO2 WOMAN 'S WAY Quick the tears that had been streaming Disappeared and left no trace. Soon a radiant smile was beaming On Miss April's lovely face. And she had for her adorning All the birds and blossoms bright. Crowned with these on Easter morning April was a charming sight. 103 Oi\e Week I THE Year had gloomily begun For Willie Weeks, a poor man's SUN. He was beset with bill and dun, And he had very little MON. "This cash," said he, "won't pay my dues, I've nothing here but ones and TUBS." A bright thought struck him, and he said: "The rich Miss Goldrocks I will WED." But when he paid his court to her, She lisped, but firmly said: "No, THUR." "Alas," said he, "then I must die ! Although hereafter I may FRI." They found his gloves, and coat, and hat, The Coroner upon them SAT. 104 TF ever you should go by chance * To jungles in the East; And if there should to you advance A large and tawny beast, If he roars at you as you're dyin' You'll know it is the Asian Lion. Or if some time when roaming round, A noble wild beast greets you, With black stripes on a yellow ground, Just notice if he eats you. This simple rule may help you learn The Bengal Tiger to discern. If strolling forth, a beast you view, Whose hide with spots is peppered, As soon as he has lept on you, You'll know it is the leopard. Twill do no good to roar with pain, He'll only lep and lep again. 105 BAUBLES If when you're walking round your yard, You meet a creature there, Who hugs you very, very hard, Be sure it is the Bear. If you have any doubt, I guess He'll give you just one more caress. Though to distinguish beasts of prey A novice might nonplus, The Crocodiles you always may Tell from Hyenas thus. Hyenas come with merry smiles; But if they weep, they're Crocodiles. The true Chameleon is small, A lizard sort of thing; He hasn't any ears at all, And not a single wing. If there is nothing on the tree, Tis the Chameleon you see. 106 A CHRISTMAS PETITION 1 IS Christmas time! Though we regret Its many forced expenses, We pretend to like the gifts we get, And our friends make like pretenses. Both for ourselves, be this our plea, And those who recompense us Forgive us our Christmases as we Forgive those who Christmas against us! 107 QUATRAIN "VT'OUTH throws a glamour over everything, Clothes wrong with right, and veils a lie with truth; But age, more daring still, essays to fling A glamour over youth. 1 08 AN ILLUSION A N open periodical I saw as I passed by, ** And down the list of contents I idly cast my eye; I saw the queerest title whatever could it mean? "The Literary Spirit in the Modern Magazine!" I looked again, and gazed at it in utter blank surprise. Though I had read the words aright, I scarce believed my eyes! For surely readers will agree no one has ever seen The Literary Spirit in the Modern Magazine. Of terms a contradiction! Of thoughts a paradox ! Experience it stultifies, at common sense it mocks. As well say two and two make five, or that the sky is green, As the Literary Spirit in the Modern Magazine! 109 BAUBLES I love the periodicals, I read them every time; I love a lightweight story, or a bit of senseless rhyme. But I never have discovered although my eyes are keen The Literary Spirit in the Modern Magazine. Perhaps there "is" a fountain that will give Immortal Youth; Perpetual motion "may" be found; in wells there "may" be truth. But credulity has limits; they must tell to some marine Of "The Literary Spirit in the Modern Maga- zine!" no B BABY'S LAUGH ABY'S face is like a flower, Baby's smile's divine; Baby's hair is a golden shower, His eyes are stars ashine; Baby's charms all seem to be Like to treasures rare; But unto whkt on land or sea Can baby's laugh compare? Like roses set to rhyme, Like bluebells all achime, Like rippling rills, and tinkling trills, and flow- ers of sunny clime, Like bird-notes clear and free, Like murmurs of the sea, Like purling streams, and happy dreams, is Baby's laugh to me. in HER EASTER MORNING T SAT at my ease, and my mind was at rest, * The holiest feelings were filling my breast, For I knew I was smartly and properly dressed And was calmly convinced I was looking my best; But the musical drones, In monotonous tones, Sent a feeling of drowsiness all through my bones, And visions unusual my senses impressed; The air all about me was surely possessed With curious things Which soared upon wings, Or waved through the air suspended by strings. 1 thought they were butterflies, fairies, or bats, But on closer inspection they proved to be hats Of every description, from steeples to flats; And though moving for years in the best of society, I never have seen such enormous variety Of cottage and poke, Of turban and toque, 112 HER EASTER MORNING Trimmed with feathers of ostrich and feathers of coque. There were bonnets of velvet and bonnets of lace, For every occasion and every place; Bonnets of silks and bonnets of satins, Bonnets for vespers and bonnets for matins, Bonnets of jet And bonnets of net, Trimmed with every conceivable kind of ro- sette. A Gainsborough beaver, with wide rolling brim, A demure little gipsy, exceedingly prim. There were hats of all colours, blue, white, green and black, Turned up in the front and turned up in the back, And a ripple-edged, feather-trimmed, beaded felt plaque. And all of these hats, Like a great swarm of gnats, The whole place o'erspread, And to my great dread Each one seemed determined to light on my head. I tried hard to say "3 BAUBLES "Oh, take them away," When the voice of a neighbour devoutly im- plored At my side; "We beseech Thee to hear us, Good Lord." 1 gave a great start, I awoke with a lurch Twas Easter, and I had been sleeping in church. 114 AN UNWRITTEN POEM T TPON this mossy bank I'll sit, within this ^ flowery dell, It is the place by poets most preferred, And in a blithesome ballad I'll poetically tell "The sentiments of yonder little bird." "O poet, spare me!" cried the bird; "I'm weary of this thing! Excuse me if I plainly speak my mind ; But I've had my poem taken twenty-seven times this Spring, Oh, let me go, if you will be so kind!" "Why, certainly," the poet said, "it matters not to me, Another theme will just as well avail; I'll write a lyric poem to this budding apple- tree, Or a dithyrambic ode, beginning 'Hail!' " S BAUBLES "I beg your pardon," said the tree, "I pray you will desist, And seek some other victim, if you please; I've had enough of 'cheered by sun' and 'by the breezes kist.' " "I'll write then," said the poet, "of the breeze." "Nay, poet," sighed the weary breeze, "it makes me very tired To 'toss the tresses of the trees' in rhyme; Already since the first of May twelve poets I've inspired; I'll thank you if you'll let me off this time." "Don't mention it, I beg, O Breeze, of this fair flow'r I'll speak." But the flower answered gaily, "I protest! I cannot pose for you; I've sat for poems all the week, And I really think I ought to have a rest." "What can I do? " the poet cried. "Ah, here is Spring herself. Goddess! I pray you grant an interview 116 AN UNWRITTEN POEM I '11 place you in the public eye as fairy, sprite, or elf, Or write a stirring sonnet to your shoe." "Oh, nonsense, poet!" cried the Spring, "with that we can dispense; Why waste your time on hackneyed themes and trite? Come, go a-Maying with us, and when sun sets hie you hence, And write about the song you didn't write." 117 THE BOOK LIFTER Vr ou ' VE heard of the Book Collector, the * Book Lover, the Bookworm, The Book Maker and Book Seller too, each is a well-known term. The "Bookman" and "Book Buyer" are to us a real delight, But it's of the bad Book Lifter that I'm going for to write. His smile is most engaging, and he has a well- stocked mind, He's suave and pleasant spoken and particu- larly kind: But I know his tricks and manners, and I trem- ble when I see The odious Book Lifter come in to visit me. He entertains me with the latest literary chat, As he scans my newest volumes. Then he picks out this or that, And remarks as he is leaving, with a manner so polite: 118 THE BOOK LIFTER "I'll skim this over hurriedly and send it back to-night." But I know the bad Book Lifter's the forget- fullest of men, And I know that I shall never see that borrowed book again. Or perhaps, with much apology, his case he frankly states, And begs a book of reference to see about some dates. He'll return it "on the morrow," but I feel a little glum O'er a well-defined conviction that to-mor- row'll never come. Or perhaps he's absent-minded doesn't know what he's about, When he pockets a small volume, quite uncon- sciously, no doubt. Or he comes when I am not at home, and says that he's a friend To whom at any time most willingly my books I lend. Then he enters with assurance and a deprecat- ing smirk, And takes a handsome copy of an illustrated work. 119 BAUBLES Or perhaps he is a writer, and some subject, unforeseen, Necessitates the scanning of a current maga- zine; He has mislaid his copy will I kindly lend him mine? Of course in such emergency I really can't de- cline. Or he takes the newest novel, which I haven't read myself, Or volume six or seven from a set upon the shelf; Or one of my pet classics, or a rare old Elze- vir And one by one I sadly see my treasures dis- appear. I'm powerless to prevent them, for I can't be such a dunce As to seem to doubt the promise, "This shall be returned at once." But 1 sigh for some far desert isle or lonely for- eign shore, Where the borrowers cease from borrowing and Book Lifters lift no more. 120 UTILITARIAN WHEN Cupid discovered how dull was his dart, He sharpened it straightway on Phyllis's heart. 121 UNDER A NEW CHARTER T TELLO! Come in! I called you, Cupid, ** To take this box. Handle with care! Look out! don't be so careless, Stupid; I'd have you know my heart's in there. Take it at once, boy, to Miss Kitty, And say it is a valentine. How happy she'll look, and how pretty, When she discovers it is mine! Tell her for her my heart is yearning, And then, unless my judgment errs, By the same messenger returning I rather think she'll send me hers. What, Cupid, are you back already? And bringing me Miss Kitty's heart? Open it quickly! Stay, be steady! What's this? A neatly printed chart! 122 UNDER A NEW CHARTER "No spaces left at my disposal Possibly some vacated soon; But I have filed your kind proposal. Come up and call some afternoon." And here her heart is designated What seas of dreams! what flowery isles! The boundaries all distinctly stated, And measured by a scale of smiles. A large tract's given to her poodle; A smaller one contains her cat; Here is the claim of Lord Fitznoodle, Here her expensive picture-hat. Here I observe her mother's quarters; This large compartment is her dad's; Here, Revolutionary Daughters, And here her clubs and freaks and fads. Here is enshrined her baby cousin, And here that Count with whom she flirts; Here are male tenants by the dozen (They're only friends, so she asserts). 123 BAUBLES This corner's occupied by Irving, This by her pearl and turquoise pin; Although 1 know I am deserving, I don't see how I can get in. 124 T LEFT HE sky is blue, the sea is bright, The waves are dancing with delight, The earth is glad, my heart is gay, Sweet Kitty Somers comes this way The sky is dark, the sea is grey, It is a gloomy, doleful day, The earth is sad, and sad am I, Miss Katharine Somers passed me by. 125 W TRIFLES HAT trifles make our happiness? An hour of idle gaiety, A bit of worthless flattery, A far-off promise of success. What trifles mar our happiness? A novel with a woeful end, A truth from a plainspoken friend, An undesirable caress. 126 T OTHARIO LEE was saddened, the world *~^ seemed grim and grey; For Lothario Lee was a lover bold, and to-day was St. Valentine's day. Twas St. Valentine's day, and he fain would send his heart to the fair Florelle, For the radiant maid had inspired in his breast a passion he could not quell. But alas, for the gay Lothario, his heart was held in fee, Down at Dan Cupid's pawnshop, at the sign of the Roses Three. Willingly would the lovelorn knight that errant heart reclaim, But, alas! the luckless Lothario hadn't a cent to his name. 127 BAUBLES So he sadly sat and pondered, as doleful as he could be; When a brilliant notion struck him "Done!" cried Lothario Lee. "I'll send her the pawnshop ticket, my tale of woe 'twill tell, For she alone can redeem my heart, the rich and rare Florelle." He sent her the tell-tale ticket, he scribbled a hasty line, Bidding her call at Dan Cupid's shop and claim her valentine. 128 THE LAY OF LOTHARIO LEE And as she read the message, in the soul of the fair Florelle A joyful thought rang merrily, like a far-away marriage-bell. With her heart in a frantic flutter, adown the street sped she, Till she reached Dan Cupid's pawnshop at the sign of the Roses Three. Cupid sat at a workbench, mending a broken dart; "I am Florelle," said she, "and 1 come to claim Lothario's heart. "Here is the ticket, Cupid; what are the ran- som fees? See, I will pay you the money; give me the heart if you please." "But I am blind," said Cupid, "I cannot see the name; Describe the heart you are looking for, and so make good your claim." "Lothario's heart," said the lady, "is brave and knows no fear." "Alas," said Cupid, dejectedly, "no such heart is here." 129 "His heart," said the lady, further, "is honest, and good, and true." "No," said Dan Cupid, woefully, "not one of these hearts will do." "His heart to me is single, it beats for me alone." "Come, come," cried Cupid, "impossible! Such hearts I've never known. "The best in my collection has been mended once or twice, But here's a heart that may suit you, if you're willing to pay the price. "It's a heart that is sad and lonely, a trifle hard and cold, It seems to be rather scarred and worn, in fact, it's getting old. "It's somewhat fickle and jealous, a bit im- patient, too, And branded with several maidens' names, Coralie, Rose, and Loo." "Why, that's the very heart I want," said the lady; "give it to me. That's the one I've been describing to you, the heart of Lothario Lee!" 130 THE LAY OF LOTHARIO LEE As she left the shop m triumph, said Cupid, "I seem to find Each day a more convincing fact to prove that Love is blind." 131 CHRISTMAS EVE MY childhood's Christmases each brought to me The wondrous glory of a Christmas-tree; Now every year since I've to manhood grown, I buy a tree for children of my own. And so to-night my mind looks back and sees Life a long avenue of Christmas-trees. 132 I PAST AND PRESENT (WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. HOOD) REMEMBER, I remember The flat where I was born: The little air-shaft where the sun Could not peep through at morn; The stuffy rooms and narrow halls Unlit by Heaven's ray; The seven winding flights of stairs That took my breath away I remember, I remember The sickly daffodils That bloomed in old tomato-cans Upon the window-sills; The cupboard where the cake was kept, And where my brother set A patent trap to catch a mouse, That mouse is living yet! 133 BAUBLES I remember, 1 remember The sounds I used to know: The organ on the floor above, The violin below; The cats upon the fire-escape, The steam-heat in the wall; The chorus-girl a-singing in The flat across the hall. I remember, I remember The scuttle dark and high Through which I often used to climb To get a glimpse of sky. I live in first-floor chambers now, With nothing to annoy, But still I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. 134 H EPITAPH ON A BALLET DANCER ERE lies our much-loved Coralie, She danced o'er death's dark wave; We've seen her merry, but till now We never saw her grave. 135 AN IMPORTANT TRUST OCANNING the morning paper o'er, ^ I find, to my disgust, A new misfortune is in store "They've formed a Great Ink Trust." Now must I hang my ink-horn up, And leave my pens to rust; Despair and sorrow fill my cup, "They've formed a Great Ink Trust." As chief directors, doubtless, stand The Publishers, and then The Literary Agents, and The Clipping Bureau men. The stock, of course, is Limited, A small part may be sold; But by a Syndicate, 'tis said, The output is controlled. 136 AN IMPORTANT TRUST I own 'twould give me quite a shock If these reports I heard : "Howells and James are common stock," And "Kipling is preferred." "Le Gallienne's margined heavily; Maclaren, dropped behind; Hope shows a hardening tendency, Doyle's future has declined. "Hall Caine is selling below par; In Barrie there's a lull; Hardy and Crawford steady are; Meredith, firm but dull." Disconsolate and ill at ease I'd read these stock reports; I can't compete with such as these It makes me out of sorts. But stay! such gloomy thoughts I'll flout, My mind I'll readjust My inkstand yet may be bought out By this same Great Ink Trust! 137 T WENT to spend the day with Rose, and then * A Christmas greeting passed between us two; But 'twas not "Peace on Earth, good-will to men," We only said, "Good-morning," "How d' ye do?" And then to her 1 offered smilingly The present she expected me to bring; There were no hanging hose no Christmas- tree The box was tied in paper with a string. We didn't sit beside the Yule-log's blaze, We just turned on the radiator's steam ; And dinner, unlike those of storied days, Gave no plum-pudding, but some bisque ice- cream. 138 AN UNORTHODOX CHRISTMAS We did n't hear the church-bells' solemn toll; And when we had our Christmas evening lunch, We didn't have a steaming wassail-bowl, But just a jug of simple claret punch. We trampled on traditions, I suppose; Yet one rite we observed with care but, no, Although I well remember kissing Rose, It wasn't underneath the mistletoe. 139 IN THE KLONDIKE T 'M only a homeless rover Up here in a Klondike camp; I've looked my possessions over By the light of my cabin lamp. Though I'm an accepted lover, I'm miles from that sweetheart of mine; And I'm sore cast down For in Dawson town 1 can't buy a valentine. I know she'll have roses from Harry, A basket of Huyler's from Ned; Beribboned carnations from Larry, A poetic effusion from Fred; A volume of Kipling or Barrie From that idiot, somebody Hall, And nothing of mine For a valentine, Though she loves me best of all. 140 IN THE KLONDIKE Must my sentiment stay unspoken Because I've no candies or bards? I know she'll be just heart-broken Stay! here is an old pack of cards! Not a very appropriate token, Nor suggestive of Cupid's darts, But I know what I'll do To prove I'm true I'll send her the 141 CELA VA SANS DIRE T LIST to the wail of each latter-day poet * Who discovers his themes must be six months ahead; The same dire necessity, did he but know it, Has coerced every writer, both living and dead. My struggles with seasons full well I remember; I am sure I speak whereof I know when I say That Tennyson wrote his May Queen in No- vember, And Tom Hood composed his November in May. The Night before Christmas was sent to the printer, (I'm morally sure) on the Fourth of July; And of course June, Dear June was made up in the winter, And Spring, Gentle Spring, when the Autumn was nigh. The Death of the Old Year was written in Summer, Thomson's Seasons were all written out of their time. Yet these things astonish each timid newcomer Who aims to adopt the profession of rhyme. 142 THE THOUGHTFUL YARD- STICK YARDSTICK thus to himself did muse As he walked along the street; 'I must buy a pair and a half of shoes Because I have three feet." 143 MY FAVOURITE AUTHOR T HAVE a certain bookcase where Behind a curtain lurks A row of books beyond compare, My favourite author's works. 1 finger o'er the well-loved tomes, I reverently note The various novels, essays, poems, My favourite author wrote. All eagerly the leaves I turn, Read here and there a line; Ah, words that ring! Ah, thoughts that burn! Ah, style so true and finel How well the characters are drawn! What charm, what atmosphere! Subtle, yet vivid as the dawn ; Mystic, yet crystal clear. 144 MY FAVOURITE AUTHOR And poems of such metric art, Such rhythm, rhyme and rune; Surely these lines came from a heart To melody attune! Ah, they are wondrously well done, The books on that long shelf; I thrill to think that every one Was written by myself ! OF MODERN BOOKS (A PANTOUM) making many books there is no end, Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone; Each day new manuscripts are being penned, And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on. Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone, New volumes daily issue from the press; And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on The prospect is disheartening, I confess. New volumes daily issue from the press; My pile of unread books I view aghast. The prospect is disheartening, I confess; Why will these modern authors write so fast ? My pile of unread books I view aghast Of course I must keep fairly up to date Why will these modern authors write so fast? They seem to get ahead of me of late. 146 OF MODERN BOOKS Of course I must keep fairly up to date; The books of special merit I must read; They seem to get ahead of me of late, Although I skim them very fast indeed. The books of special merit I must read; And then the magazines come round again; Although I skim them very fast indeed, I can't get through with more than eight or ten. And then the magazines come round again! How can we stem this tide of printer's ink? I can't get through with more than eight or ten It is appalling when I stop to think. How can we stem this tide of printer's ink? Of making many books there is no end. It is appalling when I stop to think Each day new manuscripts are being penned! 147 S through Elysian Fields I strayed, I chanced upon a sight amazin'g; In leafy shade Where fountains played, Old Pegasus was idly grazing. "Why are you here, my friend ? " said I. "Of modern poets are you weary? " He gave a sigh, And dropped his eye, And seemed embarrassed by my query. Said he, "I'm treated with abuse, I'm reckoned now among old-timers; There's no more use For Pegasus, Since poets use the auto-rhymers." 148 WITH TRUMPETS ALSO AND SHAWMS you know the ecstatical, statical Shaw His morals embarrass, His sophistries harass, His cryptical poppycock fills us with awe. With a smothered guffaw, He flicks on the raw, Sarcastical, drastical, spastical Shaw. He's a man of sporadical, radical views; His wit is sardonic, His style is ironic, Upon his sub-subtleties raptly we muse; Till our minds we confuse, And we roundly abuse His curious, furious, spurious views. He writes euphemistical, mystical plays, In manner pugnacious On subjects audacious; A whole melodrama is crammed in a phrase. Yet so great is the craze, That we rabidly praise His quarrelsome, moralsome, laurelsome plays. 149 BAUBLES His great pyrotechnical, technical works Abound in mad mockery, Pungent peacockery, Marital moods that would shock even Turks; Yet clergy and clerks Quote the quips and the quirks Of his wonderful, blunderful, thunderful works. 150 AN OVERWORKED ELOCUTIONIST NCE there was a little boy, whose name was Robert Reece; And every Friday afternoon he had to speak a piece. So many poems thus he learned, that soon he had a store Of recitations in his head, and still kept learn- ing more. And now this is what happened: He was called upon, one week, And totally forgot the piece he was about to speak ! His brain he cudgelled. Not a word remained within his head! And so he spoke at random, and this is what he said : 151 BAUBLES "My Beautiful, my Beautiful, who standest proudly by, It was the schooner Hesperus the breaking waves dashed high! Why is the Forum crowded ? What means this stir in Rome? Under a spreading chestnut tree there is no place like home! "Whence come these shrieks so wild and shrill? Across the sands o' Dee? Lo, 1 will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee! For this was Tell a hero? For this did Gessler die? The curse is come upon me!' said the Spider to the Fly. "When Britain first at Heaven's command said, 'Boatswain, do not tarry; The despot's heel is on thy shore, and while ye may, go marry.' Let dogs delight to bark and bite the British Grenadiers, Lars Porsena of Clusium lay dying in Algiers! 152 AN OVERWORKED ELOCUTIONIST "The sea! the sea! the open sea! Roll on, roll on, thou deep! Maxwelton braes are bonny, but Macbeth hath murdered sleep! Answer me, burning shades of night! What's Hecuba to me? Alone stood brave Horatius! The boy oh! where was he ? "When Freedom from her mountain height cried, Twinkle, little star, Shoot if you must this old grey head, King Henry of Navarre! Roll on, thou deep and dark blue castled crag of Drachenfels, My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills, ring out, wild bells! "If you're waking, call me early, to be or not to be, The curfew must not ring to-night. Oh, wood- man, spare that tree! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on! And let who will be clever! The boy stood on the burning deck, but I go on forever!" 153 BAUBLES His elocution was superb, his voice and gestures fine; His schoolmates all applauded, as he finished the last line. "I see it doesn't matter," Robert thought, "what words I say, So long as I declaim with oratorical display!" 154 BALLADE OF ECCLESIASTES T> RAVELY the faithful genius toils for years, *^ Ambition lures him onward day by day; At last the fruitage of his work appears, His friends approve and critics have their say. Men crown him with the laurel and the bay, The guerdon of his fame is fairly won, And has he then performed a wonder? Nay, That which is done is that which has been done. The lover, tossed about 'mid hopes and fears, To his fair goddess will insanely pray, And begs fier lovely favour when she hears The melancholy burden of his lay. And they assert, when she has murmured "Yea," Such wondrous love as theirs was known to none, But lovers think the selfsame things alway, That which is done is that which has been done. 155 BAUBLES So as we follow various careers Which offer us a choice of grave and gay, Made up alternately of smiles and tears, A little work and then a little play, As through the years we ignorantly stray, Thinking new enterprises we've begun, We learn, when life is passing fast away, That which is done is that which has been done. L'ENVOI Solomon, you are long since turned to clay, But down the years your words shall ring for aye. "There is no new thing underneath the sun, That which is done is that which shall be done." 156 THE ORDER OF THE LITERATI The Society of Tinkling Symbols met in their pleasant rooms at No. 4, Poetic Mews. Spring had passed, so their fancy was lightly turning to other matters than Love, and it chanced to turn lightly to the Cubist Movement in Art. "Of course," mused President Swinburne, rolling his eye in an especially fine frenzy, "this movement will strike the poets next." "Nay," said Dante Gabriel Rossetti, refrain- ing for a moment from the refrain he was build- ing, "we must be ready for it." "We must advance to meet it," said Edgar Allan Poe, who was ever of an adventurous nature; "what's it all about? " The principles are simple," observed RoDert Browning, glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; "in fact, it's much like my own work always has been. I was born cubic. You see, you just symbolise the liquefaction of the essence of an idea into its emotional con- stituents, and there you are!" 157 BAUBLES "Dead easy!" declared Alfred Tennyson, who went out poeting by the day, and knew how to do any kind. "What's the subject? " "That's just the point," said President Swin- burne; "preeminently and exclusively it's sub- jective, and you must keep it so. On no ac- count allow an object of any kind to creep in. Now here's one of the Cubist pictures; they call it 'A Nude Descending the Staircase.' They pick names at random out of a hat, I believe. Take this, you fellows, and throw it into poetry." "Any rules or conditions?" asked William Wordsworth. "Absolutely none. It's the Ruleless School." Then the Poets opened the aspiration valves, ignited the divine spark plugs, and whiz! went their meter-motors in a whirring, buzzing melo- dy. Soon their Cubist emotions were splashed upon paper, and the Poets read with justifiable pride these symbolic results. President Swinburne tossed off this poetic gem without a bit of trouble: 158 THE ORDER OF THE LITERATI Square eyelids that hide like a jewel; Ten heads, though I sometimes count more; Six mouths that are cubic and cruel; Of mixed arms and legs, twenty-four; Descending in Symbolic glories Of lissome triangles and squares; Oh, mystic and subtle Dolores, Our Lady of Stairs. You descend like an army with banners, In a cyclone of wrecked parasols. You look like a mob with mad manners Or a roystering row of Dutch dolls. Oh, Priestess of Cubical Passion, Oh, Deification of Whim, You seem to walk down in the fashion That lame lobsters swim. Here we have Mr. P. B. Shelley's noble lines: Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Nude thou never wert. Not from Heaven or near it Breathed thy cubic heart In profuse stairs of unintelligible art. 159 BAUBLES What thou art, we know not; What is thee most like? Snakes tied in a bow-knot? Stovepipes on a strike? Or Bellevue inmates on a Suffrage hike! We look before and after, And pine thy face to see; Our sincerest laughter Is aroused by thee. Art thou perchance the sad cube root of 23 ? Mr. R. Kipling felt a flash of his old fire, and threw in a high speed: On an old symbolic staircase, Looking forty ways at once; There's a Cubist Nude descending, With the queerest sort of stunts. For the staircase is a-falling, And the Noodle seems to say, "Tho' you hear my soul a-calling, You can't see me, anyway!" 160 THE ORDER OF THE LITERATI Oh, this Symbol balderdash, And this Post-Impression trash; Can't you see their paint a-chunkin' in a hotchy-potchy splash? Where the motives bold and brash Of the Cubist painters clash, And the Nude descends like thunder down a staircase gone to smash! But Mr. D. G. Rossetti, ever a sweet singer, warbles thus tunefully: The Blessed Nude at eve leaned out From the goUJ staircase rail; Her paint was deeper than the depth Of waters in a pail. She wore three bonnets on her heads, And seven coats of mail. And still she bowed herself and swayed In circling cubic charms. And the pigments of her painted soul Were loud as war's alarms. But the staircase lay as if asleep Along her fourteen arms. 161 BAUBLES (I saw her move!) But soon her path Was cubes instead of spheres; And then she disappeared among The staircase barriers; And after she was gone, I saw She'd wept some large paint tears! Mr. R. Browning finds the subject greatly to his liking: Who will may hear the Staircase Story told; All its blobs, splotches, facets, what you will; The vague Nude, compassed murkily about With ravage of six long sad hundred stairs, Dizzily plunging with tumultuous glee! Whirling the stairdust, hazarding oblique. The moon safe in her pocket! see she treads Cool citric crystals, fierce pyropus stone; While crashing sunbeams in a triple line Smirk at the insane roses in her hair, And Strojavacca, frowning, looks asquint To see that trick of toe, that dizened heel, As she, the somewhat, hangs 'twixt naught and naught A perfect Then, a sub-potential Now A facile and slabsided centipede. 162 THE ORDER OF THE LITERATI And here is Mr. B. Jonson's little jingle: Still to be cubed, still to be square, As you were going down a stair; Still to see lurid pigments sluiced, Lady, it is to be deduced, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not square, all is not round. Give me a cube, give me a line That makes a whirling maze design; Robes made of sheet-iron, flowing free, Such sweet device more taketh me Than masterpieces of old Rubes Which charm not eyes attuned to cubes. And Mr. J. W. Riley sings in his usual com- forting strain : There, little Nude, don't cry! You've descended the stairs, I know; And the weird wild ways Of the Cubist Jays Have made you a holy show! But Post Impressions will soon pass by. There, little Nude, don't cry, don't cry! 163 BAUBLES Sir A. Tennyson caught the Cubical spirit neatly, thus: As the staircase is, the Nude is; thou art paint- ed by a freak, And I think that he has knocked thee to the middle of next week. He will paint thee (till this fashion shall expend its foolish force), Something like a rabid dog, a little larger than a horse. Semblance? Likeness? Scorned of Cubists! This th' evangel that he sings; Any picture's crown of glory is to look like other things. So thou art not seen descending in the ordinary way. But like fifty motor-cycles, breaking speed laws in Cathay. Mr. C. Kingsley was gently interested: My Cubist Nude, I have no song to give you; I could not pipe you, howsoe'er I tried. But ere I go, I wish that you would teach me That Staircase Slide! 164 THE ORDER OF THE LITERATI Be skittish, child, and let who will be graceful, Do whizzy whirls whenever you've the chance; And so make life, death and that grand old staircase One song and dance. Oscar Wilde was moody, and this was his mood: Adown the stairs the Nudelet came; (Pale pink eats up a purple tree!) Hark! to the smitten cubes of flame! Ah, me! Ah, jamboree! Her soul seethed in emotions sweet; (Pale pink eats up a purple tree!) Symbolling like a torn-up street; Ah, jamboree! ah, me! And still the Nude's soul-cubes are there, (Pale pink eats up a purple tree!) In writhen glory of despair, Ah, me! Ah, Hully Gee! 165 BAUBLES Mr. W. Wordsworth was frankly disdainful: She trod among the untrodden maze Of Cubists on a spree; A Nude when there were none to praise, And very few could see. A violet 'neath a mossy stone, Quite hidden from the eye, Is far more easy to discern Than that same Nude to spy. She lived unseen. Though some few fakes Pretended her to see; But if she's on the stairs, it makes No difference to me. Mr. Longfellow fairly let himself go: The picture's done! And the Staircase Falls like the crash of night. And the Nude is wafted downward Like a catapult in flight. There's a feeling of strange emotion That is not akin to art; And resembles a picture only As a Tartar resembles a tart. 166 THE ORDER OF THE LITERATI Such art has power to rouse Our laughter at any time, And comes like electrocution That follows after crime. And Mr. Bunner's poetic gem has a charm all its own: It was an old, old, old, old, lady, On a staircase at half-past three; And the way she was painted together Was beautiful for to see. She wasn't visible any, And the staircase, no more was he; For it was a Cubist picture With a feeling of deep skewgee. Twas a symbol of soul expression, Though you'd never have known it to be! That emotional old, old lady On a staircase at half-past three. 167 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LSRARY FACILITY > mi fill in inn mil i| || in mil || A 001 368 867 6