Who was the Somebody of Note?

(I never could remember names)

Was it Mark Twain or Mr. Choate

Or Mrs. Ward or Henry James

That penn’d those words of Wise Import,

“Who weds in haste repents—in court”?

But let us not Anticipate.

The Princess wore a Plain Gold Frock;

No Fairy Dress to spoil the fête

By vanishing at Twelve o’clock.

This time no Spell her pleasure blighted—

Her god-mamma was not invited.

Not that she really meant to flout

Her Benefactress; but you see

She had not told the Prince about

Her Fairy Godmother, lest he

Might change his mind if he foresaw

A Fairy God-mamma-in-law.

A Fairy may be Good or Ill,

A Godmother Morose or Gay;

A Mother-in-law, say what you will,

Is not immortal any way.

But wouldn’t it a Bridegroom stun

To think of all three rolled in one?

One day the Princess in a Pet,

It was her Last, her only hope,

Summoned her Trusty Cabinet,

To Sit upon the Envelope,

And at no matter what expense,

To end her Terrible Suspense.

But all their Learnéd Consultations

Ended in Nought, for what avail

Mere Man’s Unerring Calculations

Where WOMAN’S Intuitions fail?

Their Weighty Brains refused to cope

With that Unyielding Envelope.

She put the matter in the Hands

Of the Police; she went to see

Astrologers from Foreign Lands

And experts in Chirography;

And offered Large Rewards to all

Who furnished Clues, however small.

But no one came for the Reward,

Nor would the Envelope betray

The Secret in its bosom stored,

When by the Merest Chance one day

She overheard a Child, who cried,

“If it were mine, I’d look inside.”

Tossing the Tot a Thousand Pounds,

The Princess to her Chamber sped;

Her Joy and Rapture knew no bounds;

She tore the Envelope and read

A note from god-mamma, to say,

She might expect her any day.

Strong Fairy Salts soon brought her to.

She looked up in a startled way.

“Why, God-mamma—can that be you?

How sweet! I hope you’ve come to stay.

The Prince will simply be enchanted.”

“Your Wish,” quoth God-mamma, “is granted.”

True to her word, the Fairy soon

Was quite at home. The royal Attic

She turned into a Grand Saloon,

Where with her cats she reigned ecstatic.

“Henceforth,” said she, “I’ll live at leisure,

And only work my Spells for pleasure.”

She had a Sense of Humor dry,

She loved her Little Joke—and tho’

None of her Tricks were prompted by

A spiteful heart or love of show,

To love one’s Joke does not, it’s true,

Imply that Others love it too.

She had a disconcerting way,

When Argument became a bore,

Of saying what she had to say

And disappearing through the Floor,

A joke that never failed to cause

A weird, if not side-splitting, Pause.

At meals, if there appeared a dish

God-mamma did not find appealing,

She’d wave her wand, and Fowl or Fish

Would promptly vanish thro’ the ceiling,

And in its place would be Fried Mole

Or Crocodile en casserole.

One day some Ladies of the Court

Performed a Play which bored her so,

She up and cried, “That’s not my sort!”

And changed it to a Ballet show.

A Tactless Joke, which caused, of course,

Much talk—and more than one Divorce.

But nothing gave her such delight,

Or keener Sense of Humor showed,

Than when the Prince came home at night;

She’d change his door-key to a Toad,

And laugh to see it hop about,

Or turn the Key-Hole inside out.

Once, weary of her Pesterings,

The Prince apostrophized a bird,

Exclaiming, “Would I too had wings!”

It chanced the Fairy overheard,

And, with the very best intentions,

Granted him wings of Large Dimensions.

Now wings (as any Naturalist

Will tell you) are but variations

Of arms, and cannot co-exist

With such-like Brachial Formations.

Accordingly, he lost his arms,

Which handicaps a Prince’s charms.

To his embarrassment and woe,

He had to be both dressed and fed

And brushed and bathed and put—but no,

That he was spared. His Wings when spread

Were Forty Feet from side to side;

Bed was a luxury denied.

He soon repented of his Whim.

With wings like windmill sails, of course,

No room was big enough for him.

So all night long, in Chill Remorse,

He perched upon the roof. At dawn

The spell was happily withdrawn.

About this time the Princess planned

A grand Subscription Ball, to aid

The Starving Shepherds of the land.

The Prince, when told the shepherds’ trade

Included Shepherdesses too,

Subscribed a Thumping I. O. U.

Upon the evening of the ball,

It chanced that God-mamma-in-law,

Flitting about the Palace Hall,

Passed by the Prince’s Suite, and saw

His gladsome Evening Robes outspread

In neat array upon the bed.

She eyed them sadly. Here in places

The silken pile was wearing thin;

And here were stains and here were traces

Of where the Moth had broken in.

“Aha! Aha! it’s plain to see

This is a little job for me!

“I’ll make him a new suit,” said she,

“A brave new suit without a flaw.

I’d like to know what Home would be

Without a God-mamma-in-law.”

And in its place upon the bed

A Fairy Substitute she spread.

All unobserved, she slipped away,

Delighted with her Little Game,

And, seeking some new trick to play,

To Cinderella’s closet came.

Where for her golden robe of state

She left a Fairy Duplicate.

Dressed for the ball, they drove in State,

Looking superlatively swell;

God-mamma pleaded mal de tête

And from her window waved farewell.

Her voice rose o’er the people’s cheers,

“Be back at twelve o’clock my dears!”

The Princess never dreamed her frock

Of gold was wrought by fairy power.

And set, like an alarming Clock,

To go off at the midnight hour.

Her childish laugh rang with delight:

“Thank God-mamma’s not here to-night.”

Prince Charming looked his very best

To—I mean at—the Ladies Fair;

No dread foreboding stirred his breast;

No Writing on the Wall was there

To Tell him of the Awful Shock

Awaiting him at Twelve O’clock.

Again (see chapter on The Ball)

The Boldest Metaphor grows tame;

Superlatives abjectly crawl

Back to their lexicon in shame,

And Synonyms in shrieking chorus

Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But every cloud that bars the sun

They say with silverwear is lined;

And tho’ they felt they were Undone,

Their Highnesses were cheered to find

At midnight when their Robes took wings,

They kept their—well, their Other Things.

Even arrayed as one of these,

In Homespun stood the Royal Twain,

While people cried, on bended knees,

“Long live their Majesties! who deign

Thus by example to Restore

Our Woolen Industry of Yore!”

Thro’ all the Land the Tidings sped

From Door to Door, from Wife to Wife,

Thro’ all the Land the Fashion spread

For Woolen and the Simple Life.

New looms sprang up on every hand

And shepherds prospered in the land.

Poor God-mamma, ’twas her last caper;

One night to throw some Light about

She changed herself into a Taper,

And Cinderella blew her out.

The Princess then divorced the Prince,

And Both lived Happy Ever Since.

But since no creature known

Is perfect, I will own

He had one failing—vanity, alas! innate.

He was also fond of sport,

Though not a cruel sort:

His aim was more to charm than to assassinate.

He was often heard to say,

When feeling rather gay,

“I’d like to see the Bird I cannot fascinate!”

It was sitting, stuffed and stiff on

A thing of straw and chiffon,

Ribbands and lace and jet and such like finery,

By a milliner begotten

And some careless maid forgotten,

In stuffed and lonely splendor in the Vinery,

When with expectant eye

Mr. Serpent, by and by,

Strolled forth in search of game from out the Pinery.

“Aha!” said Mr. Snake,

“Unless I much mistake,

Here’s a charming subject for a Trance Hypnotic;

Soon I’ll have her in my toils!”

And with mysterious coils

He advanced with air complacent and despotic.

Then he rose up, and let fly

A glance from out his eye,

And watched for the effect of his narcotic.

Said Mr. Snake, “My spell

Seems to work extremely well.”

And straightway with Majestic Pride he puffed,

But when an hour had pass’d,

And still the Bird stood fast,

I must confess he felt a trifle huff’d.

“There’s something wrong,” said he,

“With the Bird—or else with me.”

How should he know the wretched thing was stuffed?

Mr. Snake was sorely troubled,

And his efforts he redoubled,

And he balanced on the tip end of his tail,

Swaying to and fro the while

Like a pendulum—a style

That hitherto he’d never known to fail.

But not a word she uttered,

And not a feather fluttered

As he plied his mystic Art without avail.

“Confound the bird!” he said,

And he stood upon his head

And waved his long mysterious tail in air,

And he focussed all the rays

Of his esoteric gaze

Into one cold and petrifying glare.

But the Deadly Glance fell wide;

He might as well have tried

To hypnotize a table or a chair—

“That settles it!” he cried.

“I will not be defied!”

And he coiled himself to spring—oh, rash proceeding!

Like an arrow from a bow

He sprang—how should he know

The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding?

Next moment he lay dead,

With a Hat Pin through his head,

Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding—

With frigid glance I pierced him through.

He squirmed and changed his tune.

Said he: “I will be frank with you:

I lend it to the Moon.

“Poor thing! You know she’s growing old

And hasn’t any folk.

She suffers terribly from cold,

And half the time she’s broke.”

That evening on the beach I lay

Behind a lonely dune,

And as she rose above the bay

I buttonholed the Moon.

“Tell me about that gold,” said I.

I saw her features fall.

“You see, it’s useless to deny;

The Sun has told me all.”

“Sir!” she exclaimed, “how can you try

An honest Moon this way?

As for the gold, I put it by

Against a rainy day.”

I smiled and shook my head. “All right,

If you must know,” said she,

“I change it into silver bright

Wherewith to tip the Sea.

“He is so faithful and so good,

A most deserving case;

If he should leave, I fear it would

Be hard to fill his place.”

When asked if they accepted tips,

The waves became so rough;

I thought of those at sea in ships,

And felt I’d said enough.

For if one virtue I have learned,

’Tis tact; so I forbore

To press the matter, though I burned

To ask one question more.

I hate a scene, and do not wish

To be mixed up in gales,

But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish

Whence came their silver scales!

In answer to the Lion’s call,

His fellow-creatures, great and small,

From earth and air came one and all

In Trepidation.

He then delivered a discourse,

And proved with eloquence and force

Man was their one and only source

Of Tribulation.

“What is he—taken at his best?

A mere pretence! Not even dressed,

If we his puny form divest

Of spoil he’s looted.

The fact that we can far excel

His boasted Strength and Speed, as well

As Hearing, Sight, and Taste and Smell,

Is undisputed.

“I am not boasting when I own

for Strength I’d back my claws alone

Against his battle-axe of stone;

While, as to Vision,

’Tis nothing more than idle talk

To mention Man beside the Hawk—

The swift Horse, too, his clumsy walk

Views with derision.

“Only Man’s Ignorance, I’m bound

To say, could possibly confound

The Scent and Hearing of the Hound

With his dull powers;

As well his Taste, that gluts on fare

Like half-burnt Antelope and Bear,

With the fastidious Bee compare,

That sips the flowers.

“And yet,” the Lion said, “though we

Outshine Man to the last degree

Collectively, none holds as he

The Combination.”

In short, the moral of his theme

Was this: If Beasts would reign supreme

Their only practicable scheme

Was Federation.

And so, in view of Public Need,

The Hawk, Hound, Bee, and Horse agreed

To pool their Sight, Scent, Taste, and Speed;

And in due season

They made, pro tem., the Lion King,

Intrusting him with everything

Upon condition he would bring

Proud Man to reason.

The crafty Lion then proposed

To send an Embassy composed

Of those same four. As none opposed,

They started straightway,

And, coming to Man’s portals wide,

They entered, but no trace espied

Of Man, until (from the outside)

He closed the gateway.

And there he kept them till they swore

To be his servants evermore,

And work his will, and bow before

His rod of iron:

The Dog to watch, the Hawk to kill,

The Horse to carry and to till,

The Bee with sweets his jars to fill.

All save the Lion—

The Lion stayed at home—and purred,

And kept thenceforth the crown conferred

Pro tem., and nothing more was heard

About Conditions.

So ends my tale. Perchance it brings

Some light to bear on certain things—

Such as the Origin of Kings,

And Politicians.