THE REASON FOR REASON
And some of Macaulay,
Till all of “Horatius” he knew,
And the drastic, sarcastic,
Fantastic, scholastic
Philippics of “Junius,” too.
He made him learn lots
Of the poems of Watts,
And frequently said he ignored,
On principle, any son’s
Title to benisons
Till he’d learned Tennyson’s
“Maud.”
“For these are the giants
Of thought and of science,”
He said in his positive way:
“So weigh them, obey them,
Display them, and lay them
To heart in your infancy’s day!”
Jack made no reply,
But he said on the sly
An eloquent word, that had come
From a quite indefensible,
Most reprehensible,
But indispensable
Chum.
Jack had such a plenty
Of books and paternal advice,
Though seedy and needy,
Indeed he was greedy
For vengeance, whatever the price!
In the editor’s seat
Of a critical sheet
He found the revenge that he sought;
And, with sterling appliance of
Mind, wrote defiance of
All of the giants of
Thought.
He’d thunder and grumble
At high and at humble
Until he became, in a while,
Mordacious, pugnacious,
Rapacious. Good gracious!
They called him the Yankee Carlyle!
But he never took rest
On his quarrelsome quest
Of the giants, both mighty and small.
He slated, distorted them,
Hanged them and quartered them,
Till he had slaughtered them
All.
If you have a go farther, you’re apt to fare worse.
(When you turn it around it is different rather:—
You’re not apt to go worse if you have a fair father!)
HORACE
How Rudeness and Kindness
Were Justly Rewarded
Once on a time, long years ago
(Just when I quite forget),
Two maidens lived beside the Po,
One blonde and one brunette.
The blonde one’s character was mild,
From morning until night she smiled,
Whereas the one whose hair was brown
Did little else than pine and frown.
(I think one ought to draw the line
At girls who always frown and pine!)
The blonde one learned to play the harp,
Like all accomplished dames,
And trained her voice to take C sharp
As well as Emma Eames;
Made baskets out of scented grass,
And paper-weights of hammered brass,
And lots of other odds and ends
For gentleman and lady friends.
(I think it takes a deal of sense
To manufacture gifts for gents!)
Proclaimed the world a bore,
And took her breakfast in her room
Three mornings out of four.
With crankiness she seemed imbued,
And everything she said was rude:
She sniffed, and sneered, and, what is more,
When very much provoked, she swore!
(I think that I could never care
For any girl who’d learned to swear!)
One day the blonde was striding past
A forest, all alone,
When all at once her eyes she cast
Upon a wrinkled crone,
Who tottered near with shaking knees,
And said: “A penny, if you please!”
And you will learn with some surprise
This was a fairy in disguise!
(I think it must be hard to know
A fairy who’s incognito!)
With coinage of the realm.
The fairy said: “Take back your alms!
My heart they overwhelm.
Henceforth at every word shall slip
A pearl or ruby from your lip!”
And, when the girl got home that night,—
(I think there are not many girls
Whose words are worth their weight in pearls!)
THE PO SISTERS PEARLIE & TOADIE
Ten minutes later, came
Along the self-same road, and met
That bent and wrinkled dame,
Who asked her humbly for a sou.
The girl replied: “Get out with you!”
The fairy cried: “Each word you drop,
A toad from out your mouth shall hop!”
(I think that nothing incommodes
One’s speech like uninvited toads!)
And so it was, the cheerful blonde
Lived on in joy and bliss,
And grew pecunious, beyond
The dreams of avarice!
And to a nice young man was wed,
And I have often heard it said
No other man who ever walked
Most loved his wife when most she talked!
(I think this very fact, forsooth,
Goes far to prove I tell the truth!)
By hook or crook survived,
But still at every word she spoke
An ugly toad arrived,
Until at last she had to come
To feigning she was wholly dumb,
Whereat the suitors swarmed around,
And soon a wealthy mate she found.
(I think nobody ever knew
The happier husband of the two!)
The Moral of the tale is: Bah!
Nous avons changé tout celà.
No clear idea I hope to strike
Of what your nicest girl is like,
But she whose best young man I am
This shows why each suitor, who rode up to spark,
How Beauty Contrived to Get
Square with the Beast
Miss Guinevere Platt
Was so beautiful that
She couldn’t remember the day
When one of her swains
Hadn’t taken the pains
To send her a mammoth bouquet.
And the postman had found,
On the whole of his round,
That no one received such a lot
Of bulky epistles
As, waiting his whistles,
The beautiful Guinevere got!
A significant sign
That her charm was divine
Was seen in society, when
The chaperons sniffed
With their eyebrows alift:
“Whatever’s got into the men?”
There was always a man
Who was holding her fan,
And twenty that danced in details,
And a couple of mourners,
Who brooded in corners,
And gnawed their mustaches and nails.
Wouldn’t stay in the flat,
For his beautiful daughter he missed:
When he’d taken his tub,
He would hie to his club,
And dally with poker or whist.
At the end of a year
It was perfectly clear
That he’d never computed the cost,
For he hadn’t a penny
To settle the many
Ten thousands of dollars he’d lost!
F. Ferdinand Fife
Was a student of life:
He was coarse, and excessively fat,
With a beard like a goat’s,
But he held all the notes
Of ruined John Jeremy Platt!
With an adamant smile
That was brimming with guile,
He said: “I am took with the face
Of your beautiful daughter,
And wed me she ought ter,
To save you from utter disgrace!”
Didn’t hesitate at
Her duty’s imperative call.
When they looked at the bride
All the chaperons cried:
“She isn’t so bad, after all!”
Of the desolate men
There were something like ten
Who took up political lives,
And the flower of the flock
Went and fell off a dock,
And the rest married hideous wives!
Of F. Ferdinand Fife
Was the wildest that ever was known:
She’d grumble and glare,
Till the man didn’t dare
To say that his soul was his own.
She sneered at his ills,
And quadrupled his bills,
And spent nearly twice what he earned;
Her husband deserted,
And frivoled, and flirted,
Till Ferdinand’s reason was turned.
And his terrible fate
Upon him so heavily sat,
That he swore at the day
When he sat down to play
At cards with John Jeremy Platt.
He was dead in a year,
And the fair Guinevere
In society sparkled again,
While the chaperons fluttered
Their fans, as they muttered:
“She’s getting exceedingly plain!”
The Moral: Predicaments often are found
That beautiful duty is apt to get round:
But greedy extortioners better beware
For dutiful beauty is apt to get square!
How a Fair One no Hope to
His Highness Accorded
She has slid down the channels
Of history’s annals
Disguised as the child of a king,
But that is a glib
And iniquitous fib,
For she never was any such thing:
They called her the Fair One with Golden Locks,
And it’s true she had lovers who swarmed in flocks,
But the rest is ironic;
Her business chronic
Was selling hair-tonic
By bottle and box!
From the dawn till the gloaming
She used to sit combing
Her hair in a languorous way.
And her suitors would stop
To look into the shop,
And stand there the rest of the day.
She filled them with mute, but with deep despair,
For she never glanced up, with a smile, to where
They stood about, crushing
Each other, and blushing:
She simply kept brushing
Her beautiful hair.
Engaged in amassing
Some facts on American life,
Was suddenly struck
By the fact that his luck
Might give him that girl for a wife!
His rashness he didn’t attempt to excuse,
He entered the shop and he stated his views.
Remarking,
“My jewel,
I’m confident you will
Not wish to be cruel
Enough to refuse.
He told her, “your features
Have led me to candidly say
That no other beside
Would I have for a bride:
We’ll be married a week from to-day!
I belong to a long and a titled line,
And the least of your wishes I won’t decline;
Next month I will usher
My wife into Russia:—
Sweet comber and brusher,
Consider you’re mine!”
She looked at him squarely,
Considered him fairly,
Her glance was as keen as a knife,
Then she turned up her nose,
And, with icy repose,
She answered: “Well, not on your life!
You’re not on the paper the only blot!
Do you think I come twelve in a parcel—what?
Me pose as your dearie?
Oh, go and chase Peary!
You’re making me weary.
Now git!”
Outside was elated
So much by the prince’s mischance,
That they greeted with jeers
And ironical cheers,
The end of his little romance.
They said: “Did it hurt when the ground you hit?”
They searched for some mark where the prince had lit,
And as he looked colder,
They only grew bolder,
And tapped on his shoulder
With: “Tag! You’re It!”
The lengthy discussion
That sensitive Russian
Compiled on the U. S. A.
Was read by the maid,
As she carelessly played
With her beautiful hair one day.
“The talk you hear in that primitive land,”
He wrote, “nobody can understand.”
“Somebody who guffed him,”
She said, “has stuffed him,
And easily bluffed him
To beat the band!”
Are exceedingly strong on Auld Lang Syne,
But they’re lost in the push when they strike a gang
That is strong on American new line slang!
SLANG
How Thomas a Maid from
a Dragon Released
Though Philip the Second
Of France was reckoned
No coward, his breath came short
When they told him a dragon
As big as a wagon
Was waiting below in the court!
A dragon so long, and so wide, and so fat,
That he couldn’t get in at the door to chat:
The king couldn’t leave him
Outside and grieve him,
He had to receive him
Upon the mat,
And very concisely
He stated the reason he’d called:
He made the disclosure
With frigid composure.
King Philip was simply appalled!
He demanded for eating, a fortnight apart,
The monarch’s ten daughters, all dear to his heart.
“And now you’ll produce,” he
Concluded, “the juicy
And succulent Lucie
By way of start!”
King Philip was pliant,
And far from defiant
—“And servile,” no doubt you retort!—
But if you struck a snag on
A bottle-green dragon,
Who filled up two-thirds of your court,
And curled up his tail on your new tin roof,
And made your piazza groan under his hoof,
Would you threaten and thunder,
Or just knuckle under
Completely, I wonder,
If put to proof?
By way of a truce, he
Brought out little Lucie
And watched her conducted away,
But all of the others
Were out with their brothers!
Thus gaining a little delay,
He promised through heralds sent west and east,
His crown, and his kingdom, and last, not least,
His daughter so sightly
To any one knightly
Who’d come and politely
Wipe out that beast!
Arrayed in his armor,
Each suitor for glory who yearned,
Would gallantly hasten,
The dragon to chasten,
But none of them ever returned!
When the dragon had eaten some sixteen score
He hung up this sign on his cavern door,
Whereat he lay pronely
In majesty lonely:
There’s Standing Room Only
For Three Knights More!
A slim adolescent,
His beard only crescent,
Rode up at this stage of the game
To where the old sinner
Lay gorged with his dinner,
And breathing out torrents of flame.
He gathered a tip from the flaunting sign,
And took his position the fourth in line,
Until, as foreboded,
By food incommoded,
The dragon exploded
At half-past nine.
At first when he sighted
The victor, but then in dismay
Regretted his promise.
The stripling was Thomas,
His Majesty’s valet-de-pied!
He asked him at once: “Will you compromise?”
But Thomas looked straight in his master’s eyes,
And answered severely:
“I see your game clearly,
And scorn it sincerely.
Hand out the prize!”
Not long did he linger
Before on the finger
Of Lucie he fitted a ring:
A month or two later
They made him dictator,
In place of the elderly king:
He was lauded by pulpit, and boomed by press,
And no one had ever a chance to guess,
Beholding this hero
Who ruled like a Nero,
His valor was zero,
Or something less.
How a Beauty was Waked
and Her Suitor was Suited
Albeit wholly penniless,
Prince Charming wasn’t any less
Conceited than a Croesus or a modern millionaire:
Though often in necessity,
No one would ever guess it. He
Was candidly insolvent, and he frankly didn’t care!
Of the many debts he made
Not a one was ever paid,
But no one ever pressed him to refund the borrowed gold:
While he recklessly kept spending,
People gladly kept on lending,
For the fact they knew a title
Was requital
Twenty-fold!
(He lived in sixteen sixty-three,
This smooth unblushing article,
Since when, as far as I can see,
Men haven’t changed a particle!)
There was a wild locality,
Composed of sombre forest, and of steep and frowning crags,
Of pheasant and of rabbit, too;
And here it was his habit to
Go hunting with his courtiers in the keen pursuit of stags.
But the charger that he rode
So mercurially strode
That the prince on one occasion left the others in the lurch,
And the falling darkness found him,
With no vassals left around him,
Near a building like an abbey,
Or a shabby
Ruined church.
His Highness said: “I’ll ring the bell
And stay till morning in it!” (He
Took Hobson’s choice, for no hotel
There was in the vicinity.)
That any one could see he meant
To suffer no refusal, but, in spite of all the din,
There was no answer audible,
And so, with courage laudable,
His Royal Highness turned the knob, and stoutly entered in.
Then he strode across the court,
But he suddenly stopped short
When he passed within the castle by a massive oaken door:
There were courtiers without number,
But they all were plunged in slumber,
The prince’s ear delighting
By uniting
In a snore.
The prince remarked: “This must be Philadelphia, Pennsylvania!”
(And so was born the jest that’s still
The comic journal’s mania!)
This shows how the prince won the princess’s heart,
And the end of her sleeping was simply a start.
Numb, comatose, insensible,
The flunkeys and the chamberlains all slumbered like the dead,
And snored so loud and mournfully,
That Charming passed them scornfully
And came to where a princess lay asleep upon a bed.
She was so extremely fair
That His Highness didn’t care
For the risk, and so he kissed her ere a single word he spoke:—
In a jiffy maids and pages,
Ushers, lackeys, squires, and sages,
As fresh as if they’d been at least
Awoke,
And hastened, bustled, dashed and ran
Up stairways and through galleries:
In brief, they one and all began
Again to earn their salaries!
As if in deep analysis
Of him who had awakened her, the princess met his eye:
Her glance at first was critical,
And sternly analytical.
And then she dropped her lashes and she gave a little sigh.
As he watched her, wholly dumb,
She observed: “You doubtless come
For one of two good reasons, and I’m going to ask you which.
Do you mean my house to harry,
Or do you propose to marry?”
He answered: “I may rue it,
But I’ll do it,
If you’re rich!”
The princess murmured with a smile:
“I’ve millions, at the least, to come!”
The prince cried: “Please excuse me, while
I go and get the priest to come!”
The Moral: When affairs go ill
The sleeping partner foots the bill.
How Jack Found that Beans
May go Back on a Chap
Without the slightest basis
For hypochondriasis
A widow had forebodings which a cloud around her flung,
And with expression cynical
For half the day a clinical
Thermometer she held beneath her tongue.
Whene’er she read the papers
She suffered from the vapors,
At every tale of malady or accident she’d groan;
In every new and smart disease,
From housemaid’s knee to heart disease,
She recognized the symptoms as her own!
She had a yearning chronic
To try each novel tonic,
Elixir, panacea, lotion, opiate, and balm;
And from a homœopathist
Would change to an hydropathist,
And back again, with stupefying calm!
The closets of her villa
Were full of sarsaparilla,
Ammonia, digitalis, bronchial troches, soda mint.
Restoratives hirsutical,
And soaps to clean the cuticle,
And iodine, and peptonoids, and lint.
She was nervous, cataleptic,
And anemic, and dyspeptic:
Though not convinced of apoplexy, yet she had her fears.
She dwelt with force fanatical
Upon a twinge rheumatical,
And said she had a buzzing in her ears!
The mind of Jack, her son and heir, unconscionably bored.
His heart completely hardening,
He gave his time to gardening,
For raising beans was something he adored.
This limp maternal bore bid
Her callous son affectionate and lachrymose good-bys.
She never granted Jack a day
Without some long “Alackaday!”
Accompanied by rolling of the eyes.
But Jack, no panic showing,
Just watched his beanstalk growing,
And twined with tender fingers the tendrils up the pole.
At all her words funereal
He smiled a smile ethereal,
Or sighed an absent-minded “Bless my soul!”
Would never change a feature:
No tear bedimmed his eye, however touching was her talk.
She never fussed or flurried him,
The only thing that worried him
Was when no bean-pods grew upon the stalk!
But then he wabbled loosely
His head, and wept profusely,
And, taking out his handkerchief to mop away his tears,
Exclaimed: “It hasn’t got any!”
He found this blow to botany
Was sadder than were all his mother’s fears.
Whene’er no pods adorn the vine.
Of all sad words experience gleans
The saddest are: “It might have beans.”
(I did not make this up myself:
’Twas in a book upon my shelf.
It’s witty, but I don’t deny
It’s rather Whittier than I!)
It might have beans!
How a Cat Was Annoyed and
a Poet Was Booted
A poet had a cat.
There is nothing odd in that—
(I might make a little pun about the Mews!)
But what is really more
Remarkable, she wore
A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes.
And I doubt me greatly whether
E’er you heard the like of that:
Pointed shoes of patent-leather
On a cat!
His time he used to pass
Writing sonnets, on the grass—
(I might say something good on pen and sward!)
While the cat sat near at hand,
Trying hard to understand
The poems he occasionally roared.
(I myself possess a feline,
But when poetry I roar
He is sure to make a bee-line
For the door.)
All his patrimony spent—
(I might tell how he went from werse to werse!)
Till the cat was sure she could,
By advising, do him good
So addressed him in a manner that was terse:
“We are bound toward the scuppers,
And the time has come to act,
Or we’ll both be on our uppers
For a fact!”
On her boot she fixed her eye,
But the boot made no reply—
(I might say: “Couldn’t speak to save its sole!”)
And the foolish bard, instead
Of responding, only read
A verse that wasn’t bad upon the whole:
And it pleased the cat so greatly,
Though she knew not what it meant,
That I’ll quote approximately
How it went:—
“If I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree”—
(I might put in: “I think I’d just as leaf!”)
“Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough”—
Well, he’d plagiarized it bodily, in brief!
But that cat of simple breeding
Couldn’t read the lines between,
So she took it to a leading
Magazine.
She was jarred and very sore
When they showed her to the door.
(I might hit off the door that was a jar!)
To the spot she swift returned
Where the poet sighed and yearned,
And she told him that he’d gone a little far.
“Your performance with this rhyme has
Made me absolutely sick,”
She remarked. “I think the time has
Come to kick!”
With descriptions of her rage—
(I might say that she went a bit too fur!)
When he smiled and murmured: “Shoo!”
“There is one thing I can do!”
She answered with a wrathful kind of purr.
“You may shoo me, and it suit you,
But I feel my conscience bid
Me, as tit for tat, to boot you!”
(Which she did.)
The Moral of the plot
(Though I say it, as should not!)
Is: An editor is difficult to suit.
But again there’re other times
When the man who fashions rhymes
Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot!
How Much Fortunatus Could
Do with a Cap
Fortunatus, a fisherman Dane,
Set out on a sudden for Spain,
Because, runs the story,
He’d met with a hoary
Mysterious sorcerer chap,
Who, trouble to save him,
Most thoughtfully gave him
A magical traveling cap.
I barely believe that the story is true,
But here’s what that cap was reported to do.
Suppose you were sitting at home,
And you wished to see Paris or Rome,
You’d pick up that bonnet,
You’d carefully don it,
The name of the city you’d call,
And the very next minute
By Jove, you were in it,
Without having started at all!
One moment you sauntered on upper Broadway,
And the next on the Corso or rue de la Paix!