Knocked spots out of Baedeker’s books!
He stepped from his doorway
Direct into Norway,
He hopped in a trice to Ceylon,
He saw Madagascar,
Went round by Alaska,
And called on a girl in Luzon:
If they said she’d be down in a moment or two,
He took, while he waited, a peek at Peru!
He could wake up at eight in Siam,
Take his tub, if he wanted, in Guam.
Eat breakfast in Kansas,
And lunch in Matanzas,
Go out for a walk in Brazil,
Take tea in Madeira,
Dine on the Riviera,
Go out to the theatre in Vladivostok,
And retire in New York at eleven o’clock!
Every tongue he could readily speak:
French, German, Italian, Greek,
Norwegian, Bulgarian,
Turkish, Bavarian,
Japanese, Hindustanee,
Russian and Mexican!
He was a lexicon,
Such as you seldom will see.
His knowledge linguistic gave Ollendorff fits,
And brought a hot flush to the face of Berlitz!
He would bow in an intimate way
To Menelik and to Loubet,
He was frequently beckoned,
By William the Second,
A word of advice to receive,
He talked with bravado
About the Mikado,
King Oscar, Oom Paul, the Khedive,
King Victor Emmanuel Second, the Shah,
King Edward the Seventh, Kwang Su, and the Czar!
His wife used to wait in the hall!
When this wandering mortal
Set foot on the portal,
She always appeared on the scene,
And, far from ideally,
Remarked: “Well, I really
Would like to know where you have been!”
Now what is the good of a wandering life,
If you have to tell all that you do to your wife?
She’d indulge in a copious cry,
She’d remark she’d undoubtedly die,
Or, like many another,
Go back to her mother,
And what would the world think of that?
She only grew pleasant,
When offered a present
Of gloves or a gown or a hat:
And more than his talisman saved him in fare
Fortunatus expended in putting things square!
And The Moral is easily said:
Like our hero, you’re certain to find,
When such a cap goes on a head,
Retribution will follow behind!
How a Princess Was Wooed
from Habitual Sadness
In days of old the King of Saxe
Had singular opinions,
For with a weighty battle-axe
He brutalized his minions,
And, when he’d nothing to employ
His mind, he chose a village,
And with an air of savage joy
Delivered it to pillage.
But what aroused within his breast
A rage well-nigh primeval
Was, most of all, his daughter, dressed
In fashion mediæval:
The gowns that pleased this maiden’s eye
Were simple as Utopia,
And for a hat she had a high
Inverted cornucopia.
Her sadness was abysmal:
The boisterous monarch found his child
Unutterably dismal.
He therefore said the prince who made
Her laughter from its shell come,
Besides in ducats being paid,
Might wed the girl, and welcome!
I ought to say, ere I forget,
She was uncommon comely—
(Who ever read a Grimm tale yet,
In which the girl was homely?)
And so the King’s announcement drew
Nine princes in a column.
But all in vain. The princess grew,
One read her “Innocents Abroad,”
The next wore clothes eccentric,
The third one swallowed half his sword,
As in the circus-tent trick.
Thus eight of them into her cool
Reserve but deeper shoved her:
There was but one authentic fool—
The prince who really loved her!
Of hope and deep abasement,
He caught distressing colds at night,
By watching ’neath her casement:
He did what I have done, I know,
And you, I do not doubt it,—
Instead of bottling up his woe,
He bored his friends about it!
In brooding on the ways of Fate
Long hours he daily wasted,
His food remained upon his plate,
’Twas scarcely touched or tasted:
He said the bitter things of love,
All lovers, save a few, say,
And learned by heart the verses of
Swinburne, and A. de Musset!
This attitude his wished-for bride
To silent laughter goaded,
Until he talked of suicide,
And then the girl exploded!
“You make me laugh, and so,” she said,
“I’ll marry you next season.”
(Not half the people who are wed
Have half so good a reason!)
Can never beat love’s barriers down:
’Tis better to be like the owl,
Comic because so grave a fowl.
From him we well may take our cue—
By him be taught, to wit, to woo!
How a Girl was too Reckless
of Grammar by Far
Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin,
Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;
Her general form was German,
By which I mean that you
Her waist could not determine
To within a foot or two:
And not only did she stammer,
But she used the kind of grammar
That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.
From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire
A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.
She was willing, she was active,
She was sober, she was kind,
But she never looked attractive
And she hadn’t any mind!
I knew her more than slightly,
And I treated her politely
When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind!
She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,
And threw with much composure
At an inoffensive osier
By a little waterfall;
Was like other people’s mowing,
And she never hit the willow-tree at all!
To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide,
And, before her eyes astounded,
On a fallen maple’s trunk
Ricochetted, and rebounded
In the rivulet, and sunk!
Matilda, greatly frightened,
In her grammar unenlightened,
Remarked: “Well now I ast yer! Who’d ’er thunk?”
But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose
A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.
He beheld her fright and frenzy,
And, her panic to dispel,
On his knee by Miss Mackenzie
He obsequiously fell.
With quite as much decorum
As a speaker in a forum
He started in his history to tell.
If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince;
For a fairy old and vicious
An enchantment round me spun!”
Then he looked up, unsuspicious,
And he saw what he had won,
And in terms of sad reproach he
Made some comments, sotto voce,*
* (Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)
“I never! Why, you forward thing! Now ain’t you awful bold!”
Just a glance he paused to give her,
And his head was seen to clutch,
Then he darted to the river,
And he dived to beat the Dutch!
While the wrathful maiden panted:
“I don’t think he was enchanted!”
(And he really didn’t look it overmuch!)
The Moral: In one’s language one conservative should be:
How the Peaceful Aladdin
Gave Way to His Madness
2098
His name was Aladdin.
The clothes he was clad in
Proclaimed him an Arab at sight,
And he had for a chum
An uncommonly rum
Old afreet, six cubits in height.
This person infernal,
Who seemed so fraternal,
At bottom was frankly a scamp:
His future to sadden,
He gave to Aladdin
A wonderful magical lamp.
He said if one rubbed it
One’s wishes were done on the spot.
Now what would you do
Were it offered to you?
Refuse it undoubtedly (not)!
It’s thus comprehensive
With pleasure extensive
Aladdin accepted the gift,
And, by it befriended,
Erected a splendid
Château, with a bath and a lift!
One year in his palace
He led a luxurious life,
Till his genius dread
Put it into his head
That he needed a beautiful wife.
Responding to friction,
The lamp this affliction
At once for Aladdin secured;
The latter, delighted,
Imagined he sighted
A future of quiet assured.
When gladly he chose her,
He didn’t suppose her
A philatelist, always agape
For novelties, yet
She had all of the set
Of triangular stamps of the Cape.
Some people malicious
Proclaimed her Mauritius
One-penny vermilion a sell.
But that was all rot. It
Was true she had got it,
And the tuppenny blue one as well!
As might be expected,
She didn’t for bric-à-brac care,
So she traded the lamp
For an Ecuador stamp
That somebody told her was rare!
This act served to madden
The mind of Aladdin,
But, ’spite of his impotent wrath,
His manor-house vanished,
To nothingness banished,
And while he was taking a bath!
Is hard as a scarab
When some one has wounded his pride,
So he jumped up and down,
With a cynical frown,
On the face of his beautiful bride!
He had picked up a cargo
Of curious argot
While living in Paris the gay;
In the slang of that city
He cried without pity:
“Comme ça tu me fich’ras la paix!”
Of risks you are reckless, and yet
Beware! If your face is once stepped on,
That’s the last stamp you’re likely to get!
How a Fisherman Corked
up His Foe in a Jar
A fisherman lived on the shore,
(It’s a habit that fishers affect,)
And his life was a hideous bore:
He had nothing to do but collect
Continual harvests of seaweed and shells,
Which he stuck upon photograph frames,
To sell to the guests in the summer hotels
With the quite inappropriate names!
Of the sea, and I know for a fact
From the pools with a portable dredge
He would curious creatures extract:
And, during the season, he always took lots
Of tourists out fishing for bass,
And showed them politely impossible spots,
In the culpable way of his class.
It happened one day, as afar
He roved on the glistening strand,
That he chanced on a curious jar,
Which lay on a hummock of sand.
It was closed at the mouth with a cork and a seal,
And over the top there was tied
A cloth, and the fisherman couldn’t but feel
That he ought to see what was inside.
When the stopper he held in his hand!
For a genie of singular size
Appeared in a trice on the sand,
Who said in the roughest and rudest of tones:
“A monster you’ve foolishly freed!
I shall simply make way with you, body and bones,
And that with phenomenal speed!”
The fisherman looked in his face,
And answered him boldly: “My friend,
How you ever were packed in that space
Is something I don’t comprehend.
Pray do me the favor to show me how you
Can do it, as large as you are.”
The genie retorted: “That’s just what I’ll do!”
And promptly reëntered the jar.
The fisherman corked him up tight:
The genie protested and raved,
But for all he accomplished, he might
As well all his shouting have saved.
And, whenever a generous bonus is paid,
The fisherman willingly tells
The singular tale of this trick that he played,
To the guests in the summer hotels.
The Moral: When fortune you strike,
And you’ve slipped through a dangerous crack,
Get as forward as ever you like,
But never, oh, never get back!
Envoi
Now don’t go and say you’d a dim
Idea of these stories before,
For I’ve frankly confessed them from Grimm,
The monarch of magical lore:
And if, by repeating, I took
Your time, I will candidly vow
This moral (the last in the book)
Has never been published till now!
The Moral: The skeleton’s Grimm,
But I have supplied the apparel,
So it’s fifty per cent, of it Him,
And it’s fifty per cent. of it Carryl.
But still (from the personal severing,
For it isn’t my nature to grump,)
I acknowledge a measure of Levering
Levering-ed the whole of the lump!