A child of nature curious
Was Charles Augustus Sprague;
He made his parents furious
Because he was so vague:
Although his age was nearly two
Eleven words were all he knew,
These sounded much as sounds the Dutch
That's spoken at The Hague.
A few of his errata
'Tis just I should avow,
He called his mother "Tata,"
And "moo" he dubbed a cow,
Nor was it altogether plain
Why "choo-choo" meant a railway train.
He called a cat "miouw," and that
No purist would allow.
Within his father's orchard
There stood, for all to see,
With branches bent and tortured,
An ancient apple tree:
That Charles Augustus Sprague might drowse
His mother on its swaying boughs
His cradle hung, and, while it swung,
She sang with energy.
A sudden blow arising
One day, the branches broke,
With suddenness surprising
The sleeping babe awoke,
And crashing down to earth he fell.
Ah me, that I should have to tell
The words that mild and genial child
On this occasion spoke!
His face convulsed and chequered
With passion and with tears,
He blotted out the record
Of both his speechless years:
His mother stupefied, aghast,
Heard Charles Augustus speak at last;
He opened wide his mouth and cried
These ill conditioned sneers.
"Sapristi! Accidente!
Perchance my speech is late,
But, be she two or twenty,
A nincompoop I hate!
What idiot said that woman's 'planned
To warn, to comfort, and command?'"
His words I quench. Excuse my French—
Je dis que tu m'embêtes!
The moral: Common clocks, we find,
In silence take a sudden wind,
But only heroes, as we know,
In silence take a sudden blow.
There was a man in our town,
Half beggar, half rapscallion,
Who, just because his eyes were brown,
Was thought to be Italian:
And, though with much insistence
He said that people erred,
And bitterly to Italy
He frequently referred,
The false report, as is the way
Of false reports, had come to stay!
So every one who'd been to Rome
By aid of Cook's or Gaze's,
Would call upon him at his home
To flaunt Italian phrases.
"Capite Questa lingua?"
The inquiry would be:
"Pochissimo? Benissimo!
Vi prego, ditemi,
Siete voi contento qua,
Lontano dall'Italia?"
The victim, plunged in deep disgust,
Grew nervous, could not slumber;
Said he, "I'm called Italian, just
Because my eyes are umber,
And if this persecution
Is ever to be stopped,
Some stern and stoic, hard, heroic
Course I must adopt!"
And so, to everyone's surprise,
He calmly scratched out both his eyes!
The neighbors said: "So strange a thing
Might seem to be an omen.
We thought his wits were wandering,
But now we know they're Roman!"
And so at him by legions,
By bevies, hosts, and herds,
Professors, purists, tramps, and tourists
Screamed Italian words.
Perceiving all he'd done was vain,
He scratched his eyesight in again.
The moral: If your neighbors say
You're one thing or another,
You'll find there isn't any way
Their prejudice to smother.
What matter if they think you
From Italy or Greece?
I beg you, treasure no displeasure:
Bow and hold your peace.
Like Omar, underneath the bow
You'll find there's paradise enow!
Upon a wall of medium height
Bombastically sat
A boastful boy, and he was quite
Unreasonably fat:
And what aroused a most intense
Disgust in passers-by
Was his abnormal impudence
In hailing them with "Hi!"
While by his kicks he loosened bricks
The girls to terrify.
When thus for half an hour or more
He'd played his idle tricks,
And wounded something like a score
Of people with the bricks,
A man who kept a fuel shop
Across from where he sat
Remarked: "Well, this has got to stop."
Then, snatching up his hat,
And sallying out, began to shout:
"Look here! Come down from that!"
The boastful boy to laugh began,
As laughs a vapid clown,
And cried: "It takes a bigger man
Than you to call me down!
This wall is smooth, this wall is high,
And safe from every one.
No acrobat could do what I
Had been and gone and done!"
Though this reviled, the other smiled,
And said: "Just wait, my son!"
Then to the interested throng
That watched across the way
He showed with smiling face a long
And slender Henry Clay,
Remarking: "In upon my shelves
All kinds of coal there are.
Step in, my friends, and help yourselves.
And he who first can jar
That wretched urchin off his perch
Will get this good cigar."
The throng this task did not disdain,
But threw with heart and soul,
Till round the youth there raged a rain
Of lumps of cannel-coal.
He dodged for all that he was worth,
Till one bombarder deft
Triumphant brought him down to earth,
Of vanity bereft.
"I see," said he, "that this is the
Coal day when I get left."
"WHILE BY KICKS HE LOOSENED BRICKS"
Within a little attic a retiring, but erratic
Old lady (six-and-eighty, to be frank),
Made sauces out of cranberry for all the town
of Banbury,
Depositing the proceeds in the bank.
Her tendency to thriftiness, her scorn of any
shiftiness
Built a bustling business, and in course
Of time her secret yearnings were revealed,
and all her earnings
She squandered in the purchase of a horse.
"I am not in a hurry for a waggonette or
surrey,"
She said. "In fact, I much prefer to ride."
And spite of all premonishment, to everyone's
astonishment,
The gay old lady did so—and astride!
Now this was most periculous, but, what was
more ridiculous,
The horse she bought had pulled a car,
and so,
The lazy steed to cheer up, she'd a bell upon
her stirrup,
And rang it twice to make the creature go!
I blush the truth to utter, but it seems a
pound of butter
And thirty eggs she had to sell. Of course,
In scorn of ways pedestrian, this fatuous
equestrian
To market gaily started on the horse.
Becoming too importunate to hasten, the un—
fortunate
Old lady plied her charger with a birch.
In view of all her cronies, this stupidest of
ponies
Fell flat before the Presbyterian church!
If it should chance that one set a red Italian
sunset
Beside a Beardsley poster, and a plaid
Like any canny Highlander's beside a Fiji
Islander's
Most variegated costume, and should add
A Turner composition, and with clever intuition,
To cap the climax, pile upon them all
The aurora borealis, then veracity, not malice,
Might claim a close resemblance to her fall.
At sight of her disaster, with arnica and plaster
The neighbors ran up eagerly to aid.
They cried: "Don't do that offen, ma'am, or
you will need a coffin, ma'am,
You've hurt your solar plexus, we're afraid.
We hope your martyrdom'll let you notice
what an omelette
You've made in half a jiffy. It is great!"
She only clutched her bonnet (she had fallen
flat upon it),
And answered: "Will you tell me if it's
straight?"
The moral's rather curious: for often the
penurious
Are apt to think old horses of account
If you would ride, then seek fine examples of
the equine,
And don't look on a molehill as a mount.
A maiden mouse of an arrogant mind
Had three little swains and all were blind.
The reason for this I do not know,
But I think it was love that made them so,
For without demur they bowed to her,
Though she treated them all with a high hauteur.
She ruled them, schooled them, frequently fooled them,
Snubbed, tormented, and ridiculed them:
Mice as a rule are much like men,
So they swallowed their pride and called again.
The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind
To morbid romance was much inclined.
The reason for this I have not learned,
But I think by novels her head was turned.
She said that the chap who dared to nap
One hour inside of the farmer's trap
Might gain her, reign her, wholly enchain her,
Woo her, win her, and thence retain her!
Hope ran high in each suitor's breast,
And all determined to stand the test.
The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind
Laughed when she saw them thus confined.
The reason for this I can't proclaim,
But I know some girls who'd have done the same!
As thus they kept to their word, and slept,
The farmer's wife to the pantry stept:
She sought them, caught them, carefully brought them
Out to the light, and there she taught them
How that chivalry often fails,
By calmly cutting off all their tails!
The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind
Treated her swains in a way unkind.
The reason for this is not complex:
That's always the way with the tender sex.
With impudent hails she cried: "What ails
You all, and where are your splendid tails?"
She jeered so, sneered so, flouted and fleered so,
Giggled, and altogether appeared so
Lacking in heart, that her slaves grew bored,
And threw up the sponge of their own accord.
The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind
Watched and waited, and peaked and pined.
The reason for this, I beg to state,
Is all summed up in the words Too Late!
The moral intwined is: Love is blind,
But he never leaves all his wits behind:
You may beat him, cheat him, often defeat him,
Though he be true with torture treat him:
One of these days you'll be bereft,
You think you're right, but you'll find you're left.
The Sprats were four in number,
Including twins in kilts:
All day Jack carted lumber,
All day his wife made quilts.
Thus heartlessly neglected
Twelve hours in twenty-four,
As might have been expected,
The twins sat on the floor:
And all the buttons, I should state,
They chanced to find, they promptly ate.
This was not meat, but still it's true
We did the same when we were two.
The wife (whose name was Julia)
Maintained an ample board,
But one thing was peculiar,
Lean meat she quite abhorred.
Here also should be stated
Another fact: 'tis that
Her spouse abominated
The very taste of fat.
This contrast curious of taste
Precluded any thought of waste,
For all they left of any meal
No self-respecting dog would steal.
No generous table d'hôte meal,
No dainties packed in tins,
But only bowls of oatmeal
They gave the wretched twins;
And yet like princes pampered
Had lived those babes accursed,
Could they have fed unhampered:—
I have not told the worst!
Since nothing from the dining-room
Was left to feed the cook and groom,
It seems that these domestics cruel
Were led to steal the children's gruel!
The twins, all hopes resigning,
And wounded to the core,
Confined themselves to dining
On buttons off the floor.
No passionate resentment
The docile babes displayed:
Each day in calm contentment
Three hearty meals they made.
And daily Jack and Mrs. Sprat
Ate all the lean and all the fat,
And every day the groom and cook
The children's meal contrived to hook.
But when the twins grew older,
As twins are apt to do,
And, shoulder touching shoulder,
Sat Sundays in their pew.
They saw no Christian glory
In parting with a dime,
And in the offertory
Dropped buttons every time.
Said they: "What's good enough for Sprats
Is good enough for heathen brats."
(I most sincerely wish I knew
What was the heathen's point of view.)
The moral: Anecdotes abound
Of buttons in collections found.
Thus on the wheels of progress go,
And heathens reap what Christians sew!
Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting
Had only three passions in life,
And one of the trio was hunting,
The others his babe and his wife:
And always, so rigid his habits,
He frolicked at home until two,
And then started hunting for rabbits,
And hunted till fall of the dew.
Belinda Bellonia Bunting,
Thus widowed for half of the day,
Her duty maternal confronting,
With baby would patiently play.
When thus was her energy wasted
A patented food she'd dispense.
(She had bought it the day that they pasted
The posters all over her fence.)
But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting,
The infant thus blindly adored,
Replied to her worship by grunting,
Which showed he was brutally bored.
'Twas little he cared for the troubles
Of life. Like a crab on the sands,
From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles,
And threatened the air with his hands.
Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting
One night, as his wife let him in,
Produced as the fruit of his hunting
A cottontail's velvety skin,
Which, seeing young Bonaparte wriggle,
He gave him without a demur,
And the babe with an aqueous giggle
He swallowed the whole of the fur!
Belinda Bellonia Bunting
Behaved like a consummate loon:
Her offspring in frenzy confronting
She screamed herself mottled maroon:
She felt of his vertebræ spinal,
Expecting he'd surely succumb,
And gave him one vigorous, final,
Hard prod in the pit of his tum.
But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting,
At first but a trifle perplexed,
By a change in his manner of grunting
Soon showed he was terribly vexed.
He displayed not a sign of repentance
But spoke, in a dignified tone,
The only consecutive sentence
He uttered. 'Twas: "Lemme alone."
For hunger and thirst King Karl the First
Had a stoical, stern disdain:
The food that he ordered consistently bordered
On what is described as plain.
Much trouble his cook ambitiously took
To tickle his frugal taste,
But all of his savoury science and slavery
Ended in naught but waste.
Said the steward: "The thing to tempt the King
And charm his indifferent eye
No doubt is a tasty, delectable pasty.
Make him a blackbird pie!"
The cook at these words baked twenty-four birds,
And set them before the King,
And the two dozen odious, bold, and melodious
Singers began to sing.
The King in surprise said: "Dozens of pies
In the course of our life we've tried,
But never before us was served up a chorus
Like this that we hear inside!"
With a thunderous look he ordered the cook
And the steward before him brought,
And with a beatified smile: "He is satisfied!"
Both of these innocents thought.
"Of sinners the worst," said Karl the First,
"Is the barbarous ruffian that
A song-bird would slaughter, unless for his daughter
Or wife he is trimming a hat.
We'll punish you so for the future you'll know
That from mercy you can't depart.
Observe that your lenient, kind, intervenient
King has a tender heart!"
He saw that the cook in a neighboring brook
Was drowned (as he quite deserved),
And he ordered the steward at once to be skewered.
(The steward was much unnerved.)
"It's a curious thing," said the merciful King,
"That monarchs so tender are,
So oft we're affected that we have suspected that
We are too kind by far."
The moral: The mercy of men and of Kings
Are apt to be wholly dissimilar things.
In spite of "The Merchant of Venice," we're pained
To note that the quality's sometimes strained.
"SHE PLUCKED HIM WITH RELENTLESS FROWN"
A gander dwelt upon a farm
And no one could resist him,
For had he died, such was his charm,
His neighbors would have missed him:
His scorn for any loud display,
His cheerful hissing day by day,
Would win your heart in such a way
You almost could have kissed him.
This bird was always nosing 'round.
Most patiently he waited
Until an open door he found,
And then investigated.
He loved to poke, he loved to peek,
In every knothole, so to speak,
He quickly thrust his prying beak,
For what was hid he hated.
The farm exhausted: "Now," said he:
"My policy's expansion.
When one's convinced how things should be
The proper course he can't shun.
His mind made up, he followed it,
Relying on his native wit,
And soon had wandered, bit by bit,
Through all his master's mansion.
"At least," he said: "It's not my fault
If everything's not seen to:
I've gone from garret down to vault,
And glanced into the lean-to.
In every room I've chanced to stop;
A supervising glance to drop,
I've looked below, I've looked on top,
Behind, and in between, too!"
One thing alone he found to blame,
As thus his time he squandered,
For, seeing not the farmer's dame,
Into her room he wandered,
And mounting nimbly on the bed:
"Why, bless my careful soul!" he said:
"These pillows are as hard as lead.
Now, how comes that?" he pondered.
The farmer's dame for half an hour
Had watched the bird meander,
And finding him within her power,
She leaped upon the gander.
"Why, how de do, my gander coy?"
She shouted: "What will be my joy
To dream to-night on you, my boy!"
(This was no baseless slander.)
For with a stoutish piece of string
Securely was this fool tied,
And by a leg and by a wing
Unto an oaken stool tied:
While, pinning towels around her gown,
She plucked him with relentless frown,
And stuffed the pillows with his down,
And roasted him for Yuletide.
The moral is: When you explore
Don't try to be superior:
Be cautious, and retire before
Your safety grows inferior.
'Tis best to stay upon the coast,
Or some day you will be like most
Of all that bold exploring host
That's gone to the interior.
THE END