CLORINDA
A Fable for Heiresses
Above the plate-glass window-pane,
Inviting every passing gaze,
Hung an inscription, large and plain,
“The Husband Shop.” This, in amaze,
Clorinda seeing, stopped wide-eyed,
And stared, then turned and stepped inside.
A floor-walker whose faultlessness
And condescending air proclaimed
One of the table d’haute noblesse,
Approached Clorinda and exclaimed,
With graceful undulating palm:
“Something in husbands? Oui, Madame.”
“We have the latest thing of all
In husbands; kindly step this way.
We’re using them on hats this fall,
In place of plume or floral spray,
The creature being pinned or tied
With chiffon bows on either side.”
He leads the way, all wreathed in smiles,
And wonderful in spotless spats
That flitter like twin butterflies
Along an avenue of hats,
Each one displaying on its brim
A husband—fashion’s latest whim.
Clorinda tries them each in turn
Before the glass; some are too small,
And some too cold, and some too stern,
And some are slightly soiled, and all,
When punctured by the hat-pin’s steel,
Betray by squirms how bored they feel.
At last Clorinda came to one
Marked “Dibbs,” that scarce seemed worth
her while;
But when she tried it on for fun,
It met the hat-pin with a smile,
As if to say, “Oh, beauteous miss,
Even a stab from you is bliss!”
“The very thing! but thrown away
Upon a hat!” Clorinda cried.
“’Twould make a sweet corsage bouquet.”
The shoppers stared electrified,
To see Clorinda Dibbs depart
Wearing a husband next her heart.
Alcibiades J. Skinner
Was a famous after-dinner
Speaker. Great the way
He secured, just by excelling
In the art of Story Telling,
One good meal a day.
Chestnuts more than often passé
He exchanged for Marrons Glacés,
Canvasback and Quail.
Flat the feast and dull the dinner
Lacking that accomplished Spinner
Of Postprandial Tale.
Every mail brought invitations:
Teas and luncheons and collations,
Dinners without end.
No one to a Formal Function
Such impressiveness, such unction,
Such éclat could lend.
At that gruesomest of gruesome
Rites, The Banquet tendered to some
Literary Light,
None could say with such conviction,
“We have Snooks of Snappy Fiction
In our midst To-night.”
How he said it made no matter;
Shaft of Wit or Broadway Patter
Meets with like acclaim.
Latest Mot or Jest Historic,
To the dinner guest plethoric
It is all the same.
When he said, “This moment finds me
Unprepared,” or, “That reminds me,”
There would be a hum
Of expectance, or a rippling
As though Daniel (or Kipling)
Had to Judgment come.
Alas for Fame! As A. J. Skinner
Put it at the Author’s Dinner,
“Fame’s a fickle Jade!”
Had he then an intimation
That his own wide reputation
Was ere long to fade?
From that day his after-dinner
Stories thinner grew and thinner.
Sorry was his case.
Rare the dinner invitation,
Rarer still the lunch—Starvation
Stared him in the face.
One day as his eye was wandering
O’er a map, he fell to pondering:
“If I cross the Main,
Somewhere ’twixt the Poles and Tropics
I may find some brand new Topics
For my food campaign!”
So one Friday A. J. Skinner
Bought a passage and an “Inner”
On a sailing ship;
Not for sport or relaxation,
Not for rest or recreation—
’Twas a business trip.
Fatal trip, had he but known it!
Or a Fortune Teller shown it
Written on his palm!—
How one morning bright and sunny,
With a breeze as soft as honey,
And a sea as calm—
Somewhere in the South Pacific
There would spring up a terrific
Tropical typhoon—
Smite their helpless ship and bear it
On a mountain wave and tear it
Like a Toy Balloon.
Luckily for Mr. Skinner,
When she sank he was not in her.
Clinging to a Spar,
Being, too, an expert swimmer,
Soon he saw the breakers’ glimmer
On a sandy bar.
Lucky, did I say? Appalling
Choice of words! Would you when crawling
Up a Sandbank gritty,
On firm land a foothold winning,
Call it luck to meet a grinning
Cannibal Committee?
Well, to make a long narration
Shorter (by abbreviation),
Soon as he was sighted
Alcibiades J. Skinner
To a most select Shore Dinner
Was at once invited.
Never had the South Pacific
Witnessed such a beatific
Banquet as was here.
Never was such mirth unbounded
As when that far beach resounded
With unwonted cheer.
Epicures on South Sea beaches
Waste no time on Toasts and Speeches;
Happy dreams had they.
In their midst was A. J. Skinner,
Most nutritious After-Dinner
Speaker of his day.
Apropos de Rien
It is not fair to visit all
The blame on Eve, for Adam’s fall;
The most Eve did was to display
Contributory negligé.
Said Farmer Dole to his speckled hen,
“Why don’t you lay for me now and then?”
Said the speckled hen to Farmer Dole,
“Because I’ve taken up birth control.”
Grim Giant Graft sate in his cavern dim;
A king’s reward was offered for him dead.
He scowled to think it could not come to him,
That price upon his head.
Of all his foes he dreaded only one,
A knight of stalwart heart and spotless fame,
Who feared no creature underneath the sun—
Sir Ippykin his name.
One night to Ippykin there came a thought—
A mocking thought, that whispered in his ear:
“Ah, ha, Sir Knight! men say thou fearest naught;
They lie—thou fearest Fear!
“Fear smites you when you read the king’s decree
That whatsoever knight shall rid the land
Of Giant Graft will gain a golden fee,
Likewise his daughter’s hand.
“You fear to win, for fear that you must wed
The princess—for you love another maid;
You dare not lose the fight because you dread
Lest men call you afraid.”
Cried Ippykin, “Lord, how shall I cut through
This tangled coil?” Then of a sudden laughed
A gleeful laugh, and rose and hied him to
The cave of Giant Graft.
No chronicler was present to reveal
What passed between the knight and Giant Graft;
Or what the bargain was the which to seal
So many horns they quaffed.
But this is sure—thereafter from the lands
Of Ippykin once every week would stray
Certain fat sheep into the Giant’s hands
In some mysterious way;
And once a week the giant and the knight
Would chase each other round in seeming strife,
Until the king grew weary of the sight,
And pensioned both for life.
The New York Police Force is to be instructed in psychology.—News Item.
One morn, as Robert Ristwatch Rice
Sped Childsward for his midday meal,
Upon his shoulder, like a vise,
He felt a grip of steel.
And in his ear a voice there hissed
(With spirits fraught, and crime),
And something snapped around his wrist
That did not tell the time.
“I’ve pinched yer now!” (devoid of tact
Was Sergeant Fay). “For shame!
Yer Hun! I caught yer in the act
Insultin’ that there dame!
“That skirt there in the showy lid,
And muff of classy fur.”
“My word!” cried Robert Rice, “I did
Not even speak to her.”
“What’s words to me, just froth and foam!
I’m a psycholic guy—
I lamp yer thoughts inside yer dome
With my subconscious eye!”
“Then you should know,” said Rice, “I’m a
Misogynist!”—“By Gee!
That settles you!” cried Sergeant Fay;
“You come along with me.”
Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill
Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress
Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill
Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.
Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill
His Brush refused to work his Will.
“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes
I can not paint to-day,” he said;
“Their Brightness shames the very Skies
And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”
Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies
And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”
Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,
Not dreaming of such Treachery,
Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,
“Without the Light, how can one See?”
“If you are sure that none can see
I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.
It was Mrs. Seymour Fentolin who stood there, a little dog
under each arm; a large hat, gay with flowers, upon her
head. She wore patent shoes with high heels, and white silk
stockings. She had, indeed, the air of being dressed for
luncheon at a fashionable restaurant.
From a story in The Popular Magazine.
The lauded lilies of the field
Who toil not—neither do they spin,
The palm sartorial must yield
To Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.
A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs!
Not even Solomon could win
The championship for showy togs
From Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.
The two extremes in décolleté,
Of ballroom and of bathing beach,
Here meet in a bewildering way
And mingle all the charms of each.
I am no social butter-in,
I do not crave to meet her bunch,
But where does Mrs. Fentolin,
If one might venture—take her lunch?
And might one ask that peerless dame,
Without appearing impolite,
Is Seymour really her first name,
And has the printer spelt it right?
I
The Devil seeking some new way
To kill eternity, one day
(So bored he was, in Hades)
Flew to Manhattan Isle to start
A Summer School to teach the art
Of Smuggling to Ladies.
II
He opened in an uptown street
A Modiste’s shop refined and neat
(The number doesn’t matter),
Displaying in his window all
The Modes—Spring, Summer, Winter,
Fall
(Especially the latter).
III
The Ladies came in eager flocks,
And as he showed his Paris frocks,
With dext’rous verbal juggling,
He lightly led the talk from Modes
To Customs—and the law that goads
An honest girl to smuggling.
V
“We can begin at once, if you
Will step this way.” The giddy crew
Flocked after him like chickens
To where an effigy there hung
Of Uncle Sam with bells be-strung
Like Fagin’s doll in Dickens.
VI
The Devil then with money fills
The dummy’s pockets—gold and bills
And silver pieces mingling.
“Now try your skill! all you can take
Is yours, my dears, if you don’t shake
The bells and set them jingling.”
VII
The news flew round, and soon the crush
Was like a bargain-counter rush
Of Frantic Ladies struggling;
And soon the Devil was about
A hundred thousand dollars out
And closed his School of Smuggling.
VIII
Exclaiming, “I’m behind the age!”
He kicked the dummy in his rage.
“What’s this—the bells don’t jingle!”
And sure enough the bells were dumb.
Deftly inserted chewing gum
Had stopped their tingle-tingle.
IX
“Ho! ho!” he laughed, “’tis plain to see
New York is too advanced for me.
I should have stayed in Hades;
For who the devil, pray, am I
In this enlightened age to try
My wit against the Ladies!”
By his cold hearth, sans Youth, sans Mirth,
Sits poor old shivering Daddy Earth.
“Cheer up!” cried Spring, “I bring for you
The Spell of Youth: Gold—Silver—Blue.”
He danced, he sang: “Hail Spring divine!
Ethereal Spring—h’m—wine?—pine—shine?”
Too late the rhyme popped in his head;
“Be mine!” he sang—but Spring had fled.
The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean,
The Catfish I bewail.
I can not even think without emotion
Of his distressful tail.
When with my pencil once I tried to draw one,
(I dare not show it here)
Mayhap it is because I never saw one,
The picture looked so queer.
I vision him half feline and half fishy,
A paradox in twins,
Unmixable as vitriol and vichy—
A thing of fur and fins.
A feline Tantalus, forever chasing
His fishy self to rend;
His finny self forever self-effacing
In circles without end.
This tale may have a Moral running through it
As Æsop had in his;
If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it,
If you know what it is!
Once to a Centipede a Snail
Remarked, “I wonder why you trail
Along the ground with such a lot
of feet—a hundred, is it not?
A hundred feet! when two or three
Are all you need. Just look at me!
“The speed and ease with which I crawl,
And yet I have no feet at all!
In these days would it not be wise
For you to—well, to Hooferize?
You surely don’t need more than two
To get along! If I were you,
I’d use one pair and stand up straight,
And save the other ninety-eight
Against a rainy day.”
“Indeed
You’re right!” replied the Centipede.
“I’ve often thought, to do my part,
’Twould be advisable to start
A Feetless Day—but then, you see,
If I stood upright I should be
A hundred feet in height, and I
Might bump my head against the sky!”
“Well,” said the Snail, “I must admit
That puts a different face on it!
Your life depends on lying flat!
Dear! Dear! I hadn’t thought of that!”
Plain Black socks can never be wrong.
—The Gentleman of Letters
in “Vanity Fair.”
Lords of Fashion may disagree
On the question of questions, what to wear
At déjeuner, dinner, dance or tea,
“Feed informal” or “Smart affair.”
Let not the neophyte despair
Dreading disdain of the gilded throng
Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair
“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”
Let scribes sartorial decree
Whether the “skirt” shall be full or spare,
Whether the crease be above the knee,
Whether the seam shall be here or there.
Of the openwork sock with the clock beware!
On Fancy’s rein let your curb be strong!
Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,
“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”
Doubting dolts may be all at sea
Tossed on tempestuous waves of care.
Are they wearing two studs?—or one?—or three?
Will a satin tie cause a well bred stare?
Leave dressy deeds to dudes that dare!
Heed not the scented siren’s song
Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,
“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”
L’envoi
Princes of Fashion, wherever ye fare—
London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong,
Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair:
“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”
OTHER PEOPLE INCLUDING
MARK TWAIN
How splendid to have men’s attire treated by a gentleman and litterateur.—John Armstrong Chaloner.
Ah me! Had Horace when his muse was flagging,
But given laughing Lalage a rest,
And kept Mæcenas’ pantaloons from bagging,
(Whatever ’twas he wore below his vest.)
If when his frisky Pegasus he mounted,
He’d sung, instead of the eternal HER
The stylish HIM, he might have been accounted
A gentleman as well as litterateur.
If Shakespeare had abstained from malty liquors,
And spent the time (when not purloining plays)
In pressing Francis Bacon’s velvet knickers
He might thereby have gained a social raise.
If Tommy Moore when not devoutly pressing
His suit in amorous rhyme, had pressed instead
His patrons lordly “pants,” it is past guessing
What titles had been showered on his head.
Had Bobby Burns renounced his Highland lassies,
And tuned his pipes to “Gentlemen’s attire,”
He might in time have risen from the masses
And been addressed as Robert Burns, Esquire.
If Hall Caine—............................
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.....................................................
..................but why drag in Hall Caine?
Come, Chaloner, confess like a good feller
By “Gentleman and litterateur” you meant
The literary style of the Best Seller
And the strictly pure refinement of the Gent.
“The artists and writers were the first Americans to make themselves at home in this amusing Parisian resort. (The Old Café Martin.) And it was here, too, that women of the better class first tasted the delights of café life. It was considered quite a daring thing in the late eighties for be-cloaked and be-diamonded women of Fifth Avenue to sit here and sip their after-dinner coffee.”
Vanity Fair.
One of those queer, artistic dives,
Where funny people had their fling.
Artists, and writers, and their wives—
Poets, and all that sort of thing.
Here, too, to view the vulgar herd
And sip the daring demi-tasse—
Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-furred—
Came women of the better class.
With its Parisian atmosphere,
It had a Latin Quarter ring.
Painters and journalists came here—
Actors, and all that sort of thing.
Here, too, to watch the Great Ungroomed
And sip the dangerous demi-tasse,
Be-furred, be-feathered and be-plumed,
Came women of the better class.
Here Howells dined—Saint Gaudens, Nast,
Kipling, Mark Twain and Peter Dunne,
Nell Terry, and not least though last
One Robert Louis Stevenson.
And mingling with that underworld,
To sip the devilish demi-tasse,
Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-pearled,
Came women of the better class.
A Pipe Dream
Well I recall how first I met
Mark Twain—an infant barely three
Rolling a tiny cigarette
While cooing on his nurse’s knee.
Since then in every sort of place
I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,
Yet how can I describe his face?
I never saw it for the smoke.
At school he won a smokership,
At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)
His name was soon on every lip,
They made him “smoker” of his class.
Who will forget his smoking bout
With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—
When Mount Vesuvius went out
And didn’t smoke again for years?
The news was flashed to England’s King,
Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,
Offered him dukedoms—anything
To smoke the London fog away.
But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,
“To no imperial command,
No ducal coronet for me,
My smoke is for my native land!”
For Mark there waits a brighter crown!
When Peter comes his card to read—
He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,
Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.
Beneath a Fruitful Apple Tree
Sate Pompom, youth of high degree,
And Prince of Apple-Tartary;
While in the branches overhead
The apples blushed with rapture red,
As from a great book on his knees
He read of the Hesperides,
And how, to win the apples gold,
One Hercules, a Hero bold,
A hundred-headed Dragon shew.
“How brave! How wonderful! How true!”
Exclaimed the apples, flushed and red.
“That proves what we have always said:
We come of Ancient Pedigree!
We’re of the Applestocracy!
Our title cannot be denied.”
Whereat they swelled and swelled with Pride
Until their High and Mighty Air
Was more than Apple Tree could bear.
“Come!” cried the Tree, “you must vacate
My boughs—they will not bear your weight!”
Pride goes before a fall.
Alas!
Next morning, prone upon the grass,
Blushing for shame, the Apples lay,
And when Queen Pompom passed that way
She picked them up, and by and by
She made them into Apple Pie.
To the Tune of Tennyson
I burst upon the reader’s eye
With verbal trumpet blaring,
Proclaiming me the latest cry
In fictionary daring—
Vital, compelling, hectic, rare,
Heart-gripping, epoch-making!
A woman’s naked soul laid bare,
A climax record-breaking!
A quivering, pulsating plot,
The mystery of a red room,
A story to be read red hot
In boudoir, or bedroom,
An Eve, repentant, up to date,
Confesses what her fall meant;
You simply won’t know how to wait
Until the next installment.