BY THE SEA

OLE LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find;In theBookmanfor September, in a manner most unkind,There appears a half-page picture, makes me thinkI've lost my mind.They have reproduced a window,—Doxey's window (I dare sayIn your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day),—As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore,And a little book of verses with its betters by the score,With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before.Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am.Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb.I was never out of Boston; all that I can say is, "Damn!"Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark,With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark,When I soloed onTHE CHAP-BOOK, and you answered withTHE LARK!Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing?"Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring.Publishers may dread extinction—not with such fads on the string."There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new.These young people who are restless, and have nothing else to do,Like to think there is 'a movement,' just to keep themselves in view."There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name.People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame;And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve,Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now,Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow;All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard,To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard;Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned:"Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;Poems doubtless are immortal where a poem can be discerned!"How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!How he'll wish his vogue were greater,—plume himself it is no worse;Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!Don't I know how he will pose it, patronize our larger time:"Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"Just let me have half an hour with that nincompoop sublime!I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear:"O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here."Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been toldOf the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap-Books that we sold?Where are all our first editions?" I feel damp and full of mould.Bliss Carman.

OLE LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find;In theBookmanfor September, in a manner most unkind,There appears a half-page picture, makes me thinkI've lost my mind.

OLE LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find;

In theBookmanfor September, in a manner most unkind,

There appears a half-page picture, makes me think

I've lost my mind.

They have reproduced a window,—Doxey's window (I dare sayIn your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day),—As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."

They have reproduced a window,—Doxey's window (I dare say

In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day),—

As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."

There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore,And a little book of verses with its betters by the score,With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before.

There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore,

And a little book of verses with its betters by the score,

With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before.

Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am.Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb.I was never out of Boston; all that I can say is, "Damn!"

Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am.

Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb.

I was never out of Boston; all that I can say is, "Damn!"

Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark,With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark,When I soloed onTHE CHAP-BOOK, and you answered withTHE LARK!

Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark,

With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark,

When I soloed onTHE CHAP-BOOK, and you answered withTHE LARK!

Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing?"Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring.Publishers may dread extinction—not with such fads on the string.

Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing?

"Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring.

Publishers may dread extinction—not with such fads on the string.

"There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new.These young people who are restless, and have nothing else to do,Like to think there is 'a movement,' just to keep themselves in view.

"There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new.

These young people who are restless, and have nothing else to do,

Like to think there is 'a movement,' just to keep themselves in view.

"There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name.People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame;And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."

"There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name.

People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame;

And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve,Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve,

Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,

In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now,Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow;All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now,

Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow;

All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."

But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard,To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard;Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard,

To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard;

Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned:"Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;Poems doubtless are immortal where a poem can be discerned!"

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned:

"Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;

Poems doubtless are immortal where a poem can be discerned!"

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!How he'll wish his vogue were greater,—plume himself it is no worse;Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!

How he'll wish his vogue were greater,—plume himself it is no worse;

Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

Don't I know how he will pose it, patronize our larger time:"Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"Just let me have half an hour with that nincompoop sublime!

Don't I know how he will pose it, patronize our larger time:

"Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"

Just let me have half an hour with that nincompoop sublime!

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear:"O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here.

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;

When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear:

"O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here.

"Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been toldOf the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap-Books that we sold?Where are all our first editions?" I feel damp and full of mould.Bliss Carman.

"Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been told

Of the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap-Books that we sold?

Where are all our first editions?" I feel damp and full of mould.

Bliss Carman.

Mutatis Mutandis

IS it life or is it death?A whiff of the cool salt scum,As the whole sea puffed its breathAgainst you,—blind and dumb:This way it answereth.Nearer the sands it showsSpotted and leprous tints;But stay! yon fisher knowsRock-tokens, which evinceHow high the tide arose.How high? In you and me'Twas falling then, I think;Open your heart's eyes, seeFrom just so slight a chinkThe chasm that now must be.You sighed and shivered then.Blue ecstasies of JuneAround you, shouts of fishermen,Sharp wings of sea gulls, soonTo dip—the clock struck ten!Was it the cup too full,To carry it you grewToo faint, the wine's hue dull(Dulness, misjudged untrue!),Love's flower unfit to cull?You should have held me fastOne moment, stopped my pace.Crushed down the feeble, vastSuggestions of embrace,And so be crowned at last.But now! Bare-legged and brownBait-diggers delve the sand,Tramp i' the sunshine downBurnt-ochre vestured land,And yonder stares the town.A heron screams! I shutThis book of scurf and scum,Its final pages uncut;The sea-beast, blind and dumb,Done with his bellowing? All but!Bayard Taylor.

IS it life or is it death?A whiff of the cool salt scum,As the whole sea puffed its breathAgainst you,—blind and dumb:This way it answereth.

IS it life or is it death?

A whiff of the cool salt scum,

As the whole sea puffed its breath

Against you,—blind and dumb:

This way it answereth.

Nearer the sands it showsSpotted and leprous tints;But stay! yon fisher knowsRock-tokens, which evinceHow high the tide arose.

Nearer the sands it shows

Spotted and leprous tints;

But stay! yon fisher knows

Rock-tokens, which evince

How high the tide arose.

How high? In you and me'Twas falling then, I think;Open your heart's eyes, seeFrom just so slight a chinkThe chasm that now must be.

How high? In you and me

'Twas falling then, I think;

Open your heart's eyes, see

From just so slight a chink

The chasm that now must be.

You sighed and shivered then.Blue ecstasies of JuneAround you, shouts of fishermen,Sharp wings of sea gulls, soonTo dip—the clock struck ten!

You sighed and shivered then.

Blue ecstasies of June

Around you, shouts of fishermen,

Sharp wings of sea gulls, soon

To dip—the clock struck ten!

Was it the cup too full,To carry it you grewToo faint, the wine's hue dull(Dulness, misjudged untrue!),Love's flower unfit to cull?

Was it the cup too full,

To carry it you grew

Too faint, the wine's hue dull

(Dulness, misjudged untrue!),

Love's flower unfit to cull?

You should have held me fastOne moment, stopped my pace.Crushed down the feeble, vastSuggestions of embrace,And so be crowned at last.

You should have held me fast

One moment, stopped my pace.

Crushed down the feeble, vast

Suggestions of embrace,

And so be crowned at last.

But now! Bare-legged and brownBait-diggers delve the sand,Tramp i' the sunshine downBurnt-ochre vestured land,And yonder stares the town.

But now! Bare-legged and brown

Bait-diggers delve the sand,

Tramp i' the sunshine down

Burnt-ochre vestured land,

And yonder stares the town.

A heron screams! I shutThis book of scurf and scum,Its final pages uncut;The sea-beast, blind and dumb,Done with his bellowing? All but!Bayard Taylor.

A heron screams! I shut

This book of scurf and scum,

Its final pages uncut;

The sea-beast, blind and dumb,

Done with his bellowing? All but!

Bayard Taylor.

I,ANGELO, obese, black-garmented,Respectable, much in demand, well fedWith mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed,Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top.Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling dropOf sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nestsWhich my recondite recipe investsWith cold conglomerate tidbits—ah, the bill!(You say), but given it were mine to fillMy chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day),And you've an eye to luxuries, what harmIn smoothing down your palate with the charmYourself concocted? There we issue take;And see! as thus across the rim I breakThis puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chapsAnd craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;But that's my secret. Find me such a manAs Lippo yonder, built upon the planOf heavy storage, double-navelled, fatFrom his own giblet's oils, an AraratUplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughtsFrom Noah's vineyard,—crisp, enticing waftsYon kitchen now emits, which to your senseSomewhat abate the fear of old events,Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slowUnnecessary duties to forego,—You understand? A venison haunch,haut gout.Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew.And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provokeTo taste, and so we wear the complex yokeJust as it suits,—my liking, I confess,More to receive, and to partake no less,Still more obese, while through thick adiposeSensation shoots, from testing tongue to toesFar off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge,Where the froth-whispers of its waves emergeOn the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seatIs bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.Bayard Taylor.

I,ANGELO, obese, black-garmented,

Respectable, much in demand, well fed

With mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed,

Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,

Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top.

Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop

Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests

Which my recondite recipe invests

With cold conglomerate tidbits—ah, the bill!

(You say), but given it were mine to fill

My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say

(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day),

And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm

In smoothing down your palate with the charm

Yourself concocted? There we issue take;

And see! as thus across the rim I break

This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,

So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps

And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;

But that's my secret. Find me such a man

As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan

Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat

From his own giblet's oils, an Ararat

Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts

From Noah's vineyard,—crisp, enticing wafts

Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense

Somewhat abate the fear of old events,

Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slow

Unnecessary duties to forego,—

You understand? A venison haunch,haut gout.

Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew.

And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke

To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke

Just as it suits,—my liking, I confess,

More to receive, and to partake no less,

Still more obese, while through thick adipose

Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes

Far off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge,

Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge

On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat

Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

Bayard Taylor.

PRE-ADMONISHETH the writer:H'm, for a subject it is well enough!Who wrote "Sordello" finds no subject tough.Well, Jack and Jill—God knows the life they led(The poet never told us, more's the pity)Pent up in some damp kennel of their own,Beneath the hillside; but it once befellThat Jack and Jill, niece, cousin, uncle, aunt(Some one of all the brood), would wash and scour,Rinse out a cess-pit, swab the kennel floor,And water (liquor vitae, Lawson calls,But I—I hold by whisky. Never mind;I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, sir,And missed the scrap o' blue at buttonhole),Spring water was the needful at the time,So they must climb the hill for 't. Well and good.We all climb hills, I take it, on some quest,Maybe for less than stinking (I forgot!I mean than wholesome) water. . . . Ferret outThe rotten bucket from the lumber shed,Weave ropes and splice the handle—off they goTo where the cold spring bubbles up i' the cleft,And sink the bucket brimful in the spate.Then downwards—hanging back? (You bet your lifeThe girl's share fell upon Jack's shoulders.) Down,Down to the bottom—all but—trip, slip, squelch!And guggle-guggle goes the bucketfulBack to the earth, and Jack's a broken head,And swears amid the heather does our Jack.(A man would swear who watched both blood and bucket,One dripping down his forehead, t' other fledClinkety-tinkle, to the stones below,A good half-hour's trudge to get it back.)Jack, therefore, as I said, exploded straightIn brimstone-flavored language. You, of course,Maintain he bore it calmly—not a bit.A good bucolic curse that rent the cliffsAnd frightened for a moment quaking JillOut of the limp, unmeaning girl's tee-heeThat womankind delight in. . . . Here we endThe first verse—there's a deal to study in 't.So much for Jack—but here's a fate above,A cosmic force that blunders into right,Just when the strained sense hints at revolutionBecause the world's great fly-wheel runs aslant—And up go Jill's red kibes. (You think I'm wrong;And Fate was napping at the time; perhapsYou're right.) We'll call it Devil's agencyThat sent the shrieking sister on her head,And knocked the tangled locks against the stones.Well, down went Jill, but wasn't hurt. Oh, no!The Devil pads the world to suit his own,And packs the cards according. Down went JillUnhurt. And Jack trots off to bed, poor brute,Fist welted into eyeball, mouth agapeFor yelling,—your bucolic always yells,And out of his domestic pharmacyRips forth the cruet-stand, upsets the cat,And ravages the store-room for his balm.Eureka!—but he didn't use that word—A pound of candles, corpse-like, side by side,Wrapped up in his medicament. Out, knife!Cut string, and strip the shrouding from the lot!Steep swift and jam it on the gaping cut;Then bedward—cursing man and friends alike.Now back to Jill. She wasn't hurt, I said,And all the woman's spite was up in arms.So Jack's abed. She slips, peeks through the door,And sees the split head like a luggage-label,Halved, quartered, on the pillow. "Ee-ki-ree,Tee-hee-hee-hee," she giggles through the crack,Much as the Roman ladies grinned—don't smile—To see the dabbled bodies in the sand,Appealing to their benches for a sign.Down thumbs, and giggle louder—so did Jill.But mark now! Comes the mother round the door,Red-hot from climbing up the hill herself,And caught the graceless giggler. Whack! flack! whack!Here's Nemesis whichever way you like!She didn't stop to argue. Given a headBroken, a woman chuckling at the door,And here's your circumstantial evidence complete.Whack! while Jack sniffs and sniggers from the bed.I like that horny-handed mother o' Jill.The world's best women died, sir, long ago.Well, Jack's avenged; as for the other, gr-r-r-r!Rudyard Kipling.

PRE-ADMONISHETH the writer:H'm, for a subject it is well enough!Who wrote "Sordello" finds no subject tough.

PRE-ADMONISHETH the writer:

H'm, for a subject it is well enough!

Who wrote "Sordello" finds no subject tough.

Well, Jack and Jill—God knows the life they led(The poet never told us, more's the pity)Pent up in some damp kennel of their own,Beneath the hillside; but it once befellThat Jack and Jill, niece, cousin, uncle, aunt(Some one of all the brood), would wash and scour,Rinse out a cess-pit, swab the kennel floor,And water (liquor vitae, Lawson calls,But I—I hold by whisky. Never mind;I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, sir,And missed the scrap o' blue at buttonhole),Spring water was the needful at the time,So they must climb the hill for 't. Well and good.We all climb hills, I take it, on some quest,Maybe for less than stinking (I forgot!I mean than wholesome) water. . . . Ferret outThe rotten bucket from the lumber shed,Weave ropes and splice the handle—off they goTo where the cold spring bubbles up i' the cleft,And sink the bucket brimful in the spate.Then downwards—hanging back? (You bet your lifeThe girl's share fell upon Jack's shoulders.) Down,Down to the bottom—all but—trip, slip, squelch!And guggle-guggle goes the bucketfulBack to the earth, and Jack's a broken head,And swears amid the heather does our Jack.(A man would swear who watched both blood and bucket,

Well, Jack and Jill—God knows the life they led

(The poet never told us, more's the pity)

Pent up in some damp kennel of their own,

Beneath the hillside; but it once befell

That Jack and Jill, niece, cousin, uncle, aunt

(Some one of all the brood), would wash and scour,

Rinse out a cess-pit, swab the kennel floor,

And water (liquor vitae, Lawson calls,

But I—I hold by whisky. Never mind;

I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, sir,

And missed the scrap o' blue at buttonhole),

Spring water was the needful at the time,

So they must climb the hill for 't. Well and good.

We all climb hills, I take it, on some quest,

Maybe for less than stinking (I forgot!

I mean than wholesome) water. . . . Ferret out

The rotten bucket from the lumber shed,

Weave ropes and splice the handle—off they go

To where the cold spring bubbles up i' the cleft,

And sink the bucket brimful in the spate.

Then downwards—hanging back? (You bet your life

The girl's share fell upon Jack's shoulders.) Down,

Down to the bottom—all but—trip, slip, squelch!

And guggle-guggle goes the bucketful

Back to the earth, and Jack's a broken head,

And swears amid the heather does our Jack.

(A man would swear who watched both blood and bucket,

One dripping down his forehead, t' other fledClinkety-tinkle, to the stones below,A good half-hour's trudge to get it back.)Jack, therefore, as I said, exploded straightIn brimstone-flavored language. You, of course,Maintain he bore it calmly—not a bit.A good bucolic curse that rent the cliffsAnd frightened for a moment quaking JillOut of the limp, unmeaning girl's tee-heeThat womankind delight in. . . . Here we endThe first verse—there's a deal to study in 't.

One dripping down his forehead, t' other fled

Clinkety-tinkle, to the stones below,

A good half-hour's trudge to get it back.)

Jack, therefore, as I said, exploded straight

In brimstone-flavored language. You, of course,

Maintain he bore it calmly—not a bit.

A good bucolic curse that rent the cliffs

And frightened for a moment quaking Jill

Out of the limp, unmeaning girl's tee-hee

That womankind delight in. . . . Here we end

The first verse—there's a deal to study in 't.

So much for Jack—but here's a fate above,A cosmic force that blunders into right,Just when the strained sense hints at revolutionBecause the world's great fly-wheel runs aslant—And up go Jill's red kibes. (You think I'm wrong;And Fate was napping at the time; perhapsYou're right.) We'll call it Devil's agencyThat sent the shrieking sister on her head,And knocked the tangled locks against the stones.Well, down went Jill, but wasn't hurt. Oh, no!The Devil pads the world to suit his own,And packs the cards according. Down went JillUnhurt. And Jack trots off to bed, poor brute,Fist welted into eyeball, mouth agapeFor yelling,—your bucolic always yells,And out of his domestic pharmacyRips forth the cruet-stand, upsets the cat,And ravages the store-room for his balm.Eureka!—but he didn't use that word—A pound of candles, corpse-like, side by side,Wrapped up in his medicament. Out, knife!Cut string, and strip the shrouding from the lot!Steep swift and jam it on the gaping cut;Then bedward—cursing man and friends alike.

So much for Jack—but here's a fate above,

A cosmic force that blunders into right,

Just when the strained sense hints at revolution

Because the world's great fly-wheel runs aslant—

And up go Jill's red kibes. (You think I'm wrong;

And Fate was napping at the time; perhaps

You're right.) We'll call it Devil's agency

That sent the shrieking sister on her head,

And knocked the tangled locks against the stones.

Well, down went Jill, but wasn't hurt. Oh, no!

The Devil pads the world to suit his own,

And packs the cards according. Down went Jill

Unhurt. And Jack trots off to bed, poor brute,

Fist welted into eyeball, mouth agape

For yelling,—your bucolic always yells,

And out of his domestic pharmacy

Rips forth the cruet-stand, upsets the cat,

And ravages the store-room for his balm.

Eureka!—but he didn't use that word—

A pound of candles, corpse-like, side by side,

Wrapped up in his medicament. Out, knife!

Cut string, and strip the shrouding from the lot!

Steep swift and jam it on the gaping cut;

Then bedward—cursing man and friends alike.

Now back to Jill. She wasn't hurt, I said,And all the woman's spite was up in arms.So Jack's abed. She slips, peeks through the door,And sees the split head like a luggage-label,Halved, quartered, on the pillow. "Ee-ki-ree,Tee-hee-hee-hee," she giggles through the crack,Much as the Roman ladies grinned—don't smile—To see the dabbled bodies in the sand,

Now back to Jill. She wasn't hurt, I said,

And all the woman's spite was up in arms.

So Jack's abed. She slips, peeks through the door,

And sees the split head like a luggage-label,

Halved, quartered, on the pillow. "Ee-ki-ree,

Tee-hee-hee-hee," she giggles through the crack,

Much as the Roman ladies grinned—don't smile—

To see the dabbled bodies in the sand,

Appealing to their benches for a sign.Down thumbs, and giggle louder—so did Jill.But mark now! Comes the mother round the door,Red-hot from climbing up the hill herself,And caught the graceless giggler. Whack! flack! whack!Here's Nemesis whichever way you like!She didn't stop to argue. Given a headBroken, a woman chuckling at the door,And here's your circumstantial evidence complete.Whack! while Jack sniffs and sniggers from the bed.I like that horny-handed mother o' Jill.The world's best women died, sir, long ago.Well, Jack's avenged; as for the other, gr-r-r-r!Rudyard Kipling.

Appealing to their benches for a sign.

Down thumbs, and giggle louder—so did Jill.

But mark now! Comes the mother round the door,

Red-hot from climbing up the hill herself,

And caught the graceless giggler. Whack! flack! whack!

Here's Nemesis whichever way you like!

She didn't stop to argue. Given a head

Broken, a woman chuckling at the door,

And here's your circumstantial evidence complete.

Whack! while Jack sniffs and sniggers from the bed.

I like that horny-handed mother o' Jill.

The world's best women died, sir, long ago.

Well, Jack's avenged; as for the other, gr-r-r-r!

Rudyard Kipling.

THE Jam-pot—tender thought!I grabbed it—so did you."What wonder while we foughtTogether that it flewIn shivers?" you retort.You should have loosed your holdOne moment—checked your fist.But, as it was, too boldYou grappled and you missed.More plainly—you were sold."Well, neither of us sharedThe dainty." That your plea?"Well, neither of us cared,"I answer. . . . "Let me see.How have your trousers fared?"Rudyard Kipling.

THE Jam-pot—tender thought!I grabbed it—so did you."What wonder while we foughtTogether that it flewIn shivers?" you retort.

THE Jam-pot—tender thought!

I grabbed it—so did you.

"What wonder while we fought

Together that it flew

In shivers?" you retort.

You should have loosed your holdOne moment—checked your fist.But, as it was, too boldYou grappled and you missed.More plainly—you were sold.

You should have loosed your hold

One moment—checked your fist.

But, as it was, too bold

You grappled and you missed.

More plainly—you were sold.

"Well, neither of us sharedThe dainty." That your plea?"Well, neither of us cared,"I answer. . . . "Let me see.How have your trousers fared?"Rudyard Kipling.

"Well, neither of us shared

The dainty." That your plea?

"Well, neither of us cared,"

I answer. . . . "Let me see.

How have your trousers fared?"

Rudyard Kipling.

BIRTHDAYS? yes, in a general way;For the most if not for the best of men.You were born (I suppose) on a certain day,So was I; or perhaps in the night, what then?Only this: or at least, if moreYou must know, not think it, and learn, not speak;There is truth to be found on the unknown shore,And many will find where few will seek.For many are called and few are chosen,And the few grow many as ages lapse.But when will the many grow few; what dozenIs fused into one by Time's hammer-taps?A bare brown stone in a babbling brook,—It was wanton to hurl it there, you say,—And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook(Yet the stream runs cooler) is washed away.That begs the question; many a praterThinks such a suggestion a sound "stop thief!"Which, may I ask, do you think the greater,Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?And if it were not so? Still you doubt?Ah! yours is a birthday indeed, if so.That were something to write a poem about,If one thought a little. I only know.

BIRTHDAYS? yes, in a general way;For the most if not for the best of men.You were born (I suppose) on a certain day,So was I; or perhaps in the night, what then?

BIRTHDAYS? yes, in a general way;

For the most if not for the best of men.

You were born (I suppose) on a certain day,

So was I; or perhaps in the night, what then?

Only this: or at least, if moreYou must know, not think it, and learn, not speak;There is truth to be found on the unknown shore,And many will find where few will seek.

Only this: or at least, if more

You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak;

There is truth to be found on the unknown shore,

And many will find where few will seek.

For many are called and few are chosen,And the few grow many as ages lapse.But when will the many grow few; what dozenIs fused into one by Time's hammer-taps?

For many are called and few are chosen,

And the few grow many as ages lapse.

But when will the many grow few; what dozen

Is fused into one by Time's hammer-taps?

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook,—It was wanton to hurl it there, you say,—And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook(Yet the stream runs cooler) is washed away.

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook,—

It was wanton to hurl it there, you say,—

And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook

(Yet the stream runs cooler) is washed away.

That begs the question; many a praterThinks such a suggestion a sound "stop thief!"Which, may I ask, do you think the greater,Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

That begs the question; many a prater

Thinks such a suggestion a sound "stop thief!"

Which, may I ask, do you think the greater,

Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

And if it were not so? Still you doubt?Ah! yours is a birthday indeed, if so.That were something to write a poem about,If one thought a little. I only know.

And if it were not so? Still you doubt?

Ah! yours is a birthday indeed, if so.

That were something to write a poem about,

If one thought a little. I only know.

P. S.

There's a Me Society down at Cambridge,Where my works,cum notis variorum,Are talked about; well, I require the same bridgeThat Euclid took toll at as Asinorum.And, as they have got through several dittiesI thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall,I've composed the above, and a stiff one it is,A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.J. K. Stephen.

There's a Me Society down at Cambridge,Where my works,cum notis variorum,Are talked about; well, I require the same bridgeThat Euclid took toll at as Asinorum.

There's a Me Society down at Cambridge,

Where my works,cum notis variorum,

Are talked about; well, I require the same bridge

That Euclid took toll at as Asinorum.

And, as they have got through several dittiesI thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall,I've composed the above, and a stiff one it is,A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.J. K. Stephen.

And, as they have got through several ditties

I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall,

I've composed the above, and a stiff one it is,

A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.

J. K. Stephen.

(From her Point of View)

WHEN I had firmly answered "No,"And he allowed that that was so,I really thought I should be freeFor good and all from Mr. B.,And that he would soberly acquiesce.I said that it would be discreetThat for awhile we should not meet;I promised that I would always feelA kindly interest in his weal;I thanked him for his amorous zeal;In short, I said all I could but "yes."I said what I'm accustomed to;I acted as I always do.I promised he should find in meA friend,—a sister, if that might be;But he was still dissatisfied.He certainly was most polite;He said exactly what was right,He acted very properly,Except indeed for this, that heinsisted on inviting meTo come with him for "one more last ride."A little while in doubt I stood:A ride, no doubt, would do me good;I had a habit and a hatExtremely well worth looking at;The weather was distinctly fine.My horse, too, wanted exercise,And time, when one is riding, flies;Besides, it really seemed, you see,The only way of ridding meOf pertinacious Mr. B.;So my head I graciously incline.I won't say much of what happened next;I own I was extremely vexed.Indeed I should have been aghastIf any one had seen what passed;But nobody need ever knowThat, as I leaned forward to stir the fire,He advanced before I could well retire;And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm,The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm,An embrace in which I found no charm;I was awfully glad when he let me go.Then we began to ride; my steedWas rather fresh, too fresh indeed,And at first I thought of little, saveThe way to escape an early grave,As the dust rose up on either side.My stern companion jogged alongOn a brown old cob both broad and strong.He looked as he does when he's writing verse,Or endeavoring not to swear and curse,Or wondering where he has left his purse;Indeed it was a sombre ride.I spoke of the weather to Mr. B.,But he neither listened nor spoke to me.I praised his horse, and I smiled the smileWhich was wont to move him once in a while.I said I was wearing his favorite flowers,But I wasted my words on the desert air,For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare.I wonder what he was thinking about.As I don't read verse, I shan't find out.It was something subtle and deep, no doubt,A theme to detain a man for hours.Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S.So nearly induced me to whisper "yes;"And here it was that the next but oneProposed on horseback, or would have done,Had his horse not most opportunely shied;Which perhaps was due to the unseen flickHe received from my whip; 't was a scurvy trick,But I never could do with that young man,—I hope his present young woman can.Well, I must say, never, since time began,Did I go for a duller or longer ride.He never smiles and he never speaks;He might go on like this for weeks;He rolls a slightly frenzied eyeTowards the blue and burning sky,And the cob bounds on with tireless stride.If we aren't home for lunch at twoI don't know what papa will do;But I know full well he will say to me,"I never approved of Mr. B.;It's the very devil that you and heRide, ride together, forever ride."J. K. Stephen.

WHEN I had firmly answered "No,"

And he allowed that that was so,

I really thought I should be free

For good and all from Mr. B.,

And that he would soberly acquiesce.

I said that it would be discreet

That for awhile we should not meet;

I promised that I would always feel

A kindly interest in his weal;

I thanked him for his amorous zeal;

In short, I said all I could but "yes."

I said what I'm accustomed to;I acted as I always do.I promised he should find in meA friend,—a sister, if that might be;But he was still dissatisfied.He certainly was most polite;He said exactly what was right,He acted very properly,Except indeed for this, that heinsisted on inviting meTo come with him for "one more last ride."

I said what I'm accustomed to;

I acted as I always do.

I promised he should find in me

A friend,—a sister, if that might be;

But he was still dissatisfied.

He certainly was most polite;

He said exactly what was right,

He acted very properly,

Except indeed for this, that he

insisted on inviting me

To come with him for "one more last ride."

A little while in doubt I stood:A ride, no doubt, would do me good;I had a habit and a hatExtremely well worth looking at;The weather was distinctly fine.My horse, too, wanted exercise,And time, when one is riding, flies;Besides, it really seemed, you see,The only way of ridding meOf pertinacious Mr. B.;So my head I graciously incline.

A little while in doubt I stood:

A ride, no doubt, would do me good;

I had a habit and a hat

Extremely well worth looking at;

The weather was distinctly fine.

My horse, too, wanted exercise,

And time, when one is riding, flies;

Besides, it really seemed, you see,

The only way of ridding me

Of pertinacious Mr. B.;

So my head I graciously incline.

I won't say much of what happened next;I own I was extremely vexed.Indeed I should have been aghastIf any one had seen what passed;But nobody need ever knowThat, as I leaned forward to stir the fire,He advanced before I could well retire;And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm,The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm,An embrace in which I found no charm;I was awfully glad when he let me go.

I won't say much of what happened next;

I own I was extremely vexed.

Indeed I should have been aghast

If any one had seen what passed;

But nobody need ever know

That, as I leaned forward to stir the fire,

He advanced before I could well retire;

And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm,

The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm,

An embrace in which I found no charm;

I was awfully glad when he let me go.

Then we began to ride; my steedWas rather fresh, too fresh indeed,And at first I thought of little, saveThe way to escape an early grave,As the dust rose up on either side.My stern companion jogged alongOn a brown old cob both broad and strong.He looked as he does when he's writing verse,Or endeavoring not to swear and curse,Or wondering where he has left his purse;Indeed it was a sombre ride.

Then we began to ride; my steed

Was rather fresh, too fresh indeed,

And at first I thought of little, save

The way to escape an early grave,

As the dust rose up on either side.

My stern companion jogged along

On a brown old cob both broad and strong.

He looked as he does when he's writing verse,

Or endeavoring not to swear and curse,

Or wondering where he has left his purse;

Indeed it was a sombre ride.

I spoke of the weather to Mr. B.,But he neither listened nor spoke to me.I praised his horse, and I smiled the smileWhich was wont to move him once in a while.I said I was wearing his favorite flowers,But I wasted my words on the desert air,For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare.I wonder what he was thinking about.As I don't read verse, I shan't find out.It was something subtle and deep, no doubt,A theme to detain a man for hours.

I spoke of the weather to Mr. B.,

But he neither listened nor spoke to me.

I praised his horse, and I smiled the smile

Which was wont to move him once in a while.

I said I was wearing his favorite flowers,

But I wasted my words on the desert air,

For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare.

I wonder what he was thinking about.

As I don't read verse, I shan't find out.

It was something subtle and deep, no doubt,

A theme to detain a man for hours.

Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S.So nearly induced me to whisper "yes;"And here it was that the next but oneProposed on horseback, or would have done,Had his horse not most opportunely shied;Which perhaps was due to the unseen flickHe received from my whip; 't was a scurvy trick,But I never could do with that young man,—I hope his present young woman can.Well, I must say, never, since time began,Did I go for a duller or longer ride.

Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S.

So nearly induced me to whisper "yes;"

And here it was that the next but one

Proposed on horseback, or would have done,

Had his horse not most opportunely shied;

Which perhaps was due to the unseen flick

He received from my whip; 't was a scurvy trick,

But I never could do with that young man,—

I hope his present young woman can.

Well, I must say, never, since time began,

Did I go for a duller or longer ride.

He never smiles and he never speaks;He might go on like this for weeks;He rolls a slightly frenzied eyeTowards the blue and burning sky,And the cob bounds on with tireless stride.If we aren't home for lunch at two

He never smiles and he never speaks;

He might go on like this for weeks;

He rolls a slightly frenzied eye

Towards the blue and burning sky,

And the cob bounds on with tireless stride.

If we aren't home for lunch at two

I don't know what papa will do;But I know full well he will say to me,"I never approved of Mr. B.;It's the very devil that you and heRide, ride together, forever ride."J. K. Stephen.

I don't know what papa will do;

But I know full well he will say to me,

"I never approved of Mr. B.;

It's the very devil that you and he

Ride, ride together, forever ride."

J. K. Stephen.

HI! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist?Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay—Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due—Promising—not to pay?

HI! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!

Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist?

Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay—

Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due—

Promising—not to pay?

For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand;Burst worst fate's weight's in one burst gun?A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land?Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer!Reef points, though—understand?

For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand;

Burst worst fate's weight's in one burst gun?

A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land?

Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer!

Reef points, though—understand?

I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes!Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged—Clogged, water-logged, her load!

I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!

Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes!

Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;

Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged—

Clogged, water-logged, her load!

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away.No show now how best plough sea's brow,Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean,With twinkling wrinkles—eh?

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away.

No show now how best plough sea's brow,

Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,

Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean,

With twinkling wrinkles—eh?

Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles lightShells' bells—boy's joys that hap to snap!It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spiteGod's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge—Not proper, is it—quite?

Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles light

Shells' bells—boy's joys that hap to snap!

It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spite

God's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge—

Not proper, is it—quite?

See, fore and aft, life's craft undone!Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea's lark!That gray cold sea's old sprees, begunWhen men lay dark i' the ark, no spark,All water—just God's fun!

See, fore and aft, life's craft undone!

Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea's lark!

That gray cold sea's old sprees, begun

When men lay dark i' the ark, no spark,

All water—just God's fun!

Not bright, at best, his jest to theseSeemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed pleaseSome dumb new grim great whim in himMade Jews take chalk for cheese.

Not bright, at best, his jest to these

Seemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!

When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed please

Some dumb new grim great whim in him

Made Jews take chalk for cheese.

Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowlsBobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face!None heard, 'tis odds, his—God's—folk's howls.Now, how must I apply, to tryThis hookiest-beaked of owls?

Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowls

Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face!

None heard, 'tis odds, his—God's—folk's howls.

Now, how must I apply, to try

This hookiest-beaked of owls?

Well, I suppose God knows—I don't.Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripesBroad as fen's lands men's hands were wontLeave grieve unploughed, though proud and loudWith birds' words—No! he won't!

Well, I suppose God knows—I don't.

Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripes

Broad as fen's lands men's hands were wont

Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud

With birds' words—No! he won't!

One never should think good impossible.Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse—His shop might hold bright gold, engrossibleBy spy—spring's air takes there no careTo wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!

One never should think good impossible.

Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse—

His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible

By spy—spring's air takes there no care

To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!

But gold bells chime in time there, coined—Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—'Read my screed!'Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined(Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth—At once all three purloined!

But gold bells chime in time there, coined—

Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—'Read my screed!'

Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined

(Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth—

At once all three purloined!

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)John's shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout!Let yet the door gape, store on floorAnd not a soul about?

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,

(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)

John's shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout!

Let yet the door gape, store on floor

And not a soul about?

Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I'mWeak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know!But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn—you spawnOf Jewry! Just in time!Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I'm

Weak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know!

But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.

Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn—you spawn

Of Jewry! Just in time!

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

NATURE, continuous Me!Saltness, and vigorous, never torpi-yeast of Me!Florid, unceasing, forever expansive;Not Schooled, not dizened, not washed and powdered;Strait-laced not at all; far otherwise than polite;Not modest, nor immodest;Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt;Ultimate yet unceasing; capricious though determined;Speak as thou listeth, and tell the askers that which they seek to know.Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible.Never mind! utter thy wild commonplaces;Yawp them loudly, shrilly;Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos.Answer in precise terms of barbaric vaguenessThe question that the Fun editor hath sparked through Atlantic cableTo W..T W..TM.N, the speaker of the pass-word primeval;The signaller of the signal of democracy;The seer and hearer of things in general;The poet translucent; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined;Each tag and part of whom is a miracle.(Thirteen pages of MS. relating to Mr. W..t W..tm.n are here omitted.)Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not;That is not, being past; that is, being eternal;If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question.Anonymous.

NATURE, continuous Me!

Saltness, and vigorous, never torpi-yeast of Me!

Florid, unceasing, forever expansive;

Not Schooled, not dizened, not washed and powdered;

Strait-laced not at all; far otherwise than polite;

Not modest, nor immodest;

Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt;

Ultimate yet unceasing; capricious though determined;

Speak as thou listeth, and tell the askers that which they seek to know.

Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible.

Never mind! utter thy wild commonplaces;

Yawp them loudly, shrilly;

Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos.

Answer in precise terms of barbaric vagueness

The question that the Fun editor hath sparked through Atlantic cable

To W..T W..TM.N, the speaker of the pass-word primeval;

The signaller of the signal of democracy;

The seer and hearer of things in general;

The poet translucent; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined;

Each tag and part of whom is a miracle.

(Thirteen pages of MS. relating to Mr. W..t W..tm.n are here omitted.)

Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not;

That is not, being past; that is, being eternal;

If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question.

Anonymous.

EVERYWHERE, everywhere, following me;Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows;Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle;Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges;Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit;Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible;Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring Paumanok;What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing.Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me;Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature;And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over.Whatever they want I give; though it be something else, they shall have it.Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionnaire,And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same,Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes,Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders,Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad whenever they hear it;Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it:Everywhere, everywhere.Bayard Taylor.

EVERYWHERE, everywhere, following me;

Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows;

Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle;

Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges;

Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit;

Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible;

Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring Paumanok;

What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing.

Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me;

Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature;

And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over.

Whatever they want I give; though it be something else, they shall have it.

Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionnaire,

And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same,

Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes,

Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders,

Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad whenever they hear it;

Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it:

Everywhere, everywhere.

Bayard Taylor.

WHO am I?I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;—Or otherwise!Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara!Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh!I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot!Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine cañons of the future!We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble babble—die!Serve them right.What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?Start not! 'Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query;'Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald,No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess-work.I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language.I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country).I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him.He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first!I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City.I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers;Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream.I sing all—I eat all—I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem's Antibilious Pills.No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature's poet.I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails.It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean.It is a great and glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds!And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman;This must be so, for he says it himself.There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun.There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head.Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman,Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the nameJudy.Judy.

WHO am I?

I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;—

Or otherwise!

Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara!

Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh!

I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot!

Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.

We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine cañons of the future!

We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble babble—die!

Serve them right.

What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?

Start not! 'Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query;

'Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald,

No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess-work.

I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language.

I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country).

I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him.

He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first!

I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City.

I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers;

Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream.

I sing all—I eat all—I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem's Antibilious Pills.

No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature's poet.

I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails.

It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean.

It is a great and glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds!

And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman;

This must be so, for he says it himself.

There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun.

There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head.

Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman,

Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the nameJudy.

Judy.

THE clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest-holder,The whistle of the railway guard despatching the train to the inevitable collision,The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal,The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural;All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your ribs re-echo with.But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.J. K. Stephen.

THE clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest-holder,

The whistle of the railway guard despatching the train to the inevitable collision,

The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal,

The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural;

All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your ribs re-echo with.

But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.

J. K. Stephen.

SAID a poet to a woodlouse, "Thou art certainly my brother;I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole;And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother,In the colors shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul."Yea," the poet said, "I smell thee by some passive divination,I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house;What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion,Had the æons thought of making thee a man and me a louse."The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion,Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test,Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question,And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best."Man the fleshly marvel always feels a certain kind of awe stickTo the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight;Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic,On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate.""Notwithstanding which, O poet," spake the woodlouse, very blandly,"I am likewise the created,—I the equipoise of thee;I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lieThe inane of measured ages that were embryos of me."I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences,And the air I breathe is colored with apocalyptic blush;Ripest-budded odors blossom out of dim chaotic stenches,And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush."I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings,Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee;And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs,Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy."And I sacrifice, a Levite; and I palpitate, a poet;Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things?Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of her heroic;Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursed me? Look! approve me! I have wings."Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like,And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod;We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight,And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God."For he grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunder-storms,Shimmers up the non-existence round the churning feet of angels;And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms."Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song."Eyes once purged from homebred vapors through humanitarian passionSee that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism;Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration,Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism."Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode,Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink;All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd,While he makes his mundane music—and He will not stop, I think."Algernon Charles Swinburne.

SAID a poet to a woodlouse, "Thou art certainly my brother;

I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole;

And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother,

In the colors shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul.

"Yea," the poet said, "I smell thee by some passive divination,I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house;What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion,Had the æons thought of making thee a man and me a louse.

"Yea," the poet said, "I smell thee by some passive divination,

I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house;

What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion,

Had the æons thought of making thee a man and me a louse.

"The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion,Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test,Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question,And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best.

"The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion,

Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test,

Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question,

And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best.

"Man the fleshly marvel always feels a certain kind of awe stickTo the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight;Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic,On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate."

"Man the fleshly marvel always feels a certain kind of awe stick

To the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight;

Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic,

On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate."

"Notwithstanding which, O poet," spake the woodlouse, very blandly,"I am likewise the created,—I the equipoise of thee;I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lieThe inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.

"Notwithstanding which, O poet," spake the woodlouse, very blandly,

"I am likewise the created,—I the equipoise of thee;

I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lie

The inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.

"I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences,And the air I breathe is colored with apocalyptic blush;Ripest-budded odors blossom out of dim chaotic stenches,And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.

"I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences,

And the air I breathe is colored with apocalyptic blush;

Ripest-budded odors blossom out of dim chaotic stenches,

And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.

"I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings,Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee;And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs,Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.

"I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings,

Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee;

And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs,

Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.

"And I sacrifice, a Levite; and I palpitate, a poet;Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things?Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of her heroic;Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursed me? Look! approve me! I have wings.

"And I sacrifice, a Levite; and I palpitate, a poet;

Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things?

Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of her heroic;

Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursed me? Look! approve me! I have wings.

"Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like,And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod;We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight,And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.

"Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like,

And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod;

We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight,

And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.

"For he grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunder-storms,Shimmers up the non-existence round the churning feet of angels;And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.

"For he grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,

Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunder-storms,

Shimmers up the non-existence round the churning feet of angels;

And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.

"Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.

"Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;

Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?

For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,

Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.

"Eyes once purged from homebred vapors through humanitarian passionSee that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism;Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration,Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.

"Eyes once purged from homebred vapors through humanitarian passion

See that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism;

Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration,

Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.

"Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode,Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink;All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd,While he makes his mundane music—and He will not stop, I think."Algernon Charles Swinburne.

"Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode,

Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink;

All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd,

While he makes his mundane music—and He will not stop, I think."

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

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