THE FATE OF PIOUS DAN

ZACK BUMSTEAD useter flosserfizeAbout the ocean an’ the skies;An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noonAbout the other side the moon;An’ ’bout the natur of the placeTen miles beyend the end of space.An’ if his wife she’d ask the crankEf he wouldn’t kinder try to yankHisself out-doors an’ git some woodTo make her kitchen fire good,So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfizeAbout the natur an’ the sizeOf angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,An’ wonder how they make ’em flop.He’d calkerlate how long a skid’Twould take to move the sun, he did;An’ if the skid was strong an’ prime,It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the loutEf he wouldn’t kinder waltz aboutAn’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,Then lettin’ out the lots to rent,So’s he could make an honest cent.An’ if he’d find it pooty toughTo borry cash fer fencin’-stuff?An’ if ’twere best to take his wealthAn’ go to Europe for his health,Or save his cash till he’d enoughTo buy some more of fencin’-stuff;Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gumpEf he wouldn’t kinder try to humpHisself to t’other side the door,So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,He’d look at her with mournful eyes,An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize’Bout what it wuz held up the skies,An’ how God made this earthly ballJest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ formOf nawthin’ that he made it from.Then, ef his wife sh’d ask the freakEf he wouldn’t kinder try to sneakOut to the barn an’ find some aigs,He’d never move, nor lift his laigs;He’d never stir, nor try to rise,But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfizeAbout the earth, an’ sea, an’ skies,An’ scratch his head, an’ ask the causeOf w’at there wuz before time wuz,An’ w’at the universe ’d doBimeby w’en time hed all got through;An’ jest how fur we’d have to climbEf we sh’d travel out er time;An’ ef we’d need, w’en we got there,To keep our watches in repair.Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gawkEf he wouldn’t kinder try to walkTo where she had the table spread,An’ kinder git his stomach fed,He’d leap for that ar kitchen door,An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”An’ when he’d got his supper et,He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,An’ fold his arms, an’ shet his eyes,An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.Samuel Walter Foss.

ZACK BUMSTEAD useter flosserfize

About the ocean an’ the skies;

An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noon

About the other side the moon;

An’ ’bout the natur of the place

Ten miles beyend the end of space.

An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank

Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to yank

Hisself out-doors an’ git some wood

To make her kitchen fire good,

So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,

He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfizeAbout the natur an’ the sizeOf angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,An’ wonder how they make ’em flop.He’d calkerlate how long a skid’Twould take to move the sun, he did;An’ if the skid was strong an’ prime,It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the loutEf he wouldn’t kinder waltz aboutAn’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the natur an’ the size

Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,

An’ wonder how they make ’em flop.

He’d calkerlate how long a skid

’Twould take to move the sun, he did;

An’ if the skid was strong an’ prime,

It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.

An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout

Ef he wouldn’t kinder waltz about

An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,

He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,Then lettin’ out the lots to rent,So’s he could make an honest cent.An’ if he’d find it pooty toughTo borry cash fer fencin’-stuff?An’ if ’twere best to take his wealthAn’ go to Europe for his health,Or save his cash till he’d enoughTo buy some more of fencin’-stuff;Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gumpEf he wouldn’t kinder try to humpHisself to t’other side the door,So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,He’d look at her with mournful eyes,An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,

Then lettin’ out the lots to rent,

So’s he could make an honest cent.

An’ if he’d find it pooty tough

To borry cash fer fencin’-stuff?

An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth

An’ go to Europe for his health,

Or save his cash till he’d enough

To buy some more of fencin’-stuff;

Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gump

Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to hump

Hisself to t’other side the door,

So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,

He’d look at her with mournful eyes,

An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize’Bout what it wuz held up the skies,An’ how God made this earthly ballJest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ formOf nawthin’ that he made it from.Then, ef his wife sh’d ask the freakEf he wouldn’t kinder try to sneakOut to the barn an’ find some aigs,He’d never move, nor lift his laigs;He’d never stir, nor try to rise,But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout what it wuz held up the skies,

An’ how God made this earthly ball

Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,

An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form

Of nawthin’ that he made it from.

Then, ef his wife sh’d ask the freak

Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak

Out to the barn an’ find some aigs,

He’d never move, nor lift his laigs;

He’d never stir, nor try to rise,

But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfizeAbout the earth, an’ sea, an’ skies,An’ scratch his head, an’ ask the causeOf w’at there wuz before time wuz,An’ w’at the universe ’d doBimeby w’en time hed all got through;An’ jest how fur we’d have to climbEf we sh’d travel out er time;An’ ef we’d need, w’en we got there,To keep our watches in repair.Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gawkEf he wouldn’t kinder try to walkTo where she had the table spread,An’ kinder git his stomach fed,He’d leap for that ar kitchen door,An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”An’ when he’d got his supper et,He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,An’ fold his arms, an’ shet his eyes,An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.Samuel Walter Foss.

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the earth, an’ sea, an’ skies,

An’ scratch his head, an’ ask the cause

Of w’at there wuz before time wuz,

An’ w’at the universe ’d do

Bimeby w’en time hed all got through;

An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb

Ef we sh’d travel out er time;

An’ ef we’d need, w’en we got there,

To keep our watches in repair.

Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gawk

Ef he wouldn’t kinder try to walk

To where she had the table spread,

An’ kinder git his stomach fed,

He’d leap for that ar kitchen door,

An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”

An’ when he’d got his supper et,

He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,

An’ fold his arms, an’ shet his eyes,

An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.

Samuel Walter Foss.

“RUN down and get the doctor—quick!”Cried Jack Bean with a whoop;“Run, Dan; for mercy’s sake, be quick!Our baby’s got the croup.”But Daniel shook his solemn head,His sanctimonious brow,And said: “I cannot go, for IMust read my Bible now;For I have regular hours to readThe Scripture for my spirit’s need.”Said Silas Gove to Pious Dan,“Our neighbour, ’Rastus Wright,Is very sick; will you come downAnd watch with him to-night?”“He has my sympathy,” says Dan,“And I would sure be there,Did I not feel an inward callTo spend the night in prayer.Some other man with Wright must stay;Excuse me, while I go and pray.”“Old Briggs has fallen in the pond!”Cried little ’Bijah Brown;“Run, Pious Dan, and help him out,Or else he sure will drown!”“I trust he’ll swim ashore,” said Dan,“But now my soul is awed,And I must meditate uponThe goodness of the Lord;And nothing merely temporal oughtTo interrupt my holy thought.”So Daniel lived a pious life,As Daniel understood,But all his neighbours thought he wasToo pious to be good;And Daniel died, and then his soul,On wings of hope elate,In glad expectancy flew upTo Peter’s golden gate.“Now let your gate wide open fly;Come, hasten, Peter! Here am I.”“I’m sorry, Pious Dan,” said he,“That time will not allow;But you must wait a space, for IMust read my Bible now.”So Daniel waited long and long,And Peter read all day.“Now, Peter, let me in,” he cried.Said Peter, “I must pray;And no mean temporal affairsMust ever interrupt my prayers.”Then Satan, who was passing by,Saw Dan’s poor shivering form,And said, “My man, it’s cold out here;Come down where it is warm.”The angel baby of Jack Bean,The angel ’Rastus Wright,And old Briggs, a white angel, too,All chuckled with delight;And Satan said, “Come, Pious Dan,For you are just my style of man.”Samuel Walter Foss.

“RUN down and get the doctor—quick!”

Cried Jack Bean with a whoop;

“Run, Dan; for mercy’s sake, be quick!

Our baby’s got the croup.”

But Daniel shook his solemn head,

His sanctimonious brow,

And said: “I cannot go, for I

Must read my Bible now;

For I have regular hours to read

The Scripture for my spirit’s need.”

Said Silas Gove to Pious Dan,“Our neighbour, ’Rastus Wright,Is very sick; will you come downAnd watch with him to-night?”“He has my sympathy,” says Dan,“And I would sure be there,Did I not feel an inward callTo spend the night in prayer.Some other man with Wright must stay;Excuse me, while I go and pray.”

Said Silas Gove to Pious Dan,

“Our neighbour, ’Rastus Wright,

Is very sick; will you come down

And watch with him to-night?”

“He has my sympathy,” says Dan,

“And I would sure be there,

Did I not feel an inward call

To spend the night in prayer.

Some other man with Wright must stay;

Excuse me, while I go and pray.”

“Old Briggs has fallen in the pond!”Cried little ’Bijah Brown;“Run, Pious Dan, and help him out,Or else he sure will drown!”“I trust he’ll swim ashore,” said Dan,“But now my soul is awed,And I must meditate uponThe goodness of the Lord;And nothing merely temporal oughtTo interrupt my holy thought.”

“Old Briggs has fallen in the pond!”

Cried little ’Bijah Brown;

“Run, Pious Dan, and help him out,

Or else he sure will drown!”

“I trust he’ll swim ashore,” said Dan,

“But now my soul is awed,

And I must meditate upon

The goodness of the Lord;

And nothing merely temporal ought

To interrupt my holy thought.”

So Daniel lived a pious life,As Daniel understood,But all his neighbours thought he wasToo pious to be good;And Daniel died, and then his soul,On wings of hope elate,In glad expectancy flew upTo Peter’s golden gate.“Now let your gate wide open fly;Come, hasten, Peter! Here am I.”

So Daniel lived a pious life,

As Daniel understood,

But all his neighbours thought he was

Too pious to be good;

And Daniel died, and then his soul,

On wings of hope elate,

In glad expectancy flew up

To Peter’s golden gate.

“Now let your gate wide open fly;

Come, hasten, Peter! Here am I.”

“I’m sorry, Pious Dan,” said he,“That time will not allow;But you must wait a space, for IMust read my Bible now.”So Daniel waited long and long,And Peter read all day.“Now, Peter, let me in,” he cried.Said Peter, “I must pray;And no mean temporal affairsMust ever interrupt my prayers.”

“I’m sorry, Pious Dan,” said he,

“That time will not allow;

But you must wait a space, for I

Must read my Bible now.”

So Daniel waited long and long,

And Peter read all day.

“Now, Peter, let me in,” he cried.

Said Peter, “I must pray;

And no mean temporal affairs

Must ever interrupt my prayers.”

Then Satan, who was passing by,Saw Dan’s poor shivering form,And said, “My man, it’s cold out here;Come down where it is warm.”The angel baby of Jack Bean,The angel ’Rastus Wright,And old Briggs, a white angel, too,All chuckled with delight;And Satan said, “Come, Pious Dan,For you are just my style of man.”Samuel Walter Foss.

Then Satan, who was passing by,

Saw Dan’s poor shivering form,

And said, “My man, it’s cold out here;

Come down where it is warm.”

The angel baby of Jack Bean,

The angel ’Rastus Wright,

And old Briggs, a white angel, too,

All chuckled with delight;

And Satan said, “Come, Pious Dan,

For you are just my style of man.”

Samuel Walter Foss.

HE was the Chairman of the GuildOf Early Pleiocene Patriarchs;He was chief Mentor of the LodgeOf the Oracular Oligarchs;He was the Lord High AutocratAnd Vizier of the Sons of Light,And Sultan and Grand MandarinOf the Millennial Men of Might.He was Grand Totem and High PriestOf the Independent Potentates;Grand Mogul of the GalaxyOf the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;The President of the Dandydudes,The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;The Leader of the Clubtown BandAnd Architects of Melody.

HE was the Chairman of the Guild

Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs;

He was chief Mentor of the Lodge

Of the Oracular Oligarchs;

He was the Lord High Autocrat

And Vizier of the Sons of Light,

And Sultan and Grand Mandarin

Of the Millennial Men of Might.

He was Grand Totem and High PriestOf the Independent Potentates;Grand Mogul of the GalaxyOf the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;The President of the Dandydudes,The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;The Leader of the Clubtown BandAnd Architects of Melody.

He was Grand Totem and High Priest

Of the Independent Potentates;

Grand Mogul of the Galaxy

Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;

The President of the Dandydudes,

The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;

The Leader of the Clubtown Band

And Architects of Melody.

She was Grand Worthy ProphetessOf the Illustrious Maids of Mark;Of Vestals of the Third DegreeShe was Most Potent Matriarch;She was High Priestess of the ShrineOf Clubtown’s Culture Coterie,And First Vice-President of the LeagueOf the Illustrious G. A. B.She was the First Dame of the ClubFor teaching Patagonians Greek,She was Chief Clerk and AuditorOf Clubtown’s Anti-Bachelor Clique;She was High Treasurer of the FundFor Borrioboolaghalians,And the Fund for Sending Browning’s PoemsTo Native-born Australians.

She was Grand Worthy Prophetess

Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark;

Of Vestals of the Third Degree

She was Most Potent Matriarch;

She was High Priestess of the Shrine

Of Clubtown’s Culture Coterie,

And First Vice-President of the League

Of the Illustrious G. A. B.

She was the First Dame of the ClubFor teaching Patagonians Greek,She was Chief Clerk and AuditorOf Clubtown’s Anti-Bachelor Clique;She was High Treasurer of the FundFor Borrioboolaghalians,And the Fund for Sending Browning’s PoemsTo Native-born Australians.

She was the First Dame of the Club

For teaching Patagonians Greek,

She was Chief Clerk and Auditor

Of Clubtown’s Anti-Bachelor Clique;

She was High Treasurer of the Fund

For Borrioboolaghalians,

And the Fund for Sending Browning’s Poems

To Native-born Australians.

Once to a crowded socialfêteBoth these much-titled people came,And each perceived, when introduced,They had the self-same name.Their hostess said, when first they met:“Permit me now to introduceMy good friend Mr. ClabberhuseTo Mrs. Clabberhuse.”“’Tis very strange,” said she to him,“Such an unusual name!—A name so very seldom heard,That we should bear the same.”“Indeed, ’tis wonderful,” said he,“And I’m surprised the more,Because I never heard the nameOutside my home before.“But now I come to look at you,”Said he, “upon my life,If I am not indeed deceived,You are—you are—my wife.”She gazed into his searching face,And seemed to look him through;“Indeed,” said she, “it seems to meYou are my husband, too.“I’ve been so busy with my clubs,And in my various spheres,I have not seen you now,” she said,“For over fourteen years.”“That’s just the way it’s been with me;These clubs demand a sight”—And then they both politely bowed,And sweetly said “Good-night.”Sam Walter Foss.

Once to a crowded socialfête

Both these much-titled people came,

And each perceived, when introduced,

They had the self-same name.

Their hostess said, when first they met:

“Permit me now to introduce

My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse

To Mrs. Clabberhuse.”

“’Tis very strange,” said she to him,“Such an unusual name!—A name so very seldom heard,That we should bear the same.”“Indeed, ’tis wonderful,” said he,“And I’m surprised the more,Because I never heard the nameOutside my home before.

“’Tis very strange,” said she to him,

“Such an unusual name!—

A name so very seldom heard,

That we should bear the same.”

“Indeed, ’tis wonderful,” said he,

“And I’m surprised the more,

Because I never heard the name

Outside my home before.

“But now I come to look at you,”Said he, “upon my life,If I am not indeed deceived,You are—you are—my wife.”She gazed into his searching face,And seemed to look him through;“Indeed,” said she, “it seems to meYou are my husband, too.

“But now I come to look at you,”

Said he, “upon my life,

If I am not indeed deceived,

You are—you are—my wife.”

She gazed into his searching face,

And seemed to look him through;

“Indeed,” said she, “it seems to me

You are my husband, too.

“I’ve been so busy with my clubs,And in my various spheres,I have not seen you now,” she said,“For over fourteen years.”“That’s just the way it’s been with me;These clubs demand a sight”—And then they both politely bowed,And sweetly said “Good-night.”Sam Walter Foss.

“I’ve been so busy with my clubs,

And in my various spheres,

I have not seen you now,” she said,

“For over fourteen years.”

“That’s just the way it’s been with me;

These clubs demand a sight”—

And then they both politely bowed,

And sweetly said “Good-night.”

Sam Walter Foss.

“OCOME and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen;“I love to soar, but thenI want my mate to restForever in the nest!”Said the Hen, “I cannot fly,I have no wish to try,But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone.“O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep;“My love for you is deep!I slay—a Lion should,But you are mild and good!”Said the Sheep, “I do no ill—Could not, had I the will;But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.“O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam;“You are not wise, but I am.I know sea and stream as well;You know nothing but your shell.”Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion,But my love is all devotion,And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.Charlotte Perkins (Stetson) Gilman.

“OCOME and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen;

“I love to soar, but then

I want my mate to rest

Forever in the nest!”

Said the Hen, “I cannot fly,

I have no wish to try,

But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!”

They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”

And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone.

“O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep;“My love for you is deep!I slay—a Lion should,But you are mild and good!”Said the Sheep, “I do no ill—Could not, had I the will;But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.

“O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep;

“My love for you is deep!

I slay—a Lion should,

But you are mild and good!”

Said the Sheep, “I do no ill—

Could not, had I the will;

But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.”

They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”

And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.

“O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam;“You are not wise, but I am.I know sea and stream as well;You know nothing but your shell.”Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion,But my love is all devotion,And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.Charlotte Perkins (Stetson) Gilman.

“O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam;

“You are not wise, but I am.

I know sea and stream as well;

You know nothing but your shell.”

Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion,

But my love is all devotion,

And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!”

They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”

And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.

Charlotte Perkins (Stetson) Gilman.

THE garden beds I wandered by,One bright and cheerful morn,When I found a new-fledged butterflyA-sitting on a thorn—A black and crimson butterfly,All doleful and forlorn.I thought that life could have no stingTo infant butterflies,So I gazed on this unhappy thingWith wonder and surprise,While sadly with his waving wingHe wiped his weeping eyes.Said I: “What can the matter be?Why weepest thou so sore,With garden fair and sunlight free,And flowers in goodly store?”But he only turned away from me,And burst into a roar.Cried he: “My legs are thin and few,Where once I had a swarm;Soft, fuzzy fur—a joy to view—Once kept my body warm,Before these flapping wing-things grew,To hamper and deform.”At that outrageous bug I shotThe fury of mine eye;Said I, in scorn all burning hot,In rage and anger high,“You ignominious idiot!Those wings are made to fly.”“I do not want to fly,” said he;“I only want to squirm.”And he dropped his wings dejectedly,But still his voice was firm:“I do not want to be a fly;I want to be a worm.”O yesterday of unknown lack!To-day of unknown bliss!I left my fool in red and black,The last I saw was this—The creature madly climbing backInto his chrysalis.Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman.

THE garden beds I wandered by,One bright and cheerful morn,When I found a new-fledged butterflyA-sitting on a thorn—A black and crimson butterfly,All doleful and forlorn.

THE garden beds I wandered by,

One bright and cheerful morn,

When I found a new-fledged butterfly

A-sitting on a thorn—

A black and crimson butterfly,

All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no stingTo infant butterflies,So I gazed on this unhappy thingWith wonder and surprise,While sadly with his waving wingHe wiped his weeping eyes.

I thought that life could have no sting

To infant butterflies,

So I gazed on this unhappy thing

With wonder and surprise,

While sadly with his waving wing

He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I: “What can the matter be?Why weepest thou so sore,With garden fair and sunlight free,And flowers in goodly store?”But he only turned away from me,And burst into a roar.

Said I: “What can the matter be?

Why weepest thou so sore,

With garden fair and sunlight free,

And flowers in goodly store?”

But he only turned away from me,

And burst into a roar.

Cried he: “My legs are thin and few,Where once I had a swarm;Soft, fuzzy fur—a joy to view—Once kept my body warm,Before these flapping wing-things grew,To hamper and deform.”

Cried he: “My legs are thin and few,

Where once I had a swarm;

Soft, fuzzy fur—a joy to view—

Once kept my body warm,

Before these flapping wing-things grew,

To hamper and deform.”

At that outrageous bug I shotThe fury of mine eye;Said I, in scorn all burning hot,In rage and anger high,“You ignominious idiot!Those wings are made to fly.”

At that outrageous bug I shot

The fury of mine eye;

Said I, in scorn all burning hot,

In rage and anger high,

“You ignominious idiot!

Those wings are made to fly.”

“I do not want to fly,” said he;“I only want to squirm.”And he dropped his wings dejectedly,But still his voice was firm:“I do not want to be a fly;I want to be a worm.”

“I do not want to fly,” said he;

“I only want to squirm.”

And he dropped his wings dejectedly,

But still his voice was firm:

“I do not want to be a fly;

I want to be a worm.”

O yesterday of unknown lack!To-day of unknown bliss!I left my fool in red and black,The last I saw was this—The creature madly climbing backInto his chrysalis.Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman.

O yesterday of unknown lack!

To-day of unknown bliss!

I left my fool in red and black,

The last I saw was this—

The creature madly climbing back

Into his chrysalis.

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman.

HISTORY, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;Men are only habit’s slaves; we see it every day.Life has done its best for me—I find it tiresome still;For nothing’s everything at all, and everything is nil.Same old get-up, dress, and tub;Same old breakfast; same old club;Same old feeling; same old blue;Same old story—nothing new!Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;Woman? She’ll be true to you—as long as you have wealth;Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;Same old kisses; same old sighs;Same old chaff you; same adieu;Same old story—nothing new!Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood’s days;Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,Starving, homeless, in the snow—with diamonds in her ears.Same stern father making “bluffs”;Leading man all teeth and cuffs;Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;Same old story—nothing new!Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;Talked about that “kiddy,” and became a dreadful bore—Just as if a baby never had been born before.Same old crying, only more;Same old business, walking floor;Same old “kitchy—coochy—coo!”Same old baby—nothing new!Harry B. Smith.

HISTORY, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;

Men are only habit’s slaves; we see it every day.

Life has done its best for me—I find it tiresome still;

For nothing’s everything at all, and everything is nil.

Same old get-up, dress, and tub;

Same old breakfast; same old club;

Same old feeling; same old blue;

Same old story—nothing new!

Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;Woman? She’ll be true to you—as long as you have wealth;Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;Same old kisses; same old sighs;Same old chaff you; same adieu;Same old story—nothing new!

Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;

Woman? She’ll be true to you—as long as you have wealth;

Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;

But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.

Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;

Same old kisses; same old sighs;

Same old chaff you; same adieu;

Same old story—nothing new!

Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood’s days;Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,Starving, homeless, in the snow—with diamonds in her ears.Same stern father making “bluffs”;Leading man all teeth and cuffs;Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;Same old story—nothing new!

Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;

Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood’s days;

Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,

Starving, homeless, in the snow—with diamonds in her ears.

Same stern father making “bluffs”;

Leading man all teeth and cuffs;

Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;

Same old story—nothing new!

Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;Talked about that “kiddy,” and became a dreadful bore—Just as if a baby never had been born before.Same old crying, only more;Same old business, walking floor;Same old “kitchy—coochy—coo!”Same old baby—nothing new!Harry B. Smith.

Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!

Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;

Talked about that “kiddy,” and became a dreadful bore—

Just as if a baby never had been born before.

Same old crying, only more;

Same old business, walking floor;

Same old “kitchy—coochy—coo!”

Same old baby—nothing new!

Harry B. Smith.

HEM and Haw were the sons of sin,Created to shally and shirk;Hem lay ’round, and Haw looked on,While God did all the work.Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,For both had the dull, dull mind;And whenever they found a thing to do,They yammered and went it blind.Hem was the father of bigots and bores;As the sands of the sea were they;And Haw was the father of all the tribeWho criticise to-day.But God was an artist from the first,And knew what he was about;While over his shoulder sneered these two,And advised him to rub it out.They prophesied ruin ere man was made:“Such folly must surely fail!”And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord,He’s better without a tail?”And still in the honest working world,With posture and hint and smirk,These sons of the devil are standing byWhile man does all the work.They balk endeavour and baffle reform,In the sacred name of law;And over the quavering voice of HemIs the droning voice of Haw.Bliss Carman.

HEM and Haw were the sons of sin,Created to shally and shirk;Hem lay ’round, and Haw looked on,While God did all the work.

HEM and Haw were the sons of sin,

Created to shally and shirk;

Hem lay ’round, and Haw looked on,

While God did all the work.

Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,For both had the dull, dull mind;And whenever they found a thing to do,They yammered and went it blind.

Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,

For both had the dull, dull mind;

And whenever they found a thing to do,

They yammered and went it blind.

Hem was the father of bigots and bores;As the sands of the sea were they;And Haw was the father of all the tribeWho criticise to-day.

Hem was the father of bigots and bores;

As the sands of the sea were they;

And Haw was the father of all the tribe

Who criticise to-day.

But God was an artist from the first,And knew what he was about;While over his shoulder sneered these two,And advised him to rub it out.

But God was an artist from the first,

And knew what he was about;

While over his shoulder sneered these two,

And advised him to rub it out.

They prophesied ruin ere man was made:“Such folly must surely fail!”And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord,He’s better without a tail?”

They prophesied ruin ere man was made:

“Such folly must surely fail!”

And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord,

He’s better without a tail?”

And still in the honest working world,With posture and hint and smirk,These sons of the devil are standing byWhile man does all the work.

And still in the honest working world,

With posture and hint and smirk,

These sons of the devil are standing by

While man does all the work.

They balk endeavour and baffle reform,In the sacred name of law;And over the quavering voice of HemIs the droning voice of Haw.Bliss Carman.

They balk endeavour and baffle reform,

In the sacred name of law;

And over the quavering voice of Hem

Is the droning voice of Haw.

Bliss Carman.

IT was the little leaves beside the road.Said Grass: “What is that soundSo dismally profound,That detonates and desolates the air?”“That is St. Peter’s bell,”Said rain-wise Pimpernel;“He is music to the godly,Though to us he sounds so oddly,And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer.”Then something very like a groanEscaped the naughty little leaves.Said Grass: “And whither trackThese creatures all in black,So woebegone and penitent and meek?”“They’re mortals bound for church,”Said the little Silver Birch;“They hope to get to heaven,And have their sins forgiven,If they talk to God about it once a week.”And something very like a smileRan through the naughty little leaves.Said Grass: “What is that noiseThat startles and destroysOur blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?”“That’s folk a-praising God,”Said the tough old cynic Clod;“They do it every Sunday,They’ll be all right on Monday;It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired.”And laughter spread among the little leaves.Bliss Carman.

IT was the little leaves beside the road.

Said Grass: “What is that soundSo dismally profound,That detonates and desolates the air?”“That is St. Peter’s bell,”Said rain-wise Pimpernel;“He is music to the godly,Though to us he sounds so oddly,And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer.”

Said Grass: “What is that sound

So dismally profound,

That detonates and desolates the air?”

“That is St. Peter’s bell,”

Said rain-wise Pimpernel;

“He is music to the godly,

Though to us he sounds so oddly,

And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer.”

Then something very like a groanEscaped the naughty little leaves.

Then something very like a groan

Escaped the naughty little leaves.

Said Grass: “And whither trackThese creatures all in black,So woebegone and penitent and meek?”“They’re mortals bound for church,”Said the little Silver Birch;“They hope to get to heaven,And have their sins forgiven,If they talk to God about it once a week.”

Said Grass: “And whither track

These creatures all in black,

So woebegone and penitent and meek?”

“They’re mortals bound for church,”

Said the little Silver Birch;

“They hope to get to heaven,

And have their sins forgiven,

If they talk to God about it once a week.”

And something very like a smileRan through the naughty little leaves.

And something very like a smile

Ran through the naughty little leaves.

Said Grass: “What is that noiseThat startles and destroysOur blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?”“That’s folk a-praising God,”Said the tough old cynic Clod;“They do it every Sunday,They’ll be all right on Monday;It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired.”

Said Grass: “What is that noise

That startles and destroys

Our blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?”

“That’s folk a-praising God,”

Said the tough old cynic Clod;

“They do it every Sunday,

They’ll be all right on Monday;

It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired.”

And laughter spread among the little leaves.Bliss Carman.

And laughter spread among the little leaves.

Bliss Carman.

WHEN Hill, the poet, first essayedTo push the goose’s quill,Scarce any name at all he made:(’Twas simply “A. H. Hill.”)But as success his efforts crowned,Rewarding greater skill,His name expanded at a bound:(It was “A. Hiller Hill.”)Now that his work, be what it may,Is sure to “fill the bill,”He has a name as wide as day:(“Aquilla Hiller Hill.”)Charles Battell Loomis.

WHEN Hill, the poet, first essayedTo push the goose’s quill,Scarce any name at all he made:(’Twas simply “A. H. Hill.”)

WHEN Hill, the poet, first essayed

To push the goose’s quill,

Scarce any name at all he made:

(’Twas simply “A. H. Hill.”)

But as success his efforts crowned,Rewarding greater skill,His name expanded at a bound:(It was “A. Hiller Hill.”)

But as success his efforts crowned,

Rewarding greater skill,

His name expanded at a bound:

(It was “A. Hiller Hill.”)

Now that his work, be what it may,Is sure to “fill the bill,”He has a name as wide as day:(“Aquilla Hiller Hill.”)Charles Battell Loomis.

Now that his work, be what it may,

Is sure to “fill the bill,”

He has a name as wide as day:

(“Aquilla Hiller Hill.”)

Charles Battell Loomis.

SUGGESTED BY THE ATTITUDE OF THE FRENCH PRESS ON THE FASHODA QUESTION

THAT man is surely in the wrong,And lets his angry passions blind him,Who, when a person comes alongBehind him,And hits him hard upon the cheek(One whom he took to be his brother),Declines to turn and let him tweakThe other.It should be his immediate care,By delicate and tactful dealings,To ease the striker’s pain, and spareHis feelings;Nor should he, for his private ends,Make any personal allusionTending to aggravate his friend’sConfusion.For there are people built this way:They may have scratched your face, or bent it,Yet, if you reason with them, theyResent it!Their honour, quickly rendered sore,Demands that you should suffer mutely,Lest they should feel it even moreAcutely.I knew a man of perfect tact;He caught a burglar once, my man did;He took him in the very act,Red-handed;What kind of language then occurred?How did he comment on the jemmy?Did he employ some brutal wordLike “demme”?Or kick the stranger then and there,Or challenge him to formal battle?Or spring upon the midnight airHis rattle?Certainly not! He knew too much;He knew that, as a bud is blighted,Your burglar’s honour, at a touch,Feels slighted.He saw, as men of taste would see,That others’ pride should be respected;Some people cannot bear to beDetected.Therefore his rising wrath he curbed,Gave him a smile as warm as may be,Thanked him because he’d not disturbedThe baby;Apologized for fear his guestMight deem him casual or surlyFor having rudely gone to bedSo early.The night was still not very old,And, short as was the invitation,Would he not stay and share a coldCollation?So was his tact not found at fault;So was he spared, by tasteful flattery,What might have ended in assaultOr battery.Soft language is the best—how true!This doctrine, which I here rehearse, ’llApply to nations: it is u--niversal!Thus England should not take offenceWhen from behind they jump upon her;She must not hurt their lively senseOf honour.For plain opinions, put in speech,Might lead to blows, which might be bloody,A lesson which the press should teachAnd study!Owen Seaman.

THAT man is surely in the wrong,And lets his angry passions blind him,Who, when a person comes alongBehind him,

THAT man is surely in the wrong,

And lets his angry passions blind him,

Who, when a person comes along

Behind him,

And hits him hard upon the cheek(One whom he took to be his brother),Declines to turn and let him tweakThe other.

And hits him hard upon the cheek

(One whom he took to be his brother),

Declines to turn and let him tweak

The other.

It should be his immediate care,By delicate and tactful dealings,To ease the striker’s pain, and spareHis feelings;

It should be his immediate care,

By delicate and tactful dealings,

To ease the striker’s pain, and spare

His feelings;

Nor should he, for his private ends,Make any personal allusionTending to aggravate his friend’sConfusion.

Nor should he, for his private ends,

Make any personal allusion

Tending to aggravate his friend’s

Confusion.

For there are people built this way:They may have scratched your face, or bent it,Yet, if you reason with them, theyResent it!

For there are people built this way:

They may have scratched your face, or bent it,

Yet, if you reason with them, they

Resent it!

Their honour, quickly rendered sore,Demands that you should suffer mutely,Lest they should feel it even moreAcutely.

Their honour, quickly rendered sore,

Demands that you should suffer mutely,

Lest they should feel it even more

Acutely.

I knew a man of perfect tact;He caught a burglar once, my man did;He took him in the very act,Red-handed;

I knew a man of perfect tact;

He caught a burglar once, my man did;

He took him in the very act,

Red-handed;

What kind of language then occurred?How did he comment on the jemmy?Did he employ some brutal wordLike “demme”?

What kind of language then occurred?

How did he comment on the jemmy?

Did he employ some brutal word

Like “demme”?

Or kick the stranger then and there,Or challenge him to formal battle?Or spring upon the midnight airHis rattle?

Or kick the stranger then and there,

Or challenge him to formal battle?

Or spring upon the midnight air

His rattle?

Certainly not! He knew too much;He knew that, as a bud is blighted,Your burglar’s honour, at a touch,Feels slighted.

Certainly not! He knew too much;

He knew that, as a bud is blighted,

Your burglar’s honour, at a touch,

Feels slighted.

He saw, as men of taste would see,That others’ pride should be respected;Some people cannot bear to beDetected.

He saw, as men of taste would see,

That others’ pride should be respected;

Some people cannot bear to be

Detected.

Therefore his rising wrath he curbed,Gave him a smile as warm as may be,Thanked him because he’d not disturbedThe baby;

Therefore his rising wrath he curbed,

Gave him a smile as warm as may be,

Thanked him because he’d not disturbed

The baby;

Apologized for fear his guestMight deem him casual or surlyFor having rudely gone to bedSo early.

Apologized for fear his guest

Might deem him casual or surly

For having rudely gone to bed

So early.

The night was still not very old,And, short as was the invitation,Would he not stay and share a coldCollation?

The night was still not very old,

And, short as was the invitation,

Would he not stay and share a cold

Collation?

So was his tact not found at fault;So was he spared, by tasteful flattery,What might have ended in assaultOr battery.

So was his tact not found at fault;

So was he spared, by tasteful flattery,

What might have ended in assault

Or battery.

Soft language is the best—how true!This doctrine, which I here rehearse, ’llApply to nations: it is u--niversal!

Soft language is the best—how true!

This doctrine, which I here rehearse, ’ll

Apply to nations: it is u-

-niversal!

Thus England should not take offenceWhen from behind they jump upon her;She must not hurt their lively senseOf honour.

Thus England should not take offence

When from behind they jump upon her;

She must not hurt their lively sense

Of honour.

For plain opinions, put in speech,Might lead to blows, which might be bloody,A lesson which the press should teachAnd study!Owen Seaman.

For plain opinions, put in speech,

Might lead to blows, which might be bloody,

A lesson which the press should teach

And study!

Owen Seaman.

JOHN JENKINS, in an evil day, felt suddenly inclinedTo perpetrate a novel of an unobtrusive kind;It held no “Strange Adventures” or “Mysterious Events,”To terrify its readers with exciting accidents.“I have never,” said John Jenkins, “in my uneventful life,Taken part in revolutions or in sanguinary strife;My knowledge of historic days is lamentably scant,But the present will afford me the material I want.”In fact, the rash resolve with which this foolish man set out,Was just to deal with matters that he really knew about.He studied all his characters with sympathy sincere;He wrote, rewrote, and laboured at his chapters for a year;He found a trusting publisher—one wonders much at that—For this, his first production, fell quite absolutely flat.The critics were benign indeed: “A harmless little tale,”Was what they mostly called it. “While the reader cannot fail,”Another wrote, “to credit it with fluency and grace,Its fault is that it’s really so extremely commonplace.”A third condemned it roundly as “A simple, shameless sham”(Finding that alliteration often does for epigram).And as John Jenkins wearily perused each fresh review,He shook his head, and cried, “Oh, this will never, never do!”Undaunted by catastrophe, John Jenkins tried again,And wrote his second novel in a very different strain;In one short month he finished what the critic at a glancePronounced a fine example of the latter-day Romance.His characters now figured in that period sublimeWhich, with convenient vagueness, writers call “The Olden Time.”They said “Oddsbobs,” “Grammercy,” and other phrases sweet,Extracted from old English as supplied in Wardour Street.Exciting was their wooing, constant battles did they wage,And some one murdered some one else on every other page;Whereat the critics flung their caps, and one and all agreed,“Hail to the great John Jenkins! This is True Romance indeed!”And so John Jenkins flourishes, and scribbles wondrous fastA string of such “romances,” each exactly like the last;A score of anxious publishers for his assistance seek;His “Illustrated Interview” you meet with every week.Nay, more; when any question, difficult and intricate,Perplexes the intelligence of ministers of State,The country disregards them all, and where they fear to tread,Adventurous John Jenkins rushes boldly in instead,And kindly (in the intervals of literary cares)Instructs a grateful nation how to manage its affairs!So, for all youthful authors who are anxious to succeed,The moral of John Jenkins is—well, he who runs may read.Anthony C. Deane.

JOHN JENKINS, in an evil day, felt suddenly inclined

To perpetrate a novel of an unobtrusive kind;

It held no “Strange Adventures” or “Mysterious Events,”

To terrify its readers with exciting accidents.

“I have never,” said John Jenkins, “in my uneventful life,

Taken part in revolutions or in sanguinary strife;

My knowledge of historic days is lamentably scant,

But the present will afford me the material I want.”

In fact, the rash resolve with which this foolish man set out,

Was just to deal with matters that he really knew about.

He studied all his characters with sympathy sincere;

He wrote, rewrote, and laboured at his chapters for a year;

He found a trusting publisher—one wonders much at that—

For this, his first production, fell quite absolutely flat.

The critics were benign indeed: “A harmless little tale,”Was what they mostly called it. “While the reader cannot fail,”Another wrote, “to credit it with fluency and grace,Its fault is that it’s really so extremely commonplace.”A third condemned it roundly as “A simple, shameless sham”(Finding that alliteration often does for epigram).And as John Jenkins wearily perused each fresh review,He shook his head, and cried, “Oh, this will never, never do!”

The critics were benign indeed: “A harmless little tale,”

Was what they mostly called it. “While the reader cannot fail,”

Another wrote, “to credit it with fluency and grace,

Its fault is that it’s really so extremely commonplace.”

A third condemned it roundly as “A simple, shameless sham”

(Finding that alliteration often does for epigram).

And as John Jenkins wearily perused each fresh review,

He shook his head, and cried, “Oh, this will never, never do!”

Undaunted by catastrophe, John Jenkins tried again,And wrote his second novel in a very different strain;In one short month he finished what the critic at a glancePronounced a fine example of the latter-day Romance.His characters now figured in that period sublimeWhich, with convenient vagueness, writers call “The Olden Time.”

Undaunted by catastrophe, John Jenkins tried again,

And wrote his second novel in a very different strain;

In one short month he finished what the critic at a glance

Pronounced a fine example of the latter-day Romance.

His characters now figured in that period sublime

Which, with convenient vagueness, writers call “The Olden Time.”

They said “Oddsbobs,” “Grammercy,” and other phrases sweet,Extracted from old English as supplied in Wardour Street.Exciting was their wooing, constant battles did they wage,And some one murdered some one else on every other page;Whereat the critics flung their caps, and one and all agreed,“Hail to the great John Jenkins! This is True Romance indeed!”

They said “Oddsbobs,” “Grammercy,” and other phrases sweet,

Extracted from old English as supplied in Wardour Street.

Exciting was their wooing, constant battles did they wage,

And some one murdered some one else on every other page;

Whereat the critics flung their caps, and one and all agreed,

“Hail to the great John Jenkins! This is True Romance indeed!”

And so John Jenkins flourishes, and scribbles wondrous fastA string of such “romances,” each exactly like the last;A score of anxious publishers for his assistance seek;His “Illustrated Interview” you meet with every week.Nay, more; when any question, difficult and intricate,Perplexes the intelligence of ministers of State,The country disregards them all, and where they fear to tread,Adventurous John Jenkins rushes boldly in instead,And kindly (in the intervals of literary cares)Instructs a grateful nation how to manage its affairs!So, for all youthful authors who are anxious to succeed,The moral of John Jenkins is—well, he who runs may read.Anthony C. Deane.

And so John Jenkins flourishes, and scribbles wondrous fast

A string of such “romances,” each exactly like the last;

A score of anxious publishers for his assistance seek;

His “Illustrated Interview” you meet with every week.

Nay, more; when any question, difficult and intricate,

Perplexes the intelligence of ministers of State,

The country disregards them all, and where they fear to tread,

Adventurous John Jenkins rushes boldly in instead,

And kindly (in the intervals of literary cares)

Instructs a grateful nation how to manage its affairs!

So, for all youthful authors who are anxious to succeed,

The moral of John Jenkins is—well, he who runs may read.

Anthony C. Deane.

WHEN I look at my diligent neighbours,Each wholly convinced in his mindThat the fruit of his personal laboursWill be the reform of mankind,When I notice the bland satisfactionThat brightens the features of each—Commendably prudent in action,Though mighty in speech—Observing by dint of persistenceWhat wide reputation they gain,The clew to a happy existenceIs rendered increasingly plain,Because the self-satisfied feelingI covet may quickly be hadBy any one owning (or stealing)A suitable fad.Shall I hotly oppose Vivisection?Grow warm on the Drainage of Flats?Or strive for the Better ProtectionOf Commons, Cathedrals, or Cats?Perhaps in orations that thrill, IFor freedom (and fever) will fight—A portion of small-pox bacilliIs simply our right!However, the choice is a detail;Whatever the fad be about,To trade in it, wholesale and retail,To preach it, in season and out,And so to be reckoned a leader(Although there be little to lead),Yes, that’s, O incredulous reader,The way to succeed!You find that existence is hollow,The fight for position is hard.A remedy? Yes, if you’ll followThis way, to the fad-monger’s yard:Come, here is a hobby—astride itYou settle; I tighten the girth—So-off, and good-luck to you! Ride itFor all it is worth!Anthony C. Deane.

WHEN I look at my diligent neighbours,

Each wholly convinced in his mind

That the fruit of his personal labours

Will be the reform of mankind,

When I notice the bland satisfaction

That brightens the features of each—

Commendably prudent in action,

Though mighty in speech—

Observing by dint of persistenceWhat wide reputation they gain,The clew to a happy existenceIs rendered increasingly plain,Because the self-satisfied feelingI covet may quickly be hadBy any one owning (or stealing)A suitable fad.

Observing by dint of persistence

What wide reputation they gain,

The clew to a happy existence

Is rendered increasingly plain,

Because the self-satisfied feeling

I covet may quickly be had

By any one owning (or stealing)

A suitable fad.

Shall I hotly oppose Vivisection?Grow warm on the Drainage of Flats?Or strive for the Better ProtectionOf Commons, Cathedrals, or Cats?Perhaps in orations that thrill, IFor freedom (and fever) will fight—A portion of small-pox bacilliIs simply our right!

Shall I hotly oppose Vivisection?

Grow warm on the Drainage of Flats?

Or strive for the Better Protection

Of Commons, Cathedrals, or Cats?

Perhaps in orations that thrill, I

For freedom (and fever) will fight—

A portion of small-pox bacilli

Is simply our right!

However, the choice is a detail;Whatever the fad be about,To trade in it, wholesale and retail,To preach it, in season and out,And so to be reckoned a leader(Although there be little to lead),Yes, that’s, O incredulous reader,The way to succeed!

However, the choice is a detail;

Whatever the fad be about,

To trade in it, wholesale and retail,

To preach it, in season and out,

And so to be reckoned a leader

(Although there be little to lead),

Yes, that’s, O incredulous reader,

The way to succeed!

You find that existence is hollow,The fight for position is hard.A remedy? Yes, if you’ll followThis way, to the fad-monger’s yard:Come, here is a hobby—astride itYou settle; I tighten the girth—So-off, and good-luck to you! Ride itFor all it is worth!Anthony C. Deane.

You find that existence is hollow,

The fight for position is hard.

A remedy? Yes, if you’ll follow

This way, to the fad-monger’s yard:

Come, here is a hobby—astride it

You settle; I tighten the girth—

So-off, and good-luck to you! Ride it

For all it is worth!

Anthony C. Deane.

A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED EPIC

HERE, my Amanda, let us seat ourselves;Here let us banish sorrow from our minds,By contemplating the delightful viewWhich stretches all around us. And what joyTo be reminded thus, though far from town,Of that which glorifies our native land,Our British Trade! Gaze first at yonder wood:On every tree is tastefully inscribedIn scarlet letters, “Use Niagara Soap!”Turn to those meadows (at no distant dateBut one uninteresting plain of grass),Each bears a dozen hoardings, striking, bright,Decked in resplendent variegated hues,Telling the reader that Excelsior PillsCure influenza; that Brown’s Tea is best,And costs no more than one-and-six the pound;And that the purchaser, who fain would quaffSmith’s special brand of Sherry, must bewareOf spurious imitations. On that hillA grand gigantic sky-sign testifiesTo Johnson’s Hair Renewer; and beyondYou catch a glimpse of ocean, where the boatsProclaim the message, painted on their sails:“Robbinson’s Boots are Warranted to Wear!”Oh, does not such a view delight the heart?Yea, soon the time will come when every inchOf England shall display advertisements;When newly taught, the birds shall add their notesTo the glad chorus, “Buy Pomponia Paste!”The nightingale shall sing, and all the gladeEcho her music—“Buy Pomponia Paste!”How great a debt of thankfulness we oweTo these the benefactors of our time,Who both contribute to the human raceProductions to our ancestors unknown,And also glorify each rural sceneBy the announcements of their excellence!And how we pity those of olden timeWho praised the country, but so little knewWhat beauty could be added to the sceneBy the artistic advertiser’s aid,To whom the hills, the meadows, and the woodsBrought no glad message, such as we receive,Of Soaps and Sugars, Pens, Pianos, Pills!Anthony C. Deane.

HERE, my Amanda, let us seat ourselves;

Here let us banish sorrow from our minds,

By contemplating the delightful view

Which stretches all around us. And what joy

To be reminded thus, though far from town,

Of that which glorifies our native land,

Our British Trade! Gaze first at yonder wood:

On every tree is tastefully inscribed

In scarlet letters, “Use Niagara Soap!”

Turn to those meadows (at no distant date

But one uninteresting plain of grass),

Each bears a dozen hoardings, striking, bright,

Decked in resplendent variegated hues,

Telling the reader that Excelsior Pills

Cure influenza; that Brown’s Tea is best,

And costs no more than one-and-six the pound;

And that the purchaser, who fain would quaff

Smith’s special brand of Sherry, must beware

Of spurious imitations. On that hill

A grand gigantic sky-sign testifies

To Johnson’s Hair Renewer; and beyond

You catch a glimpse of ocean, where the boats

Proclaim the message, painted on their sails:

“Robbinson’s Boots are Warranted to Wear!”

Oh, does not such a view delight the heart?

Yea, soon the time will come when every inch

Of England shall display advertisements;

When newly taught, the birds shall add their notes

To the glad chorus, “Buy Pomponia Paste!”

The nightingale shall sing, and all the glade

Echo her music—“Buy Pomponia Paste!”

How great a debt of thankfulness we owe

To these the benefactors of our time,

Who both contribute to the human race

Productions to our ancestors unknown,

And also glorify each rural scene

By the announcements of their excellence!

And how we pity those of olden time

Who praised the country, but so little knew

What beauty could be added to the scene

By the artistic advertiser’s aid,

To whom the hills, the meadows, and the woods

Brought no glad message, such as we receive,

Of Soaps and Sugars, Pens, Pianos, Pills!

Anthony C. Deane.

A HINDOO LEGEND

Back to Index Next