THE TOOL

WHAT will we do when the good days come—When the prima donna’s lips are dumb,And the man who reads us his “little things”Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums—Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,When the tramp will work—oh, thing sublime!And the scornful dame who stands on your feetWill “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;And the man you hire to work by the day,Will allow you to do his work your way;And the cook who trieth your appetiteWill steal no more than she thinks is right;When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;When the funny man is humorsome—How can we stand the millennium?Robert J. Burdette.

WHAT will we do when the good days come—

When the prima donna’s lips are dumb,

And the man who reads us his “little things”

Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;

When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,

And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;

When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums—

Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?

Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,

When the tramp will work—oh, thing sublime!

And the scornful dame who stands on your feet

Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;

And the man you hire to work by the day,

Will allow you to do his work your way;

And the cook who trieth your appetite

Will steal no more than she thinks is right;

When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”

Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;

When the funny man is humorsome—

How can we stand the millennium?

Robert J. Burdette.

THE man of brains, of fair repute and birth,Who loves high place above all else of earth—Who loves it so, he’ll go without the power,If he may hold the semblance but an hour;Willing to be some sordid creature’s tool,So he but seem a little while to rule—On him even moral pigmies would look down;Were prizes given for shame, he’d wear the crown.Richard Watson Gilder.

THE man of brains, of fair repute and birth,

Who loves high place above all else of earth—

Who loves it so, he’ll go without the power,

If he may hold the semblance but an hour;

Willing to be some sordid creature’s tool,

So he but seem a little while to rule—

On him even moral pigmies would look down;

Were prizes given for shame, he’d wear the crown.

Richard Watson Gilder.

“GIVE me a theme,” the little poet cried,“And I will do my part.”“’Tis not a theme you need,” the world replied;“You need a heart.”Richard Watson Gilder.

“GIVE me a theme,” the little poet cried,

“And I will do my part.”

“’Tis not a theme you need,” the world replied;

“You need a heart.”

Richard Watson Gilder.

WEIGH me, if you’re fain;Measure me, if it is your plan;Know your little thimble-brainHold me never can.Richard Watson Gilder.

WEIGH me, if you’re fain;

Measure me, if it is your plan;

Know your little thimble-brain

Hold me never can.

Richard Watson Gilder.

“All these for fourpence.”

OH, where are the endless romancesOur grandmothers used to adore?The knights with their helms and their lances,Their shields and the favours they wore?And the monks with their magical lore?They have passed to oblivion andNox;They have fled to the shadowy shore—They are all in the Fourpenny Box!And where the poetical fanciesOur fathers rejoiced in, of yore?The lyric’s melodious expanses,The epics in cantos a score.They have been, and are not. No moreShall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,Nor the ladies their languors deplore—They are all in the Fourpenny Box!And the music! The songs and the dances?The tunes that time may not restore?And the tomes where divinity prances?And the pamphlets where heretics roar?They have ceased to be even a bore,—The divine, and the sceptic who mocks;They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,They are all in the Fourpenny Box!EnvoiSuns beat on them; tempests downpour,On the chest without cover or locks,Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door—They are all in the Fourpenny Box!Andrew Lang.

OH, where are the endless romances

Our grandmothers used to adore?

The knights with their helms and their lances,

Their shields and the favours they wore?

And the monks with their magical lore?

They have passed to oblivion andNox;

They have fled to the shadowy shore—

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And where the poetical fanciesOur fathers rejoiced in, of yore?The lyric’s melodious expanses,The epics in cantos a score.They have been, and are not. No moreShall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,Nor the ladies their languors deplore—They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And where the poetical fancies

Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?

The lyric’s melodious expanses,

The epics in cantos a score.

They have been, and are not. No more

Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,

Nor the ladies their languors deplore—

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And the music! The songs and the dances?The tunes that time may not restore?And the tomes where divinity prances?And the pamphlets where heretics roar?They have ceased to be even a bore,—The divine, and the sceptic who mocks;They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And the music! The songs and the dances?

The tunes that time may not restore?

And the tomes where divinity prances?

And the pamphlets where heretics roar?

They have ceased to be even a bore,—

The divine, and the sceptic who mocks;

They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

EnvoiSuns beat on them; tempests downpour,On the chest without cover or locks,Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door—They are all in the Fourpenny Box!Andrew Lang.

Envoi

Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,

On the chest without cover or locks,

Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door—

They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

Andrew Lang.

IT is positively false to call us frantic,For the soundness of our mental state is sure,Yet we look upon this side of the AtlanticAs a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.We consider dear old England as the fountainOf all institutions reputably sane;We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.We assiduously imitate the polishThat we notice round the English nabob hang;We unfailingly endeavour to abolishFrom our voices any trace of nasal twang.Every patriotic duty we leave undone,With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,Since we venerate the very name of LondonIn proportion to our hatred of New York.No treaty could in any manner softenOur contempt for native tailors when we dress;If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”We esteem the Revolution as illegal;If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;We particularly execrate an eagle,And we languish on the fourth day of July.We are not prepared in any foolish mannerThe vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick usWith a sneer at the republic we obey!We would rather let his Royal Highness kick usThan have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!Edgar Fawcett.From “The Buntling Ball.”

IT is positively false to call us frantic,For the soundness of our mental state is sure,Yet we look upon this side of the AtlanticAs a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.

IT is positively false to call us frantic,

For the soundness of our mental state is sure,

Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic

As a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.

We consider dear old England as the fountainOf all institutions reputably sane;We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.

We consider dear old England as the fountain

Of all institutions reputably sane;

We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;

We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.

We assiduously imitate the polishThat we notice round the English nabob hang;We unfailingly endeavour to abolishFrom our voices any trace of nasal twang.

We assiduously imitate the polish

That we notice round the English nabob hang;

We unfailingly endeavour to abolish

From our voices any trace of nasal twang.

Every patriotic duty we leave undone,With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,Since we venerate the very name of LondonIn proportion to our hatred of New York.

Every patriotic duty we leave undone,

With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,

Since we venerate the very name of London

In proportion to our hatred of New York.

No treaty could in any manner softenOur contempt for native tailors when we dress;If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”

No treaty could in any manner soften

Our contempt for native tailors when we dress;

If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,

And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”

We esteem the Revolution as illegal;If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;We particularly execrate an eagle,And we languish on the fourth day of July.

We esteem the Revolution as illegal;

If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;

We particularly execrate an eagle,

And we languish on the fourth day of July.

We are not prepared in any foolish mannerThe vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”

We are not prepared in any foolish manner

The vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;

We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”

But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”

We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick usWith a sneer at the republic we obey!We would rather let his Royal Highness kick usThan have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!Edgar Fawcett.From “The Buntling Ball.”

We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick us

With a sneer at the republic we obey!

We would rather let his Royal Highness kick us

Than have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!

Edgar Fawcett.From “The Buntling Ball.”

THE net of law is spread so wide,No sinner from its sweep may hide.Its meshes are so fine and strong,They take in every child of wrong.O wondrous web of mystery!Big fish alone escape from thee!James Jeffrey Roche.

THE net of law is spread so wide,No sinner from its sweep may hide.

THE net of law is spread so wide,

No sinner from its sweep may hide.

Its meshes are so fine and strong,They take in every child of wrong.

Its meshes are so fine and strong,

They take in every child of wrong.

O wondrous web of mystery!Big fish alone escape from thee!James Jeffrey Roche.

O wondrous web of mystery!

Big fish alone escape from thee!

James Jeffrey Roche.

BABY’S brain is tired of thinkingOn the Wherefore and the Whence;Baby’s precious eyes are blinkingWith incipient somnolence.Little hands are weary turningHeavy leaves of lexicon;Little nose is fretted learningHow to keep its glasses on.Baby knows the laws of natureAre beneficent and wise;His medulla oblongataBids my darling close his eyesAnd his pneumogastrics tell himQuietude is always bestWhen his little cerebellumNeeds recuperative rest.Baby must have relaxation,Let the world go wrong or right.Sleep, my darling—leave CreationTo its chances for the night.James Jeffrey Roche.

BABY’S brain is tired of thinkingOn the Wherefore and the Whence;Baby’s precious eyes are blinkingWith incipient somnolence.

BABY’S brain is tired of thinking

On the Wherefore and the Whence;

Baby’s precious eyes are blinking

With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turningHeavy leaves of lexicon;Little nose is fretted learningHow to keep its glasses on.

Little hands are weary turning

Heavy leaves of lexicon;

Little nose is fretted learning

How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of natureAre beneficent and wise;His medulla oblongataBids my darling close his eyes

Baby knows the laws of nature

Are beneficent and wise;

His medulla oblongata

Bids my darling close his eyes

And his pneumogastrics tell himQuietude is always bestWhen his little cerebellumNeeds recuperative rest.

And his pneumogastrics tell him

Quietude is always best

When his little cerebellum

Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,Let the world go wrong or right.Sleep, my darling—leave CreationTo its chances for the night.James Jeffrey Roche.

Baby must have relaxation,

Let the world go wrong or right.

Sleep, my darling—leave Creation

To its chances for the night.

James Jeffrey Roche.

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,The maidens four and the Work of Art;And none might tell from sight aloneIn which had culture ripest grown—The Gotham Millions fair to see,The Philadelphia Pedigree,The Boston Mind of azure hue,Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo;For all loved Art in a seemly way.With an earnest soul and a capital A.......Long they worshipped; but no one brokeThe sacred stillness, until up spokeThe Western one from the nameless place,Who, blushing, said, “What a lovely vace!”Over three faces a sad smile flew,And they edged away from Kalamazoo.But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirredTo crush the stranger with one small word;Deftly hiding reproof in praise,She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”But brief her unworthy triumph, whenThe lofty one from the home of Penn,With the consciousness of two grandpapas,Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”And glances round with an anxious thrill,Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!“I did not catch your remark, becauseI was so entranced with that charming vaws!”Dies erit prægelidaSinistra quum Bostonia.James Jeffrey Roche.

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,The maidens four and the Work of Art;

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,

The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight aloneIn which had culture ripest grown—

And none might tell from sight alone

In which had culture ripest grown—

The Gotham Millions fair to see,The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Gotham Millions fair to see,

The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo;

The Boston Mind of azure hue,

Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo;

For all loved Art in a seemly way.With an earnest soul and a capital A.......Long they worshipped; but no one brokeThe sacred stillness, until up spoke

For all loved Art in a seemly way.

With an earnest soul and a capital A.

......

Long they worshipped; but no one broke

The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,Who, blushing, said, “What a lovely vace!”

The Western one from the nameless place,

Who, blushing, said, “What a lovely vace!”

Over three faces a sad smile flew,And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

Over three faces a sad smile flew,

And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirredTo crush the stranger with one small word;

But Gotham’s haughty soul was stirred

To crush the stranger with one small word;

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,

She cries, “’Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!”

But brief her unworthy triumph, whenThe lofty one from the home of Penn,

But brief her unworthy triumph, when

The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,

Exclaims, “It is quite a lovely vahs!”

And glances round with an anxious thrill,Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

And glances round with an anxious thrill,

Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,

And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

“I did not catch your remark, becauseI was so entranced with that charming vaws!”

“I did not catch your remark, because

I was so entranced with that charming vaws!”

Dies erit prægelidaSinistra quum Bostonia.James Jeffrey Roche.

Dies erit prægelida

Sinistra quum Bostonia.

James Jeffrey Roche.

THE sun was setting, and vespers done;From chapel the monks came one by one,And down they went thro’ the garden trim,In cassock and cowl, to the river’s brim.Ev’ry brother his rod he took;Ev’ry rod had a line and a hook;Ev’ry hook had a bait so fine,And thus they sang in the even shine:“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!Benedicite!”So down they sate by the river’s brim,And fish’d till the light was growing dim;They fish’d the stream till the moon was high,But never a fish came wand’ring by.They fish’d the stream in the bright moonshine,But not one fish would he come to dine.And the Abbot said, “It seems to meThese rascally fish are all gone to sea.And to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day;Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day!Maledicite!”So back they went to the convent gate,Abbot and monks disconsolate;For they thought of the morrow with faces white,Saying, “Oh, we must curb our appetite!But down in the depths of the vault belowThere’s Malvoisie for a world of woe!”So they quaff their wine, and all declareThat fish, after all, is but gruesome fare.“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!Benedicite!”Frederick Edward Weatherly.

THE sun was setting, and vespers done;

From chapel the monks came one by one,

And down they went thro’ the garden trim,

In cassock and cowl, to the river’s brim.

Ev’ry brother his rod he took;

Ev’ry rod had a line and a hook;

Ev’ry hook had a bait so fine,

And thus they sang in the even shine:

“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!

Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!

Benedicite!”

So down they sate by the river’s brim,And fish’d till the light was growing dim;They fish’d the stream till the moon was high,But never a fish came wand’ring by.They fish’d the stream in the bright moonshine,But not one fish would he come to dine.And the Abbot said, “It seems to meThese rascally fish are all gone to sea.And to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day;Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day!Maledicite!”

So down they sate by the river’s brim,

And fish’d till the light was growing dim;

They fish’d the stream till the moon was high,

But never a fish came wand’ring by.

They fish’d the stream in the bright moonshine,

But not one fish would he come to dine.

And the Abbot said, “It seems to me

These rascally fish are all gone to sea.

And to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day;

Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we’ve caught no fish to-day!

Maledicite!”

So back they went to the convent gate,Abbot and monks disconsolate;For they thought of the morrow with faces white,Saying, “Oh, we must curb our appetite!But down in the depths of the vault belowThere’s Malvoisie for a world of woe!”So they quaff their wine, and all declareThat fish, after all, is but gruesome fare.“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!Benedicite!”Frederick Edward Weatherly.

So back they went to the convent gate,

Abbot and monks disconsolate;

For they thought of the morrow with faces white,

Saying, “Oh, we must curb our appetite!

But down in the depths of the vault below

There’s Malvoisie for a world of woe!”

So they quaff their wine, and all declare

That fish, after all, is but gruesome fare.

“Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!

Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll warm our souls to-day!

Benedicite!”

Frederick Edward Weatherly.

THERE were three young maids of Lee;They were fair as fair can be,And they had lovers three times three,For they were fair as fair can be,These three young maids of Lee.But these young maids they cannot findA lover each to suit her mind;The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,The rich young lord is not rich enough,The one is too poor, and one is too tall,And one just an inch too short for them all.“Others pick and choose, and why not we?We can very well wait,” said the maids of Lee.There were three young maids of Lee;They were fair as fair can be,And they had lovers three times threeFor they were fair as fair can be,These three young maids of Lee.There are three old maids of Lee,And they are old as old can be,And one is deaf, and one cannot see,And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,These three old maids of Lee.Now, if any one chanced—’tis a chance remote—One single charm in these maids to note,He need not a poet nor handsome be,For one is deaf and one cannot see;He need not woo on his bended knee,For they all are willing as willing can be.He may take the one, or the two, or the three,If he’ll only take them away from Lee.There are three old maids at Lee;They are cross as cross can be;And there they are, and there they’ll beTo the end of the chapter, one, two, three,These three old maids of Lee.Frederick Edward Weatherly.

THERE were three young maids of Lee;

They were fair as fair can be,

And they had lovers three times three,

For they were fair as fair can be,

These three young maids of Lee.

But these young maids they cannot find

A lover each to suit her mind;

The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,

The rich young lord is not rich enough,

The one is too poor, and one is too tall,

And one just an inch too short for them all.

“Others pick and choose, and why not we?

We can very well wait,” said the maids of Lee.

There were three young maids of Lee;

They were fair as fair can be,

And they had lovers three times three

For they were fair as fair can be,

These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee,And they are old as old can be,And one is deaf, and one cannot see,And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,These three old maids of Lee.Now, if any one chanced—’tis a chance remote—One single charm in these maids to note,He need not a poet nor handsome be,For one is deaf and one cannot see;He need not woo on his bended knee,For they all are willing as willing can be.He may take the one, or the two, or the three,If he’ll only take them away from Lee.There are three old maids at Lee;They are cross as cross can be;And there they are, and there they’ll beTo the end of the chapter, one, two, three,These three old maids of Lee.Frederick Edward Weatherly.

There are three old maids of Lee,

And they are old as old can be,

And one is deaf, and one cannot see,

And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,

These three old maids of Lee.

Now, if any one chanced—’tis a chance remote—

One single charm in these maids to note,

He need not a poet nor handsome be,

For one is deaf and one cannot see;

He need not woo on his bended knee,

For they all are willing as willing can be.

He may take the one, or the two, or the three,

If he’ll only take them away from Lee.

There are three old maids at Lee;

They are cross as cross can be;

And there they are, and there they’ll be

To the end of the chapter, one, two, three,

These three old maids of Lee.

Frederick Edward Weatherly.

THIS modern scientist—a word uncouth—Who calls himself a seeker after truth,And traces man through monkey back to frog,Seeing a Plato in each pollywog,Ascribes all things unto the power of Matter.The woman’s anguish, and the baby’s chatter—The soldier’s glory, and his country’s need—Self-sacrificing love—self-seeking greed—The false religion some vain bigots prize,Which seeks to win a soul by telling lies—And even pseudo-scientific clatter—All these, he says, are but the work of Matter.Thus, self-made science, like a self-made man,Deems naught uncomprehended in its plan;Sees naught he can’t explain by his own laws.The time has come, at length, to bid him pause,Before he strive to leap the unknown chasmReft wide ’twixt awful God and protoplasm.Brander Matthews.

THIS modern scientist—a word uncouth—

Who calls himself a seeker after truth,

And traces man through monkey back to frog,

Seeing a Plato in each pollywog,

Ascribes all things unto the power of Matter.

The woman’s anguish, and the baby’s chatter—

The soldier’s glory, and his country’s need—

Self-sacrificing love—self-seeking greed—

The false religion some vain bigots prize,

Which seeks to win a soul by telling lies—

And even pseudo-scientific clatter—

All these, he says, are but the work of Matter.

Thus, self-made science, like a self-made man,

Deems naught uncomprehended in its plan;

Sees naught he can’t explain by his own laws.

The time has come, at length, to bid him pause,

Before he strive to leap the unknown chasm

Reft wide ’twixt awful God and protoplasm.

Brander Matthews.

IF all the harm that women have doneWere put in a bundle and rolled into one,Earth would not hold it,The sky could not enfold it,It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;Such masses of evilWould puzzle the devil,And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.But if all the harm that’s been done by menWere doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,And melted and fused into vapour, and thenWere squared and raised to the power of ten,There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.J. K. Stephen.

IF all the harm that women have done

Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,

Earth would not hold it,

The sky could not enfold it,

It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;

Such masses of evil

Would puzzle the devil,

And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.

But if all the harm that’s been done by menWere doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,And melted and fused into vapour, and thenWere squared and raised to the power of ten,There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.J. K. Stephen.

But if all the harm that’s been done by men

Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,

And melted and fused into vapour, and then

Were squared and raised to the power of ten,

There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,

To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.

J. K. Stephen.

TWO voices are there: one is of the deep;It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:And one is of an old, half-witted sheep,Which bleats articulate monotony,And indicates that two and one are three,That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep;And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain timesForth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst;At other times—good Lord! I’d rather beQuite unacquainted with the A B C,Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.J. K. Stephen.

TWO voices are there: one is of the deep;

It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,

Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,

Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:

And one is of an old, half-witted sheep,

Which bleats articulate monotony,

And indicates that two and one are three,

That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep;

And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain times

Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,

The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst;

At other times—good Lord! I’d rather be

Quite unacquainted with the A B C,

Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

J. K. Stephen.

BECAUSE thy prayer hath never fedDark Atë with the food she craves;Because thou dost not hate, they said,Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves;Because thou canst not hate, as we,How poor a creature thou must be!Thy veins as pale as ours are red!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because by thee no snare was spreadTo baffle Love—if Love should stray;Because thou dost not watch, they said,To strictly compass Love each way;Because thou dost not watch, as we,Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,To strew with thorns a restless bed—Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because thy feet were not misledTo jocund ground, yet all infirm;Because thou art not fond, they said,Nor dost exact thine heyday term;Because thou art not fond, as we,How dull a creature thou must be!Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because thou hast not roved to wedWith those to Love averse or strange;Because thou hast not roved, they said,Nor ever studied artful change;Because thou hast not roved, as we,Love paid no ransom rich for thee,Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped.Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Aye, so! because thou thought’st to treadLove’s ways, and all his bidding do;Because thou hast not tired, they said,Nor ever wert to Love untrue;Because thou hast not tired, as we,How tedious must thy service be;Love with thy zeal is surfeited!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Because thou hast not wanton shedOn every hand thy heritage;Because thou art not flush, they said,But hast regard to meagre age;Because thou art not flush, as we,How strait thy cautious soul must be!How well thy thrift stands thee in stead!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.And therefore look thou not for bread—For wine and bread from Love’s deep store,Because thou hast no need, they said;But us he’ll feast forevermore!Because thou hast no need, as we,Sit in his purlieus, thou, and seeHow with Love’s bounty we are fed.Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Edith M. Thomas.

BECAUSE thy prayer hath never fed

Dark Atë with the food she craves;

Because thou dost not hate, they said,

Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves;

Because thou canst not hate, as we,

How poor a creature thou must be!

Thy veins as pale as ours are red!

Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because by thee no snare was spreadTo baffle Love—if Love should stray;Because thou dost not watch, they said,To strictly compass Love each way;Because thou dost not watch, as we,Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,To strew with thorns a restless bed—Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because by thee no snare was spread

To baffle Love—if Love should stray;

Because thou dost not watch, they said,

To strictly compass Love each way;

Because thou dost not watch, as we,

Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,

To strew with thorns a restless bed—

Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thy feet were not misledTo jocund ground, yet all infirm;Because thou art not fond, they said,Nor dost exact thine heyday term;Because thou art not fond, as we,How dull a creature thou must be!Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thy feet were not misled

To jocund ground, yet all infirm;

Because thou art not fond, they said,

Nor dost exact thine heyday term;

Because thou art not fond, as we,

How dull a creature thou must be!

Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!

Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thou hast not roved to wedWith those to Love averse or strange;Because thou hast not roved, they said,Nor ever studied artful change;Because thou hast not roved, as we,Love paid no ransom rich for thee,Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped.Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thou hast not roved to wed

With those to Love averse or strange;

Because thou hast not roved, they said,

Nor ever studied artful change;

Because thou hast not roved, as we,

Love paid no ransom rich for thee,

Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped.

Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Aye, so! because thou thought’st to treadLove’s ways, and all his bidding do;Because thou hast not tired, they said,Nor ever wert to Love untrue;Because thou hast not tired, as we,How tedious must thy service be;Love with thy zeal is surfeited!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Aye, so! because thou thought’st to tread

Love’s ways, and all his bidding do;

Because thou hast not tired, they said,

Nor ever wert to Love untrue;

Because thou hast not tired, as we,

How tedious must thy service be;

Love with thy zeal is surfeited!

Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thou hast not wanton shedOn every hand thy heritage;Because thou art not flush, they said,But hast regard to meagre age;Because thou art not flush, as we,How strait thy cautious soul must be!How well thy thrift stands thee in stead!Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Because thou hast not wanton shed

On every hand thy heritage;

Because thou art not flush, they said,

But hast regard to meagre age;

Because thou art not flush, as we,

How strait thy cautious soul must be!

How well thy thrift stands thee in stead!

Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

And therefore look thou not for bread—For wine and bread from Love’s deep store,Because thou hast no need, they said;But us he’ll feast forevermore!Because thou hast no need, as we,Sit in his purlieus, thou, and seeHow with Love’s bounty we are fed.Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.Edith M. Thomas.

And therefore look thou not for bread—

For wine and bread from Love’s deep store,

Because thou hast no need, they said;

But us he’ll feast forevermore!

Because thou hast no need, as we,

Sit in his purlieus, thou, and see

How with Love’s bounty we are fed.

Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.

Edith M. Thomas.

As long I dwell on some stupendousAnd tremendous (Heaven defend us!)Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendousDemoniaco-seraphicPenman’s latest piece of graphic.—Browning.

As long I dwell on some stupendous

And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)

Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendous

Demoniaco-seraphic

Penman’s latest piece of graphic.—Browning.

WILL there never come a seasonWhich shall rid us from the curseOf a prose which knows no reason,And an unmelodious verse?—When the world shall cease to wonderAt the genius of an Ass,And a boy’s eccentric blunderShall not bring success to pass?—When mankind shall be deliveredFrom the clash of magazines,And the inkstand shall be shiveredInto countless smithereens?—When there stands a muzzled stripling,Mute, beside a muzzled bore?—When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,And the Haggards Ride no more?J. K. Stephen.

WILL there never come a season

Which shall rid us from the curse

Of a prose which knows no reason,

And an unmelodious verse?—

When the world shall cease to wonder

At the genius of an Ass,

And a boy’s eccentric blunder

Shall not bring success to pass?—

When mankind shall be deliveredFrom the clash of magazines,And the inkstand shall be shiveredInto countless smithereens?—When there stands a muzzled stripling,Mute, beside a muzzled bore?—When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,And the Haggards Ride no more?J. K. Stephen.

When mankind shall be delivered

From the clash of magazines,

And the inkstand shall be shivered

Into countless smithereens?—

When there stands a muzzled stripling,

Mute, beside a muzzled bore?—

When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,

And the Haggards Ride no more?

J. K. Stephen.

ABLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree,Likewise a little chickadee,In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.There, where the weeping willow weeps,A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps;From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.I see the English sparrow tiltUpon a limb with sun begilt;Her nest an ancient swallow built.So it was one of your old jests,Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests“There are no birds in last year’s nests?”Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

ABLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree,Likewise a little chickadee,In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.

ABLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree,

Likewise a little chickadee,

In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.

There, where the weeping willow weeps,A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps;From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.

There, where the weeping willow weeps,

A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps;

From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.

I see the English sparrow tiltUpon a limb with sun begilt;Her nest an ancient swallow built.

I see the English sparrow tilt

Upon a limb with sun begilt;

Her nest an ancient swallow built.

So it was one of your old jests,Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests“There are no birds in last year’s nests?”Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

So it was one of your old jests,

Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests

“There are no birds in last year’s nests?”

Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

IN letters large upon the frame,That visitors might see,The painter placed his humble name:O’Callaghan McGee.And from Beersheba unto Dan,The critics, with a nod,Exclaimed: “This painting IrishmanAdores his native sod.“His stout heart’s patriotic flameThere’s naught on earth can quell;He takes no wild romantic nameTo make his pictures sell.”Then poets praise, in sonnets neat,His stroke so bold and free;No parlor wall was thought completeThat hadn’t a McGee.All patriots before McGeeThrew lavishly their gold;His works in the AcademyWere very quickly sold.His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”His “When the Morning Smiled,”His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”His “Portrait of a Child,”Were purchased in a single day,And lauded as divine.......That night as in hisatelierThe artist sipped his wine,And looked upon his gilded frames,He grinned from ear to ear:“They little think my real name’sV. Stuyvesant De Vere!”Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

IN letters large upon the frame,That visitors might see,The painter placed his humble name:O’Callaghan McGee.

IN letters large upon the frame,

That visitors might see,

The painter placed his humble name:

O’Callaghan McGee.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,The critics, with a nod,Exclaimed: “This painting IrishmanAdores his native sod.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,

The critics, with a nod,

Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman

Adores his native sod.

“His stout heart’s patriotic flameThere’s naught on earth can quell;He takes no wild romantic nameTo make his pictures sell.”

“His stout heart’s patriotic flame

There’s naught on earth can quell;

He takes no wild romantic name

To make his pictures sell.”

Then poets praise, in sonnets neat,His stroke so bold and free;No parlor wall was thought completeThat hadn’t a McGee.

Then poets praise, in sonnets neat,

His stroke so bold and free;

No parlor wall was thought complete

That hadn’t a McGee.

All patriots before McGeeThrew lavishly their gold;His works in the AcademyWere very quickly sold.

All patriots before McGee

Threw lavishly their gold;

His works in the Academy

Were very quickly sold.

His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”His “When the Morning Smiled,”His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”His “Portrait of a Child,”Were purchased in a single day,And lauded as divine.......That night as in hisatelierThe artist sipped his wine,

His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”

His “When the Morning Smiled,”

His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”

His “Portrait of a Child,”

Were purchased in a single day,

And lauded as divine.

......

That night as in hisatelier

The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames,He grinned from ear to ear:“They little think my real name’sV. Stuyvesant De Vere!”Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

And looked upon his gilded frames,

He grinned from ear to ear:

“They little think my real name’s

V. Stuyvesant De Vere!”

Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

FOR these white arms about my neck—For the dainty room, with its ordered grace—For my snowy linen without a fleck—For the tender charm of this uplift face—For the softened light and the homelike air—The low, luxurious cannel fire—The padded ease of my chosen chair—The devoted love that discounts desire—I sometimes think, when twelve is struckBy the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,I would take—and thank the gods for the luck—One single hour with the boys and the beer,Where the sawdust-scent of a cheap saloonIs mingled with malt; where each man smokes;Where they sing the street-songs out of tune,Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.By Jove, I do! And all the timeI know not a man that is there to-night,But would barter his brains to be where I’m—And I’m well aware that the beggars are right.H. C. Bunner.

FOR these white arms about my neck—For the dainty room, with its ordered grace—For my snowy linen without a fleck—For the tender charm of this uplift face—

FOR these white arms about my neck—

For the dainty room, with its ordered grace—

For my snowy linen without a fleck—

For the tender charm of this uplift face—

For the softened light and the homelike air—The low, luxurious cannel fire—The padded ease of my chosen chair—The devoted love that discounts desire—

For the softened light and the homelike air—

The low, luxurious cannel fire—

The padded ease of my chosen chair—

The devoted love that discounts desire—

I sometimes think, when twelve is struckBy the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,I would take—and thank the gods for the luck—One single hour with the boys and the beer,

I sometimes think, when twelve is struck

By the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,

I would take—and thank the gods for the luck—

One single hour with the boys and the beer,

Where the sawdust-scent of a cheap saloonIs mingled with malt; where each man smokes;Where they sing the street-songs out of tune,Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.

Where the sawdust-scent of a cheap saloon

Is mingled with malt; where each man smokes;

Where they sing the street-songs out of tune,

Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.

By Jove, I do! And all the timeI know not a man that is there to-night,But would barter his brains to be where I’m—And I’m well aware that the beggars are right.H. C. Bunner.

By Jove, I do! And all the time

I know not a man that is there to-night,

But would barter his brains to be where I’m—

And I’m well aware that the beggars are right.

H. C. Bunner.

OCITY that is not a city, unworthy the prefix Atlantic,Forlornest of watering-places, and thoroughly Philadelphian!In thy despite I sing, with a bitter and deep detestation—A detestation born of a direful and dinnerless evening,Spent in thy precincts unhallowed—an evening, I trust, may recur not.Never till then did I know what was meant by the word God-forsaken:Thou its betokening hast taught me, being the chiefest example.Thou art the scorned of the gods; thy sand from their sandals is shaken;Thee have they left in their wrath to thy uninteresting extensiveness,Barren, and bleak, and big; a wild aggregation of barracks,Miscalled hotels, and of dovecotes denominate cottages;A confusion of ugly girls, of sand, and of health-bearing breezes,With one unending plank-walk for a true Philadelphia “attraction.”City ambitiously named, why, with inducements delusive,Is the un-Philadelphian stranger lured to thy desert pretentious?’Tis not alone that thy avenues, broad and unpaved and unending,Reecho yet with the obsolete music of “Pinafore,”Whistled in various keys by the rather too numerous negro;’Tis not alone that Propriety—Propriety too Philadelphian—Over thee stretches an ægis of wholly superfluous virtue;That thou art utterly good; hast no single vice to redeem thee;’Tis not alone that thou art provincial in all things, and petty;And that the dulness of death is gay, compared to thy dulness—’Tis not alone for these things that my curse is to rest upon thee,But for a sin that crowns thee with perfect and eminent badness,Sets thee alone in thy shame, the unworthiest town on the sea-coast;This: That thou dinest at noon, and then in a manner barbarian,Soupless, and wineless, and coffeeless, untimely and wholly indecent,As is the custom, I learn, in Philadelphia proper.I rose, and I fled from thy supper. I said, “I will get me a dinner!”Vainly I wandered thy streets. Thy eating-places ungodlyKnew not the holiness of dinner. In all that evening I dined not;But in a strange, low lair, infested of native mechanics,Bolted a fried beefsteak for the physical need of my stomach.And for them that have fried that steak, in Aïdes’ lowest back-kitchen,May they eternally broil, by way of a warning to others.During my wanderings, I met and hailed with delight one Italian,A man with a name from “Pasquale”—the chap sung by Tagliapietra;He knew what it was to dine; he comprehended my yearnings;But the spell was also on him, the somnolent spell Philadelphian,And his hostelry would not be open till Saturday next; and I cursed him.Now this is not too much to ask—God knows!—that a mortal should want aPint of Bordeaux to his dinner, and a small cigarette for a climax;But these things being denied him, where, then, is your civilization?O Coney Island! of old I have reviled and blasphemed thee,For that thou dousest thy glim at an hour that is unmetropolitan;That thy frequenters’ feet turn townwards ere striketh eleven,When the returning cars are filled with young men and maidens,Most of the maidens asleep on the young men’s cindery shoulders—Yea, but I spake as a fool, insensate, disgruntled, ungrateful:Thee will I worship henceforth in appreciative humility;Luxurious and splendid and urban, glorious and gaslit and gracious,Gathering from every land thy gay and ephemeral tenantry,From the Greek who hails thee “Thalatta!” to the rustic who murmurs “My golly!”From the Bowery youth who requests his sweetheart to “Look at them billers!”To the Gaul whom thy laughing waves almost persuade to immersion.O Coney Island, thou art the weary citizen’s heaven—A heaven to dine, not die in, joyful and restful and clamful.Better one hour of thee than an age of Atlantic City!H. C. Bunner.

OCITY that is not a city, unworthy the prefix Atlantic,

Forlornest of watering-places, and thoroughly Philadelphian!

In thy despite I sing, with a bitter and deep detestation—

A detestation born of a direful and dinnerless evening,

Spent in thy precincts unhallowed—an evening, I trust, may recur not.

Never till then did I know what was meant by the word God-forsaken:

Thou its betokening hast taught me, being the chiefest example.

Thou art the scorned of the gods; thy sand from their sandals is shaken;

Thee have they left in their wrath to thy uninteresting extensiveness,

Barren, and bleak, and big; a wild aggregation of barracks,

Miscalled hotels, and of dovecotes denominate cottages;

A confusion of ugly girls, of sand, and of health-bearing breezes,

With one unending plank-walk for a true Philadelphia “attraction.”

City ambitiously named, why, with inducements delusive,

Is the un-Philadelphian stranger lured to thy desert pretentious?

’Tis not alone that thy avenues, broad and unpaved and unending,

Reecho yet with the obsolete music of “Pinafore,”

Whistled in various keys by the rather too numerous negro;

’Tis not alone that Propriety—Propriety too Philadelphian—

Over thee stretches an ægis of wholly superfluous virtue;

That thou art utterly good; hast no single vice to redeem thee;

’Tis not alone that thou art provincial in all things, and petty;

And that the dulness of death is gay, compared to thy dulness—

’Tis not alone for these things that my curse is to rest upon thee,

But for a sin that crowns thee with perfect and eminent badness,

Sets thee alone in thy shame, the unworthiest town on the sea-coast;

This: That thou dinest at noon, and then in a manner barbarian,

Soupless, and wineless, and coffeeless, untimely and wholly indecent,

As is the custom, I learn, in Philadelphia proper.

I rose, and I fled from thy supper. I said, “I will get me a dinner!”

Vainly I wandered thy streets. Thy eating-places ungodly

Knew not the holiness of dinner. In all that evening I dined not;

But in a strange, low lair, infested of native mechanics,

Bolted a fried beefsteak for the physical need of my stomach.

And for them that have fried that steak, in Aïdes’ lowest back-kitchen,

May they eternally broil, by way of a warning to others.

During my wanderings, I met and hailed with delight one Italian,

A man with a name from “Pasquale”—the chap sung by Tagliapietra;

He knew what it was to dine; he comprehended my yearnings;

But the spell was also on him, the somnolent spell Philadelphian,

And his hostelry would not be open till Saturday next; and I cursed him.

Now this is not too much to ask—God knows!—that a mortal should want a

Pint of Bordeaux to his dinner, and a small cigarette for a climax;

But these things being denied him, where, then, is your civilization?

O Coney Island! of old I have reviled and blasphemed thee,

For that thou dousest thy glim at an hour that is unmetropolitan;

That thy frequenters’ feet turn townwards ere striketh eleven,

When the returning cars are filled with young men and maidens,

Most of the maidens asleep on the young men’s cindery shoulders—

Yea, but I spake as a fool, insensate, disgruntled, ungrateful:

Thee will I worship henceforth in appreciative humility;

Luxurious and splendid and urban, glorious and gaslit and gracious,

Gathering from every land thy gay and ephemeral tenantry,

From the Greek who hails thee “Thalatta!” to the rustic who murmurs “My golly!”

From the Bowery youth who requests his sweetheart to “Look at them billers!”

To the Gaul whom thy laughing waves almost persuade to immersion.

O Coney Island, thou art the weary citizen’s heaven—

A heaven to dine, not die in, joyful and restful and clamful.

Better one hour of thee than an age of Atlantic City!

H. C. Bunner.

THERE’S a prim little pondAt the back of Beyond,And its waters are over your ears;It’s a sort of a tarnBehind Robin Hood’s barn,Where the fish live a million years.And the mortals who drinkAt its pebbly brinkAre immediately changed into mullets,Whose heads grow immenseAt their bodies’ expense,And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets.But they willingly stayWho have once found the way,And they crave neither credit nor blame;For to wiggle their tails,And to practise their scales,Is enough in the Fountain of Fame.Herman Knickerbocker Vielé.

THERE’S a prim little pondAt the back of Beyond,And its waters are over your ears;It’s a sort of a tarnBehind Robin Hood’s barn,Where the fish live a million years.

THERE’S a prim little pond

At the back of Beyond,

And its waters are over your ears;

It’s a sort of a tarn

Behind Robin Hood’s barn,

Where the fish live a million years.

And the mortals who drinkAt its pebbly brinkAre immediately changed into mullets,Whose heads grow immenseAt their bodies’ expense,And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets.

And the mortals who drink

At its pebbly brink

Are immediately changed into mullets,

Whose heads grow immense

At their bodies’ expense,

And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets.

But they willingly stayWho have once found the way,And they crave neither credit nor blame;For to wiggle their tails,And to practise their scales,Is enough in the Fountain of Fame.Herman Knickerbocker Vielé.

But they willingly stay

Who have once found the way,

And they crave neither credit nor blame;

For to wiggle their tails,

And to practise their scales,

Is enough in the Fountain of Fame.

Herman Knickerbocker Vielé.

HE talked about the originOf sin;But present sin, I must confess,He never tried to render less;But used to add, so people talk,His share unto the general stock—But grieved about the originOf sin.He mourned about the originOf sin;But never struggled very longTo rout contemporaneous wrong,And never lost his sleep, they say,About the evils of to-day—But wept about the originOf sin.He sighed about the originOf sin;But showed no fear you could detectAbout its ultimate effect;He deemed it best to use no force,But let it run its natural course—But moaned about the originOf sin.Samuel Walter Foss.

HE talked about the originOf sin;But present sin, I must confess,He never tried to render less;But used to add, so people talk,His share unto the general stock—But grieved about the originOf sin.

HE talked about the origin

Of sin;

But present sin, I must confess,

He never tried to render less;

But used to add, so people talk,

His share unto the general stock—

But grieved about the origin

Of sin.

He mourned about the originOf sin;But never struggled very longTo rout contemporaneous wrong,And never lost his sleep, they say,About the evils of to-day—But wept about the originOf sin.

He mourned about the origin

Of sin;

But never struggled very long

To rout contemporaneous wrong,

And never lost his sleep, they say,

About the evils of to-day—

But wept about the origin

Of sin.

He sighed about the originOf sin;But showed no fear you could detectAbout its ultimate effect;He deemed it best to use no force,But let it run its natural course—But moaned about the originOf sin.Samuel Walter Foss.

He sighed about the origin

Of sin;

But showed no fear you could detect

About its ultimate effect;

He deemed it best to use no force,

But let it run its natural course—

But moaned about the origin

Of sin.

Samuel Walter Foss.

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