CONTENTSPAGEBOOKISHA Pessimistic View1The Master’s Pen—A Confession3Bookworm Ballads (a Literary Feast)5Ideas for Sale8The Author’s Boomerang11To an Egotistical Biographer12No Copyright Needed13Ingredients of Greatness14A Common Favorite15Their Pens17An Unsolved Problem18The Bibliophile’s Threat19My Treasures20A Poet’s Fad21The Poet Undone22A Waning Muse23Modesty24My Lord the Book25The Bibliomiser26The “Collector”27A Reader28Fate!29A Pleasing Thought30Booksvs.“Books,” by a Bibliomaniac31A Confession33The Edition de Looks35WISE AND OTHERWISENapolini’s Error41My Color45Contentment in Nature47The Heroic Gunner49The Pathetic Tale of the Caddy Boy52Garrulous Wisdom56The Perjury of a Rejected Lover58Maid of Culture59Not Perfect60A City Dweller’s Wish61Where are They?62Memories64A Sad State65Ad Astra per Otium.66Consolation67Satisfaction on Reading “Not One Dissatisfied,” by Walt Whitman68To a Withered Rose70The Worst of Enemies71Jokes of the Night72An Autumnal Romance75The Country in July76May 30, 189378The Curse of Wealth80The Rhyme of the Ancient Populist83One of the Nameless Great86In February Days87A Change of Ambition89Message from Mahatmas91The Gold-seekers95Ode to a Politician98Some are Amateurs101
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A littlebit of Thackeray,A little bit of Scott,A modicum of Dickens justTo tangle up the plot,A paraphrase of Marryat,Another from Dumas—You ask me for a novel, sir,And I say, there you are.The pen is greater than the sword,Of that there is no doubt.The pen for me whene’er I wishAn enemy to rout.A pen, a pad, and say a pintOf ink with which to scrawl,To put a foe to flight is allThat’s needed—truly all.But when it comes to making upA novel in these daysYou do not need a pen at allTo win the writer’s bays.A pair of sharpened scissors andA wealth of pure white pageWill do it if you have at handA pot of mucilage.So give to me the scissors keen,And give to me the glue,And I will fix a novel upThat’s sure to startle you.The good ideas have all been worked,But while we’ve gum and pasteThere shall be books and books and booksTo please the public taste.
A littlebit of Thackeray,A little bit of Scott,A modicum of Dickens justTo tangle up the plot,A paraphrase of Marryat,Another from Dumas—You ask me for a novel, sir,And I say, there you are.
A littlebit of Thackeray,
A little bit of Scott,
A modicum of Dickens just
To tangle up the plot,
A paraphrase of Marryat,
Another from Dumas—
You ask me for a novel, sir,
And I say, there you are.
The pen is greater than the sword,Of that there is no doubt.The pen for me whene’er I wishAn enemy to rout.A pen, a pad, and say a pintOf ink with which to scrawl,To put a foe to flight is allThat’s needed—truly all.
The pen is greater than the sword,
Of that there is no doubt.
The pen for me whene’er I wish
An enemy to rout.
A pen, a pad, and say a pint
Of ink with which to scrawl,
To put a foe to flight is all
That’s needed—truly all.
But when it comes to making upA novel in these daysYou do not need a pen at allTo win the writer’s bays.A pair of sharpened scissors andA wealth of pure white pageWill do it if you have at handA pot of mucilage.
But when it comes to making up
A novel in these days
You do not need a pen at all
To win the writer’s bays.
A pair of sharpened scissors and
A wealth of pure white page
Will do it if you have at hand
A pot of mucilage.
So give to me the scissors keen,And give to me the glue,And I will fix a novel upThat’s sure to startle you.The good ideas have all been worked,But while we’ve gum and pasteThere shall be books and books and booksTo please the public taste.
So give to me the scissors keen,
And give to me the glue,
And I will fix a novel up
That’s sure to startle you.
The good ideas have all been worked,
But while we’ve gum and paste
There shall be books and books and books
To please the public taste.
Inmy collection famed of curiosI have, as every bookman knows,A pen that Thackeray once used.To be amused,I thought I’d “take that pen in hand,”And see what came of it—what grandInspired lines ’twould write,One Sunday night.I dipped it in the ink,And tried to think,“Just what shall I indite?”And do you know, that pen went fairly mad;A dreadful time with it I had.It spluttered, spattered, scratched, and blotted so,I had to give it up, you know.It really wouldn’t work for me,And so I put it down; but last night, after tea,I took it up again,And equally in vain.The hours sped;I went to bed,And in my dreams the pen came up to me and said:“Here is the list of Asses who have triedTo take up pens the master laid aside;Look thou!” I looked, and lo!—perhaps you’ve guessed—My name, like Abou Ben’s, led all the rest!
Inmy collection famed of curios
I have, as every bookman knows,
A pen that Thackeray once used.
To be amused,
I thought I’d “take that pen in hand,”
And see what came of it—what grand
Inspired lines ’twould write,
One Sunday night.
I dipped it in the ink,
And tried to think,
“Just what shall I indite?”
And do you know, that pen went fairly mad;
A dreadful time with it I had.
It spluttered, spattered, scratched, and blotted so,
I had to give it up, you know.
It really wouldn’t work for me,
And so I put it down; but last night, after tea,
I took it up again,
And equally in vain.
The hours sped;
I went to bed,
And in my dreams the pen came up to me and said:
“Here is the list of Asses who have tried
To take up pens the master laid aside;
Look thou!” I looked, and lo!—perhaps you’ve guessed—
My name, like Abou Ben’s, led all the rest!
MyBookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.I was not there—I say it to my very great regret.For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I sawWas followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.They go down easy; then for soup”—it really made me laugh—“The poems of old Johnny Gay”—his words were rather rough—“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as anentrée,I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;The roast will be Charles Kingsley—there’s a deal of beef in him.For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.“For game I’ll have Boccaccio—he’s quite the proper one;He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone;And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he,With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.“And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you’ll find right thereSome things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert;And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyám be brought,The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.“For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes ofPunch—They’re good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;And through it all we’ll quaff the wines that flow forever clearFrom Avon’s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”
MyBookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.I was not there—I say it to my very great regret.For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I sawWas followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.
MyBookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.
I was not there—I say it to my very great regret.
For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw
Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.
“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.They go down easy; then for soup”—it really made me laugh—“The poems of old Johnny Gay”—his words were rather rough—“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.
“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.
They go down easy; then for soup”—it really made me laugh—
“The poems of old Johnny Gay”—his words were rather rough—
“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.
“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as anentrée,I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;The roast will be Charles Kingsley—there’s a deal of beef in him.For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.
“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as anentrée,
I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;
The roast will be Charles Kingsley—there’s a deal of beef in him.
For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.
“For game I’ll have Boccaccio—he’s quite the proper one;He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone;And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he,With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.
“For game I’ll have Boccaccio—he’s quite the proper one;
He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone;
And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he,
With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.
“And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you’ll find right thereSome things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert;And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyám be brought,The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.
“And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you’ll find right there
Some things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert;
And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyám be brought,
The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.
“For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes ofPunch—They’re good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;And through it all we’ll quaff the wines that flow forever clearFrom Avon’s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”
“For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes ofPunch—
They’re good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;
And through it all we’ll quaff the wines that flow forever clear
From Avon’s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”
I’min literary culture, and I’ve opened up a shop,Where I’d like ye, gents and ladies, if you’re passing by to stop.Come and see my rich assortment of fine literary seedThat I’m selling to the writers of full many a modern screed.I’ve bacilli for ten volumes for a dollar, in a bag—Not a single germ among ’em that’s been ever known to drag.Not a single germ among ’em, if you see they’re planted right,But will grow into a novel that they’ll say is out of sight.I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay.You can buy ’em by the dozen, or I’ll serve ’em every day:I will serve ’em in the morning, as the milkman serves his wares;I will serve ’em by the postman, or I’ll leave ’em on your stairs.When you get down to your table with your head a vacuum,You can say unto your helpmeet, “Has that quart of ideas comeThat we ordered served here daily from that plot-man down the street?”And you’ll find that I’ve been early my engagement to complete.Should you want a book of poems that will bring you into fame,Let me send a sample packet that will guarantee the same,Holding “Seeds of Thought from Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Tennyson.”Plant ’em deep, and keep ’em watered, and you’ll find the deed is done.I’ve a hundred comic packets that would make a Twain of Job;I have “Seeds of Tales Narcotic; Tales of Surgeons and the Probe.”I’ve a most superb assortment, on the very cheapest terms,Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my A 1 “Trilby Germs.”So perchance if you’re ambitious in a literary line,Be as dull as e’er you can be, you will surely cut a shine,If you’ll only take advantage of this opportunity,When you’re passing by to stop in for a little chat with me.You may ask me, in conclusion, why I do not seek myselfAll the laurel and the glory of these seeds I sell for pelf.I will tell you, though the confidence I can’t deny is rash,I’m a trifle long on laurels, and a little short of cash.
I’min literary culture, and I’ve opened up a shop,Where I’d like ye, gents and ladies, if you’re passing by to stop.Come and see my rich assortment of fine literary seedThat I’m selling to the writers of full many a modern screed.
I’min literary culture, and I’ve opened up a shop,
Where I’d like ye, gents and ladies, if you’re passing by to stop.
Come and see my rich assortment of fine literary seed
That I’m selling to the writers of full many a modern screed.
I’ve bacilli for ten volumes for a dollar, in a bag—Not a single germ among ’em that’s been ever known to drag.Not a single germ among ’em, if you see they’re planted right,But will grow into a novel that they’ll say is out of sight.
I’ve bacilli for ten volumes for a dollar, in a bag—
Not a single germ among ’em that’s been ever known to drag.
Not a single germ among ’em, if you see they’re planted right,
But will grow into a novel that they’ll say is out of sight.
I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay.You can buy ’em by the dozen, or I’ll serve ’em every day:I will serve ’em in the morning, as the milkman serves his wares;I will serve ’em by the postman, or I’ll leave ’em on your stairs.
I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay.
You can buy ’em by the dozen, or I’ll serve ’em every day:
I will serve ’em in the morning, as the milkman serves his wares;
I will serve ’em by the postman, or I’ll leave ’em on your stairs.
When you get down to your table with your head a vacuum,You can say unto your helpmeet, “Has that quart of ideas comeThat we ordered served here daily from that plot-man down the street?”And you’ll find that I’ve been early my engagement to complete.
When you get down to your table with your head a vacuum,
You can say unto your helpmeet, “Has that quart of ideas come
That we ordered served here daily from that plot-man down the street?”
And you’ll find that I’ve been early my engagement to complete.
Should you want a book of poems that will bring you into fame,Let me send a sample packet that will guarantee the same,Holding “Seeds of Thought from Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Tennyson.”Plant ’em deep, and keep ’em watered, and you’ll find the deed is done.
Should you want a book of poems that will bring you into fame,
Let me send a sample packet that will guarantee the same,
Holding “Seeds of Thought from Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Tennyson.”
Plant ’em deep, and keep ’em watered, and you’ll find the deed is done.
I’ve a hundred comic packets that would make a Twain of Job;I have “Seeds of Tales Narcotic; Tales of Surgeons and the Probe.”I’ve a most superb assortment, on the very cheapest terms,Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my A 1 “Trilby Germs.”
I’ve a hundred comic packets that would make a Twain of Job;
I have “Seeds of Tales Narcotic; Tales of Surgeons and the Probe.”
I’ve a most superb assortment, on the very cheapest terms,
Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my A 1 “Trilby Germs.”
So perchance if you’re ambitious in a literary line,Be as dull as e’er you can be, you will surely cut a shine,If you’ll only take advantage of this opportunity,When you’re passing by to stop in for a little chat with me.
So perchance if you’re ambitious in a literary line,
Be as dull as e’er you can be, you will surely cut a shine,
If you’ll only take advantage of this opportunity,
When you’re passing by to stop in for a little chat with me.
You may ask me, in conclusion, why I do not seek myselfAll the laurel and the glory of these seeds I sell for pelf.I will tell you, though the confidence I can’t deny is rash,I’m a trifle long on laurels, and a little short of cash.
You may ask me, in conclusion, why I do not seek myself
All the laurel and the glory of these seeds I sell for pelf.
I will tell you, though the confidence I can’t deny is rash,
I’m a trifle long on laurels, and a little short of cash.
Hefrowns with reason; he has always said,“The public has no knowledge of true art;The book of worth these days would not be read;’Tis trash not truth that goes upon the mart.”And then was published his belovéd work—Some twenty-six editions it has had—And he his own conclusion cannot shirk:With such success as this it must be bad!
Hefrowns with reason; he has always said,“The public has no knowledge of true art;The book of worth these days would not be read;’Tis trash not truth that goes upon the mart.”
Hefrowns with reason; he has always said,
“The public has no knowledge of true art;
The book of worth these days would not be read;
’Tis trash not truth that goes upon the mart.”
And then was published his belovéd work—Some twenty-six editions it has had—And he his own conclusion cannot shirk:With such success as this it must be bad!
And then was published his belovéd work—
Some twenty-six editions it has had—
And he his own conclusion cannot shirk:
With such success as this it must be bad!
I’veread your story of your friend’s fine life,But really, gentle sir, I fail to see,Why you have named it “Blank, and Jane his wife,”When you had better called it simply “Me.”
I’veread your story of your friend’s fine life,
But really, gentle sir, I fail to see,
Why you have named it “Blank, and Jane his wife,”
When you had better called it simply “Me.”
I’vepenned a score of essays bright,In Addison’s best style;I’ve taken many a lofty flight,The Muses to beguile.Of novels I have written few—I think no more than ten;With history I’ve had to do,Like several other men.And still, to my intense regret,Through all my woe and weal,I’ve never penned a volume yet,A foreigner would steal.
I’vepenned a score of essays bright,In Addison’s best style;I’ve taken many a lofty flight,The Muses to beguile.
I’vepenned a score of essays bright,
In Addison’s best style;
I’ve taken many a lofty flight,
The Muses to beguile.
Of novels I have written few—I think no more than ten;With history I’ve had to do,Like several other men.
Of novels I have written few—
I think no more than ten;
With history I’ve had to do,
Like several other men.
And still, to my intense regret,Through all my woe and weal,I’ve never penned a volume yet,A foreigner would steal.
And still, to my intense regret,
Through all my woe and weal,
I’ve never penned a volume yet,
A foreigner would steal.
Thestyle of man I’d like to be,If I could have my way,Would be a sort of pot-pourriOf Poe and Thackeray;Of Horace, Edison, and Lamb;Of Keats and Washington,Gérôme and blest Omar Khayyám,And R. L. Stevenson;Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums,And Bonaparte the great—If I were these, I’d snap my thumbsDerisively at Fate.
Thestyle of man I’d like to be,If I could have my way,Would be a sort of pot-pourriOf Poe and Thackeray;
Thestyle of man I’d like to be,
If I could have my way,
Would be a sort of pot-pourri
Of Poe and Thackeray;
Of Horace, Edison, and Lamb;Of Keats and Washington,Gérôme and blest Omar Khayyám,And R. L. Stevenson;
Of Horace, Edison, and Lamb;
Of Keats and Washington,
Gérôme and blest Omar Khayyám,
And R. L. Stevenson;
Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums,And Bonaparte the great—If I were these, I’d snap my thumbsDerisively at Fate.
Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums,
And Bonaparte the great—
If I were these, I’d snap my thumbs
Derisively at Fate.
Charles Lambis good, and so is Thackeray,And so’s Jane Austen in her pretty way;Charles Dickens, too, has pleased me quite a lot,As also have both Stevenson and Scott.I like Dumas and Balzac, and I thinkLord Byron quite a dab at spreading ink;But on the whole, at home, across the sea,The author I like best is Mr. Me.A “first” of Elia filled my soul with joy.A Meredith de luxe held no alloy.And when I foundPendennisin the partsA throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.A richly pictured set of Avon’s bardUpon my liking bounded pretty hard;But none brought out that cloying sense of gleeThat came from that first book by Mr. Me.And so I beg you join me in the toastTo him that I confess I love the most.He does not always do his level best,But no one lives who can survive that test.His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,And some aver ’tis but a passing fad;But I don’t care, the fact remains that heHas won my admiration—dear old Me.
Charles Lambis good, and so is Thackeray,And so’s Jane Austen in her pretty way;Charles Dickens, too, has pleased me quite a lot,As also have both Stevenson and Scott.I like Dumas and Balzac, and I thinkLord Byron quite a dab at spreading ink;But on the whole, at home, across the sea,The author I like best is Mr. Me.
Charles Lambis good, and so is Thackeray,
And so’s Jane Austen in her pretty way;
Charles Dickens, too, has pleased me quite a lot,
As also have both Stevenson and Scott.
I like Dumas and Balzac, and I think
Lord Byron quite a dab at spreading ink;
But on the whole, at home, across the sea,
The author I like best is Mr. Me.
A “first” of Elia filled my soul with joy.A Meredith de luxe held no alloy.And when I foundPendennisin the partsA throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.A richly pictured set of Avon’s bardUpon my liking bounded pretty hard;But none brought out that cloying sense of gleeThat came from that first book by Mr. Me.
A “first” of Elia filled my soul with joy.
A Meredith de luxe held no alloy.
And when I foundPendennisin the parts
A throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.
A richly pictured set of Avon’s bard
Upon my liking bounded pretty hard;
But none brought out that cloying sense of glee
That came from that first book by Mr. Me.
And so I beg you join me in the toastTo him that I confess I love the most.He does not always do his level best,But no one lives who can survive that test.His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,And some aver ’tis but a passing fad;But I don’t care, the fact remains that heHas won my admiration—dear old Me.
And so I beg you join me in the toast
To him that I confess I love the most.
He does not always do his level best,
But no one lives who can survive that test.
His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,
And some aver ’tis but a passing fad;
But I don’t care, the fact remains that he
Has won my admiration—dear old Me.
Thepoet pens his odes and sonnets spruceWith quills plucked from the ordinary goose,While critics write their sharp incisive linesWith quills snatched from the fretful porcupines.
Thepoet pens his odes and sonnets spruce
With quills plucked from the ordinary goose,
While critics write their sharp incisive lines
With quills snatched from the fretful porcupines.
IfBacon wrote those grand inspiring linesAt which alternately man weeps and laughs,Who was it penned those chirographic vinesWe know these times as Shakespeare’s autographs?
IfBacon wrote those grand inspiring lines
At which alternately man weeps and laughs,
Who was it penned those chirographic vines
We know these times as Shakespeare’s autographs?
Ifsome one does not speedily inditeA volume that is worthy of my shelf,I’ll have to buy materials and writeA novel and some poetry myself.
Ifsome one does not speedily indite
A volume that is worthy of my shelf,
I’ll have to buy materials and write
A novel and some poetry myself.
Mylibrary o’erflows with treasures rare:Of “Dickens’ firsts,” a full, unbroken set;And in a little nooklet off the stairThe whole edition of my novelette.
Mylibrary o’erflows with treasures rare:
Of “Dickens’ firsts,” a full, unbroken set;
And in a little nooklet off the stair
The whole edition of my novelette.
Hewrites bad verse on principle,E’en though it does not sell.He thinks the plan original—So many folk write well.
Hewrites bad verse on principle,
E’en though it does not sell.
He thinks the plan original—
So many folk write well.
Hewas a poet born, but unkind FateOnce doomed him for his verses to be paid,Whereon he left the poet-born’s estateAnd wrote like one who’d happened to be made.
Hewas a poet born, but unkind Fate
Once doomed him for his verses to be paid,
Whereon he left the poet-born’s estate
And wrote like one who’d happened to be made.
“Whyart thou sad, Poeticus?” said I.So blue was he I feared he would not speak.“Alas! I’ve lost my grip,” was his reply—“I’ve writ but forty poems, sir, this week.”
“Whyart thou sad, Poeticus?” said I.
So blue was he I feared he would not speak.
“Alas! I’ve lost my grip,” was his reply—
“I’ve writ but forty poems, sir, this week.”
“Whathundred books are best, think you?” I said,Addressing one devoted to the pen.He thought a moment, then he raised his head:“I hardly know—I’ve written only ten.”
“Whathundred books are best, think you?” I said,
Addressing one devoted to the pen.
He thought a moment, then he raised his head:
“I hardly know—I’ve written only ten.”
A bookis an aristocrat:’Tis pampered—lives in state;Stands on a shelf, with naught whereatTo worry—lovely fate!Enjoys the best of company;And often—ay, ’tis so—Like much in aristocracy,Its title makes it go.
A bookis an aristocrat:’Tis pampered—lives in state;Stands on a shelf, with naught whereatTo worry—lovely fate!
A bookis an aristocrat:
’Tis pampered—lives in state;
Stands on a shelf, with naught whereat
To worry—lovely fate!
Enjoys the best of company;And often—ay, ’tis so—Like much in aristocracy,Its title makes it go.
Enjoys the best of company;
And often—ay, ’tis so—
Like much in aristocracy,
Its title makes it go.
Hedoes not read at all, yet he doth hoardRich books. In exile on his shelves they’re stored;And many a volume, sweet and good and true,Fails in the work that it was made to do.Why, e’en the dust they’ve caught since he beganWould quite suffice to make a decent man!
Hedoes not read at all, yet he doth hoard
Rich books. In exile on his shelves they’re stored;
And many a volume, sweet and good and true,
Fails in the work that it was made to do.
Why, e’en the dust they’ve caught since he began
Would quite suffice to make a decent man!
I gota tome to-day, and I was glad to strike it,Because no other man can ever get one like it.’Tis poor, and badly print; its meaning’s Greek;But what of that? ’Tis mine, and it’s unique.So Bah! to others,Men and brothers—Bah! and likewise Pooh!I’ve got the best of you.Go sicken, die, and eke repine.That book you wanted—Gad! that’s mine!
I gota tome to-day, and I was glad to strike it,
Because no other man can ever get one like it.
’Tis poor, and badly print; its meaning’s Greek;
But what of that? ’Tis mine, and it’s unique.
So Bah! to others,
Men and brothers—
Bah! and likewise Pooh!
I’ve got the best of you.
Go sicken, die, and eke repine.
That book you wanted—Gad! that’s mine!
Daudetto him is e’er Dodett;Dumas he calls Dumass;But prithee do not you forgetHe’s not at all an ass;Because the books that he doth buy,That on his shelf do stand,Hold not one page his eagle eyeHath not completely scanned.And while this man’s orthoepyMay not be what it should,He knows what books contain, and he“Can quote ’em pretty good.”
Daudetto him is e’er Dodett;Dumas he calls Dumass;But prithee do not you forgetHe’s not at all an ass;
Daudetto him is e’er Dodett;
Dumas he calls Dumass;
But prithee do not you forget
He’s not at all an ass;
Because the books that he doth buy,That on his shelf do stand,Hold not one page his eagle eyeHath not completely scanned.
Because the books that he doth buy,
That on his shelf do stand,
Hold not one page his eagle eye
Hath not completely scanned.
And while this man’s orthoepyMay not be what it should,He knows what books contain, and he“Can quote ’em pretty good.”
And while this man’s orthoepy
May not be what it should,
He knows what books contain, and he
“Can quote ’em pretty good.”
I feelthat I am quite as smartAs Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.I’m also every bit as brightAs Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;And in my own peculiar wayI’m just as good as Thackeray.But, woe is me that it should be,They got here years ahead of me,And all the tales I would unfoldBy them already have been told.
I feelthat I am quite as smartAs Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.
I feelthat I am quite as smart
As Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.
I’m also every bit as brightAs Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;
I’m also every bit as bright
As Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;
And in my own peculiar wayI’m just as good as Thackeray.
And in my own peculiar way
I’m just as good as Thackeray.
But, woe is me that it should be,They got here years ahead of me,
But, woe is me that it should be,
They got here years ahead of me,
And all the tales I would unfoldBy them already have been told.
And all the tales I would unfold
By them already have been told.
Theyspeak most truly who do sayWe have no writing-folk to-dayLike those whose names, in days gone by,Upon the scroll of fame stood high.And when I think of Smollett’s tales,Of waspish Pope’s ill-natured rails,Of Fielding dull, of Sterne too free,Of Swift’s uncurbed indecency,Of Dr. Johnson’s bludgeon-wit,I must confess I’m glad of it!
Theyspeak most truly who do say
We have no writing-folk to-day
Like those whose names, in days gone by,
Upon the scroll of fame stood high.
And when I think of Smollett’s tales,
Of waspish Pope’s ill-natured rails,
Of Fielding dull, of Sterne too free,
Of Swift’s uncurbed indecency,
Of Dr. Johnson’s bludgeon-wit,
I must confess I’m glad of it!
A volume’sjust received on vellum print.The book is worth the vellum—no more in’t.But, as I search my head for thoughts, I findOne fact embedded firmly in my mind.That’s this, in short: while it no doubt may beMost pleasant for an author small to seeA fine edition of his work put out,No man who’s sane can ever really doubtThat products of his brain and pen can liveAlone for that which they may haply give!And though on vellum stiff the work appears,It cannot live throughout the after-years,Unless it has within its leaves some hintOf something further than the style of printAnd paper—give me Omar on mere waste,I’ll choose it rather than some “bookish taste,”Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale,Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale.I’d choose my Omar print on grocer’s wrapsBefore the vellum books of “bookish” chaps.
A volume’sjust received on vellum print.The book is worth the vellum—no more in’t.But, as I search my head for thoughts, I findOne fact embedded firmly in my mind.
A volume’sjust received on vellum print.
The book is worth the vellum—no more in’t.
But, as I search my head for thoughts, I find
One fact embedded firmly in my mind.
That’s this, in short: while it no doubt may beMost pleasant for an author small to seeA fine edition of his work put out,No man who’s sane can ever really doubt
That’s this, in short: while it no doubt may be
Most pleasant for an author small to see
A fine edition of his work put out,
No man who’s sane can ever really doubt
That products of his brain and pen can liveAlone for that which they may haply give!And though on vellum stiff the work appears,It cannot live throughout the after-years,
That products of his brain and pen can live
Alone for that which they may haply give!
And though on vellum stiff the work appears,
It cannot live throughout the after-years,
Unless it has within its leaves some hintOf something further than the style of printAnd paper—give me Omar on mere waste,I’ll choose it rather than some “bookish taste,”
Unless it has within its leaves some hint
Of something further than the style of print
And paper—give me Omar on mere waste,
I’ll choose it rather than some “bookish taste,”
Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale,Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale.I’d choose my Omar print on grocer’s wrapsBefore the vellum books of “bookish” chaps.
Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale,
Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale.
I’d choose my Omar print on grocer’s wraps
Before the vellum books of “bookish” chaps.
Myepic verse, my pet production, which I deemedSufficient to advance me to the highest peakOf difficult Parnassus, goal of which I’ve dreamedFor many a weary year, came back to me last week.The Editor I cursed, that he should stand betweenMy dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self;Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseenMy one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side,And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flameThe name of him I’d cursed was writ; and when I cried,“What portent this?” the rare celestial dameReplied:“Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou’st cursed.The very man of all men who should be the firstThy love and lasting gratitude to know, since heStill leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee—A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed,Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.Read thou thy lines again!”Ah! bitter was the cup.I read, withdrew the curse—and tore the epic up.
Myepic verse, my pet production, which I deemed
Sufficient to advance me to the highest peak
Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which I’ve dreamed
For many a weary year, came back to me last week.
The Editor I cursed, that he should stand between
My dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self;
Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseen
My one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.
That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side,
And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flame
The name of him I’d cursed was writ; and when I cried,
“What portent this?” the rare celestial dame
Replied:
“Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou’st cursed.
The very man of all men who should be the first
Thy love and lasting gratitude to know, since he
Still leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee—
A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed,
Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.
Read thou thy lines again!”
Ah! bitter was the cup.
I read, withdrew the curse—and tore the epic up.
How very close to truth these bookish menCan be when in their catalogues they penThe words descriptive of the wares they holdTo tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!For instance, they have Dryden—splendid set—Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.’Tis richly bound, its edges gilded—but—Hard fate—as Dryden well deserves—uncut!For who these days would think to buy the screedOf dull old dusty Dryden just to read?In faith if his editions had been keptAmongst the rarities he’d ne’er have crept!And then those pompous, overwhelming tomesYou find so oft in overwhelming homes,No substance on a Whatman surface placed,In polished leather and in tooling cased,The gilded edges dazzling to the eyeAnd flaunting all their charms so wantonly.These book-men, when they catalogue their books,Call them in truthédition de luxe.That’s all they have, most of ’em, just plain shape,With less pure wine than any unripe grape.But tomes that travel on their “looks” indeedAre only good for those who do not read;And, like most people clad in garments grand,Seem rather heavy for the average hand.
How very close to truth these bookish menCan be when in their catalogues they pen
How very close to truth these bookish men
Can be when in their catalogues they pen
The words descriptive of the wares they holdTo tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!
The words descriptive of the wares they hold
To tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!
For instance, they have Dryden—splendid set—Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.
For instance, they have Dryden—splendid set—
Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.
’Tis richly bound, its edges gilded—but—Hard fate—as Dryden well deserves—uncut!
’Tis richly bound, its edges gilded—but—
Hard fate—as Dryden well deserves—uncut!
For who these days would think to buy the screedOf dull old dusty Dryden just to read?
For who these days would think to buy the screed
Of dull old dusty Dryden just to read?
In faith if his editions had been keptAmongst the rarities he’d ne’er have crept!
In faith if his editions had been kept
Amongst the rarities he’d ne’er have crept!
And then those pompous, overwhelming tomesYou find so oft in overwhelming homes,
And then those pompous, overwhelming tomes
You find so oft in overwhelming homes,
No substance on a Whatman surface placed,In polished leather and in tooling cased,
No substance on a Whatman surface placed,
In polished leather and in tooling cased,
The gilded edges dazzling to the eyeAnd flaunting all their charms so wantonly.
The gilded edges dazzling to the eye
And flaunting all their charms so wantonly.
These book-men, when they catalogue their books,Call them in truthédition de luxe.
These book-men, when they catalogue their books,
Call them in truthédition de luxe.
That’s all they have, most of ’em, just plain shape,With less pure wine than any unripe grape.
That’s all they have, most of ’em, just plain shape,
With less pure wine than any unripe grape.
But tomes that travel on their “looks” indeedAre only good for those who do not read;
But tomes that travel on their “looks” indeed
Are only good for those who do not read;
And, like most people clad in garments grand,Seem rather heavy for the average hand.
And, like most people clad in garments grand,
Seem rather heavy for the average hand.
Pietro Napolini di Vendetta PasquarelleDeserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well,And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount,To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time,And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhymeHow this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.No chance had he for music that’s developed by a crank,No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach’s woe,It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man’s snow.And then P. Napolini di Vendetta PasquarelleSought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.“I wanta shov’ da snow,” he said, when there at last appearedFitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.“Go wi,” said Fitz, with gesture bold. “Yer cahn’t do nothink ere,Yer bloomin’, hugly furriner!” he added, with a sneer.“Hi thinks as ’ow you dagoes is the cuss o’ this ’ere land,With wuthy citizens like me ’most starved on every ’and.Hi vows hif I’d me wi at all hi’d order hout a troop,Hand send the bloomin’ lot o’ yer ’ead over ’eels in soup.Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop.”Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus wentAnd humbly asked his master for two dollars that he’d spentIn paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle;While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well,Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake,He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake,And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.
Pietro Napolini di Vendetta PasquarelleDeserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well,And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount,To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time,And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhymeHow this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.
Pietro Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle
Deserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well,
And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount,
To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.
Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time,
And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhyme
How this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.
No chance had he for music that’s developed by a crank,No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach’s woe,It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man’s snow.
No chance had he for music that’s developed by a crank,
No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.
The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;
He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.
The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach’s woe,
It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,
Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man’s snow.
And then P. Napolini di Vendetta PasquarelleSought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.“I wanta shov’ da snow,” he said, when there at last appearedFitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.
And then P. Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle
Sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.
He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,
Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.
“I wanta shov’ da snow,” he said, when there at last appeared
Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,
A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.
“Go wi,” said Fitz, with gesture bold. “Yer cahn’t do nothink ere,Yer bloomin’, hugly furriner!” he added, with a sneer.“Hi thinks as ’ow you dagoes is the cuss o’ this ’ere land,With wuthy citizens like me ’most starved on every ’and.Hi vows hif I’d me wi at all hi’d order hout a troop,Hand send the bloomin’ lot o’ yer ’ead over ’eels in soup.Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop.”
“Go wi,” said Fitz, with gesture bold. “Yer cahn’t do nothink ere,
Yer bloomin’, hugly furriner!” he added, with a sneer.
“Hi thinks as ’ow you dagoes is the cuss o’ this ’ere land,
With wuthy citizens like me ’most starved on every ’and.
Hi vows hif I’d me wi at all hi’d order hout a troop,
Hand send the bloomin’ lot o’ yer ’ead over ’eels in soup.
Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop.”
Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus wentAnd humbly asked his master for two dollars that he’d spentIn paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle;While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well,Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake,He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake,And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.
Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus went
And humbly asked his master for two dollars that he’d spent
In paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle;
While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well,
Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake,
He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake,
And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.
Mybest-loved color? Well, I think I likeA soft and tender dewy green—for grass.Sometimes a pink my fancy too will strike—In lobsterpuréeor a Sauterne glass.Blue is a color, too, I greatly love.It’s sort of satisfying to my eyes.’Tis their own color; and I’m quite fond ofThis hue also for soft Italian skies.For blushes, give me red, nor hesitateTo pile it on; I like it good and strongUpon the cheeks of her I call my Fate,The loveliest of all the lovely throng.On golden-yellow oft my fancy dwells.’Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles throughThe effervescent fizz; and wondrous spellsIt casts o’er me when coined in dollars, too.Hence, friend, it is I cannot specifyWhat hues particular my joys enhance.I like them all; their popularityAt special times depends on circumstance.
Mybest-loved color? Well, I think I likeA soft and tender dewy green—for grass.Sometimes a pink my fancy too will strike—In lobsterpuréeor a Sauterne glass.
Mybest-loved color? Well, I think I like
A soft and tender dewy green—for grass.
Sometimes a pink my fancy too will strike—
In lobsterpuréeor a Sauterne glass.
Blue is a color, too, I greatly love.It’s sort of satisfying to my eyes.’Tis their own color; and I’m quite fond ofThis hue also for soft Italian skies.
Blue is a color, too, I greatly love.
It’s sort of satisfying to my eyes.
’Tis their own color; and I’m quite fond of
This hue also for soft Italian skies.
For blushes, give me red, nor hesitateTo pile it on; I like it good and strongUpon the cheeks of her I call my Fate,The loveliest of all the lovely throng.
For blushes, give me red, nor hesitate
To pile it on; I like it good and strong
Upon the cheeks of her I call my Fate,
The loveliest of all the lovely throng.
On golden-yellow oft my fancy dwells.’Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles throughThe effervescent fizz; and wondrous spellsIt casts o’er me when coined in dollars, too.
On golden-yellow oft my fancy dwells.
’Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles through
The effervescent fizz; and wondrous spells
It casts o’er me when coined in dollars, too.
Hence, friend, it is I cannot specifyWhat hues particular my joys enhance.I like them all; their popularityAt special times depends on circumstance.
Hence, friend, it is I cannot specify
What hues particular my joys enhance.
I like them all; their popularity
At special times depends on circumstance.
I wouldnot change my joys for thoseOf Emperors and Kings.What has my gentle friend the roseTold them, if aught, do you suppose—The rose that tells me things?What secrets have they had with trees?What romps with grassy spears?What know they of the mysteriesOf butterflies and honey-bees,Who whisper in my ears?What says the sunbeam unto them?What tales have brooklets told?Is there within their diademA single rival to the gemThe dewy daisies hold?What sympathy have they with birdsWhose songs are songs of mine?Do they e’er hear, as though in words’Twas lisped, the message of the herdsOf grazing, lowing kine?Ah no! Give me no lofty throne,But just what Nature yields.Let me but wander on, aloneIf need be, so that all my ownAre woods and dales and fields.
I wouldnot change my joys for thoseOf Emperors and Kings.What has my gentle friend the roseTold them, if aught, do you suppose—The rose that tells me things?
I wouldnot change my joys for those
Of Emperors and Kings.
What has my gentle friend the rose
Told them, if aught, do you suppose—
The rose that tells me things?
What secrets have they had with trees?What romps with grassy spears?What know they of the mysteriesOf butterflies and honey-bees,Who whisper in my ears?
What secrets have they had with trees?
What romps with grassy spears?
What know they of the mysteries
Of butterflies and honey-bees,
Who whisper in my ears?
What says the sunbeam unto them?What tales have brooklets told?Is there within their diademA single rival to the gemThe dewy daisies hold?
What says the sunbeam unto them?
What tales have brooklets told?
Is there within their diadem
A single rival to the gem
The dewy daisies hold?
What sympathy have they with birdsWhose songs are songs of mine?Do they e’er hear, as though in words’Twas lisped, the message of the herdsOf grazing, lowing kine?
What sympathy have they with birds
Whose songs are songs of mine?
Do they e’er hear, as though in words
’Twas lisped, the message of the herds
Of grazing, lowing kine?
Ah no! Give me no lofty throne,But just what Nature yields.Let me but wander on, aloneIf need be, so that all my ownAre woods and dales and fields.
Ah no! Give me no lofty throne,
But just what Nature yields.
Let me but wander on, alone
If need be, so that all my own
Are woods and dales and fields.
When the order was given to withdraw from battle for breakfast, one of the gun-captains, a privileged character, begged Commodore Dewey to let them keep on fighting until “we’ve wiped ’em out.”—War Anecdote in Daily Paper.
Atthe battle of Manila,In the un-Pacific sea,Stood a gunner with his mad upJust as far as it could be—Stood a gunner brave and readyFor the hated enemy.Near the Isles of PhilopenaRaged the battle all the morn,And the plucky Spanish sailorsBy the shot and shell were torn;And the flag that floated o’er themTo oblivion was borne.Every cannon belched projectiles,Every cannon breathed forth hell,Every cannon mowed the foemanFrom the deck into the swell,When amid the din of battleRang the silvery breakfast-bell.“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”Cried the gallant Commodore.“After eating we will let themHave a rousing old encore.Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;Let the cannon cease to roar.”Then upspake the fighting gunner:“Dewey, don’t, I beg of you.What’s the use of drinking coffeeTill we’ve put this scrimmage through?If there’s any one who’s hungry,Won’t this Spanish omelet do?“Farragut would not have done itWhen through Mobile Bay he sped.Why then, Dewey, should we breakfastTill we’ve plunked ’em full of lead?Let our motto be as his was—Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!”
Atthe battle of Manila,In the un-Pacific sea,Stood a gunner with his mad upJust as far as it could be—Stood a gunner brave and readyFor the hated enemy.
Atthe battle of Manila,
In the un-Pacific sea,
Stood a gunner with his mad up
Just as far as it could be—
Stood a gunner brave and ready
For the hated enemy.
Near the Isles of PhilopenaRaged the battle all the morn,And the plucky Spanish sailorsBy the shot and shell were torn;And the flag that floated o’er themTo oblivion was borne.
Near the Isles of Philopena
Raged the battle all the morn,
And the plucky Spanish sailors
By the shot and shell were torn;
And the flag that floated o’er them
To oblivion was borne.
Every cannon belched projectiles,Every cannon breathed forth hell,Every cannon mowed the foemanFrom the deck into the swell,When amid the din of battleRang the silvery breakfast-bell.
Every cannon belched projectiles,
Every cannon breathed forth hell,
Every cannon mowed the foeman
From the deck into the swell,
When amid the din of battle
Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.
“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”Cried the gallant Commodore.“After eating we will let themHave a rousing old encore.Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;Let the cannon cease to roar.”
“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”
Cried the gallant Commodore.
“After eating we will let them
Have a rousing old encore.
Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;
Let the cannon cease to roar.”
Then upspake the fighting gunner:“Dewey, don’t, I beg of you.What’s the use of drinking coffeeTill we’ve put this scrimmage through?If there’s any one who’s hungry,Won’t this Spanish omelet do?
Then upspake the fighting gunner:
“Dewey, don’t, I beg of you.
What’s the use of drinking coffee
Till we’ve put this scrimmage through?
If there’s any one who’s hungry,
Won’t this Spanish omelet do?
“Farragut would not have done itWhen through Mobile Bay he sped.Why then, Dewey, should we breakfastTill we’ve plunked ’em full of lead?Let our motto be as his was—Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!”
“Farragut would not have done it
When through Mobile Bay he sped.
Why then, Dewey, should we breakfast
Till we’ve plunked ’em full of lead?
Let our motto be as his was—
Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!”
“Comehere,” said I, “oh caddy boy, and tell me how it hapsYou cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?“Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bagWhile others speed the festive ball o’er valley, hill, and crag?And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?“I’ve watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o’er the factThat you are so attentive to the game; your every actDoth indicate perfection—there’s been nothing you have lacked.“And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem—In all my golfing days you’ve been the very brightest gleam—Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?”“Oh, sir,” said he, “I caddy here because I love my pa;I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:“’Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sportCame in the portals of our home—home of the sweetest sort;When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.“My father first he took it up, and many a weary nightMy mother with us children waited up by candle-light,In hopes that he’d return and free us from our lonely plight.“Then mother she went after him—alas! that it should be—And shortly learned the game herself—she plays it famously—Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.“They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere;No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair,And for the cares of golf they’ve dropped their every other care.“And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home,And join the ranks of caddy boys who o’er the fields do roamIn search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;“For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will seeOur most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee;A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be.”And lo—I looked upon that boy—his face was sweet and sad,And to my heart there came a twinge, for in that little ladI recognized my eldest son—Iwas that wicked dad!And now together we are out on links at home and far.He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa,A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.
“Comehere,” said I, “oh caddy boy, and tell me how it hapsYou cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?
“Comehere,” said I, “oh caddy boy, and tell me how it haps
You cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,
Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?
“Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bagWhile others speed the festive ball o’er valley, hill, and crag?And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?
“Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bag
While others speed the festive ball o’er valley, hill, and crag?
And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?
“I’ve watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o’er the factThat you are so attentive to the game; your every actDoth indicate perfection—there’s been nothing you have lacked.
“I’ve watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o’er the fact
That you are so attentive to the game; your every act
Doth indicate perfection—there’s been nothing you have lacked.
“And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem—In all my golfing days you’ve been the very brightest gleam—Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?”
“And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem—
In all my golfing days you’ve been the very brightest gleam—
Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?”
“Oh, sir,” said he, “I caddy here because I love my pa;I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:
“Oh, sir,” said he, “I caddy here because I love my pa;
I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;
In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:
“’Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sportCame in the portals of our home—home of the sweetest sort;When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.
“’Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sport
Came in the portals of our home—home of the sweetest sort;
When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.
“My father first he took it up, and many a weary nightMy mother with us children waited up by candle-light,In hopes that he’d return and free us from our lonely plight.
“My father first he took it up, and many a weary night
My mother with us children waited up by candle-light,
In hopes that he’d return and free us from our lonely plight.
“Then mother she went after him—alas! that it should be—And shortly learned the game herself—she plays it famously—Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.
“Then mother she went after him—alas! that it should be—
And shortly learned the game herself—she plays it famously—
Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.
“They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere;No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair,And for the cares of golf they’ve dropped their every other care.
“They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere;
No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair,
And for the cares of golf they’ve dropped their every other care.
“And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home,And join the ranks of caddy boys who o’er the fields do roamIn search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;
“And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home,
And join the ranks of caddy boys who o’er the fields do roam
In search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;
“For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will seeOur most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee;A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be.”
“For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will see
Our most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee;
A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be.”
And lo—I looked upon that boy—his face was sweet and sad,And to my heart there came a twinge, for in that little ladI recognized my eldest son—Iwas that wicked dad!
And lo—I looked upon that boy—his face was sweet and sad,
And to my heart there came a twinge, for in that little lad
I recognized my eldest son—Iwas that wicked dad!
And now together we are out on links at home and far.He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa,A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.
And now together we are out on links at home and far.
He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa,
A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.