Chapter 2

A NEW VERSION.Old Mother HubbardShe went to the cupboard,To find a nice bone for her dog.But when she got thereThe cupboard was bare,And now they are both on the hog.

A NEW VERSION.

Old Mother HubbardShe went to the cupboard,To find a nice bone for her dog.But when she got thereThe cupboard was bare,And now they are both on the hog.

Old Mother Hubbard

She went to the cupboard,

To find a nice bone for her dog.

But when she got there

The cupboard was bare,

And now they are both on the hog.

OH SCISSORS!I knew a young man so conceitedThat a glance at his face made you heated.One night, playing whist,He was slapped on the wrist,Because some one said that he cheated.

OH SCISSORS!

I knew a young man so conceitedThat a glance at his face made you heated.One night, playing whist,He was slapped on the wrist,Because some one said that he cheated.

I knew a young man so conceited

That a glance at his face made you heated.

One night, playing whist,

He was slapped on the wrist,

Because some one said that he cheated.

HE APED HER.An impudent Barbary apeOnce tried on a lady's new cape.As he gave a big grin,The lady came in,And—his children are still wearing crepe.

HE APED HER.

An impudent Barbary apeOnce tried on a lady's new cape.As he gave a big grin,The lady came in,And—his children are still wearing crepe.

An impudent Barbary ape

Once tried on a lady's new cape.

As he gave a big grin,

The lady came in,

And—his children are still wearing crepe.

TAKE UP THE HOUSEHOLD BURDEN.Take up the household burden,No iron rule of kings,But make your family understandThat you are running things,Don't storm around and bluster,And don't get mad and swearIf in the soup is floating—A rag and a hank of hair.Take up the household burdenIn patience to abide,To curse the irate grocerAnd make your wife confideBy open speech and simpleAnd hundred times made plainHow she has sought to profitIn spending all you gain.Take up the household burden—The little baby boy,And walk the floor in anguishAnd don't let it annoy.For when the kid seems sleepyAnd you are feeling "sold,"There comes a cry from baby boyThat makes your blood run cold.Take up the household burdenAnd try and be a man,Just simply grin and bear itAnd do the best you can.Come now and try your manhoodAnd let the future go,And listen to your elders—They've tried it and they know.

TAKE UP THE HOUSEHOLD BURDEN.

Take up the household burden,No iron rule of kings,But make your family understandThat you are running things,Don't storm around and bluster,And don't get mad and swearIf in the soup is floating—A rag and a hank of hair.

Take up the household burden,

No iron rule of kings,

But make your family understand

That you are running things,

Don't storm around and bluster,

And don't get mad and swear

If in the soup is floating—

A rag and a hank of hair.

Take up the household burdenIn patience to abide,To curse the irate grocerAnd make your wife confideBy open speech and simpleAnd hundred times made plainHow she has sought to profitIn spending all you gain.

Take up the household burden

In patience to abide,

To curse the irate grocer

And make your wife confide

By open speech and simple

And hundred times made plain

How she has sought to profit

In spending all you gain.

Take up the household burden—The little baby boy,And walk the floor in anguishAnd don't let it annoy.For when the kid seems sleepyAnd you are feeling "sold,"There comes a cry from baby boyThat makes your blood run cold.

Take up the household burden—

The little baby boy,

And walk the floor in anguish

And don't let it annoy.

For when the kid seems sleepy

And you are feeling "sold,"

There comes a cry from baby boy

That makes your blood run cold.

Take up the household burdenAnd try and be a man,Just simply grin and bear itAnd do the best you can.Come now and try your manhoodAnd let the future go,And listen to your elders—They've tried it and they know.

Take up the household burden

And try and be a man,

Just simply grin and bear it

And do the best you can.

Come now and try your manhood

And let the future go,

And listen to your elders—

They've tried it and they know.

VITASCOPE PICTURES.A young girl standsUpon the sands,And waves her hands—Flirtation.A fresh young manWith shoes of tan,Looks spick and span—Expectation.They walk the beach,She seems a peachJust out of reach—Vexation.Ah what is this?A sound of blissA kiss, a kiss—Elation.A father leanUpon the scene,Looks awful mean—(Curtain.)

VITASCOPE PICTURES.

A young girl standsUpon the sands,And waves her hands—Flirtation.

A young girl stands

Upon the sands,

And waves her hands—

Flirtation.

A fresh young manWith shoes of tan,Looks spick and span—Expectation.

A fresh young man

With shoes of tan,

Looks spick and span—

Expectation.

They walk the beach,She seems a peachJust out of reach—Vexation.

They walk the beach,

She seems a peach

Just out of reach—

Vexation.

Ah what is this?A sound of blissA kiss, a kiss—Elation.

Ah what is this?

A sound of bliss

A kiss, a kiss—

Elation.

A father leanUpon the scene,Looks awful mean—(Curtain.)

A father lean

Upon the scene,

Looks awful mean—

(Curtain.)

AN IRISH TOAST.Here's to dear Ould Ireland,Here's to the Irish lass,Here's to Dennis and Mike and Pat,Here's to the sparkling glass.Here's to the Irish copper,He may be green all right,But you bet he's Mickie on the spotWhenever it comes to a fight.Here's to Robert Emmet, too,And here's to our dear Tom Moore.Here's to the Irish shamrock,Here's to the land we adore.

AN IRISH TOAST.

Here's to dear Ould Ireland,Here's to the Irish lass,Here's to Dennis and Mike and Pat,Here's to the sparkling glass.Here's to the Irish copper,He may be green all right,But you bet he's Mickie on the spotWhenever it comes to a fight.Here's to Robert Emmet, too,And here's to our dear Tom Moore.Here's to the Irish shamrock,Here's to the land we adore.

Here's to dear Ould Ireland,

Here's to the Irish lass,

Here's to Dennis and Mike and Pat,

Here's to the sparkling glass.

Here's to the Irish copper,

He may be green all right,

But you bet he's Mickie on the spot

Whenever it comes to a fight.

Here's to Robert Emmet, too,

And here's to our dear Tom Moore.

Here's to the Irish shamrock,

Here's to the land we adore.

MY LIFE AND DEATH.(By A. Turkey Gobbler.)I'm just a turkey gobbler,But I've got a word to sayAnd I'd like to say it quicklyBefore I pass away,For I will get it in the neckUpon Thanksgiving Day.I cannot keep from thinkingOf poor Marie Antoinette,She lost her head completely,But this is what I'll get—They'll knock the stuffin' out o' meWithout the least regret.I've just a few days left nowBefore I meet my fate,For every turkey gets the axe,The little and the great.There never was a turkey bornWho didn't fill a plate.Only three days left now,Goodness, how time flies!It brings a sadness to my heartAnd teardrops to my eyes.Does every turkey feel that wayThree days before he dies?This is a very cruel world(I'm talking sober facts),For I was only raised to beThe victim of an axe—The butt of all your silly jokes,And all your funny cracks.And when you sit down ThursdayHow happy you will be,Every person gathered thereWill eat enough for three.I'll be the guest of honor'Cause that dinner is on ME.

MY LIFE AND DEATH.

(By A. Turkey Gobbler.)

I'm just a turkey gobbler,But I've got a word to sayAnd I'd like to say it quicklyBefore I pass away,For I will get it in the neckUpon Thanksgiving Day.

I'm just a turkey gobbler,

But I've got a word to say

And I'd like to say it quickly

Before I pass away,

For I will get it in the neck

Upon Thanksgiving Day.

I cannot keep from thinkingOf poor Marie Antoinette,She lost her head completely,But this is what I'll get—They'll knock the stuffin' out o' meWithout the least regret.

I cannot keep from thinking

Of poor Marie Antoinette,

She lost her head completely,

But this is what I'll get—

They'll knock the stuffin' out o' me

Without the least regret.

I've just a few days left nowBefore I meet my fate,For every turkey gets the axe,The little and the great.There never was a turkey bornWho didn't fill a plate.

I've just a few days left now

Before I meet my fate,

For every turkey gets the axe,

The little and the great.

There never was a turkey born

Who didn't fill a plate.

Only three days left now,Goodness, how time flies!It brings a sadness to my heartAnd teardrops to my eyes.Does every turkey feel that wayThree days before he dies?

Only three days left now,

Goodness, how time flies!

It brings a sadness to my heart

And teardrops to my eyes.

Does every turkey feel that way

Three days before he dies?

This is a very cruel world(I'm talking sober facts),For I was only raised to beThe victim of an axe—The butt of all your silly jokes,And all your funny cracks.

This is a very cruel world

(I'm talking sober facts),

For I was only raised to be

The victim of an axe—

The butt of all your silly jokes,

And all your funny cracks.

And when you sit down ThursdayHow happy you will be,Every person gathered thereWill eat enough for three.I'll be the guest of honor'Cause that dinner is on ME.

And when you sit down Thursday

How happy you will be,

Every person gathered there

Will eat enough for three.

I'll be the guest of honor

'Cause that dinner is on ME.

L'ENVOI.I'm the ghost of that poor gobblerWho used to be so great,They took my poor, neglected bonesAnd piled them on a plate.Reader, shed a kindly tearFor my unhappy fate.This is the common lot of allUpon the world's great chart;We've got to leave a pile of bones—The stupid and the smart.Even when Napoleon diedHe left a Bonaparte.We are merely puppetsMoving on a string,And when we think that we are IT,The axe will fall—"Gezing!"O, Grave, where is thy victory?O, Death, where is thy sting?

L'ENVOI.

I'm the ghost of that poor gobblerWho used to be so great,They took my poor, neglected bonesAnd piled them on a plate.Reader, shed a kindly tearFor my unhappy fate.

I'm the ghost of that poor gobbler

Who used to be so great,

They took my poor, neglected bones

And piled them on a plate.

Reader, shed a kindly tear

For my unhappy fate.

This is the common lot of allUpon the world's great chart;We've got to leave a pile of bones—The stupid and the smart.Even when Napoleon diedHe left a Bonaparte.

This is the common lot of all

Upon the world's great chart;

We've got to leave a pile of bones—

The stupid and the smart.

Even when Napoleon died

He left a Bonaparte.

We are merely puppetsMoving on a string,And when we think that we are IT,The axe will fall—"Gezing!"O, Grave, where is thy victory?O, Death, where is thy sting?

We are merely puppets

Moving on a string,

And when we think that we are IT,

The axe will fall—"Gezing!"

O, Grave, where is thy victory?

O, Death, where is thy sting?

IF I WERE CITY EDITOR.(After Ben King, Dedicated to E. Jesse Conway.)If I were City EditorAnd you should come to my cold desk and choke,And say, "Old man I'm actually dead broke."I say, if I were City Editor,And you should come in deepest grief and woeAnd say, "Oh Lordy let me have the dough,"I might arise with slow and solemn winkAnd lecture you upon the curse of drink.If I were City EditorAnd you should come to my hotel and reel,Clasping my beer to quench the thirst you feel,I say if I were City EditorAnd you should come in trembling and in fearAnd even hint about licking up that beer,I'd hit you just one swat, and then,I guess I'd have to order one more bier.

IF I WERE CITY EDITOR.

(After Ben King, Dedicated to E. Jesse Conway.)

If I were City EditorAnd you should come to my cold desk and choke,And say, "Old man I'm actually dead broke."I say, if I were City Editor,And you should come in deepest grief and woeAnd say, "Oh Lordy let me have the dough,"I might arise with slow and solemn winkAnd lecture you upon the curse of drink.

If I were City Editor

And you should come to my cold desk and choke,

And say, "Old man I'm actually dead broke."

I say, if I were City Editor,

And you should come in deepest grief and woe

And say, "Oh Lordy let me have the dough,"

I might arise with slow and solemn wink

And lecture you upon the curse of drink.

If I were City EditorAnd you should come to my hotel and reel,Clasping my beer to quench the thirst you feel,I say if I were City EditorAnd you should come in trembling and in fearAnd even hint about licking up that beer,I'd hit you just one swat, and then,I guess I'd have to order one more bier.

If I were City Editor

And you should come to my hotel and reel,

Clasping my beer to quench the thirst you feel,

I say if I were City Editor

And you should come in trembling and in fear

And even hint about licking up that beer,

I'd hit you just one swat, and then,

I guess I'd have to order one more bier.

TRANSCENDENTALISM.What is transcendentalism?Merely sentimentalismWith a dash of egotismSomewhat mixed with mysticism.Not at all like Socialism,Nor a bit like Atheism,Hinges not on pessimism,Treats of man's asceticism,Quite opposes anarchism.Can't you name another "Ism?"Yes, it's transcendentalism.

TRANSCENDENTALISM.

What is transcendentalism?Merely sentimentalismWith a dash of egotismSomewhat mixed with mysticism.Not at all like Socialism,Nor a bit like Atheism,Hinges not on pessimism,Treats of man's asceticism,Quite opposes anarchism.Can't you name another "Ism?"Yes, it's transcendentalism.

What is transcendentalism?

Merely sentimentalism

With a dash of egotism

Somewhat mixed with mysticism.

Not at all like Socialism,

Nor a bit like Atheism,

Hinges not on pessimism,

Treats of man's asceticism,

Quite opposes anarchism.

Can't you name another "Ism?"

Yes, it's transcendentalism.

THE EPIC OF THE HOG.(Man's Inhumanity to Hogs Makes Countless Thousands Squeal.)I lived upon a little farm,A happy hog was I,I never dreamed of any harmNor ever thought to die.All day I wallowed in the mud,And ate the choicest slops.I watched the brindles chew their cud—The farmer tend his crops.Upon the hottest days I'd goAnd flounder in the river—I thought that hogs might come and go,But I would live forever.Then finally I waxed so fatThat I could hardly walk,And then the farmers gather 'roundAnd all began to talk.I couldn't understand a word,All I did was grunt;You see that's all a hog can do—It is his only stunt.But finally they took me outAnd put me on a train.I really couldn't move aboutAnd squealed with might and main.I grunted, grunted as I flewAnd moved in vain endeavor,But even then I thought it trueThat I would live forever.And so we came to PackingtownWhere there were hogs galore,I never saw so many hogsIn all my life before.Then we had to shoot the chutesAnd climb a flight of stairs,We never had a chance to stopOr time to say our prayers.Loud-squealing hogs above, belowThey formed a seething river,For men may come and men may goBut hogs go on forever.And then I saw an iron wheelWhich stood alone in state,And then I heard an awful squeal—A hog had met his fate.A devilish chain upon the wheelHad seized him by the leg;It was no use to kick and squeal,It was no use to beg.I longed in deepest grief and woeTo leave that brimming river;If once into that room you goYour fate is sealed forever.Farewell, Farewell, a long farewell,Around the room I spin,And then a fellow with a knifeSmites me below the chin.L'Envoi.Dear reader I was just a hog,But O it's awful hardTo die disgraced, and then to be—Turned into "Pure Leaf Lard."

THE EPIC OF THE HOG.

(Man's Inhumanity to Hogs Makes Countless Thousands Squeal.)

I lived upon a little farm,A happy hog was I,I never dreamed of any harmNor ever thought to die.

I lived upon a little farm,

A happy hog was I,

I never dreamed of any harm

Nor ever thought to die.

All day I wallowed in the mud,And ate the choicest slops.I watched the brindles chew their cud—The farmer tend his crops.

All day I wallowed in the mud,

And ate the choicest slops.

I watched the brindles chew their cud—

The farmer tend his crops.

Upon the hottest days I'd goAnd flounder in the river—I thought that hogs might come and go,But I would live forever.

Upon the hottest days I'd go

And flounder in the river—

I thought that hogs might come and go,

But I would live forever.

Then finally I waxed so fatThat I could hardly walk,And then the farmers gather 'roundAnd all began to talk.

Then finally I waxed so fat

That I could hardly walk,

And then the farmers gather 'round

And all began to talk.

I couldn't understand a word,All I did was grunt;You see that's all a hog can do—It is his only stunt.

I couldn't understand a word,

All I did was grunt;

You see that's all a hog can do—

It is his only stunt.

But finally they took me outAnd put me on a train.I really couldn't move aboutAnd squealed with might and main.

But finally they took me out

And put me on a train.

I really couldn't move about

And squealed with might and main.

I grunted, grunted as I flewAnd moved in vain endeavor,But even then I thought it trueThat I would live forever.

I grunted, grunted as I flew

And moved in vain endeavor,

But even then I thought it true

That I would live forever.

And so we came to PackingtownWhere there were hogs galore,I never saw so many hogsIn all my life before.

And so we came to Packingtown

Where there were hogs galore,

I never saw so many hogs

In all my life before.

Then we had to shoot the chutesAnd climb a flight of stairs,We never had a chance to stopOr time to say our prayers.

Then we had to shoot the chutes

And climb a flight of stairs,

We never had a chance to stop

Or time to say our prayers.

Loud-squealing hogs above, belowThey formed a seething river,For men may come and men may goBut hogs go on forever.

Loud-squealing hogs above, below

They formed a seething river,

For men may come and men may go

But hogs go on forever.

And then I saw an iron wheelWhich stood alone in state,And then I heard an awful squeal—A hog had met his fate.

And then I saw an iron wheel

Which stood alone in state,

And then I heard an awful squeal—

A hog had met his fate.

A devilish chain upon the wheelHad seized him by the leg;It was no use to kick and squeal,It was no use to beg.

A devilish chain upon the wheel

Had seized him by the leg;

It was no use to kick and squeal,

It was no use to beg.

I longed in deepest grief and woeTo leave that brimming river;If once into that room you goYour fate is sealed forever.

I longed in deepest grief and woe

To leave that brimming river;

If once into that room you go

Your fate is sealed forever.

Farewell, Farewell, a long farewell,Around the room I spin,And then a fellow with a knifeSmites me below the chin.

Farewell, Farewell, a long farewell,

Around the room I spin,

And then a fellow with a knife

Smites me below the chin.

L'Envoi.

Dear reader I was just a hog,But O it's awful hardTo die disgraced, and then to be—Turned into "Pure Leaf Lard."

Dear reader I was just a hog,

But O it's awful hard

To die disgraced, and then to be—

Turned into "Pure Leaf Lard."

IN KENTUCKY.(A Response to Judge Mulligan's Famous Toast.)The moonlight may be softestIn Kentucky,And summer days come oftestIn Kentucky,But friendship is the strongestWhen the money lasts the longestOr you sometimes get in wrongestIn Kentucky.Sunshine is the brightestIn Kentucky,And a right is often rightestIn Kentucky,While plain girls are the fewest,They work their eyes the truest,They leave a fellow bluestIn Kentucky.All debts are treated lightestIn Kentucky,So make your home the brightestIn Kentucky,If you have the social entreeYou need never think of pay,Or, at least, that's what they sayIn Kentucky.Orators are the proudestIn Kentucky,And they always talk the loudestIn Kentucky.While boys may be the fliest,Their money is the shyest,They carry bluffs the highestIn Kentucky.Pedigrees are longestIn Kentucky,Family trees the strongestIn Kentucky.For blue blood is a pride,But, if you've ever triedYou'll find 'sporting blood' insideIn Kentucky.Society is exclusiveIn Kentucky,So do not be intrusiveIn Kentucky.If you want the right of way,And have the coin to pay,You'll be in the swim to stayIn Kentucky.The race track's all the moneyIn Kentucky,But don't you go there, sonnyIn Kentucky.For, while thoroughbreds are fleetest,They get your coin the neatest,And leave you looking seediestIn Kentucky.Short-skates are the thickestIn Kentucky,They spot a sucker quickestIn Kentucky.They'll set up to a drink,Get your money 'fore you think,And you get the "dinky dink"In Kentucky.If you want to be fraternalIn Kentucky,Just call a fellow "Colonel"In Kentucky,Or, give a man a nudgeAnd say, "How are you, Judge?"For they never call that "fudge"In Kentucky.But when you have tough luckIn Kentucky,In other words "get stuck"In Kentucky,Just raise your voice and hollerAnd you'll always raise a dollar,While a drink is sure to followIn Kentucky.'Tis true that birds sing sweetestIn Kentucky,That women folk are neatestIn Kentucky,But there are things you shouldn't tellAbout our grand old State—and, well—Politics is h——lIn Kentucky.

IN KENTUCKY.

(A Response to Judge Mulligan's Famous Toast.)

The moonlight may be softestIn Kentucky,And summer days come oftestIn Kentucky,But friendship is the strongestWhen the money lasts the longestOr you sometimes get in wrongestIn Kentucky.

The moonlight may be softest

In Kentucky,

And summer days come oftest

In Kentucky,

But friendship is the strongest

When the money lasts the longest

Or you sometimes get in wrongest

In Kentucky.

Sunshine is the brightestIn Kentucky,And a right is often rightestIn Kentucky,While plain girls are the fewest,They work their eyes the truest,They leave a fellow bluestIn Kentucky.

Sunshine is the brightest

In Kentucky,

And a right is often rightest

In Kentucky,

While plain girls are the fewest,

They work their eyes the truest,

They leave a fellow bluest

In Kentucky.

All debts are treated lightestIn Kentucky,So make your home the brightestIn Kentucky,If you have the social entreeYou need never think of pay,Or, at least, that's what they sayIn Kentucky.

All debts are treated lightest

In Kentucky,

So make your home the brightest

In Kentucky,

If you have the social entree

You need never think of pay,

Or, at least, that's what they say

In Kentucky.

Orators are the proudestIn Kentucky,And they always talk the loudestIn Kentucky.While boys may be the fliest,Their money is the shyest,They carry bluffs the highestIn Kentucky.

Orators are the proudest

In Kentucky,

And they always talk the loudest

In Kentucky.

While boys may be the fliest,

Their money is the shyest,

They carry bluffs the highest

In Kentucky.

Pedigrees are longestIn Kentucky,Family trees the strongestIn Kentucky.For blue blood is a pride,But, if you've ever triedYou'll find 'sporting blood' insideIn Kentucky.

Pedigrees are longest

In Kentucky,

Family trees the strongest

In Kentucky.

For blue blood is a pride,

But, if you've ever tried

You'll find 'sporting blood' inside

In Kentucky.

Society is exclusiveIn Kentucky,So do not be intrusiveIn Kentucky.If you want the right of way,And have the coin to pay,You'll be in the swim to stayIn Kentucky.

Society is exclusive

In Kentucky,

So do not be intrusive

In Kentucky.

If you want the right of way,

And have the coin to pay,

You'll be in the swim to stay

In Kentucky.

The race track's all the moneyIn Kentucky,But don't you go there, sonnyIn Kentucky.For, while thoroughbreds are fleetest,They get your coin the neatest,And leave you looking seediestIn Kentucky.

The race track's all the money

In Kentucky,

But don't you go there, sonny

In Kentucky.

For, while thoroughbreds are fleetest,

They get your coin the neatest,

And leave you looking seediest

In Kentucky.

Short-skates are the thickestIn Kentucky,They spot a sucker quickestIn Kentucky.They'll set up to a drink,Get your money 'fore you think,And you get the "dinky dink"In Kentucky.

Short-skates are the thickest

In Kentucky,

They spot a sucker quickest

In Kentucky.

They'll set up to a drink,

Get your money 'fore you think,

And you get the "dinky dink"

In Kentucky.

If you want to be fraternalIn Kentucky,Just call a fellow "Colonel"In Kentucky,Or, give a man a nudgeAnd say, "How are you, Judge?"For they never call that "fudge"In Kentucky.

If you want to be fraternal

In Kentucky,

Just call a fellow "Colonel"

In Kentucky,

Or, give a man a nudge

And say, "How are you, Judge?"

For they never call that "fudge"

In Kentucky.

But when you have tough luckIn Kentucky,In other words "get stuck"In Kentucky,Just raise your voice and hollerAnd you'll always raise a dollar,While a drink is sure to followIn Kentucky.

But when you have tough luck

In Kentucky,

In other words "get stuck"

In Kentucky,

Just raise your voice and holler

And you'll always raise a dollar,

While a drink is sure to follow

In Kentucky.

'Tis true that birds sing sweetestIn Kentucky,That women folk are neatestIn Kentucky,But there are things you shouldn't tellAbout our grand old State—and, well—Politics is h——lIn Kentucky.

'Tis true that birds sing sweetest

In Kentucky,

That women folk are neatest

In Kentucky,

But there are things you shouldn't tell

About our grand old State—and, well—

Politics is h——l

In Kentucky.

IN DEEPER VEIN.The Incubus.The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard,As I wandered through the woodland near the stream,With slow and heavy treadThrough a city of the dead,When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuckIs started by the clamor of the chase,And I halted all atrembleIn the vain hope to dissemble,Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December,The frozen winds were bitter in their cryAnd I muttered half aloudTo that white and silent crowd:"'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."And then as if in answer to my whisper,Came a voice of some foul fiend from Hell:"No longer live say I,'Tis better far to dieAnd let the falling snow-flakes sound the knell."Perched upon a tombstone sat the creatureGrewsome as an unquenched, burning lust.Sitting livid thereWith an open-coffin stare—A stare that seemed the mocking of the just.And in my thoughts the dreadful thing is sitting—Sitting there with eyelids red and blear,And see it there I will'Til my restless soul is stillAnd the earth-clods roll and rumble on my bier.

IN DEEPER VEIN.

The Incubus.

The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard,As I wandered through the woodland near the stream,With slow and heavy treadThrough a city of the dead,When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.

The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard,

As I wandered through the woodland near the stream,

With slow and heavy tread

Through a city of the dead,

When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.

My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuckIs started by the clamor of the chase,And I halted all atrembleIn the vain hope to dissemble,Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.

My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuck

Is started by the clamor of the chase,

And I halted all atremble

In the vain hope to dissemble,

Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.

'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December,The frozen winds were bitter in their cryAnd I muttered half aloudTo that white and silent crowd:"'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."

'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December,

The frozen winds were bitter in their cry

And I muttered half aloud

To that white and silent crowd:

"'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."

And then as if in answer to my whisper,Came a voice of some foul fiend from Hell:"No longer live say I,'Tis better far to dieAnd let the falling snow-flakes sound the knell."

And then as if in answer to my whisper,

Came a voice of some foul fiend from Hell:

"No longer live say I,

'Tis better far to die

And let the falling snow-flakes sound the knell."

Perched upon a tombstone sat the creatureGrewsome as an unquenched, burning lust.Sitting livid thereWith an open-coffin stare—A stare that seemed the mocking of the just.

Perched upon a tombstone sat the creature

Grewsome as an unquenched, burning lust.

Sitting livid there

With an open-coffin stare—

A stare that seemed the mocking of the just.

And in my thoughts the dreadful thing is sitting—Sitting there with eyelids red and blear,And see it there I will'Til my restless soul is stillAnd the earth-clods roll and rumble on my bier.

And in my thoughts the dreadful thing is sitting—

Sitting there with eyelids red and blear,

And see it there I will

'Til my restless soul is still

And the earth-clods roll and rumble on my bier.

TO CLARA MORRIS.In days gone by, the poets wroteSweet verses to the ladies fair;Described the nightingale's clear note,Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.To dare all for a woman's smileOr breathe one's heart out in a rose—Such trifles now are out of style,The scented manuscript must close.Yet Villon wrote his roundelays,And that sweet singer Horace;But I will sing of other daysIn praise of Clara Morris.Youth is but the joy of life,Not the eternal moping;We get no happiness from strifeNor yet by blindly groping.All the world's a stage you knowThe men and women actors;A little joy, a little woe—These are but human factors.The mellow days still come and go,The earth is full of beauty;If we would only think it so,Life is not all a duty.And you are young in heart not years,Is this not true becauseYou mingle happiness with tearsAnd do not look for flaws?Your silver hair is but the snowThat drifts above the roses,And though the years may come and goThey can but scatter posies.

TO CLARA MORRIS.

In days gone by, the poets wroteSweet verses to the ladies fair;Described the nightingale's clear note,Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.

In days gone by, the poets wrote

Sweet verses to the ladies fair;

Described the nightingale's clear note,

Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.

To dare all for a woman's smileOr breathe one's heart out in a rose—Such trifles now are out of style,The scented manuscript must close.

To dare all for a woman's smile

Or breathe one's heart out in a rose—

Such trifles now are out of style,

The scented manuscript must close.

Yet Villon wrote his roundelays,And that sweet singer Horace;But I will sing of other daysIn praise of Clara Morris.

Yet Villon wrote his roundelays,

And that sweet singer Horace;

But I will sing of other days

In praise of Clara Morris.

Youth is but the joy of life,Not the eternal moping;We get no happiness from strifeNor yet by blindly groping.

Youth is but the joy of life,

Not the eternal moping;

We get no happiness from strife

Nor yet by blindly groping.

All the world's a stage you knowThe men and women actors;A little joy, a little woe—These are but human factors.

All the world's a stage you know

The men and women actors;

A little joy, a little woe—

These are but human factors.

The mellow days still come and go,The earth is full of beauty;If we would only think it so,Life is not all a duty.

The mellow days still come and go,

The earth is full of beauty;

If we would only think it so,

Life is not all a duty.

And you are young in heart not years,Is this not true becauseYou mingle happiness with tearsAnd do not look for flaws?

And you are young in heart not years,

Is this not true because

You mingle happiness with tears

And do not look for flaws?

Your silver hair is but the snowThat drifts above the roses,And though the years may come and goThey can but scatter posies.

Your silver hair is but the snow

That drifts above the roses,

And though the years may come and go

They can but scatter posies.

REQUIESCAT.(Mrs. Jefferson Davis, widow of the Presidentof the Southern Confederacy died October 16, 1906.)Oh weep fair South, and bow thy headFor one is gone beyond recall!Cast flowers on the sainted deadWho sleeps beneath a funeral pall.To the sound of muffled drum,To the sound of muffled drum.She saw a noble husband's fameGrow more enduring with the years,And in the land his honored nameLoom brighter through a mist of tears,But the sound of muffled drum!O the sound of muffled drum!Our fate is but to meet and partUpon Life's dark and troubled sea,Yet recollection stirs the heart,Of men in gray who used to be,But the sound of muffled drum!O the sound of muffled drum!Brave South, 'tis but a moment's pauseE'er on that dim and distant shore,The heroes of thy Fallen CauseWill meet again to part no moreTo the sound of muffled drum.To the sound of muffled drum.

REQUIESCAT.

(Mrs. Jefferson Davis, widow of the Presidentof the Southern Confederacy died October 16, 1906.)

(Mrs. Jefferson Davis, widow of the President

of the Southern Confederacy died October 16, 1906.)

Oh weep fair South, and bow thy headFor one is gone beyond recall!Cast flowers on the sainted deadWho sleeps beneath a funeral pall.To the sound of muffled drum,To the sound of muffled drum.

Oh weep fair South, and bow thy head

For one is gone beyond recall!

Cast flowers on the sainted dead

Who sleeps beneath a funeral pall.

To the sound of muffled drum,

To the sound of muffled drum.

She saw a noble husband's fameGrow more enduring with the years,And in the land his honored nameLoom brighter through a mist of tears,But the sound of muffled drum!O the sound of muffled drum!

She saw a noble husband's fame

Grow more enduring with the years,

And in the land his honored name

Loom brighter through a mist of tears,

But the sound of muffled drum!

O the sound of muffled drum!

Our fate is but to meet and partUpon Life's dark and troubled sea,Yet recollection stirs the heart,Of men in gray who used to be,But the sound of muffled drum!O the sound of muffled drum!

Our fate is but to meet and part

Upon Life's dark and troubled sea,

Yet recollection stirs the heart,

Of men in gray who used to be,

But the sound of muffled drum!

O the sound of muffled drum!

Brave South, 'tis but a moment's pauseE'er on that dim and distant shore,The heroes of thy Fallen CauseWill meet again to part no moreTo the sound of muffled drum.To the sound of muffled drum.

Brave South, 'tis but a moment's pause

E'er on that dim and distant shore,

The heroes of thy Fallen Cause

Will meet again to part no more

To the sound of muffled drum.

CRABBED.A college professor one dayWas fishing in Chesapeake Bay;Said a crab to his mate,"Let's kick off the bait,This business is too old to pay."

CRABBED.

A college professor one dayWas fishing in Chesapeake Bay;Said a crab to his mate,"Let's kick off the bait,This business is too old to pay."

A college professor one day

Was fishing in Chesapeake Bay;

Said a crab to his mate,

"Let's kick off the bait,

This business is too old to pay."

LIFE.The list is long, the stories read the same;Strong mortal man is but a flesh-hued toy;Some have their ending in a life of shame;Others drink deeply from the glass of joy;Some see the cup dashed dripping from their lipOr drinking, find the wine has turned to gall,While others taste the sweets they fain would sipAnd then Death comes—the sequel to it all.

LIFE.

The list is long, the stories read the same;Strong mortal man is but a flesh-hued toy;Some have their ending in a life of shame;Others drink deeply from the glass of joy;Some see the cup dashed dripping from their lipOr drinking, find the wine has turned to gall,While others taste the sweets they fain would sipAnd then Death comes—the sequel to it all.

The list is long, the stories read the same;

Strong mortal man is but a flesh-hued toy;

Some have their ending in a life of shame;

Others drink deeply from the glass of joy;

Some see the cup dashed dripping from their lip

Or drinking, find the wine has turned to gall,

While others taste the sweets they fain would sip

And then Death comes—the sequel to it all.

TO POE.You lived in a land horror-haunted,And wrote with a pen half-divine;You drank bitter sorrow, undauntedAnd cast precious pearls before swine.

TO POE.

You lived in a land horror-haunted,And wrote with a pen half-divine;You drank bitter sorrow, undauntedAnd cast precious pearls before swine.

You lived in a land horror-haunted,

And wrote with a pen half-divine;

You drank bitter sorrow, undaunted

And cast precious pearls before swine.

TO A CHILD AT CHRISTMAS TIME.May the day that gave Christ birthBring you boundless joy and mirth,Fill the golden hours with gladness,Raise no thought to cause you sadness.

TO A CHILD AT CHRISTMAS TIME.

May the day that gave Christ birthBring you boundless joy and mirth,Fill the golden hours with gladness,Raise no thought to cause you sadness.

May the day that gave Christ birth

Bring you boundless joy and mirth,

Fill the golden hours with gladness,

Raise no thought to cause you sadness.

1THE WAR OF THE RATS AND MICE.Far back within an age remote,Which common history fails to note,When dogs could talk, and pigs could sing,And frogs obeyed a wooden king,There lived a tribe of rats so mean,That such a set was never seen.For during all the livelong dayThey fought and quarrelled in the hay,And then at night they robbed the mice,Who always were so kind and nice.They stole their bread, they stole their meat,And all the jam they had to eat;They gobbled up their pies and cake,And everything the mice could bake;They stuffed themselves with good fresh meal,And ruined all they could not steal;They slapped their long tails in the butterUntil they made a frightful splutter;Then, sleek and fine in coats of silk,They swam about in buttermilk.They ate up everything they found,And flung the plates upon the ground.And catching three mice by their tails,They drowned them in the water-pails;Then seeing it was morning light,They scampered home with all their might.The mouse-tribe living far and near,At once this awful thing did hear,And all declared with cries of rage,A war against the rats they'd wage.The mouse-king blew a trumpet blast,And soon the mice came thick and fastFrom every place, in every manner,And crowded round the royal banner.Each had a sword, a bow and arrow;Each felt as brave as any sparrow,And promised, in the coming fight,To die or put the rats to flight.The king put on a coat of mail,And tied a bow-knot to his tail;He wore a pistol by his side,And on a bull-frog he did ride."March on!" he cried. And, hot and thick,His army rushed, in double quick.And hardly one short hour had waned,Before the ranks the rat-camp gained,With sounding drum and screaming fife,Enough to raise the dead to life.The rats, awakened by the clatter,Rushed out to see what was the matter,Then down the whole mouse-army flew,And many thieving rats it slew.The mice hurrahed, the rats they squealed,And soon the dreadful battle-fieldWas blue with smoke and red with fire,And filled with blood and savage ire.The rats had eaten so much jam,So many pies and so much ham,And were so fat and sick and swollenWith all the good things they had stolenThat they could neither fight nor run;And so the mice the battle won.They threw up rat-fur in the air;They piled up rat-tails everywhere;And slaughtered rats bestrewed the groundFor ten or twenty miles around.The rat-king galloped from the fieldWhen all the rest were forced to yield;But though he still retained his skin,He nearly fainted with chagrin,To think that in that bloody tideSo many of his rats had died.Fierce anger blazed within his breast;He would not stop to eat or rest;But spurring up his fiery steed,He seized a sharp and trusty reed—Then, wildly shouting, rushed like hailTo cut off little mouse-king's tail.The mouse-king's face turned red with passionTo see a rat come in such fashion,For he had just that minute saidThat every thieving rat was dead.The rat was scared, and tried to run,And vowed that he was just in fun;But nought could quell the mouse-king's fury—He cared not then for judge or jury;And with his sharp and quivering spear,He pierced the rat right through the ear.The rat fell backward in the clover,Kicked up his legs, and all was over.The mice, with loud and joyful tones,Now gathered all the bad rats' bones,And with them built a pyramid,Down which their little children slid.And after that eventful dayThe mice in peace and joy could play,For now no wicked rats could stealTheir cakes and jam and pies and meal,Nor catch them by their little tails,And drown them in the water-pails.

1THE WAR OF THE RATS AND MICE.

THE WAR OF THE RATS AND MICE.

Far back within an age remote,Which common history fails to note,When dogs could talk, and pigs could sing,And frogs obeyed a wooden king,There lived a tribe of rats so mean,That such a set was never seen.For during all the livelong dayThey fought and quarrelled in the hay,And then at night they robbed the mice,Who always were so kind and nice.They stole their bread, they stole their meat,And all the jam they had to eat;They gobbled up their pies and cake,And everything the mice could bake;They stuffed themselves with good fresh meal,And ruined all they could not steal;They slapped their long tails in the butterUntil they made a frightful splutter;Then, sleek and fine in coats of silk,They swam about in buttermilk.They ate up everything they found,And flung the plates upon the ground.And catching three mice by their tails,They drowned them in the water-pails;Then seeing it was morning light,They scampered home with all their might.The mouse-tribe living far and near,At once this awful thing did hear,And all declared with cries of rage,A war against the rats they'd wage.The mouse-king blew a trumpet blast,And soon the mice came thick and fastFrom every place, in every manner,And crowded round the royal banner.Each had a sword, a bow and arrow;Each felt as brave as any sparrow,And promised, in the coming fight,To die or put the rats to flight.The king put on a coat of mail,And tied a bow-knot to his tail;He wore a pistol by his side,And on a bull-frog he did ride."March on!" he cried. And, hot and thick,His army rushed, in double quick.And hardly one short hour had waned,Before the ranks the rat-camp gained,With sounding drum and screaming fife,Enough to raise the dead to life.The rats, awakened by the clatter,Rushed out to see what was the matter,Then down the whole mouse-army flew,And many thieving rats it slew.The mice hurrahed, the rats they squealed,And soon the dreadful battle-fieldWas blue with smoke and red with fire,And filled with blood and savage ire.The rats had eaten so much jam,So many pies and so much ham,And were so fat and sick and swollenWith all the good things they had stolenThat they could neither fight nor run;And so the mice the battle won.They threw up rat-fur in the air;They piled up rat-tails everywhere;And slaughtered rats bestrewed the groundFor ten or twenty miles around.The rat-king galloped from the fieldWhen all the rest were forced to yield;But though he still retained his skin,He nearly fainted with chagrin,To think that in that bloody tideSo many of his rats had died.Fierce anger blazed within his breast;He would not stop to eat or rest;But spurring up his fiery steed,He seized a sharp and trusty reed—Then, wildly shouting, rushed like hailTo cut off little mouse-king's tail.The mouse-king's face turned red with passionTo see a rat come in such fashion,For he had just that minute saidThat every thieving rat was dead.The rat was scared, and tried to run,And vowed that he was just in fun;But nought could quell the mouse-king's fury—He cared not then for judge or jury;And with his sharp and quivering spear,He pierced the rat right through the ear.The rat fell backward in the clover,Kicked up his legs, and all was over.The mice, with loud and joyful tones,Now gathered all the bad rats' bones,And with them built a pyramid,Down which their little children slid.And after that eventful dayThe mice in peace and joy could play,For now no wicked rats could stealTheir cakes and jam and pies and meal,Nor catch them by their little tails,And drown them in the water-pails.

Far back within an age remote,

Which common history fails to note,

When dogs could talk, and pigs could sing,

And frogs obeyed a wooden king,

There lived a tribe of rats so mean,

That such a set was never seen.

For during all the livelong day

They fought and quarrelled in the hay,

And then at night they robbed the mice,

Who always were so kind and nice.

They stole their bread, they stole their meat,

And all the jam they had to eat;

They gobbled up their pies and cake,

And everything the mice could bake;

They stuffed themselves with good fresh meal,

And ruined all they could not steal;

They slapped their long tails in the butter

Until they made a frightful splutter;

Then, sleek and fine in coats of silk,

They swam about in buttermilk.

They ate up everything they found,

And flung the plates upon the ground.

And catching three mice by their tails,

They drowned them in the water-pails;

Then seeing it was morning light,

They scampered home with all their might.

The mouse-tribe living far and near,

At once this awful thing did hear,

And all declared with cries of rage,

A war against the rats they'd wage.

The mouse-king blew a trumpet blast,

And soon the mice came thick and fast

From every place, in every manner,

And crowded round the royal banner.

Each had a sword, a bow and arrow;

Each felt as brave as any sparrow,

And promised, in the coming fight,

To die or put the rats to flight.

The king put on a coat of mail,

And tied a bow-knot to his tail;

He wore a pistol by his side,

And on a bull-frog he did ride.

"March on!" he cried. And, hot and thick,

His army rushed, in double quick.

And hardly one short hour had waned,

Before the ranks the rat-camp gained,

With sounding drum and screaming fife,

Enough to raise the dead to life.

The rats, awakened by the clatter,

Rushed out to see what was the matter,

Then down the whole mouse-army flew,

And many thieving rats it slew.

The mice hurrahed, the rats they squealed,

And soon the dreadful battle-field

Was blue with smoke and red with fire,

And filled with blood and savage ire.

The rats had eaten so much jam,

So many pies and so much ham,

And were so fat and sick and swollen

With all the good things they had stolen

That they could neither fight nor run;

And so the mice the battle won.

They threw up rat-fur in the air;

They piled up rat-tails everywhere;

And slaughtered rats bestrewed the ground

For ten or twenty miles around.

The rat-king galloped from the field

When all the rest were forced to yield;

But though he still retained his skin,

He nearly fainted with chagrin,

To think that in that bloody tide

So many of his rats had died.

Fierce anger blazed within his breast;

He would not stop to eat or rest;

But spurring up his fiery steed,

He seized a sharp and trusty reed—

Then, wildly shouting, rushed like hail

To cut off little mouse-king's tail.

The mouse-king's face turned red with passion

To see a rat come in such fashion,

For he had just that minute said

That every thieving rat was dead.

The rat was scared, and tried to run,

And vowed that he was just in fun;

But nought could quell the mouse-king's fury—

He cared not then for judge or jury;

And with his sharp and quivering spear,

He pierced the rat right through the ear.

The rat fell backward in the clover,

Kicked up his legs, and all was over.

The mice, with loud and joyful tones,

Now gathered all the bad rats' bones,

And with them built a pyramid,

Down which their little children slid.

And after that eventful day

The mice in peace and joy could play,

For now no wicked rats could steal

Their cakes and jam and pies and meal,

Nor catch them by their little tails,

And drown them in the water-pails.

1Written by the author's father, the late George W. Ranck. It first appeared in St. Nicholas and is reprinted by permission of The Century Company.

Things Worth While.To sit and dream in a shady nookWhile the phantom clouds roll by;To con some long-remembered bookWhen the pulse of youth beats high.To thrill when the dying sunset glowsThrough the heart of a mystic wood,To drink the sweetness of some wild rose,And to find the whole world good.To bring unto others joy and mirth,And keep what friends you can;To learn that the rarest gift on earthIs the love of your fellow man.To hold the respect of those you know,To scorn dishonest pelf;To sympathize with another's woe,And just be true to yourself.To find that a woman's honest loveIn this great world of strifeGleams steadfast like a star, aboveThe dark morass of life.To feel a baby's clinging hand,To watch a mother's smile;To dwell once more in fairyland—These are the things worth while.

Things Worth While.

To sit and dream in a shady nookWhile the phantom clouds roll by;To con some long-remembered bookWhen the pulse of youth beats high.

To sit and dream in a shady nook

While the phantom clouds roll by;

To con some long-remembered book

When the pulse of youth beats high.

To thrill when the dying sunset glowsThrough the heart of a mystic wood,To drink the sweetness of some wild rose,And to find the whole world good.

To thrill when the dying sunset glows

Through the heart of a mystic wood,

To drink the sweetness of some wild rose,

And to find the whole world good.

To bring unto others joy and mirth,And keep what friends you can;To learn that the rarest gift on earthIs the love of your fellow man.

To bring unto others joy and mirth,

And keep what friends you can;

To learn that the rarest gift on earth

Is the love of your fellow man.

To hold the respect of those you know,To scorn dishonest pelf;To sympathize with another's woe,And just be true to yourself.

To hold the respect of those you know,

To scorn dishonest pelf;

To sympathize with another's woe,

And just be true to yourself.

To find that a woman's honest loveIn this great world of strifeGleams steadfast like a star, aboveThe dark morass of life.

To find that a woman's honest love

In this great world of strife

Gleams steadfast like a star, above

The dark morass of life.

To feel a baby's clinging hand,To watch a mother's smile;To dwell once more in fairyland—These are the things worth while.

To feel a baby's clinging hand,

To watch a mother's smile;

To dwell once more in fairyland—

These are the things worth while.

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