As neat as wax, as good as new,As true as steel, as truth is true,Good as a sermon, keen as hate,Full as a tick, and fixed as fate—Brief as a dream, long as the day,Sweet as the rosy morn in May,Chaste as the moon, as snow is white,Broad as barn doors, and new as sight—Useful as daylight, firm as stone,Wet as a fish, dry as a bone,Heavy as lead, light as a breeze—Frank Wilstach's book of similes.
As neat as wax, as good as new,As true as steel, as truth is true,Good as a sermon, keen as hate,Full as a tick, and fixed as fate—
Brief as a dream, long as the day,Sweet as the rosy morn in May,Chaste as the moon, as snow is white,Broad as barn doors, and new as sight—
Useful as daylight, firm as stone,Wet as a fish, dry as a bone,Heavy as lead, light as a breeze—Frank Wilstach's book of similes.
[And here is a suggestion: Did you ever try dictating your stories or articles to the dictaphone for the first draft? I would be glad to have you come down and make the experiment.—From a shorthand reporter's circular letter.](As "The Ballad of the Tempest" would have to issue from the dictaphone to the stenographer)Begin each line with a capital. Indent alternate lines. Double space after each fourth line.
[And here is a suggestion: Did you ever try dictating your stories or articles to the dictaphone for the first draft? I would be glad to have you come down and make the experiment.—From a shorthand reporter's circular letter.]
(As "The Ballad of the Tempest" would have to issue from the dictaphone to the stenographer)
Begin each line with a capital. Indent alternate lines. Double space after each fourth line.
We were crowded in the cabin commaNot a soul would dare to sleep dash commaIt was midnight on the waters commaAnd a storm was on the deep periodApostrophe Tis a fearful thing in capital WinterTo be shattered by the blast commaAnd to hear the rattling trumpetThunder colon quote capital Cut away the mast exclamation point close quoteSo we shuddered there in silence comma dashFor the stoutest held his breath commaWhile the hungry sea was roaring commaAnd the breakers talked with capital Death periodAs thus we sat in darkness commaEach one busy with his prayers commaQuote We are lost exclamation point close quote the captain shouted commaAs he staggered down the stairs periodBut his little daughter whispered commaAs she took his icy hand colonQuote Isn't capital God upon the ocean commaJust the same as on the land interrogation point close quoteThen we kissed the little maiden commaAnd we spake in better cheer commaAnd we anchored safe in harborWhen the morn was shining clear period
We were crowded in the cabin commaNot a soul would dare to sleep dash commaIt was midnight on the waters commaAnd a storm was on the deep period
Apostrophe Tis a fearful thing in capital WinterTo be shattered by the blast commaAnd to hear the rattling trumpetThunder colon quote capital Cut away the mast exclamation point close quote
So we shuddered there in silence comma dashFor the stoutest held his breath commaWhile the hungry sea was roaring commaAnd the breakers talked with capital Death period
As thus we sat in darkness commaEach one busy with his prayers commaQuote We are lost exclamation point close quote the captain shouted commaAs he staggered down the stairs period
But his little daughter whispered commaAs she took his icy hand colonQuote Isn't capital God upon the ocean commaJust the same as on the land interrogation point close quote
Then we kissed the little maiden commaAnd we spake in better cheer commaAnd we anchored safe in harborWhen the morn was shining clear period
Though earnest and industrious,I still am unillustrious;No papers empty pursesPrinting versesSuch as mine.No lack of fame is chronickerThan that about my monicker;My verse is never cabledAt a fabledRate per line.Still though the HallsOf Literature are closedTo me a bard obscure IHave a consolation TheCopyreaders crude and roughCan't monkey with myHumble stuff and change MYPunctuation.
Though earnest and industrious,I still am unillustrious;No papers empty pursesPrinting versesSuch as mine.No lack of fame is chronickerThan that about my monicker;My verse is never cabledAt a fabledRate per line.
Still though the HallsOf Literature are closedTo me a bard obscure IHave a consolation TheCopyreaders crude and roughCan't monkey with myHumble stuff and change MYPunctuation.
Up goes the price of our bread—Up goes the cost of our caking!People must ever be fed;Bakers must ever be baking.So, though our nerves may be quaking,Dumbly, in arrant despair,Pay we the crowd that is takingAll that the traffic will bear.Costly to sleep in a bed!Costlier yet to be waking!Costly for one who is wed!Ruinous for one who is raking!Tradespeople, ducking and draking,Charge you as much as they dare,Asking, without any faking,All that the traffic will bear.Roof that goes over our head,Thirst so expensive for slaking,Paper, apparel, and lead—Why are their prices at breaking?Yet, though our purses be aching,Little the traffickers care;Getting, for chopping and steaking,All that the traffic will bear.
Up goes the price of our bread—Up goes the cost of our caking!People must ever be fed;Bakers must ever be baking.So, though our nerves may be quaking,Dumbly, in arrant despair,Pay we the crowd that is takingAll that the traffic will bear.
Costly to sleep in a bed!Costlier yet to be waking!Costly for one who is wed!Ruinous for one who is raking!Tradespeople, ducking and draking,Charge you as much as they dare,Asking, without any faking,All that the traffic will bear.
Roof that goes over our head,Thirst so expensive for slaking,Paper, apparel, and lead—Why are their prices at breaking?Yet, though our purses be aching,Little the traffickers care;Getting, for chopping and steaking,All that the traffic will bear.
Take thou my verses, I pray, King,Letting my guerdon be fair.Even a bard must be makingAll that the traffic will bear.
Take thou my verses, I pray, King,Letting my guerdon be fair.Even a bard must be makingAll that the traffic will bear.
William, it was, I think, three years ago—As I recall, one cool October morning—(You haveThe Tribunefiles; I think they'll showI gave you warning).I said, in well-selected words and terse,In phrases balanced, yet replete with power,That I should cease to pen the prose and verseKnown as The Tower.That I should stop this Labyrinth of Light—Though stopping make the planet leaden-hearted—Unless you stopped the well-knownSchrecklichkeitYour nation started.I printed it in type that you could read;My paragraphs were thewed, my rhymes were sinewed.You paid, I judge from what ensued, no heed ...The war continued.And though my lines with fortitude were fraught,Although my words were strong, and stripped of stuffing,You, William, thought—oh, yes, you did—you thoughtThat I was bluffing.You thought that I would fail to see it through!You thought that, at the crux of things, I'd cower!How little, how imperfectly you knewThe Conning Tower!You'll miss the column at the break of day.I have no fear that I shall be forgotten.You'll miss the daily privilege to say:"That stuff is rotten!"Or else—as sometimes has occurred—when IHave chanced upon a lucky line to blunder,You'll miss the precious privilege to cry:"That bird's a wonder!"Well, William, when your people cease to strafe,When you have put an end to all this war stuff,When all the world is reasonably safe,I'll write some more stuff.And when you miss the quip and wanton wile,And learn you can't endure the Towerless season,O William, I shall not be petty ... I'llListen to reason.October 5, 1917.
William, it was, I think, three years ago—As I recall, one cool October morning—(You haveThe Tribunefiles; I think they'll showI gave you warning).
I said, in well-selected words and terse,In phrases balanced, yet replete with power,That I should cease to pen the prose and verseKnown as The Tower.
That I should stop this Labyrinth of Light—Though stopping make the planet leaden-hearted—Unless you stopped the well-knownSchrecklichkeitYour nation started.
I printed it in type that you could read;My paragraphs were thewed, my rhymes were sinewed.You paid, I judge from what ensued, no heed ...The war continued.
And though my lines with fortitude were fraught,Although my words were strong, and stripped of stuffing,You, William, thought—oh, yes, you did—you thoughtThat I was bluffing.
You thought that I would fail to see it through!You thought that, at the crux of things, I'd cower!How little, how imperfectly you knewThe Conning Tower!
You'll miss the column at the break of day.I have no fear that I shall be forgotten.You'll miss the daily privilege to say:"That stuff is rotten!"
Or else—as sometimes has occurred—when IHave chanced upon a lucky line to blunder,You'll miss the precious privilege to cry:"That bird's a wonder!"
Well, William, when your people cease to strafe,When you have put an end to all this war stuff,When all the world is reasonably safe,I'll write some more stuff.
And when you miss the quip and wanton wile,And learn you can't endure the Towerless season,O William, I shall not be petty ... I'llListen to reason.
October 5, 1917.
Well, William, since I wrote you long ago—As I recall, one cool October morning—(I haveThe Tribunefiles. They clearly showI gave you warning.)Since when I penned that consequential ode,The world has seen a vast amount of slaughter,And under many a Gallic bridge has flowedA lot of water.I said that when your people ceased to strafe,That when you'd put an end to all this war stuff,And all the world was reasonably safeI'd write some more stuff;That when you missed the quip and wanton wileAnd learned you couldn't bear a Towerless season,I quote: "O, I shall not be petty.... I'llListen to reason."Labuntur anni, not to sayEheuFugaces! William, by my shoulders glistening!I have the final laugh, for it was youWho did the listening.January 15, 1919.
Well, William, since I wrote you long ago—As I recall, one cool October morning—(I haveThe Tribunefiles. They clearly showI gave you warning.)
Since when I penned that consequential ode,The world has seen a vast amount of slaughter,And under many a Gallic bridge has flowedA lot of water.
I said that when your people ceased to strafe,That when you'd put an end to all this war stuff,And all the world was reasonably safeI'd write some more stuff;
That when you missed the quip and wanton wileAnd learned you couldn't bear a Towerless season,I quote: "O, I shall not be petty.... I'llListen to reason."
Labuntur anni, not to sayEheuFugaces! William, by my shoulders glistening!I have the final laugh, for it was youWho did the listening.
January 15, 1919.
II do not hold with him who thinksThe world is jonahed by a jinx;That everything is sad and sour,And life a withered hothouse flower.III hate the Pollyanna pestWho says that All Is for the Best,And hold in high, unhidden scornWho sees the Rose, nor feels the Thorn.IIII do not like extremists whoAre like the pair in (I) and (II);But how I hate the wabbly gink,Like me, who knows not what to think!
I
I do not hold with him who thinksThe world is jonahed by a jinx;That everything is sad and sour,And life a withered hothouse flower.
II
I hate the Pollyanna pestWho says that All Is for the Best,And hold in high, unhidden scornWho sees the Rose, nor feels the Thorn.
III
I do not like extremists whoAre like the pair in (I) and (II);But how I hate the wabbly gink,Like me, who knows not what to think!
I used to think that this environ-Ment talk was all a lot of guff;Place mattered not with Keats and ByronStuff.If I have thoughts that need disclosing,Bright be the day or hung with gloom,I'll write in Heaven or the composing-Room.Times are when with my nerves a-tingle,Joyous and bright the songs I sing;Though, gay, I can't dope out a singleThing.And yet, by way of illustration,The gods my graying head anoint ...I wrotethispiece at InspirationPoint.
I used to think that this environ-Ment talk was all a lot of guff;Place mattered not with Keats and ByronStuff.
If I have thoughts that need disclosing,Bright be the day or hung with gloom,I'll write in Heaven or the composing-Room.
Times are when with my nerves a-tingle,Joyous and bright the songs I sing;Though, gay, I can't dope out a singleThing.
And yet, by way of illustration,The gods my graying head anoint ...I wrotethispiece at InspirationPoint.
I saw him lying cold and deadWho yesterday was whole."Why," I inquired, "hath he expired?And why hath fled his soul?""But yesterday," his comrade said,"All health was his, and strength;And this is why he came to die—If I may speak at length."But yesternight at dinnertimeAt a not unknown café,He had a frugal meal as youMight purchase any day."The check for his so simple fareWas only eighty cents,And a dollar bill with a right good willCame from his opulence."The waiter brought him twenty cents.'Twas only yesternightThat he softly said who now is dead'Oh, keep it. 'At's a' right.'"And the waiter plainly uttered 'Thanks,'With no hint of scorn or pride;And my comrade's heart gave a sudden startAnd my comrade up and died."Now waiters overthwart this land,In tearooms and in dives,Mute be your lips whatever the tips,And save your customers' lives.
I saw him lying cold and deadWho yesterday was whole."Why," I inquired, "hath he expired?And why hath fled his soul?"
"But yesterday," his comrade said,"All health was his, and strength;And this is why he came to die—If I may speak at length.
"But yesternight at dinnertimeAt a not unknown café,He had a frugal meal as youMight purchase any day.
"The check for his so simple fareWas only eighty cents,And a dollar bill with a right good willCame from his opulence.
"The waiter brought him twenty cents.'Twas only yesternightThat he softly said who now is dead'Oh, keep it. 'At's a' right.'
"And the waiter plainly uttered 'Thanks,'With no hint of scorn or pride;And my comrade's heart gave a sudden startAnd my comrade up and died."
Now waiters overthwart this land,In tearooms and in dives,Mute be your lips whatever the tips,And save your customers' lives.
Whene'er the penner of this pomeRegards a lovely country home,He sighs, in words not insincere,"I think I'd like to live out here."And when the builder of this dittyReturns to this pulsating city,The perpetrator of this pomeYearns for a lovely country home.
Whene'er the penner of this pomeRegards a lovely country home,He sighs, in words not insincere,"I think I'd like to live out here."
And when the builder of this dittyReturns to this pulsating city,The perpetrator of this pomeYearns for a lovely country home.
When first I doffed my olive drab,I thought, delightedly though mutely,"Henceforth I shall have pleasure ab-Solutely."Dull with the drudgery of war,Sick of the very name of fighting,I yearned, I thought, for something moreExciting.The rainbow be my guide, quoth I;My suit shall be a brave and proud oneGay-hued my socks; and oh, my tieA loud one!For me the theatre and the dance;Primrose the path I would be wending;For me the roses of romanceUnending.Those were my inner thoughts that day(And those of many another million)When once again I should be aCivilian.I would not miss the old o. d.;(Monotony I didn't much like)I would not miss the reveille,And such like.I don't ... And do I now enjoyMy walks along the primrose way so?Is civil life the life? Oh, boy,I'll say so.
When first I doffed my olive drab,I thought, delightedly though mutely,"Henceforth I shall have pleasure ab-Solutely."
Dull with the drudgery of war,Sick of the very name of fighting,I yearned, I thought, for something moreExciting.
The rainbow be my guide, quoth I;My suit shall be a brave and proud oneGay-hued my socks; and oh, my tieA loud one!
For me the theatre and the dance;Primrose the path I would be wending;For me the roses of romanceUnending.
Those were my inner thoughts that day(And those of many another million)When once again I should be aCivilian.
I would not miss the old o. d.;(Monotony I didn't much like)I would not miss the reveille,And such like.
I don't ... And do I now enjoyMy walks along the primrose way so?Is civil life the life? Oh, boy,I'll say so.
Man hath harnessed the lightning;Man hath soared to the skies;Mountain and hill are clay to his will;Skilful he is, and wise.Sea to sea hath he wedded,Canceled the chasm of space,Given defeat to cold and heat;Splendour is his, and grace.His are the topless turrets;His are the plumbless pits;Earth is slave to his architrave,Heaven is thrall to his wits.And so in the golden future,He who hath dulled the storm(As said above) may make a gloveThat'll keep my fingers warm.
Man hath harnessed the lightning;Man hath soared to the skies;Mountain and hill are clay to his will;Skilful he is, and wise.Sea to sea hath he wedded,Canceled the chasm of space,Given defeat to cold and heat;Splendour is his, and grace.
His are the topless turrets;His are the plumbless pits;Earth is slave to his architrave,Heaven is thrall to his wits.And so in the golden future,He who hath dulled the storm(As said above) may make a gloveThat'll keep my fingers warm.
Thine aid, O Muse, I consciously beseech;I crave thy succour, ask for thine assistanceThat men may cry: "Some little ode! A peach!"O Muse, grant me the strength to go the distance!For odes, I learn, are dithyrambs, and long;Exalted feeling, dignity of themeAnd complicated structure guide the song.(All this from Webster's book of high esteem.)Let complicated structure not becloudMy lucid lines, nor weight with overloading.To Shelley, Keats, and Wordsworth and that crowdI yield the bays for ground and lofty oding.Mine but the task to trace a country's growth,As evidenced by each inaugurationFrom Washington's to Wilson's primal oath—In these U. S., the celebrated nation.But stay! or ever that I start to sing,Or e'er I loose my fine poetic forces,I ought, I think, to do the decent thing,To wit: give credit to my many sources:Barnes's "Brief History of the U. S. A.,"Bryce, Ridpath, Scudder, Fiske, J. B. McMaster,A book of odes, a Webster, a Roget—The bibliography of this poetaster.Flow, flow, my pen, as gently as sweet Afton ever flowed!An thou dost ill, shall this be still a poor thing, but mine ode.G. W., initial prex,Right down in Wall Street, New York City,Took his first oath. Oh, multiplexThe whimsies quaint, the comments wittyOne might evolve from that! I scornTo mock the spot where he was sworn.On next Inauguration DayHe took the avouchment sempiternalWay down in Phil-a-delph-i-a,Where rises now the L. H. Journal.His Farewell Speech in '96Said: "'Ware the Trusts and all their tricks!"John Adams fell on darksome days:March Fourth was blustery and sleety;The French behaved in horrid waysUntil John Jay drew up a treaty.Came the Eleventh Amendment, too,Providing that—but why tellyou?T. Jefferson, one history showed,Held all display was vain and idle;Alone, unpanoplied, he rode;Alone he hitched his horse's bridle.No ball that night, and no carouse,But back to Conrad's boarding house.He tied that bridle to the fenceThe morning of inauguration;John Davis saw him do it; whenceArose his "simple" reputation.The White House, though, with Thomas J.,Had chefs—and parties every day.
Thine aid, O Muse, I consciously beseech;I crave thy succour, ask for thine assistanceThat men may cry: "Some little ode! A peach!"O Muse, grant me the strength to go the distance!For odes, I learn, are dithyrambs, and long;Exalted feeling, dignity of themeAnd complicated structure guide the song.(All this from Webster's book of high esteem.)
Let complicated structure not becloudMy lucid lines, nor weight with overloading.To Shelley, Keats, and Wordsworth and that crowdI yield the bays for ground and lofty oding.Mine but the task to trace a country's growth,As evidenced by each inaugurationFrom Washington's to Wilson's primal oath—In these U. S., the celebrated nation.
But stay! or ever that I start to sing,Or e'er I loose my fine poetic forces,I ought, I think, to do the decent thing,To wit: give credit to my many sources:Barnes's "Brief History of the U. S. A.,"Bryce, Ridpath, Scudder, Fiske, J. B. McMaster,A book of odes, a Webster, a Roget—The bibliography of this poetaster.
Flow, flow, my pen, as gently as sweet Afton ever flowed!An thou dost ill, shall this be still a poor thing, but mine ode.
G. W., initial prex,Right down in Wall Street, New York City,Took his first oath. Oh, multiplexThe whimsies quaint, the comments wittyOne might evolve from that! I scornTo mock the spot where he was sworn.
On next Inauguration DayHe took the avouchment sempiternalWay down in Phil-a-delph-i-a,Where rises now the L. H. Journal.His Farewell Speech in '96Said: "'Ware the Trusts and all their tricks!"
John Adams fell on darksome days:March Fourth was blustery and sleety;The French behaved in horrid waysUntil John Jay drew up a treaty.Came the Eleventh Amendment, too,Providing that—but why tellyou?
T. Jefferson, one history showed,Held all display was vain and idle;Alone, unpanoplied, he rode;Alone he hitched his horse's bridle.No ball that night, and no carouse,But back to Conrad's boarding house.
He tied that bridle to the fenceThe morning of inauguration;John Davis saw him do it; whenceArose his "simple" reputation.The White House, though, with Thomas J.,Had chefs—and parties every day.
If I were you I think I'd change my medium;I weary of your meter and your style.The sameness of it sickens me to tedium;I'll quit unless you switch it for a while.
If I were you I think I'd change my medium;I weary of your meter and your style.The sameness of it sickens me to tedium;I'll quit unless you switch it for a while.
I bow to thee, my Muse, most eloquent of pleaders;But why embarrass me in front of all these readers?Madison's inaugurationWas a lovely celebration.In a suit of wool domesticRode he, stately and majestic,Making it be manifestClothes American are best.This has thundered through the ages.(See our advertising pages.)Lightly I pass along, and soCome to the terms of James MonroeWho framed the doctrine far too wellKnown for an odist to retell.His period of friendly dealingBegan The Era of Good Feeling.John Quincy Adams followed him in Eighteen Twenty-four;Election was exciting—the details I shall ignore.But his inauguration as our country's PresidentWas, take it from McMaster, some considerable event.It was a brilliant function, and I think I ought to addThe Philadelphia "Ledger" said a gorgeous time was had.Old Andrew Jackson's pair of terms were terribly exciting;That stern, intrepid warrior had little else than fighting.A time of strife and turbulence, of politics and flurry.But deadly dull for poem themes, so, Mawruss, I should worry!In Washington did Martin VanA stately custom then decree:Old Hickory, the veteran,Must ride with him, the people's man,For all the world to see.A pleasant custom, in a way,And yet I should have laughedTo see the Sage of Oyster BayOn Tuesday ride with Taft.(Pardon me thisParenthetical halt:That sight you'll miss,But it isn't my fault.)William Henry Harrison cameRiding a horse of alabaster,But the weather that day was a sin and a shame,Take it from me and John McMaster.Only a month—and Harrison died,And V.-P. Tyler began preside.A far from popular prex was he,And the next one was Polk of Tennessee.There were two inaugural balls for him,But the rest of his record is rather dim.Had I the pen of a Pope or a Thackeray,Had I the wisdom of Hegel or Kant,Then might I sing as I'd like to of Zachary,Then might I sing a Taylorian chant.Oh, for the lyrical art of a Tennyson!Oh, for the skill of Macaulay or Burke!None of these mine; so I give him my benison,Turning reluctantly back to my work.O Millard Fillmore! when a man refersTo thee, what direful, awful thing occurs?Though in itself thy name hath nought of wit,Yet—and this doth confound me to admitWhen I do hear it, I do smile; nay, more—I laugh, I scream, I cachinnate, I roarAs Wearied Business Men do shake with gleeAt mimes that say "Dubuque" or "Kankakee";As basement-brows that laugh at New Rochelle;As lackwits laugh when actors mention Hell.Perhaps—it may be so—I am not sure—Perhaps it is that thou wast so obscure,And that one seldom hears a single word of thee;I know a lot of girls that never heard of thee.Hence did I smile, perhaps.... How very nearThe careless laughing to the thoughtful tear!O Fillmore, let me sheathe my mocking pen.God rest thee! I'll not laugh at thee again!I have heard it remarked that to Pierce's electionThere wasn't a soul had the slightest objection.I have also been told, by some caustical wit,That no one said nay when he wanted to quit.Yet Franklin Pierce, forgotten man,I celebrate your fame.I'm doing just the best I canTo keep alive your name,Though as a President, F. P.,You didn't do as much for me.Of James Buchanan things a scoreI might recite. I'll say that he wasThe only White House bachelor—The only one, that's what J. B. was.For he was a bachelor—For he might have been a bigamist,A Mormon, a polygamist,And had thirty wives or more;But this be his memorial:He was ever unuxorial,And remained a bachelor—He re-mai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ained a bachelor.Lincoln! I falter, feeling it to beAs if all words of mine in praise of himWere as the veriest dolt that saw the sun;And God had spoken him and said to him:"I bid you tell me what you think of it."And he should answer: "Oh, the sun is nice."So sadly fitted I to speak in praiseOf Lincoln.Now during Andrew Johnson's term the currency grew stable;We bought Alaska and we laid the great Atlantic cable;And then there came eight years of Grant; thereafter four of Hayes;And in his time the parties fell on fierce and parlous days;And Garfield came, and Arthur too, and Congress shoes were worn,And Brooklyn Bridge was built, and I, your gifted bard, was born.Cleveland and Harrison came along then;Followed an era of Cleveland again.Came then McKinley and—light me a pipe—Hey, there, composing room, get some new type!I sing him now as I shall sing him again;I sing him now as I have sung before.How fluently his name comes off my pen!O Theodore!Bless you and keep you, T. R.!Energy tireless, eternal,Fixed and particular star,Theodore, Teddy, the Colonel.Energy tireless, eternal;Hater of grafters and crooks!Theodore, Teddy, the Colonel,Writer and lover of books,Hater of grafters and crooks,Forceful, adroit, and expressive,Writer and lover of books,Nevertheless a Progressive.Forceful, adroit, and expressive,Often asserting the trite;Nevertheless a Progressive;Errant, but generally right.Often asserting the trite;Stubborn, and no one can force you.Errant, but generally right—Yet, on the whole, I indorse you.Stubborn, and no one can force you,Fixed and particular star,Yet, on the whole, I indorse you,Bless you and keep you, T. R.!It blew, it rained, it snowed, it stormed, it froze, it hailed, it sleetedThe day that William Howard Taft upon the chair was seated.The four long years that followed—ah, that I should make a rime of it!For Mr. Taft assures me that he had an awful time of it.And yet meseems he did his best; and as we bid good-bye,I'll add he did a better job than you'd have done—or I.Welcome to thee! I shake thy hand,New prexy of our well-known land.May what we merit, and no less,Descend to give us happiness!May what we merit, and no more,Descend on us in measured store!Give us but peace when we shall earnThe right to such a rich return!Give us but plenty when we showThat we deserve to have it so!Mine ode is finished! Tut! It is a slight one,But blame me not; I do as I am bid.The editor ofCollier'ssaid to write one—And I did.
I bow to thee, my Muse, most eloquent of pleaders;But why embarrass me in front of all these readers?
Madison's inaugurationWas a lovely celebration.In a suit of wool domesticRode he, stately and majestic,Making it be manifestClothes American are best.This has thundered through the ages.(See our advertising pages.)
Lightly I pass along, and soCome to the terms of James MonroeWho framed the doctrine far too wellKnown for an odist to retell.His period of friendly dealingBegan The Era of Good Feeling.
John Quincy Adams followed him in Eighteen Twenty-four;Election was exciting—the details I shall ignore.But his inauguration as our country's PresidentWas, take it from McMaster, some considerable event.It was a brilliant function, and I think I ought to addThe Philadelphia "Ledger" said a gorgeous time was had.
Old Andrew Jackson's pair of terms were terribly exciting;That stern, intrepid warrior had little else than fighting.A time of strife and turbulence, of politics and flurry.But deadly dull for poem themes, so, Mawruss, I should worry!
In Washington did Martin VanA stately custom then decree:Old Hickory, the veteran,Must ride with him, the people's man,For all the world to see.A pleasant custom, in a way,And yet I should have laughedTo see the Sage of Oyster BayOn Tuesday ride with Taft.(Pardon me thisParenthetical halt:That sight you'll miss,But it isn't my fault.)
William Henry Harrison cameRiding a horse of alabaster,But the weather that day was a sin and a shame,Take it from me and John McMaster.Only a month—and Harrison died,And V.-P. Tyler began preside.A far from popular prex was he,And the next one was Polk of Tennessee.There were two inaugural balls for him,But the rest of his record is rather dim.
Had I the pen of a Pope or a Thackeray,Had I the wisdom of Hegel or Kant,Then might I sing as I'd like to of Zachary,Then might I sing a Taylorian chant.Oh, for the lyrical art of a Tennyson!Oh, for the skill of Macaulay or Burke!None of these mine; so I give him my benison,Turning reluctantly back to my work.
O Millard Fillmore! when a man refersTo thee, what direful, awful thing occurs?Though in itself thy name hath nought of wit,Yet—and this doth confound me to admitWhen I do hear it, I do smile; nay, more—I laugh, I scream, I cachinnate, I roarAs Wearied Business Men do shake with gleeAt mimes that say "Dubuque" or "Kankakee";As basement-brows that laugh at New Rochelle;As lackwits laugh when actors mention Hell.Perhaps—it may be so—I am not sure—Perhaps it is that thou wast so obscure,And that one seldom hears a single word of thee;I know a lot of girls that never heard of thee.Hence did I smile, perhaps.... How very nearThe careless laughing to the thoughtful tear!O Fillmore, let me sheathe my mocking pen.God rest thee! I'll not laugh at thee again!
I have heard it remarked that to Pierce's electionThere wasn't a soul had the slightest objection.I have also been told, by some caustical wit,That no one said nay when he wanted to quit.Yet Franklin Pierce, forgotten man,I celebrate your fame.I'm doing just the best I canTo keep alive your name,Though as a President, F. P.,You didn't do as much for me.
Of James Buchanan things a scoreI might recite. I'll say that he wasThe only White House bachelor—The only one, that's what J. B. was.For he was a bachelor—For he might have been a bigamist,A Mormon, a polygamist,And had thirty wives or more;But this be his memorial:He was ever unuxorial,And remained a bachelor—He re-mai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ained a bachelor.
Lincoln! I falter, feeling it to beAs if all words of mine in praise of himWere as the veriest dolt that saw the sun;And God had spoken him and said to him:"I bid you tell me what you think of it."And he should answer: "Oh, the sun is nice."So sadly fitted I to speak in praiseOf Lincoln.
Now during Andrew Johnson's term the currency grew stable;We bought Alaska and we laid the great Atlantic cable;And then there came eight years of Grant; thereafter four of Hayes;And in his time the parties fell on fierce and parlous days;And Garfield came, and Arthur too, and Congress shoes were worn,And Brooklyn Bridge was built, and I, your gifted bard, was born.
Cleveland and Harrison came along then;Followed an era of Cleveland again.Came then McKinley and—light me a pipe—Hey, there, composing room, get some new type!
I sing him now as I shall sing him again;I sing him now as I have sung before.How fluently his name comes off my pen!O Theodore!
Bless you and keep you, T. R.!Energy tireless, eternal,Fixed and particular star,Theodore, Teddy, the Colonel.
Energy tireless, eternal;Hater of grafters and crooks!Theodore, Teddy, the Colonel,Writer and lover of books,
Hater of grafters and crooks,Forceful, adroit, and expressive,Writer and lover of books,Nevertheless a Progressive.
Forceful, adroit, and expressive,Often asserting the trite;Nevertheless a Progressive;Errant, but generally right.
Often asserting the trite;Stubborn, and no one can force you.Errant, but generally right—Yet, on the whole, I indorse you.
Stubborn, and no one can force you,Fixed and particular star,Yet, on the whole, I indorse you,Bless you and keep you, T. R.!
It blew, it rained, it snowed, it stormed, it froze, it hailed, it sleetedThe day that William Howard Taft upon the chair was seated.The four long years that followed—ah, that I should make a rime of it!For Mr. Taft assures me that he had an awful time of it.And yet meseems he did his best; and as we bid good-bye,I'll add he did a better job than you'd have done—or I.
Welcome to thee! I shake thy hand,New prexy of our well-known land.May what we merit, and no less,Descend to give us happiness!May what we merit, and no more,Descend on us in measured store!Give us but peace when we shall earnThe right to such a rich return!Give us but plenty when we showThat we deserve to have it so!
Mine ode is finished! Tut! It is a slight one,But blame me not; I do as I am bid.The editor ofCollier'ssaid to write one—And I did.
("Annabel Lee")
High-Born Kinsman AbductsGirl from Poet-Lover—FluSaid to Be Cause of Death—GrandJury to Probe
Annabel L. Poe, of 1834-1/2 3rd Av., the beautiful young fiancee of Edmund Allyn Poe, a magazine writer from the South, was found dead early this morning on the beach off E. 8th St.
Poe seemed prostrated and, questioned by the police, said that one of her aristocratic relatives had taken her to the "seashore," but that the cold winds had given her "flu," from which she never "rallied."
Detectives at work on the case believe, they say, that there was a suicide compact between the Poes and that Poe also intended to do away with himself.
He refused to leave the spot where the woman's body had been found.
("Curfew Must Not Ring To-night")
BRAVE ACT Of "BESSIE" SMITHHALTS CURFEW FROM RINGINGAND MELTS CROMWELL'S HEART
(By Cable toThe Courier)
HUDDERSFIELD, KENT, ENGLAND.—Jan. 15.—Swinging far out above the city, "Bessie" Smith, the young and beautiful fiancée of Basil Underwood, a prisoner incarcerated in the town jail, saved his life to-night.
The woman went to "Jack" Hemingway, sexton of the First M. E. Church, and asked him to refrain from ringing the curfew bell last night, as Underwood's execution had been set for the hour when the bell was to ring. Hemingway refused, alleging it to be his duty to ring the bell.
With a quick step Miss Smith bounded forward, sprang within the old church door, left the old man threading slowly paths which previously he had trodden, and mounted up to the tower. Climbing the dusty ladder in the dark, she is said to have whispered:
"Curfew is not to ring this evening."
Seizing the heavy tongue of the bell, as it was about to move, she swung far out suspended in mid-air, oscillating, thus preventing the bell from ringing. Hemingway's deafness prevented him from hearing the bell ring, but as hehad been deaf for 20 years, he attributed no importance to the silence.
As Miss Smith descended, she met Oliver Cromwell, the well-known lord protector, who had condemned Underwood to death. Hearing her story and noting her hands, bruised and torn, he said in part: "Go, your lover lives. Curfew shall not ring this evening."
("The Ballad of the Tempest")
Babe's Query to Parent SavesStorm-Flayed Ship's PassengersCrowded in Cabin
BOSTON, MASS, Jan. 17—Cheered by the faith of little "Jennie" Carpenter, the 7-year-old daughter of Capt. B. L. Carpenter, of a steamer whose name could not be learned, 117 passengers on board were brought through panic early this morning while the storm was at its height, to shore.
George H. Nebich, one of the passengers, told the following story to a COURIER reporter:
"About midnight we were crowded in the cabin, afraid to sleep on account of the storm. All were praying, as Capt. Carpenter, staggering down the stairs, cried: 'We are lost!' It was then that little 'Jennie,' his daughter, took him by his hand and asked him whether he did not believe in divine omnipresence. All the passengers kissed the little'girlie' whose faith had so inspirited us."
The steamer, it was said at the office of the company owning her, would leave as usual to-night for Portland.
("Plain Language from Truthful James")
"Celestial" Gambler, Feigning Ignoranceof Euchre, Tricks Francis Bret Harte and"Bill" Nye into Heavy Losses—Solonsto Probe Ochre Peril
SAN FRANCISCO, Aug. 3.—Francis B. Harte and E. W. Nye, a pair of local magazine writers, lost what is believed to be a large sum of money in a game of euchre played near the Bar-M mine this afternoon.
There had been, Harte alleged, a three-handed game of euchre participated in by Nye, a Chinaman named Ah Sin and himself. The Chinaman, Harte asserted, did not understand the game, but, Harte declared, smiled as he sat by the table with what Harte termed was a "smile that was childlike and bland."
Harte said that his feelings were shocked by the chicanery of Nye, but that the hands held by Ah Sin were unusual. Nye, maddened by the Chinaman's trickery, rushed at him, 24 packs of cards spilling from the tong-man's long sleeves. On his taper nails was found some wax.
The "Mongolian," Harte said, is peculiar.
Harte and Nye are thought to have lost a vast sum of money, as they are wealthy authors.
The legislature, it is said, will investigate the question of the menace to American card-players by the so-called Yellow peril.
("Excelsior")
Unidentified Body of Young TravelerFound by Faithful Hound NearSmall Alpine Village—WhiteMantle His Snowy Shroud
ST. BERNARD, Sept. 12.—Early this morning a dog belonging to the St. Bernard Monastery discovered the body of a young man, half buried in the snow.
In his hand was clutched a flag with the word "Excelsior" printed on it.
It is thought that he passed through the village last night, bearing the banner, and that a young woman had offered him shelter, which he refused, having answered "Excelsior."
The police are working on the case.
("The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers")
Intrepid Band of Britons, SeekingFaith's Pure Shrine, ReachRock-Bound Coast, SingingAmid Storm
PROVINCETOWN, MASS, Dec. 21—Poking her nose through the fog, the shipMayflower, of Southampton, Jones, Master, limped into port to-night.
On board were men with hoary hair and women with fearless eyes, 109 in all.
Asked why they had made the journey, they alleged that religious freedom was the goal they sought here.
TheMayflowercarried a cargo of antique furniture.
Among those on board were William Bradford, M. Standish, Jno. Alden, Peregrine White, John Carver and others.
Steps are being taken to organize a society of Mayflower Descendants.
("The Bridge Of Sighs")
Body of Girl Found in RiverTells Pitiful Story ofHomelessness and Lack ofCharity
LONDON, March 16.—The body of a young woman, her garments clinging like cerements, was found in the river late this afternoon.
In the entire city she had no home. There are, according to the police, no relatives.
The woman was young and slender and had auburn hair.
No cause has been assigned for the act.