Open Letters

BY RUTH MC ENERY STUART

THE MOSQUITO

WID so much Christian blood in ’is veins,You’d think Brer ’Skitty would take some painsTo love ’is neighbor an’ show good-will,But he’s p’izenin’ an’ backbitin’ still.An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat—No, he ain’t by ’isself in dat.

WID so much Christian blood in ’is veins,

You’d think Brer ’Skitty would take some pains

To love ’is neighbor an’ show good-will,

But he’s p’izenin’ an’ backbitin’ still.

An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat—

No, he ain’t by ’isself in dat.

THE RAT

BRERRat in de corn-bin overfedAn’ underworked, an’ now he’s dead;He craved to live lak a bloated chief,An’ now he ain’t nothin’ but a ol’ dead thief.An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat—An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat.

BRERRat in de corn-bin overfed

An’ underworked, an’ now he’s dead;

He craved to live lak a bloated chief,

An’ now he ain’t nothin’ but a ol’ dead thief.

An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat—

An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat.

Dr. RobinDrawn by Oliver Herford

Drawn by Oliver Herford

BY FRANCES ROSE BENÉT

ASPARKLINGmorning after weeks of rain;All fresh and fragrant glows my world, new-made.Bluebirds sing ballads; sparrows chirp refrain;Old Mother Spider, peering from the shade,With gastronomic joy surveys a fly,Her table-cloth hung on a bush to dry.A little lizard creeps from out his crackTo bask in sunshine till he’s done quite brown;A butterfly starts on her breathless track,Her errand gay, to lure a lad from town;Even the garden’s foe, the slimy snail,Leaves on the walk an iridescent trail.Fat Doctor Robin now comes hurrying by,His neat attire touched up with claret vest.“Important case!” I see it in his eye.“No time to sing, with babies in that nest.”Quick! little doctor!Willhe catch the train?Sudden he stops; my heart jumps to my throat.“Thunder and Mars!” I hear him say quite plain,“I’ve left my wallet in my other coat!”

ASPARKLINGmorning after weeks of rain;

All fresh and fragrant glows my world, new-made.

Bluebirds sing ballads; sparrows chirp refrain;

Old Mother Spider, peering from the shade,

With gastronomic joy surveys a fly,

Her table-cloth hung on a bush to dry.

A little lizard creeps from out his crackTo bask in sunshine till he’s done quite brown;A butterfly starts on her breathless track,Her errand gay, to lure a lad from town;Even the garden’s foe, the slimy snail,Leaves on the walk an iridescent trail.

A little lizard creeps from out his crack

To bask in sunshine till he’s done quite brown;

A butterfly starts on her breathless track,

Her errand gay, to lure a lad from town;

Even the garden’s foe, the slimy snail,

Leaves on the walk an iridescent trail.

Fat Doctor Robin now comes hurrying by,His neat attire touched up with claret vest.“Important case!” I see it in his eye.“No time to sing, with babies in that nest.”Quick! little doctor!Willhe catch the train?Sudden he stops; my heart jumps to my throat.“Thunder and Mars!” I hear him say quite plain,“I’ve left my wallet in my other coat!”

Fat Doctor Robin now comes hurrying by,

His neat attire touched up with claret vest.

“Important case!” I see it in his eye.

“No time to sing, with babies in that nest.”

Quick! little doctor!Willhe catch the train?

Sudden he stops; my heart jumps to my throat.

“Thunder and Mars!” I hear him say quite plain,

“I’ve left my wallet in my other coat!”

NOISE EXTRACTED WITHOUT PAINWAITER(to single gentleman):—“Excuse me, sir, but that lady and gentleman wish me to recommendto you one of those new Maxim soup silencers!”

NOISE EXTRACTED WITHOUT PAIN

WAITER(to single gentleman):—“Excuse me, sir, but that lady and gentleman wish me to recommendto you one of those new Maxim soup silencers!”

(A more-than-symbolic sonnet for a picture of the same sort by George Wolfe Plank)

BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER

URGEDby the peacocks of our vanity,Up the frail tree of life we climb and grope;About our heads the tragic branches slope,Heavy with time and xanthic mystery.Beyond, the brooding bird of fate we seeViewing the world with eyes forever ope’,And lured by all the phantom fruits of hope,We cling in anguish to this fragile tree.O lowering skies! O clouds, that point in scorn,With the lean fingers of a wrinkled wrath!O dedal moon, that rears its ghostly horn!O hidden stars, that tread the cosmic path!Shall we attain the glory of the morn,Or sink into some awful aftermath!

URGEDby the peacocks of our vanity,Up the frail tree of life we climb and grope;About our heads the tragic branches slope,Heavy with time and xanthic mystery.

URGEDby the peacocks of our vanity,

Up the frail tree of life we climb and grope;

About our heads the tragic branches slope,

Heavy with time and xanthic mystery.

Beyond, the brooding bird of fate we seeViewing the world with eyes forever ope’,And lured by all the phantom fruits of hope,We cling in anguish to this fragile tree.

Beyond, the brooding bird of fate we see

Viewing the world with eyes forever ope’,

And lured by all the phantom fruits of hope,

We cling in anguish to this fragile tree.

O lowering skies! O clouds, that point in scorn,With the lean fingers of a wrinkled wrath!O dedal moon, that rears its ghostly horn!

O lowering skies! O clouds, that point in scorn,

With the lean fingers of a wrinkled wrath!

O dedal moon, that rears its ghostly horn!

O hidden stars, that tread the cosmic path!Shall we attain the glory of the morn,Or sink into some awful aftermath!

O hidden stars, that tread the cosmic path!

Shall we attain the glory of the morn,

Or sink into some awful aftermath!

Aspiration

(With apologies to Rossetti)

BY CORINNE ROCKWELL SWAIN

THEcubist damosel leaned outFrom a neurotic heaven;Her face was stranger than the dreamsOf topers filled at even:She had four facets to her nose,And the eyes in her head were seven.Her robe, concrete from clasp to hem,Six angles did adorn,With a white parallelogramFor trimming neatly worn:Her hair rose up in pentagons,Like yellow ears of corn.It was a post-impression houseThat she was standing on;While maudlin quadrilateral cloudsO’er mystic gardens spun,And three denatured greyhounds ranCirclewise round the sun.“I wish that they could draw,” she moaned,“Nor throw such fits as this;Souza-Cardosa, and the fiveWho love weird symphonies:Fiebig, Picabia, Picasso,D’Erlanger, and Matisse.”She smiled, though her amorphous mouthWas vague beyond her ears;Then cast her beveled arms alongThe rhomboid barriers,And shedding asymmetric plinths,She wept. (I heard her tears.)

THEcubist damosel leaned outFrom a neurotic heaven;Her face was stranger than the dreamsOf topers filled at even:She had four facets to her nose,And the eyes in her head were seven.

THEcubist damosel leaned out

From a neurotic heaven;

Her face was stranger than the dreams

Of topers filled at even:

She had four facets to her nose,

And the eyes in her head were seven.

Her robe, concrete from clasp to hem,Six angles did adorn,With a white parallelogramFor trimming neatly worn:Her hair rose up in pentagons,Like yellow ears of corn.

Her robe, concrete from clasp to hem,

Six angles did adorn,

With a white parallelogram

For trimming neatly worn:

Her hair rose up in pentagons,

Like yellow ears of corn.

It was a post-impression houseThat she was standing on;While maudlin quadrilateral cloudsO’er mystic gardens spun,And three denatured greyhounds ranCirclewise round the sun.

It was a post-impression house

That she was standing on;

While maudlin quadrilateral clouds

O’er mystic gardens spun,

And three denatured greyhounds ran

Circlewise round the sun.

“I wish that they could draw,” she moaned,“Nor throw such fits as this;Souza-Cardosa, and the fiveWho love weird symphonies:Fiebig, Picabia, Picasso,D’Erlanger, and Matisse.”

“I wish that they could draw,” she moaned,

“Nor throw such fits as this;

Souza-Cardosa, and the five

Who love weird symphonies:

Fiebig, Picabia, Picasso,

D’Erlanger, and Matisse.”

She smiled, though her amorphous mouthWas vague beyond her ears;Then cast her beveled arms alongThe rhomboid barriers,And shedding asymmetric plinths,She wept. (I heard her tears.)

She smiled, though her amorphous mouth

Was vague beyond her ears;

Then cast her beveled arms along

The rhomboid barriers,

And shedding asymmetric plinths,

She wept. (I heard her tears.)

TEXT AND PICTURES BY OLIVER HERFORD

Somnolence

SAIDthe oyster: “To-morrow’s May-day;But don’t call me early, I pray.Just tuck me insteadIn my snug oyster-bed,And there till September I’ll stay.”

SAIDthe oyster: “To-morrow’s May-day;

But don’t call me early, I pray.

Just tuck me instead

In my snug oyster-bed,

And there till September I’ll stay.”

Detention

ONCEa pound-keeper chanced to impoundAn ounce that was straying around.The pound-keeper straightWas fined for false weight,Since he’d only once ounce in his pound.

ONCEa pound-keeper chanced to impound

An ounce that was straying around.

The pound-keeper straight

Was fined for false weight,

Since he’d only once ounce in his pound.

THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK

FOOTNOTES:[1]At a meeting held at Chickering Hall on the evening of November 12, 1891, to sympathize with Governor Nichols’s war on the Louisiana lottery system, the late Abram S. Hewitt was one of the speakers. In the course of his remarks in denunciation of the lottery gambling in Louisiana, Mr. Hewitt said:“I can’t find words strong enough to express my feelings regarding this brazen fraud.“This scheme of plunder develops a weak spot in the government of the United States, which I would not mention were it not for the importance of the issue. We all know that a single State frequently determines the result of a presidential election. The State of Louisiana has determined the result of a presidential election. The vote of that State was offered to me for money, and I declined to buy it. But the vote of that State was sold for money!”[2]Read before the joint meeting of The American Academy of Arts and Letters and the National Institute of Arts and Letters, December 13, 1912. Now first published.[3]I doubt if “Winchester,” previously known as “Rienzi,” could have outwalked Sherman’s “Sam,” a terror to staff-officers, General Meade’s “Baldy,” or McClellan’s “Black Dan,” for it was asserted they could all walk five miles an hour.[4]THECENTURYfor July, 1882.[5]THECENTURYfor July, 1887.[6]Federal Reporter, Vol. 110, page 660.[7]Since this was written a device accomplishing the same purpose has been placed in public service.[8]Reprinted from “Scribner’s Monthly” (now THECENTURY) for March, 1874.

FOOTNOTES:

[1]At a meeting held at Chickering Hall on the evening of November 12, 1891, to sympathize with Governor Nichols’s war on the Louisiana lottery system, the late Abram S. Hewitt was one of the speakers. In the course of his remarks in denunciation of the lottery gambling in Louisiana, Mr. Hewitt said:“I can’t find words strong enough to express my feelings regarding this brazen fraud.“This scheme of plunder develops a weak spot in the government of the United States, which I would not mention were it not for the importance of the issue. We all know that a single State frequently determines the result of a presidential election. The State of Louisiana has determined the result of a presidential election. The vote of that State was offered to me for money, and I declined to buy it. But the vote of that State was sold for money!”

“I can’t find words strong enough to express my feelings regarding this brazen fraud.

“This scheme of plunder develops a weak spot in the government of the United States, which I would not mention were it not for the importance of the issue. We all know that a single State frequently determines the result of a presidential election. The State of Louisiana has determined the result of a presidential election. The vote of that State was offered to me for money, and I declined to buy it. But the vote of that State was sold for money!”

[2]Read before the joint meeting of The American Academy of Arts and Letters and the National Institute of Arts and Letters, December 13, 1912. Now first published.

[3]I doubt if “Winchester,” previously known as “Rienzi,” could have outwalked Sherman’s “Sam,” a terror to staff-officers, General Meade’s “Baldy,” or McClellan’s “Black Dan,” for it was asserted they could all walk five miles an hour.

[4]THECENTURYfor July, 1882.

[5]THECENTURYfor July, 1887.

[6]Federal Reporter, Vol. 110, page 660.

[7]Since this was written a device accomplishing the same purpose has been placed in public service.

[8]Reprinted from “Scribner’s Monthly” (now THECENTURY) for March, 1874.

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