He was up in mathematics, had a taste for hydrostatics, and could talk about astronomy from Aristarchus down;He could tell what kind of beans were devoured by the Chaldeans, and he knew the date of every joke made by a circus clown.He was versed in evolution, and would instance the poor Russian as a type of despotism in the modern age of man.He could write a page of matter on the different kinds of batter used in making flinty gim-cracks on the modern cooking plan.He could revel in statistics, he was well up in the fistics, knew the pedigree of horses dating 'way back from the ark.Far and wide his tips were quoted, and his base-ball stuff was noted. In political predictions he would always hit the mark.He could write upon the tariff, and he didn't seem to care if he was called off to review a book or write a poem or two:He could boil down stuff and edit, knew the value of a credit, and could hustle with the telegraph in a style excelled by few.He could tell just how a fire should be handled; as a liar he was sure to exercise a wise, discriminative taste.He was mild and yet undaunted, and no matter what was wanted he was always sure to get it first, yet never was in haste.But despite his reputation as a brainy aggregation, he was known to be deficient in a manner to provoke.For no matter when you met him he would borrow if you let him, and he seemed to have the faculty of always being broke.Tom Masson.
He was up in mathematics, had a taste for hydrostatics, and could talk about astronomy from Aristarchus down;He could tell what kind of beans were devoured by the Chaldeans, and he knew the date of every joke made by a circus clown.
He was versed in evolution, and would instance the poor Russian as a type of despotism in the modern age of man.He could write a page of matter on the different kinds of batter used in making flinty gim-cracks on the modern cooking plan.
He could revel in statistics, he was well up in the fistics, knew the pedigree of horses dating 'way back from the ark.Far and wide his tips were quoted, and his base-ball stuff was noted. In political predictions he would always hit the mark.
He could write upon the tariff, and he didn't seem to care if he was called off to review a book or write a poem or two:He could boil down stuff and edit, knew the value of a credit, and could hustle with the telegraph in a style excelled by few.He could tell just how a fire should be handled; as a liar he was sure to exercise a wise, discriminative taste.He was mild and yet undaunted, and no matter what was wanted he was always sure to get it first, yet never was in haste.
But despite his reputation as a brainy aggregation, he was known to be deficient in a manner to provoke.For no matter when you met him he would borrow if you let him, and he seemed to have the faculty of always being broke.
Tom Masson.
She wanted to reach an ideal;She talked of the lovely in art,She quoted from Emerson's Essays,And said she thought Howells had "heart."She doted on Wagner's productions,She thought comic opera low,And she played trying tunes on a zither,Keeping time with a sandal-shod toe.She had dreams of a nobler existence—A bifurcated, corsetless place,Where women would stand free and equalAs queens of a glorious race.But her biscuits were deadly creationsThat caused people's spirits to sink,And she'd views on matters religiousThat drove her relations to drink.She'd opinions on co-education,But not an idea on cake;She could analyse Spencer or Browning,But the new kitchen range wouldn't bake.She wanted to be esoteric,And she wore the most classical clothes;But she ended by being hystericAnd contracting a cold in her nose.She studied of forces hypnotic,She believed in theosophy quite,She understood themes prehistoricAnd said that the faith cure was right.She wanted to reach the ideal,And at clods unpoetic would rail,And her husband wore fringe on his trousersAnd fastened them on with a nail!Kate Masterson.
She wanted to reach an ideal;She talked of the lovely in art,She quoted from Emerson's Essays,And said she thought Howells had "heart."She doted on Wagner's productions,She thought comic opera low,And she played trying tunes on a zither,Keeping time with a sandal-shod toe.
She had dreams of a nobler existence—A bifurcated, corsetless place,Where women would stand free and equalAs queens of a glorious race.But her biscuits were deadly creationsThat caused people's spirits to sink,And she'd views on matters religiousThat drove her relations to drink.
She'd opinions on co-education,But not an idea on cake;She could analyse Spencer or Browning,But the new kitchen range wouldn't bake.She wanted to be esoteric,And she wore the most classical clothes;But she ended by being hystericAnd contracting a cold in her nose.
She studied of forces hypnotic,She believed in theosophy quite,She understood themes prehistoricAnd said that the faith cure was right.She wanted to reach the ideal,And at clods unpoetic would rail,And her husband wore fringe on his trousersAnd fastened them on with a nail!
Kate Masterson.
The farmer is a happy man,His life is free from care,With naught to make his spirit sadOr make him want to swear;All day among the cockle burrsHe gaily grubs and hoes,And money never troubles him,Unless 'tis what he owes.How sweet at early dawn of dayTo rise before the sun,And hustle briskly round the barnTill all the chores are done;To feed the cows, and milk them, too,In brightly shining pails,The while they tread upon your cornsAnd thump you with their tails.How sweet to hie into the field,From breakfast smoking hot,And chase a plough all day aroundA forty acre lot,And, when it strikes against a stone,Drawn by the horses stout,To have the handles prance aroundAnd punch your daylights out.How sweet at noon to lie at easeBeneath some spreading tree,And hold a secret sessionWith an ardent bumble bee,And when your rheumatism makesYour legs refuse to go,How sweet to lie upon your backAnd watch your mortgage grow.And when the busy cares of dayHave faded with the light,How sweet to lie in peaceful sleepThroughout the dewy night,And to hear the partner of your joys,At the first faint tinge of dawn,Shout, "Come, old granger, hump yourselfThe cows are in the corn."Mortimer C. Brown.
The farmer is a happy man,His life is free from care,With naught to make his spirit sadOr make him want to swear;All day among the cockle burrsHe gaily grubs and hoes,And money never troubles him,Unless 'tis what he owes.
How sweet at early dawn of dayTo rise before the sun,And hustle briskly round the barnTill all the chores are done;To feed the cows, and milk them, too,In brightly shining pails,The while they tread upon your cornsAnd thump you with their tails.
How sweet to hie into the field,From breakfast smoking hot,And chase a plough all day aroundA forty acre lot,And, when it strikes against a stone,Drawn by the horses stout,To have the handles prance aroundAnd punch your daylights out.
How sweet at noon to lie at easeBeneath some spreading tree,And hold a secret sessionWith an ardent bumble bee,And when your rheumatism makesYour legs refuse to go,How sweet to lie upon your backAnd watch your mortgage grow.
And when the busy cares of dayHave faded with the light,How sweet to lie in peaceful sleepThroughout the dewy night,And to hear the partner of your joys,At the first faint tinge of dawn,Shout, "Come, old granger, hump yourselfThe cows are in the corn."
Mortimer C. Brown.
By Owen Oliver.
(Reprinted from "To-Day" by kind permission of the Author.)
You'll be sure to know my daddy,'Cause he wears a coat of red.An' a rifle, an' a bay'net,An' a helmet on his head.An' he's very big an' handsome,An' his name is Sergeant Smith,An' he's gone to fight the BoersThat our Queen is angry with.He's the good Queen's faithful soldier,So he's angry, too, of course—I expects theywillbe frightenedWhen they know my daddy's cross!Daddy took me up and nursed me'For he went on Friday week;"Sonny-boy," he said, "Here's sixpence,Bless you, lad!" and kissed my cheek,"Mind you write to me and tell meHow you're doing at your books,How the baby's learning walking,How your little sister looks,How you're good and helping mother—That's the news I want to find."Mine is only printing writing,But my daddy doesn't mind.I'm my daddy's little soldier,An I've often heard him say,Soldiers ought to do their dutyThough their officer's away.Mamma says my duty's doingJust what daddy said I should;But it's hard to do my lessons;And its harder to be good!Teacher says, "Just keep on trying,They'll come easy by-an'-by;"Mamma says I do grow better,And she'll write an' say I try.Won't he smile! unless they've shot him!Mamma said perhaps they would;An' she cried and cried till I cried—But I don't believe they could.No one couldn't hurt my daddy;If they did, when I grow tall,I shall take a sword and rifle,An' I'll go and kill them all.If I woke up big to-morrow,Off to battle I should go;Then I'd see who'd touch my daddy—Please, dear God, do make me grow!
You'll be sure to know my daddy,'Cause he wears a coat of red.An' a rifle, an' a bay'net,An' a helmet on his head.An' he's very big an' handsome,An' his name is Sergeant Smith,An' he's gone to fight the BoersThat our Queen is angry with.He's the good Queen's faithful soldier,So he's angry, too, of course—I expects theywillbe frightenedWhen they know my daddy's cross!
Daddy took me up and nursed me'For he went on Friday week;"Sonny-boy," he said, "Here's sixpence,Bless you, lad!" and kissed my cheek,"Mind you write to me and tell meHow you're doing at your books,How the baby's learning walking,How your little sister looks,How you're good and helping mother—That's the news I want to find."Mine is only printing writing,But my daddy doesn't mind.
I'm my daddy's little soldier,An I've often heard him say,Soldiers ought to do their dutyThough their officer's away.Mamma says my duty's doingJust what daddy said I should;But it's hard to do my lessons;And its harder to be good!Teacher says, "Just keep on trying,They'll come easy by-an'-by;"Mamma says I do grow better,And she'll write an' say I try.
Won't he smile! unless they've shot him!Mamma said perhaps they would;An' she cried and cried till I cried—But I don't believe they could.No one couldn't hurt my daddy;If they did, when I grow tall,I shall take a sword and rifle,An' I'll go and kill them all.If I woke up big to-morrow,Off to battle I should go;Then I'd see who'd touch my daddy—Please, dear God, do make me grow!
By David M'Kee Wright.
(By kind permission of the Author.)
Sports day at the township; the station chaps musteredFrom Stewart's and "Flaxland" and Scott's of "Argyle;"Good sport and good weather, and take things togetherThe event that they talked most about was the mile.Young Wilson from Flaxland could run like a greyhound,His times were a wonder with no stopwatch by;From Stewart's, Jack Barry could go like "Old Harry,"And Scott's chaps had pinned all their faith on Mackay.The township had three in, and each looked like winning.The cunning boys smiled when you asked what they knew;I'd have sooner been resting than stripping and breastingThe mark for the honour of old Waitahu.But the chaps that were with me would take no denial—I used to run once and could do it to-day;It was no use complaining I wasn't in training,I was hard from the hills and could show them the way.So they said; but the other blokes smiled at my chances,Well they might when I hadn't run for a year;I heard someone mutter, "He's softer than butter—He used to win once, but he won't finish here."That made me feel foolish, I wished I'd been training,I felt if I had I could make someone spin,But still I was thinking, "I'll finish like winking;Though there isn't a ghost of a chance I can win!"We all toed the line, but I wasn't excited,I fancied the race was all over for Dan;The slowest could do me—the pistol went through me,I jumped from the scratch, and the tussle began.I'd a yard at the start, but I lost it next moment,My word, they went off at a terrible bat;I saw in a minute I wouldn't be in itIf Wilson and Barry kept moving like that.They went for a quarter, then Pearce, of the township,Ran up to the lead like a young cannon ball;I kept well behind them, I reckoned to find themAbout the three-quarters, or else not at all.Second round the same order, Mackay creeping closer,And Pearce, of the township, dropped out at the bend;They kept the pace going, but Wilson was blowing,I didn't expect to see him at the end.Third round, and, by George, I was closing upon them,My long steady swing was beginning to tell;Mackay took the running—he'd played pretty cunning—I caught my first man at the three-quarter bell.Then I let myself out and I tackled another,Passed him quickly and got up to Wilson at last;There was nothing left in him that once looked like winning;He gave up the struggle the moment I passed.Jack Barry was next, and we got going level,I brought him along till we tackled Mackay;The whole ground was moving, our pace was improving,By Jove! at the finish the grass seemed to fly."Come on, Dan! come on! you can leave them both standing!""Jack Barry's the winner!" "Mackay leads the way!"—The yelling and raving, the rushing and waving—I'll always remember the finish that day.We were going "eyes out," all three shoulder to shoulder,I gathered myself for the best I could do—I heard my name crying, I took the tape flyingFor the honour and glory of old Waitahu!
Sports day at the township; the station chaps musteredFrom Stewart's and "Flaxland" and Scott's of "Argyle;"Good sport and good weather, and take things togetherThe event that they talked most about was the mile.
Young Wilson from Flaxland could run like a greyhound,His times were a wonder with no stopwatch by;From Stewart's, Jack Barry could go like "Old Harry,"And Scott's chaps had pinned all their faith on Mackay.
The township had three in, and each looked like winning.The cunning boys smiled when you asked what they knew;I'd have sooner been resting than stripping and breastingThe mark for the honour of old Waitahu.
But the chaps that were with me would take no denial—I used to run once and could do it to-day;It was no use complaining I wasn't in training,I was hard from the hills and could show them the way.
So they said; but the other blokes smiled at my chances,Well they might when I hadn't run for a year;I heard someone mutter, "He's softer than butter—He used to win once, but he won't finish here."
That made me feel foolish, I wished I'd been training,I felt if I had I could make someone spin,But still I was thinking, "I'll finish like winking;Though there isn't a ghost of a chance I can win!"
We all toed the line, but I wasn't excited,I fancied the race was all over for Dan;The slowest could do me—the pistol went through me,I jumped from the scratch, and the tussle began.
I'd a yard at the start, but I lost it next moment,My word, they went off at a terrible bat;I saw in a minute I wouldn't be in itIf Wilson and Barry kept moving like that.
They went for a quarter, then Pearce, of the township,Ran up to the lead like a young cannon ball;I kept well behind them, I reckoned to find themAbout the three-quarters, or else not at all.
Second round the same order, Mackay creeping closer,And Pearce, of the township, dropped out at the bend;They kept the pace going, but Wilson was blowing,I didn't expect to see him at the end.
Third round, and, by George, I was closing upon them,My long steady swing was beginning to tell;Mackay took the running—he'd played pretty cunning—I caught my first man at the three-quarter bell.
Then I let myself out and I tackled another,Passed him quickly and got up to Wilson at last;There was nothing left in him that once looked like winning;He gave up the struggle the moment I passed.
Jack Barry was next, and we got going level,I brought him along till we tackled Mackay;The whole ground was moving, our pace was improving,By Jove! at the finish the grass seemed to fly.
"Come on, Dan! come on! you can leave them both standing!""Jack Barry's the winner!" "Mackay leads the way!"—The yelling and raving, the rushing and waving—I'll always remember the finish that day.
We were going "eyes out," all three shoulder to shoulder,I gathered myself for the best I could do—I heard my name crying, I took the tape flyingFor the honour and glory of old Waitahu!
Other Volumes in this Series.
MANNERS FOR MENMANNERS FOR WOMENA WORD TO WOMENHOW TO BE PRETTYWHAT SHALL I SAY?THE BOOK OF STITCHESHEALTH EXERCISES AND HOME GYMNASTICSTHE APPLAUSE RECITERRECITATIONSTHE GENTLE ART OF GOOD TALKINGCONCERNING MARRIAGEATHLETICS OF TO-DAYMANNERS FOR GIRLSBEAUTY ADORNED