CLORINDA

CLORINDAA Fable for Heiresses

CLORINDA

A Fable for Heiresses

CLORINDAA Fable for Heiresses

A Fable for Heiresses

Above the plate-glass window-pane,Inviting every passing gaze,Hung an inscription, large and plain,“The Husband Shop.” This, in amaze,Clorinda seeing, stopped wide-eyed,And stared, then turned and stepped inside.A floor-walker whose faultlessnessAnd condescending air proclaimedOne of thetable d’haute noblesse,Approached Clorinda and exclaimed,With graceful undulating palm:“Something in husbands?Oui, Madame.”“We have the latest thing of allIn husbands; kindly step this way.We’re using them on hats this fall,In place of plume or floral spray,The creature being pinned or tiedWith chiffon bows on either side.”He leads the way, all wreathed in smiles,And wonderful in spotless spatsThat flitter like twin butterfliesAlong an avenue of hats,Each one displaying on its brimA husband—fashion’s latest whim.Clorinda tries them each in turnBefore the glass; some are too small,And some too cold, and some too stern,And some are slightly soiled, and all,When punctured by the hat-pin’s steel,Betray by squirms how bored they feel.At last Clorinda came to oneMarked “Dibbs,” that scarce seemed worthher while;But when she tried it on for fun,It met the hat-pin with a smile,As if to say, “Oh, beauteous miss,Even a stab from you is bliss!”“The very thing! but thrown awayUpon ahat!” Clorinda cried.“’Twould make a sweet corsage bouquet.”The shoppers stared electrified,To see Clorinda Dibbs departWearing a husband next her heart.

Above the plate-glass window-pane,

Inviting every passing gaze,

Hung an inscription, large and plain,

“The Husband Shop.” This, in amaze,

Clorinda seeing, stopped wide-eyed,

And stared, then turned and stepped inside.

A floor-walker whose faultlessnessAnd condescending air proclaimedOne of thetable d’haute noblesse,Approached Clorinda and exclaimed,With graceful undulating palm:“Something in husbands?Oui, Madame.”

A floor-walker whose faultlessness

And condescending air proclaimed

One of thetable d’haute noblesse,

Approached Clorinda and exclaimed,

With graceful undulating palm:

“Something in husbands?Oui, Madame.”

“We have the latest thing of allIn husbands; kindly step this way.We’re using them on hats this fall,In place of plume or floral spray,The creature being pinned or tiedWith chiffon bows on either side.”

“We have the latest thing of all

In husbands; kindly step this way.

We’re using them on hats this fall,

In place of plume or floral spray,

The creature being pinned or tied

With chiffon bows on either side.”

He leads the way, all wreathed in smiles,And wonderful in spotless spatsThat flitter like twin butterfliesAlong an avenue of hats,Each one displaying on its brimA husband—fashion’s latest whim.

He leads the way, all wreathed in smiles,

And wonderful in spotless spats

That flitter like twin butterflies

Along an avenue of hats,

Each one displaying on its brim

A husband—fashion’s latest whim.

Clorinda tries them each in turnBefore the glass; some are too small,And some too cold, and some too stern,And some are slightly soiled, and all,When punctured by the hat-pin’s steel,Betray by squirms how bored they feel.

Clorinda tries them each in turn

Before the glass; some are too small,

And some too cold, and some too stern,

And some are slightly soiled, and all,

When punctured by the hat-pin’s steel,

Betray by squirms how bored they feel.

At last Clorinda came to oneMarked “Dibbs,” that scarce seemed worthher while;But when she tried it on for fun,It met the hat-pin with a smile,As if to say, “Oh, beauteous miss,Even a stab from you is bliss!”

At last Clorinda came to one

Marked “Dibbs,” that scarce seemed worthher while;

But when she tried it on for fun,

It met the hat-pin with a smile,

As if to say, “Oh, beauteous miss,

Even a stab from you is bliss!”

“The very thing! but thrown awayUpon ahat!” Clorinda cried.“’Twould make a sweet corsage bouquet.”The shoppers stared electrified,To see Clorinda Dibbs departWearing a husband next her heart.

“The very thing! but thrown away

Upon ahat!” Clorinda cried.

“’Twould make a sweet corsage bouquet.”

The shoppers stared electrified,

To see Clorinda Dibbs depart

Wearing a husband next her heart.

Alcibiades J. SkinnerWas a famous after-dinnerSpeaker. Great the wayHe secured, just by excellingIn the art of Story Telling,One good meal a day.Chestnuts more than often passéHe exchanged for Marrons Glacés,Canvasback and Quail.Flat the feast and dull the dinnerLacking that accomplished SpinnerOf Postprandial Tale.Every mail brought invitations:Teas and luncheons and collations,Dinners without end.No one to a Formal FunctionSuch impressiveness, such unction,Suchéclatcould lend.At that gruesomest of gruesomeRites, The Banquet tendered to someLiterary Light,None could say with such conviction,“We have Snooks ofSnappy FictionIn our midst To-night.”How he said it made no matter;Shaft of Wit or Broadway PatterMeets with like acclaim.Latest Mot or Jest Historic,To the dinner guest plethoricIt is all the same.When he said, “This moment finds meUnprepared,” or, “That reminds me,”There would be a humOf expectance, or a ripplingAs though Daniel (or Kipling)Had to Judgment come.Alas for Fame! As A. J. SkinnerPut it at the Author’s Dinner,“Fame’s a fickle Jade!”Had he then an intimationThat his own wide reputationWas ere long to fade?From that day his after-dinnerStories thinner grew and thinner.Sorry was his case.Rare the dinner invitation,Rarer still the lunch—StarvationStared him in the face.One day as his eye was wanderingO’er a map, he fell to pondering:“If I cross the Main,Somewhere ’twixt the Poles and TropicsI may find some brand new TopicsFor my food campaign!”So one Friday A. J. SkinnerBought a passage and an “Inner”On a sailing ship;Not for sport or relaxation,Not for rest or recreation—’Twas a business trip.Fatal trip, had he but known it!Or a Fortune Teller shown itWritten on his palm!—How one morning bright and sunny,With a breeze as soft as honey,And a sea as calm—Somewhere in the South PacificThere would spring up a terrificTropical typhoon—Smite their helpless ship and bear itOn a mountain wave and tear itLike a Toy Balloon.Luckily for Mr. Skinner,When she sank he was not in her.Clinging to a Spar,Being, too, an expert swimmer,Soon he saw the breakers’ glimmerOn a sandy bar.Lucky, did I say? AppallingChoice of words! Would you when crawlingUp a Sandbank gritty,On firm land a foothold winning,Call it luck to meet a grinningCannibal Committee?Well, to make a long narrationShorter (by abbreviation),Soon as he was sightedAlcibiades J. SkinnerTo a most select Shore DinnerWas at once invited.Never had the South PacificWitnessed such a beatificBanquet as was here.Never was such mirth unboundedAs when that far beach resoundedWith unwonted cheer.Epicures on South Sea beachesWaste no time on Toasts and Speeches;Happy dreams had they.In their midst was A. J. Skinner,Most nutritious After-DinnerSpeaker of his day.

Alcibiades J. SkinnerWas a famous after-dinnerSpeaker. Great the wayHe secured, just by excellingIn the art of Story Telling,One good meal a day.

Alcibiades J. Skinner

Was a famous after-dinner

Speaker. Great the way

He secured, just by excelling

In the art of Story Telling,

One good meal a day.

Chestnuts more than often passéHe exchanged for Marrons Glacés,Canvasback and Quail.Flat the feast and dull the dinnerLacking that accomplished SpinnerOf Postprandial Tale.

Chestnuts more than often passé

He exchanged for Marrons Glacés,

Canvasback and Quail.

Flat the feast and dull the dinner

Lacking that accomplished Spinner

Of Postprandial Tale.

Every mail brought invitations:Teas and luncheons and collations,Dinners without end.No one to a Formal FunctionSuch impressiveness, such unction,Suchéclatcould lend.

Every mail brought invitations:

Teas and luncheons and collations,

Dinners without end.

No one to a Formal Function

Such impressiveness, such unction,

Suchéclatcould lend.

At that gruesomest of gruesomeRites, The Banquet tendered to someLiterary Light,None could say with such conviction,“We have Snooks ofSnappy FictionIn our midst To-night.”

At that gruesomest of gruesome

Rites, The Banquet tendered to some

Literary Light,

None could say with such conviction,

“We have Snooks ofSnappy Fiction

In our midst To-night.”

How he said it made no matter;Shaft of Wit or Broadway PatterMeets with like acclaim.Latest Mot or Jest Historic,To the dinner guest plethoricIt is all the same.

How he said it made no matter;

Shaft of Wit or Broadway Patter

Meets with like acclaim.

Latest Mot or Jest Historic,

To the dinner guest plethoric

It is all the same.

When he said, “This moment finds meUnprepared,” or, “That reminds me,”There would be a humOf expectance, or a ripplingAs though Daniel (or Kipling)Had to Judgment come.

When he said, “This moment finds me

Unprepared,” or, “That reminds me,”

There would be a hum

Of expectance, or a rippling

As though Daniel (or Kipling)

Had to Judgment come.

Alas for Fame! As A. J. SkinnerPut it at the Author’s Dinner,“Fame’s a fickle Jade!”Had he then an intimationThat his own wide reputationWas ere long to fade?

Alas for Fame! As A. J. Skinner

Put it at the Author’s Dinner,

“Fame’s a fickle Jade!”

Had he then an intimation

That his own wide reputation

Was ere long to fade?

From that day his after-dinnerStories thinner grew and thinner.Sorry was his case.Rare the dinner invitation,Rarer still the lunch—StarvationStared him in the face.

From that day his after-dinner

Stories thinner grew and thinner.

Sorry was his case.

Rare the dinner invitation,

Rarer still the lunch—Starvation

Stared him in the face.

One day as his eye was wanderingO’er a map, he fell to pondering:“If I cross the Main,Somewhere ’twixt the Poles and TropicsI may find some brand new TopicsFor my food campaign!”

One day as his eye was wandering

O’er a map, he fell to pondering:

“If I cross the Main,

Somewhere ’twixt the Poles and Tropics

I may find some brand new Topics

For my food campaign!”

So one Friday A. J. SkinnerBought a passage and an “Inner”On a sailing ship;Not for sport or relaxation,Not for rest or recreation—’Twas a business trip.

So one Friday A. J. Skinner

Bought a passage and an “Inner”

On a sailing ship;

Not for sport or relaxation,

Not for rest or recreation—

’Twas a business trip.

Fatal trip, had he but known it!Or a Fortune Teller shown itWritten on his palm!—How one morning bright and sunny,With a breeze as soft as honey,And a sea as calm—

Fatal trip, had he but known it!

Or a Fortune Teller shown it

Written on his palm!—

How one morning bright and sunny,

With a breeze as soft as honey,

And a sea as calm—

Somewhere in the South PacificThere would spring up a terrificTropical typhoon—Smite their helpless ship and bear itOn a mountain wave and tear itLike a Toy Balloon.

Somewhere in the South Pacific

There would spring up a terrific

Tropical typhoon—

Smite their helpless ship and bear it

On a mountain wave and tear it

Like a Toy Balloon.

Luckily for Mr. Skinner,When she sank he was not in her.Clinging to a Spar,Being, too, an expert swimmer,Soon he saw the breakers’ glimmerOn a sandy bar.

Luckily for Mr. Skinner,

When she sank he was not in her.

Clinging to a Spar,

Being, too, an expert swimmer,

Soon he saw the breakers’ glimmer

On a sandy bar.

Lucky, did I say? AppallingChoice of words! Would you when crawlingUp a Sandbank gritty,On firm land a foothold winning,Call it luck to meet a grinningCannibal Committee?

Lucky, did I say? Appalling

Choice of words! Would you when crawling

Up a Sandbank gritty,

On firm land a foothold winning,

Call it luck to meet a grinning

Cannibal Committee?

Well, to make a long narrationShorter (by abbreviation),Soon as he was sightedAlcibiades J. SkinnerTo a most select Shore DinnerWas at once invited.

Well, to make a long narration

Shorter (by abbreviation),

Soon as he was sighted

Alcibiades J. Skinner

To a most select Shore Dinner

Was at once invited.

Never had the South PacificWitnessed such a beatificBanquet as was here.Never was such mirth unboundedAs when that far beach resoundedWith unwonted cheer.

Never had the South Pacific

Witnessed such a beatific

Banquet as was here.

Never was such mirth unbounded

As when that far beach resounded

With unwonted cheer.

Epicures on South Sea beachesWaste no time on Toasts and Speeches;Happy dreams had they.In their midst was A. J. Skinner,Most nutritious After-DinnerSpeaker of his day.

Epicures on South Sea beaches

Waste no time on Toasts and Speeches;

Happy dreams had they.

In their midst was A. J. Skinner,

Most nutritious After-Dinner

Speaker of his day.

Apropos de Rien

It is not fair to visit allThe blame on Eve, for Adam’s fall;The most Eve did was to displayContributorynegligé.

It is not fair to visit all

The blame on Eve, for Adam’s fall;

The most Eve did was to display

Contributorynegligé.

Said Farmer Dole to his speckled hen,“Why don’t you lay for me now and then?”Said the speckled hen to Farmer Dole,“Because I’ve taken up birth control.”

Said Farmer Dole to his speckled hen,

“Why don’t you lay for me now and then?”

Said the speckled hen to Farmer Dole,

“Because I’ve taken up birth control.”

Grim Giant Graft sate in his cavern dim;A king’s reward was offered for him dead.He scowled to think it could not come to him,That price upon his head.Of all his foes he dreaded only one,A knight of stalwart heart and spotless fame,Who feared no creature underneath the sun—Sir Ippykin his name.One night to Ippykin there came a thought—A mocking thought, that whispered in his ear:“Ah, ha, Sir Knight! men say thou fearest naught;They lie—thou fearest Fear!“Fear smites you when you read the king’s decreeThat whatsoever knight shall rid the landOf Giant Graft will gain a golden fee,Likewise his daughter’s hand.“You fear to win, for fear that you must wedThe princess—for you love another maid;You dare not lose the fight because you dreadLest men call you afraid.”Cried Ippykin, “Lord, how shall I cut throughThis tangled coil?” Then of a sudden laughedA gleeful laugh, and rose and hied him toThe cave of Giant Graft.No chronicler was present to revealWhat passed between the knight and Giant Graft;Or what the bargain was the which to sealSo many horns they quaffed.But this is sure—thereafter from the landsOf Ippykin once every week would strayCertain fat sheep into the Giant’s handsIn some mysterious way;And once a week the giant and the knightWould chase each other round in seeming strife,Until the king grew weary of the sight,And pensioned both for life.Then Ippykin and his true love were wedAnd both lived happy till they passed away;But Giant Graft, fat, flagrant, and well fed,Is living to this day.

Grim Giant Graft sate in his cavern dim;A king’s reward was offered for him dead.He scowled to think it could not come to him,That price upon his head.

Grim Giant Graft sate in his cavern dim;

A king’s reward was offered for him dead.

He scowled to think it could not come to him,

That price upon his head.

Of all his foes he dreaded only one,A knight of stalwart heart and spotless fame,Who feared no creature underneath the sun—Sir Ippykin his name.

Of all his foes he dreaded only one,

A knight of stalwart heart and spotless fame,

Who feared no creature underneath the sun—

Sir Ippykin his name.

One night to Ippykin there came a thought—A mocking thought, that whispered in his ear:“Ah, ha, Sir Knight! men say thou fearest naught;They lie—thou fearest Fear!

One night to Ippykin there came a thought—

A mocking thought, that whispered in his ear:

“Ah, ha, Sir Knight! men say thou fearest naught;

They lie—thou fearest Fear!

“Fear smites you when you read the king’s decreeThat whatsoever knight shall rid the landOf Giant Graft will gain a golden fee,Likewise his daughter’s hand.

“Fear smites you when you read the king’s decree

That whatsoever knight shall rid the land

Of Giant Graft will gain a golden fee,

Likewise his daughter’s hand.

“You fear to win, for fear that you must wedThe princess—for you love another maid;You dare not lose the fight because you dreadLest men call you afraid.”

“You fear to win, for fear that you must wed

The princess—for you love another maid;

You dare not lose the fight because you dread

Lest men call you afraid.”

Cried Ippykin, “Lord, how shall I cut throughThis tangled coil?” Then of a sudden laughedA gleeful laugh, and rose and hied him toThe cave of Giant Graft.

Cried Ippykin, “Lord, how shall I cut through

This tangled coil?” Then of a sudden laughed

A gleeful laugh, and rose and hied him to

The cave of Giant Graft.

No chronicler was present to revealWhat passed between the knight and Giant Graft;Or what the bargain was the which to sealSo many horns they quaffed.

No chronicler was present to reveal

What passed between the knight and Giant Graft;

Or what the bargain was the which to seal

So many horns they quaffed.

But this is sure—thereafter from the landsOf Ippykin once every week would strayCertain fat sheep into the Giant’s handsIn some mysterious way;

But this is sure—thereafter from the lands

Of Ippykin once every week would stray

Certain fat sheep into the Giant’s hands

In some mysterious way;

And once a week the giant and the knightWould chase each other round in seeming strife,Until the king grew weary of the sight,And pensioned both for life.

And once a week the giant and the knight

Would chase each other round in seeming strife,

Until the king grew weary of the sight,

And pensioned both for life.

Then Ippykin and his true love were wedAnd both lived happy till they passed away;But Giant Graft, fat, flagrant, and well fed,Is living to this day.

Then Ippykin and his true love were wed

And both lived happy till they passed away;

But Giant Graft, fat, flagrant, and well fed,

Is living to this day.

The New York Police Force is to be instructed in psychology.—News Item.

One morn, as Robert Ristwatch RiceSpedChildsward for his midday meal,Upon his shoulder, like a vise,He felt a grip of steel.And in his ear a voice there hissed(With spirits fraught, and crime),And something snapped around his wristThat did not tell the time.“I’ve pinched yer now!” (devoid of tactWas Sergeant Fay). “For shame!Yer Hun! I caught yer in the actInsultin’ that there dame!“That skirt there in the showy lid,And muff of classy fur.”“My word!” cried Robert Rice, “I didNot even speak to her.”“What’s words to me, just froth and foam!I’m a psycholic guy—I lamp yer thoughts inside yer domeWith my subconscious eye!”“Then you should know,” said Rice, “I’m aMisogynist!”—“By Gee!That settles you!” cried Sergeant Fay;“You come along with me.”

One morn, as Robert Ristwatch RiceSpedChildsward for his midday meal,Upon his shoulder, like a vise,He felt a grip of steel.

One morn, as Robert Ristwatch Rice

SpedChildsward for his midday meal,

Upon his shoulder, like a vise,

He felt a grip of steel.

And in his ear a voice there hissed(With spirits fraught, and crime),And something snapped around his wristThat did not tell the time.

And in his ear a voice there hissed

(With spirits fraught, and crime),

And something snapped around his wrist

That did not tell the time.

“I’ve pinched yer now!” (devoid of tactWas Sergeant Fay). “For shame!Yer Hun! I caught yer in the actInsultin’ that there dame!

“I’ve pinched yer now!” (devoid of tact

Was Sergeant Fay). “For shame!

Yer Hun! I caught yer in the act

Insultin’ that there dame!

“That skirt there in the showy lid,And muff of classy fur.”“My word!” cried Robert Rice, “I didNot even speak to her.”

“That skirt there in the showy lid,

And muff of classy fur.”

“My word!” cried Robert Rice, “I did

Not even speak to her.”

“What’s words to me, just froth and foam!I’m a psycholic guy—I lamp yer thoughts inside yer domeWith my subconscious eye!”

“What’s words to me, just froth and foam!

I’m a psycholic guy—

I lamp yer thoughts inside yer dome

With my subconscious eye!”

“Then you should know,” said Rice, “I’m aMisogynist!”—“By Gee!That settles you!” cried Sergeant Fay;“You come along with me.”

“Then you should know,” said Rice, “I’m a

Misogynist!”—“By Gee!

That settles you!” cried Sergeant Fay;

“You come along with me.”

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d RillSat Phyllis Lee in Silken DressWhilst Lucius limn’d with loving skillHer likeness, as a Shepherdess.Yet tho’ he strove with loving skillHis Brush refused to work his Will.“Dear Maid, unless you close your EyesI can not paint to-day,” he said;“Their Brightness shames the very SkiesAnd turns their Turquoise into Lead.”Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the SkiesAnd speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,Not dreaming of such Treachery,Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,“Without the Light, how can one See?”“If you aresurethat none can seeI’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill

Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress

Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill

Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.

Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill

His Brush refused to work his Will.

“Dear Maid, unless you close your EyesI can not paint to-day,” he said;“Their Brightness shames the very SkiesAnd turns their Turquoise into Lead.”Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the SkiesAnd speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes

I can not paint to-day,” he said;

“Their Brightness shames the very Skies

And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”

Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies

And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,Not dreaming of such Treachery,Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,“Without the Light, how can one See?”“If you aresurethat none can seeI’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,

Not dreaming of such Treachery,

Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,

“Without the Light, how can one See?”

“If you aresurethat none can see

I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

It was Mrs. Seymour Fentolin who stood there, a little dog under each arm; a large hat, gay with flowers, upon her head. She wore patent shoes with high heels, and white silk stockings. She had, indeed, the air of being dressed for luncheon at a fashionable restaurant.From a story inThe Popular Magazine.

The lauded lilies of the fieldWho toil not—neither do they spin,The palm sartorial must yieldTo Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs!Not even Solomon could winThe championship for showy togsFrom Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.The two extremes indécolleté,Of ballroom and of bathing beach,Here meet in a bewildering wayAnd mingle all the charms of each.I am no social butter-in,I do not crave to meet her bunch,But where does Mrs. Fentolin,If one might venture—take her lunch?And might one ask that peerless dame,Without appearing impolite,IsSeymourreally her first name,And has the printer spelt it right?

The lauded lilies of the fieldWho toil not—neither do they spin,The palm sartorial must yieldTo Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

The lauded lilies of the field

Who toil not—neither do they spin,

The palm sartorial must yield

To Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs!Not even Solomon could winThe championship for showy togsFrom Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs!

Not even Solomon could win

The championship for showy togs

From Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

The two extremes indécolleté,Of ballroom and of bathing beach,Here meet in a bewildering wayAnd mingle all the charms of each.

The two extremes indécolleté,

Of ballroom and of bathing beach,

Here meet in a bewildering way

And mingle all the charms of each.

I am no social butter-in,I do not crave to meet her bunch,But where does Mrs. Fentolin,If one might venture—take her lunch?

I am no social butter-in,

I do not crave to meet her bunch,

But where does Mrs. Fentolin,

If one might venture—take her lunch?

And might one ask that peerless dame,Without appearing impolite,IsSeymourreally her first name,And has the printer spelt it right?

And might one ask that peerless dame,

Without appearing impolite,

IsSeymourreally her first name,

And has the printer spelt it right?

IThe Devil seeking some new wayTo kill eternity, one day(So bored he was, in Hades)Flew to Manhattan Isle to startA Summer School to teach the artOf Smuggling to Ladies.IIHe opened in an uptown streetA Modiste’s shop refined and neat(The number doesn’t matter),Displaying in his window allThe Modes—Spring, Summer, Winter,Fall(Especially the latter).IIIThe Ladies came in eager flocks,And as he showed his Paris frocks,With dext’rous verbal juggling,He lightly led the talk from ModesTo Customs—and the law that goadsAn honest girl to smuggling.IV“If Uncle Sam for Revenue,Dear Ladies, picks your pockets, youThe compliment should bandy.Pray let me teach you how to pickThe spangled pockets of that slickAvuncular old Dandy.

IThe Devil seeking some new wayTo kill eternity, one day(So bored he was, in Hades)Flew to Manhattan Isle to startA Summer School to teach the artOf Smuggling to Ladies.

The Devil seeking some new way

To kill eternity, one day

(So bored he was, in Hades)

Flew to Manhattan Isle to start

A Summer School to teach the art

Of Smuggling to Ladies.

IIHe opened in an uptown streetA Modiste’s shop refined and neat(The number doesn’t matter),Displaying in his window allThe Modes—Spring, Summer, Winter,Fall(Especially the latter).

He opened in an uptown street

A Modiste’s shop refined and neat

(The number doesn’t matter),

Displaying in his window all

The Modes—Spring, Summer, Winter,Fall

(Especially the latter).

IIIThe Ladies came in eager flocks,And as he showed his Paris frocks,With dext’rous verbal juggling,He lightly led the talk from ModesTo Customs—and the law that goadsAn honest girl to smuggling.

III

The Ladies came in eager flocks,

And as he showed his Paris frocks,

With dext’rous verbal juggling,

He lightly led the talk from Modes

To Customs—and the law that goads

An honest girl to smuggling.

IV“If Uncle Sam for Revenue,Dear Ladies, picks your pockets, youThe compliment should bandy.Pray let me teach you how to pickThe spangled pockets of that slickAvuncular old Dandy.

“If Uncle Sam for Revenue,

Dear Ladies, picks your pockets, you

The compliment should bandy.

Pray let me teach you how to pick

The spangled pockets of that slick

Avuncular old Dandy.

V“We can begin at once, if youWill step this way.” The giddy crewFlocked after him like chickensTo where an effigy there hungOf Uncle Sam with bells be-strungLike Fagin’s doll in Dickens.VIThe Devil then with money fillsThe dummy’s pockets—gold and billsAnd silver pieces mingling.“Now try your skill! all you can takeIs yours, my dears, if you don’t shakeThe bells and set them jingling.”

“We can begin at once, if youWill step this way.” The giddy crewFlocked after him like chickensTo where an effigy there hungOf Uncle Sam with bells be-strungLike Fagin’s doll in Dickens.

“We can begin at once, if you

Will step this way.” The giddy crew

Flocked after him like chickens

To where an effigy there hung

Of Uncle Sam with bells be-strung

Like Fagin’s doll in Dickens.

VIThe Devil then with money fillsThe dummy’s pockets—gold and billsAnd silver pieces mingling.“Now try your skill! all you can takeIs yours, my dears, if you don’t shakeThe bells and set them jingling.”

The Devil then with money fills

The dummy’s pockets—gold and bills

And silver pieces mingling.

“Now try your skill! all you can take

Is yours, my dears, if you don’t shake

The bells and set them jingling.”

VIIThe news flew round, and soon the crushWas like a bargain-counter rushOf Frantic Ladies struggling;And soon the Devil was aboutA hundred thousand dollars outAnd closed his School of Smuggling.VIIIExclaiming, “I’m behind the age!”He kicked the dummy in his rage.“What’s this—the bells don’t jingle!”And sure enough the bells were dumb.Deftly inserted chewing gumHad stopped their tingle-tingle.IX“Ho! ho!” he laughed, “’tis plain to seeNew York is too advanced for me.I should have stayed in Hades;For who the devil, pray, am IIn this enlightened age to tryMy wit against the Ladies!”

VIIThe news flew round, and soon the crushWas like a bargain-counter rushOf Frantic Ladies struggling;And soon the Devil was aboutA hundred thousand dollars outAnd closed his School of Smuggling.

VII

The news flew round, and soon the crush

Was like a bargain-counter rush

Of Frantic Ladies struggling;

And soon the Devil was about

A hundred thousand dollars out

And closed his School of Smuggling.

VIIIExclaiming, “I’m behind the age!”He kicked the dummy in his rage.“What’s this—the bells don’t jingle!”And sure enough the bells were dumb.Deftly inserted chewing gumHad stopped their tingle-tingle.

VIII

Exclaiming, “I’m behind the age!”

He kicked the dummy in his rage.

“What’s this—the bells don’t jingle!”

And sure enough the bells were dumb.

Deftly inserted chewing gum

Had stopped their tingle-tingle.

IX“Ho! ho!” he laughed, “’tis plain to seeNew York is too advanced for me.I should have stayed in Hades;For who the devil, pray, am IIn this enlightened age to tryMy wit against the Ladies!”

“Ho! ho!” he laughed, “’tis plain to see

New York is too advanced for me.

I should have stayed in Hades;

For who the devil, pray, am I

In this enlightened age to try

My wit against the Ladies!”

By his cold hearth, sans Youth, sans Mirth,Sits poor old shivering Daddy Earth.

By his cold hearth, sans Youth, sans Mirth,

Sits poor old shivering Daddy Earth.

A knock, a footstep on the floor.“Come in!” he growls—“andshut that door!”Two soft hands on his eyelids press;A laughing voice: “Who am I?—guess!”“’Tis Mistress Spring! Alas, my dear,You find me sadly changed, I fear.”

A knock, a footstep on the floor.“Come in!” he growls—“andshut that door!”

A knock, a footstep on the floor.

“Come in!” he growls—“andshut that door!”

Two soft hands on his eyelids press;A laughing voice: “Who am I?—guess!”

Two soft hands on his eyelids press;

A laughing voice: “Who am I?—guess!”

“’Tis Mistress Spring! Alas, my dear,You find me sadly changed, I fear.”

“’Tis Mistress Spring! Alas, my dear,

You find me sadly changed, I fear.”

“Cheer up!” cried Spring, “I bring for youThe Spell of Youth: Gold—Silver—Blue.”Sun gold, sky turquoise, silver rain,And Daddy Earth was young again!He danced, he sang: “Hail Spring divine!Ethereal Spring—h’m—wine?—pine—shine?”Too late the rhyme popped in his head;“Bemine!” he sang—but Spring had fled.

“Cheer up!” cried Spring, “I bring for youThe Spell of Youth: Gold—Silver—Blue.”

“Cheer up!” cried Spring, “I bring for you

The Spell of Youth: Gold—Silver—Blue.”

Sun gold, sky turquoise, silver rain,And Daddy Earth was young again!

Sun gold, sky turquoise, silver rain,

And Daddy Earth was young again!

He danced, he sang: “Hail Spring divine!Ethereal Spring—h’m—wine?—pine—shine?”

He danced, he sang: “Hail Spring divine!

Ethereal Spring—h’m—wine?—pine—shine?”

Too late the rhyme popped in his head;“Bemine!” he sang—but Spring had fled.

Too late the rhyme popped in his head;

“Bemine!” he sang—but Spring had fled.

The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean,The Catfish I bewail.I can not even think without emotionOf his distressful tail.When with my pencil once I tried to draw one,(I dare not show it here)Mayhap it is because I never saw one,The picture looked so queer.I vision him half feline and half fishy,A paradox in twins,Unmixable as vitriol and vichy—A thing of fur and fins.A feline Tantalus, forever chasingHis fishy self to rend;His finny self forever self-effacingIn circles without end.This tale may have a Moral running through itAs Æsop had in his;If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it,If you know what it is!

The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean,

The Catfish I bewail.

I can not even think without emotion

Of his distressful tail.

When with my pencil once I tried to draw one,

(I dare not show it here)

Mayhap it is because I never saw one,

The picture looked so queer.

I vision him half feline and half fishy,

A paradox in twins,

Unmixable as vitriol and vichy—

A thing of fur and fins.

A feline Tantalus, forever chasing

His fishy self to rend;

His finny self forever self-effacing

In circles without end.

This tale may have a Moral running through it

As Æsop had in his;

If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it,

If you know what it is!

Once to a Centipede a SnailRemarked, “I wonder why you trailAlong the ground with such a lotof feet—a hundred, is it not?A hundred feet! when two or threeAre all you need. Just look at me!

Once to a Centipede a Snail

Remarked, “I wonder why you trail

Along the ground with such a lot

of feet—a hundred, is it not?

A hundred feet! when two or three

Are all you need. Just look at me!

“The speed and ease with which I crawl,And yet I have no feet at all!In these days would it not be wiseFor you to—well, toHooferize?You surely don’t need more than twoTo get along! If I were you,I’d use one pair and stand up straight,And save the other ninety-eightAgainst a rainy day.”“IndeedYou’re right!” replied the Centipede.“I’ve often thought, to do my part,’Twould be advisable to startA Feetless Day—but then, you see,If I stood upright I should beA hundred feet in height, and IMight bump my head against the sky!”“Well,” said the Snail, “I must admitThat puts a different face on it!Your life depends on lying flat!Dear! Dear! I hadn’t thought of that!”

“The speed and ease with which I crawl,

And yet I have no feet at all!

In these days would it not be wise

For you to—well, toHooferize?

You surely don’t need more than two

To get along! If I were you,

I’d use one pair and stand up straight,

And save the other ninety-eight

Against a rainy day.”

“Indeed

You’re right!” replied the Centipede.

“I’ve often thought, to do my part,

’Twould be advisable to start

A Feetless Day—but then, you see,

If I stood upright I should be

A hundred feet in height, and I

Might bump my head against the sky!”

“Well,” said the Snail, “I must admit

That puts a different face on it!

Your life depends on lying flat!

Dear! Dear! I hadn’t thought of that!”

Plain Black socks can never be wrong.—The Gentleman of Lettersin “Vanity Fair.”

Lords of Fashion may disagreeOn the question of questions, what to wearAtdéjeuner, dinner, dance or tea,“Feed informal” or “Smart affair.”Let not the neophyte despairDreading disdain of the gilded throngHark to the dictum of Vanity Fair“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”Let scribes sartorial decreeWhether the “skirt” shall be full or spare,Whether the crease be above the knee,Whether the seam shall be here or there.Of the openwork sock with the clock beware!On Fancy’s rein let your curb be strong!Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”Doubting dolts may be all at seaTossed on tempestuous waves of care.Are they wearing two studs?—or one?—or three?Will a satin tie cause a well bred stare?Leave dressy deeds to dudes that dare!Heed not the scented siren’s songHark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”L’envoiPrinces of Fashion, wherever ye fare—London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong,Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair:“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Lords of Fashion may disagree

On the question of questions, what to wear

Atdéjeuner, dinner, dance or tea,

“Feed informal” or “Smart affair.”

Let not the neophyte despair

Dreading disdain of the gilded throng

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Let scribes sartorial decreeWhether the “skirt” shall be full or spare,Whether the crease be above the knee,Whether the seam shall be here or there.Of the openwork sock with the clock beware!On Fancy’s rein let your curb be strong!Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Let scribes sartorial decree

Whether the “skirt” shall be full or spare,

Whether the crease be above the knee,

Whether the seam shall be here or there.

Of the openwork sock with the clock beware!

On Fancy’s rein let your curb be strong!

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Doubting dolts may be all at seaTossed on tempestuous waves of care.Are they wearing two studs?—or one?—or three?Will a satin tie cause a well bred stare?Leave dressy deeds to dudes that dare!Heed not the scented siren’s songHark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Doubting dolts may be all at sea

Tossed on tempestuous waves of care.

Are they wearing two studs?—or one?—or three?

Will a satin tie cause a well bred stare?

Leave dressy deeds to dudes that dare!

Heed not the scented siren’s song

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

L’envoiPrinces of Fashion, wherever ye fare—London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong,Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair:“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

L’envoi

Princes of Fashion, wherever ye fare—

London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong,

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair:

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

OTHER PEOPLE INCLUDINGMARK TWAIN

Horace

How splendid to have men’s attire treated by a gentleman and litterateur.—John Armstrong Chaloner.

Ah me! Had Horace when his muse was flagging,But given laughing Lalage a rest,And kept Mæcenas’ pantaloons from bagging,(Whatever ’twas he wore below his vest.)

Ah me! Had Horace when his muse was flagging,

But given laughing Lalage a rest,

And kept Mæcenas’ pantaloons from bagging,

(Whatever ’twas he wore below his vest.)

Moore

If when his frisky Pegasus he mounted,He’d sung, instead of the eternalHERThe stylishHIM, he might have been accountedA gentleman as well as litterateur.If Shakespeare had abstained from malty liquors,And spent the time (when not purloining plays)In pressing Francis Bacon’s velvet knickersHe might thereby have gained a social raise.If Tommy Moore when not devoutly pressingHis suit in amorous rhyme, had pressed insteadHis patrons lordly “pants,” it is past guessingWhat titles had been showered on his head.Had Bobby Burns renounced his Highland lassies,And tuned his pipes to “Gentlemen’s attire,”He might in time have risen from the massesAnd been addressed as Robert Burns, Esquire.If Hall Caine—........................................................................................................................................................but why drag in Hall Caine?Come, Chaloner, confess like a good fellerBy “Gentleman and litterateur” you meantThe literary style of the Best SellerAnd the strictly pure refinement of the Gent.

If when his frisky Pegasus he mounted,He’d sung, instead of the eternalHERThe stylishHIM, he might have been accountedA gentleman as well as litterateur.

If when his frisky Pegasus he mounted,

He’d sung, instead of the eternalHER

The stylishHIM, he might have been accounted

A gentleman as well as litterateur.

If Shakespeare had abstained from malty liquors,And spent the time (when not purloining plays)In pressing Francis Bacon’s velvet knickersHe might thereby have gained a social raise.

If Shakespeare had abstained from malty liquors,

And spent the time (when not purloining plays)

In pressing Francis Bacon’s velvet knickers

He might thereby have gained a social raise.

If Tommy Moore when not devoutly pressingHis suit in amorous rhyme, had pressed insteadHis patrons lordly “pants,” it is past guessingWhat titles had been showered on his head.

If Tommy Moore when not devoutly pressing

His suit in amorous rhyme, had pressed instead

His patrons lordly “pants,” it is past guessing

What titles had been showered on his head.

Had Bobby Burns renounced his Highland lassies,And tuned his pipes to “Gentlemen’s attire,”He might in time have risen from the massesAnd been addressed as Robert Burns, Esquire.

Had Bobby Burns renounced his Highland lassies,

And tuned his pipes to “Gentlemen’s attire,”

He might in time have risen from the masses

And been addressed as Robert Burns, Esquire.

If Hall Caine—........................................................................................................................................................but why drag in Hall Caine?

If Hall Caine—............................

.....................................................

..................but why drag in Hall Caine?

Come, Chaloner, confess like a good fellerBy “Gentleman and litterateur” you meantThe literary style of the Best SellerAnd the strictly pure refinement of the Gent.

Come, Chaloner, confess like a good feller

By “Gentleman and litterateur” you meant

The literary style of the Best Seller

And the strictly pure refinement of the Gent.

“The artists and writers were the first Americans to make themselves at home in this amusing Parisian resort. (The Old Café Martin.) And it was here, too, that women of the better class first tasted the delights of café life. It was considered quite a daring thing in the late eighties for be-cloaked and be-diamonded women of Fifth Avenue to sit here and sip their after-dinner coffee.”

Vanity Fair.

One of those queer, artistic dives,Where funny people had their fling.Artists, and writers, and their wives—Poets, and all that sort of thing.Here, too, to view the vulgar herdAnd sip the daring demi-tasse—Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-furred—Came women of the better class.With its Parisian atmosphere,It had a Latin Quarter ring.Painters and journalists came here—Actors, and all that sort of thing.Here, too, to watch the Great UngroomedAnd sip the dangerous demi-tasse,Be-furred, be-feathered and be-plumed,Came women of the better class.Here Howells dined—Saint Gaudens, Nast,Kipling, Mark Twain and Peter Dunne,Nell Terry, and not least though lastOne Robert Louis Stevenson.And mingling with that underworld,To sip the devilish demi-tasse,Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-pearled,Came women of the better class.Like geese to see the lions fed,They came—be-jewelled and be-laced,Only to find the lions fled.“My Word!” cried they, “What wretched taste!”Ermined and minked and Persian-lambed,Be-puffed (be-painted, too, alas!)Be-decked, be-diamonded—be-damned!The women of the better class.

One of those queer, artistic dives,

Where funny people had their fling.

Artists, and writers, and their wives—

Poets, and all that sort of thing.

Here, too, to view the vulgar herd

And sip the daring demi-tasse—

Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-furred—

Came women of the better class.

With its Parisian atmosphere,It had a Latin Quarter ring.Painters and journalists came here—Actors, and all that sort of thing.Here, too, to watch the Great UngroomedAnd sip the dangerous demi-tasse,Be-furred, be-feathered and be-plumed,Came women of the better class.

With its Parisian atmosphere,

It had a Latin Quarter ring.

Painters and journalists came here—

Actors, and all that sort of thing.

Here, too, to watch the Great Ungroomed

And sip the dangerous demi-tasse,

Be-furred, be-feathered and be-plumed,

Came women of the better class.

Here Howells dined—Saint Gaudens, Nast,Kipling, Mark Twain and Peter Dunne,Nell Terry, and not least though lastOne Robert Louis Stevenson.And mingling with that underworld,To sip the devilish demi-tasse,Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-pearled,Came women of the better class.

Here Howells dined—Saint Gaudens, Nast,

Kipling, Mark Twain and Peter Dunne,

Nell Terry, and not least though last

One Robert Louis Stevenson.

And mingling with that underworld,

To sip the devilish demi-tasse,

Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-pearled,

Came women of the better class.

Like geese to see the lions fed,They came—be-jewelled and be-laced,Only to find the lions fled.“My Word!” cried they, “What wretched taste!”Ermined and minked and Persian-lambed,Be-puffed (be-painted, too, alas!)Be-decked, be-diamonded—be-damned!The women of the better class.

Like geese to see the lions fed,

They came—be-jewelled and be-laced,

Only to find the lions fled.

“My Word!” cried they, “What wretched taste!”

Ermined and minked and Persian-lambed,

Be-puffed (be-painted, too, alas!)

Be-decked, be-diamonded—be-damned!

The women of the better class.

A Pipe Dream

Well I recall how first I metMark Twain—an infant barely threeRolling a tiny cigaretteWhile cooing on his nurse’s knee.

Well I recall how first I met

Mark Twain—an infant barely three

Rolling a tiny cigarette

While cooing on his nurse’s knee.

Since then in every sort of placeI’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,Yet how can I describe his face?I never saw it for the smoke.

Since then in every sort of place

I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,

Yet how can I describe his face?

I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won asmokership,At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)His name was soon on every lip,They made him “smoker” of his class.Who will forget his smoking boutWith Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—When Mount Vesuvius went outAnd didn’t smoke again for years?The news was flashed to England’s King,Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,Offered him dukedoms—anythingTo smoke the London fog away.But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,“To no imperial command,No ducal coronet for me,My smoke is for my native land!”

At school he won asmokership,At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)His name was soon on every lip,They made him “smoker” of his class.

At school he won asmokership,

At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)

His name was soon on every lip,

They made him “smoker” of his class.

Who will forget his smoking boutWith Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—When Mount Vesuvius went outAnd didn’t smoke again for years?

Who will forget his smoking bout

With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—

When Mount Vesuvius went out

And didn’t smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England’s King,Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,Offered him dukedoms—anythingTo smoke the London fog away.

The news was flashed to England’s King,

Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,

Offered him dukedoms—anything

To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,“To no imperial command,No ducal coronet for me,My smoke is for my native land!”

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,

“To no imperial command,

No ducal coronet for me,

My smoke is for my native land!”

For Mark there waits a brighter crown!When Peter comes his card to read—He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

For Mark there waits a brighter crown!

When Peter comes his card to read—

He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,

Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

Beneath a Fruitful Apple TreeSate Pompom, youth of high degree,And Prince of Apple-Tartary;While in the branches overheadThe apples blushed with rapture red,As from a great book on his kneesHe read of the Hesperides,And how, to win the apples gold,One Hercules, a Hero bold,A hundred-headed Dragon shew.“How brave! How wonderful! How true!”Exclaimed the apples, flushed and red.“That proves what we have always said:We come of Ancient Pedigree!We’re of the Applestocracy!Our title cannot be denied.”Whereat they swelled and swelled with PrideUntil their High and Mighty AirWas more than Apple Tree could bear.“Come!” cried the Tree, “you must vacateMy boughs—they will not bear your weight!”Pride goes before a fall.Alas!Next morning, prone upon the grass,Blushing for shame, the Apples lay,And when Queen Pompom passed that wayShe picked them up, and by and byShe made them into Apple Pie.

Beneath a Fruitful Apple Tree

Sate Pompom, youth of high degree,

And Prince of Apple-Tartary;

While in the branches overhead

The apples blushed with rapture red,

As from a great book on his knees

He read of the Hesperides,

And how, to win the apples gold,

One Hercules, a Hero bold,

A hundred-headed Dragon shew.

“How brave! How wonderful! How true!”

Exclaimed the apples, flushed and red.

“That proves what we have always said:

We come of Ancient Pedigree!

We’re of the Applestocracy!

Our title cannot be denied.”

Whereat they swelled and swelled with Pride

Until their High and Mighty Air

Was more than Apple Tree could bear.

“Come!” cried the Tree, “you must vacate

My boughs—they will not bear your weight!”

Pride goes before a fall.

Alas!

Next morning, prone upon the grass,

Blushing for shame, the Apples lay,

And when Queen Pompom passed that way

She picked them up, and by and by

She made them into Apple Pie.

To the Tune of Tennyson

I burst upon the reader’s eyeWith verbal trumpet blaring,Proclaiming me the latest cryIn fictionary daring—Vital, compelling, hectic, rare,Heart-gripping, epoch-making!A woman’s naked soul laid bare,A climax record-breaking!A quivering, pulsating plot,The mystery of a red room,A story to be read red hotIn boudoir, or bedroom,An Eve, repentant, up to date,Confesses what her fall meant;You simply won’t know how to waitUntil the next installment.

I burst upon the reader’s eye

With verbal trumpet blaring,

Proclaiming me the latest cry

In fictionary daring—

Vital, compelling, hectic, rare,

Heart-gripping, epoch-making!

A woman’s naked soul laid bare,

A climax record-breaking!

A quivering, pulsating plot,

The mystery of a red room,

A story to be read red hot

In boudoir, or bedroom,

An Eve, repentant, up to date,

Confesses what her fall meant;

You simply won’t know how to wait

Until the next installment.

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