THE ADVERTISER

Its innocence deserves no jibe—Pity the creature, do not mock it.'Tis type of all the artist tribe;Its trousers haven't any pocket!

I am an advertiser great!In letters boldThe praises of my wares I sound,Prosperity is my estate;The people come,The people goIn one continuous,Surging flow.They buy my goods and come againAnd I'm the happiest of men;And this the reason I relate,I'm an advertiser great!There is a shop across the wayWhere ne'er is heard a human tread,Where trade is paralyzed and dead,With ne'er a customer a day.The people come,The people go,But never there.They do not knowThere's such a shop beneath the skies,Becausehedoes not advertise!While I with pleasure contemplateThat I'm an advertiser great.The secret of my fortune liesIn one small fact, which I may state,Too many tradesmen learn too late,If I have goods, I advertise.Then people comeAnd people goIn constant streams,For people knowThat he who has good wares to sellWill surely advertise them well;And proudly I reiterate,I am an advertiser great!

There is a shop across the wayWhere ne'er is heard a human tread,Where trade is paralyzed and dead,With ne'er a customer a day.The people come,The people go,But never there.They do not knowThere's such a shop beneath the skies,Becausehedoes not advertise!While I with pleasure contemplateThat I'm an advertiser great.

The secret of my fortune liesIn one small fact, which I may state,Too many tradesmen learn too late,If I have goods, I advertise.Then people comeAnd people goIn constant streams,For people knowThat he who has good wares to sellWill surely advertise them well;And proudly I reiterate,I am an advertiser great!

Did ever you hear of the Mulligan ball—the Mulligan ball so fine,Where we formed in ranks, and danced on planks, and swung 'em along the line?Where the first Four Hundred of the town moved at the music's call?There was never a ball in the world at all—like the famous Mulligan ball!Town was a bit of a village then, and never a house or shedFrom street to street and beat to beat was higher than Mulligan's head!And never a theater troup came round to 'liven us, spring or fall,And so Mulligan's wife she says, says she: "Plaze God, I'll give a ball!"And she did—God rest her, and save her, too! (I'm liftin' to her my hat!)And never a ball at all, at all, was half as fine as that!Never no invitations sent—nothin' like that at all;But the whole Four Hundred combed their hair and went to the Mulligan ball.And "Take yer places!" says Mulligan, "an' dance till you shake the wall!"And I led Mrs. Mulligan off as the lady that gave the ball;And we whirled around till we shook the ground, with never a stop at all;And I kicked the heels from my boots—please God—at the famous Mulligan ball.Mulligan jumped till he hit the roof, and the head of him went clean through it!The shingles fell on the floor pell-mell! Says Mulligan: "Faith, I knew it!"But we kept right on when the roof was gone, with never a break at all;We danced away till the break o' day at the famous Mulligan ball.But the best of things must pass away like the flowers that fade and fall,And it's fifty years, as the records say, since we danced at Mulligan's ball;And the new Four Hundred never dance like the Mulligans danced—at all,And I'm longing still, though my hair is gray, for a ball like Mulligan's ball!And I drift in dreams to the old-time town, and I hear the fiddle sing;And Mulligan sashays up and down till the rafters rock and ring!Suppose, if I had a woman's eye, maybe a tear would fallFor the old-time fellows who took the prize at the famous Mulligan ball!

Town was a bit of a village then, and never a house or shedFrom street to street and beat to beat was higher than Mulligan's head!And never a theater troup came round to 'liven us, spring or fall,And so Mulligan's wife she says, says she: "Plaze God, I'll give a ball!"

And she did—God rest her, and save her, too! (I'm liftin' to her my hat!)And never a ball at all, at all, was half as fine as that!Never no invitations sent—nothin' like that at all;But the whole Four Hundred combed their hair and went to the Mulligan ball.

And "Take yer places!" says Mulligan, "an' dance till you shake the wall!"And I led Mrs. Mulligan off as the lady that gave the ball;And we whirled around till we shook the ground, with never a stop at all;And I kicked the heels from my boots—please God—at the famous Mulligan ball.

Mulligan jumped till he hit the roof, and the head of him went clean through it!The shingles fell on the floor pell-mell! Says Mulligan: "Faith, I knew it!"But we kept right on when the roof was gone, with never a break at all;We danced away till the break o' day at the famous Mulligan ball.

But the best of things must pass away like the flowers that fade and fall,And it's fifty years, as the records say, since we danced at Mulligan's ball;And the new Four Hundred never dance like the Mulligans danced—at all,And I'm longing still, though my hair is gray, for a ball like Mulligan's ball!

And I drift in dreams to the old-time town, and I hear the fiddle sing;And Mulligan sashays up and down till the rafters rock and ring!Suppose, if I had a woman's eye, maybe a tear would fallFor the old-time fellows who took the prize at the famous Mulligan ball!

"Good morning, Doctor," said the Idiot as Capsule, M.D., entered the dining-room. "I am mighty glad you've come. I've wanted for a long time to ask you about this music cure that everybody is talking about and get you if possible to write me out a list of musical nostrums for every day use. I noticed last night before going to bed that my medicine chest was about run out. There's nothing but one quinine pill and a soda-mint drop in it, and if there's anything in the music cure I don't think I'll have it filled again. I prefer Wagner to squills, and compared to the delights of Mozart, Hayden and Offenbach those of paregoric are nit."

"Still rambling, eh?" vouchsafed the Doctor. "You ought to submit your tongue to some scientific student of dynamics. I am inclined to think, from my own observation of its ways, that it contains the germ of perpetual motion."

"I will consider your suggestion," replied the Idiot. "Meanwhile, let us consult harmoniously together on the original point. Is there anything in this music cure, and is it true that our Medical Schools are hereafter to have conservatories attached to them in which aspiring young M.D.'s are to be taught themateria musicain addition to themateria medica?"

"I had heard of no such idiotic proposition," returnedthe Doctor. "And as for the music cure I don't know anything about it. Haven't heard everybody talking about it, and doubt the existence of any such thing outside of that mysterious realm which is bounded by the four corners of your own bright particular cerebellum. What do you mean by the music cure?"

"Why, the papers have been full of it lately," explained the Idiot. "The claim is made that in music lies the panacea for all human ills. It may not be able to perform a surgical operation like that which is required for the removal of a leg, and I don't believe even Wagner ever composed a measure that could be counted on successfully to eliminate one's vermiform appendix from its chief sphere of usefulness, but for other things, like measles, mumps, the snuffles, or indigestion, it is said to be wonderfully efficacious; What I wanted to find out from you was just what composers were best for which specific troubles."

"You'll have to go to somebody else for the information," said the Doctor. "I never heard of the theory and, as I said before, I don't believe anybody else has, barring your own sweet self."

"I have seen a reference to it somewhere," put in Mr. Whitechoker, coming to the Idiot's rescue. "As I recall the matter, some lady had been cured of a nervous affection by a scientific application of some musical poultice or other, and the general expectation seems to be that some day we shall find in music a cure for all our human ills, as the Idiot suggests."

"Thank you, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot gratefully. "I saw that same item and several others besides, and I have only told the truth when I say that a large number of people are considering the possibilities of music as a substitute for drugs. I am surprised that DoctorCapsule has neither heard nor thought about it, for I should think it would prove to be a pleasant and profitable field for speculation. Even I who am only a dabbler in medicine, and know no more about it than the effects of certain remedies upon my own symptoms, have noticed that music of a certain sort is a sure emollient for nervous conditions."

"For example?" said the Doctor. "Of course we don't doubt your word, but when a man makes a statement based upon personal observation it is profitable to ask him what his precise experience has been merely for the purpose of adding to our own knowledge."

"Well," said the Idiot, "the first instance that I can recall is that of a Wagner Opera and its effects upon me. For a number of years I suffered a great deal from insomnia. I could not get two hours of consecutive sleep and the effect of my sufferings was to make me nervous and irritable. Suddenly somebody presented me with a couple of tickets for a performance of Parsifal and I went. It began at five o'clock in the afternoon. For twenty minutes all went serenely and then the music began to work. I fell into a deep and refreshing slumber. The intermission came, and still I slept on. Everybody else went home, dressed for the evening part of the performance, had their dinner, and returned. Still I slept and continued so to do until midnight when one of the gentlemanly ushers came and waked me up and told me that the performance was over. I rubbed my eyes and looked about me. It was true, the great auditorium was empty, and was gradually darkening. I put on my hat and walked out refreshed, having slept from five twenty until twelve, or six hours and forty minutes, straight. That was one instance. Two weeks later I went again, this time to hearDie Goetherdammerung. The results were the same, only the effect was instantaneous. The curtain had hardly risen before I retired to the little ante-room of the box our party occupied and dozed off into a fathomless sleep. I didn't wake up this time until nine o'clock the next day, the rest of the party having gone off without awakening me, as a sort of joke. Clearly Wagner, according to my way of thinking, then deserves to rank among the most effective narcotics known to modern science. I have tried all sorts of other things—sulfonal, trionel, bromide powders, and all the rest and not one of them produced anything like the soporific results that two doses of Wagner brought about in one instant, and best of all there was no reaction. No splitting headache or shaky hand the next day, but just the calm, quiet, contented feeling that goes with the sense of having got completely rested up."

"You run a dreadful risk, however," said the Doctor, with a sarcastic smile. "The Wagner habit is a terrible thing to acquire, Mr. Idiot."

"That may be," said the Idiot. "Worse than the sulfonal habit by a great deal I am told, but I am in no danger of becoming a victim to it while it costs from five to seven dollars a dose. In addition to this experience I have also the testimony of a friend of mine who was cured of a frightful attack of the colic by Sullivan's Lost Chord played on a Cornet. He had spent the day down at Asbury Park and had eaten not wisely but too copiously. Among other things that he turned loose in his inner man were two plates of Lobster Salade, a glass of fresh cider and a saucerful of pistache ice-cream. He was a painter by profession and the color scheme he thus introduced into his digestive apparatus was too much for his artistic soul. He was not fitted by temperament to assimilate anything quite so strenuously chromatic as that, and as a consequence shortly after he had retired to his studio for thenight the conflicting tints began to get in their deadly work and within two hours he was completely doubled up. The pain he suffered was awful. Agony was bliss alongside of the pangs that now afflicted him and all the palliatives and pain killers known to man were tried without avail, and then, just as he was about to give himself up for lost, an amateur cornetist who occupied a studio on the floor above began to play the Lost Chord. A counter-pain set in immediately. At the second bar of the Lost Chord the awful pain that was gradually gnawing away at his vitals seemed to lose its poignancy in the face of the greater suffering, and physical relief was instant. As the musician proceeded the internal disorder yielded gradually to the external and finally passed away entirely, leaving him so far from prostrated that by onea.m.he was out of bed and actually girding himself with a shotgun and an Indian Club to go upstairs for a physical encounter with the cornetist."

"And you reason from this that Sullivan's Lost Chord is a cure for Cholera morbus, eh?" sneered the Doctor.

"It would seem so," said the Idiot. "While the music continued my friend was a well man ready to go out and fight like a warrior, but when the cornetist stopped—the colic returned and he had to fight it out in the old way. In these episodes in my own experience I find ample justification for my belief and that of others that some day the music cure for human ailments will be recognized and developed to the full. Families going off to the country for the summer instead of taking a medicine-chest along with them will go provided with a music-box with cylinders for mumps, measles, summer complaint, whooping-cough, chicken-pox, chills and fever and all the other ills the flesh is heir to. Scientific experiment will demonstrate before long what composition will cure specific ills. If ababy has whooping-cough, an anxious mother, instead of ringing up the Doctor, will go to the piano and give the child a dose of Hiawatha. If a small boy goes swimming and catches a cold in his head and is down with a fever, his nurse, an expert on the accordeon, can bring him back to health again with three bars of Under the Bamboo Tree after each meal. Instead of dosing kids with cod liver oil when they need a tonic, they will be set to work at a mechanical piano and braced up on Narcissus. There'll Be a Hot Time In The Old Town To-Night will become an effective remedy for a sudden chill. People suffering from sleeplessness can dose themselves back to normal conditions again with Wagner the way I did. Tchaikowski, to be well Tshaken before taken, will be an effective remedy for a torpid liver, and the man or woman who suffers from lassitude will doubtless find in the lively airs of our two-step composers an efficient tonic to bring their vitality up to a high standard of activity. Nothing in it? Why, Doctor, there's more in it that's in sight to-day that is promising and suggestive of great things in the future than there was of the principle of gravitation in the rude act of that historic pippin that left the parent tree and swatted Sir Isaac Newton on the nose."

"And the Drug Stores will be driven out of business, I presume," said the Doctor.

"No," said the Idiot. "They will substitute music for drugs, that is all. Every man who can afford it will have his own medical phonograph or music-box, and the drug stores will sell cylinders and records for them instead of quinine, carbonate of soda, squills, paregoric and other nasty tasting things they have now. This alone will serve to popularize sickness and instead of being driven out of business their trade will pick up."

"And the Doctor? And the Doctor's gig and all the appurtenances of his profession—what becomes of them?" demanded the Doctor.

"We'll have to have the Doctor just the same to prescribe for us, only he will have to be a musician, but the gig—I'm afraid that will have to go," said the Idiot.

"And why, pray?" asked the Doctor. "Because there are no more drugs must the physician walk?"

"Not at all," said the Idiot. "But he'd be better equipped if he drove about in a piano-organ, or if he preferred an auto on a steam calliope."

I love Octopussy, his arms are so long;There's nothing in nature so sweet as his song.'Tis true I'd not touch him—no, not for a farm!If I keep at a distance he'll do me no harm.

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said,—

"Mr. ——, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name.

"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving. "That's—lemme see—yes, that's Columbus. Perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered—no; was it Columbus that dis—oh, yes, Columbus he discovered America,—was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph; all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that's the way they dressed in them days.

"Look at this one. Now, isn't that splendid? That's William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was readingt'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down he set one on top of his son's head and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold, he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? face shaved clean; he didn't wear a moustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is that every man ought to have a picture of that patriarch, so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs, too! Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?

"There's something nice. That, I think is—is—that—a—a—yes, to be sure, Washington; you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country. George—Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.

"Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a—oh, yes, flying a kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd 'a' ben hit, it'd just made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin'. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.

"Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe; anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is, there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick; evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.

"And now we come to—to—ah—to—Putnam,—General Putnam: he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways, the publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck; but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it?

"Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then when the Ku-Kluxes got after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em till they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,—hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.

"And then here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures; so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?"

What, send her a valentine? Never!I see you don't know who "she" is.I should ruin my chances forever;My hopes would collapse with a fizz.I can't see why she scents such disasterWhen I take heart to venture a word;I've no dream of becoming her master,I've no notion of being her lord.All I want is to just be her lover!She's the most up-to-date of her sex,And there's such a multitude of her,No wonder they call her complex.She's a bachelor, even when married,She's a vagabond, even when housed;And if ever her citadel's carriedHer suspicions must not be aroused.She's erratic, impulsive and human,And she blunders,—as goddesses can;But ifshe'swhat they call the New Woman,ThenI'dlike to be the New Man.I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures,And typewrites and hoes her own row,And it's quite beyond reach of conjecturesHow much further she's going to go.When she scorns, in the L-road, my profferOf a seat and hangs on to a strap;I admire her so much, I could offerTo let her ride up on my lap.Let her undo the stays of the ages,That have cramped and confined her so long!Let her burst through the frail candy cagesThat fooled her to think they were strong!She may enter life's wide vagabondage,She may do without flutter or frill,She may take off the chains of her bondage,—And anything else that she will.She may takemeoff, for example,And she probably does when I'm gone.I'm aware the occasion is ample;That's why I so often take on.I'm so glad she can win her own dollarsAnd know all the freedom it brings.I love her in shirt-waists and collars,I love her in dress-reform things.I love her in bicycle skirtlings—Especially when there's a breeze—I love her in crinklings and quirklingsAnd anything else that you please.I dote on her even in bloomers—If Parisian enough in their style—In fact, she may choose her costumers,Wherever her fancy beguile.She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle,She may argue, hold office or vote,She may engineer turret or trestle,And build a few ships that will float.She may lecture (all lectures but curtain)Make money, and naturally spend,If I let her haveherway, I'm certainShe'll let me haveminein the end!

What, send her a valentine? Never!I see you don't know who "she" is.I should ruin my chances forever;My hopes would collapse with a fizz.

I can't see why she scents such disasterWhen I take heart to venture a word;I've no dream of becoming her master,I've no notion of being her lord.

All I want is to just be her lover!She's the most up-to-date of her sex,And there's such a multitude of her,No wonder they call her complex.

She's a bachelor, even when married,She's a vagabond, even when housed;And if ever her citadel's carriedHer suspicions must not be aroused.

She's erratic, impulsive and human,And she blunders,—as goddesses can;But ifshe'swhat they call the New Woman,ThenI'dlike to be the New Man.

I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures,And typewrites and hoes her own row,And it's quite beyond reach of conjecturesHow much further she's going to go.

When she scorns, in the L-road, my profferOf a seat and hangs on to a strap;I admire her so much, I could offerTo let her ride up on my lap.

Let her undo the stays of the ages,That have cramped and confined her so long!Let her burst through the frail candy cagesThat fooled her to think they were strong!

She may enter life's wide vagabondage,She may do without flutter or frill,She may take off the chains of her bondage,—And anything else that she will.

She may takemeoff, for example,And she probably does when I'm gone.I'm aware the occasion is ample;That's why I so often take on.

I'm so glad she can win her own dollarsAnd know all the freedom it brings.I love her in shirt-waists and collars,I love her in dress-reform things.

I love her in bicycle skirtlings—Especially when there's a breeze—I love her in crinklings and quirklingsAnd anything else that you please.

I dote on her even in bloomers—If Parisian enough in their style—In fact, she may choose her costumers,Wherever her fancy beguile.

She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle,She may argue, hold office or vote,She may engineer turret or trestle,And build a few ships that will float.

She may lecture (all lectures but curtain)Make money, and naturally spend,If I let her haveherway, I'm certainShe'll let me haveminein the end!

This is a very fearsome birdWho sits upon men's chests at night.With horrid stare his eyeballs glare:He flies away at morning's light.

My dear young friend, whose shining witSets all the room ablaze,Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"For all your merry ways;But learn to wear a sober phiz,Be stupid, if you can,It's such a very serious thingTo be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, withA group of pleasant folks,—You venture quietly to crackThe least of little jokes:A lady doesn't catch the point,And begs you to explain,—Alas for one who drops a jestAnd takes it up again!

You're taking deep philosophyWith very special force,To edify a clergymanWith suitable discourse:You think you've got him,—when he callsA friend across the way,And begs you'll say that funny thingYou said the other day!

You drop a prettyjeu-de-motInto a neighbor's ears,Who likes to give you credit forThe clever thing he hears,And so he hawks your jest about,The old, authentic one,Just breaking off the point of it,And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics,Or sadder change in Polly,You lose your love, or loaves, and fallA prey to melancholy,While everybody marvels whyYour mirth is under ban,They think your very grief "a joke,"You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish cardThat bids you come and dine,And bring along your freshest wit(To pay for musty wine);You're looking very dismal, whenMy lady bounces in,And wonders what you're thinking of,And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friendsA fancy-tale of woesThat cloud your matrimonial sky,And banish all repose,—A solemn lady overhearsThe story of your strife,And tells the town the pleasant news:—You quarrel with your wife!

A book-agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book,—the "Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then, taking it under his arm, he started for the train which takes him to his office in the city.

Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said, "Well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope?"

"Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."

"Ah, and who was she?"

"It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman,—a book-agent."

"A what?"

"A book-agent; and to get rid of his importuning I bought his book,—the 'Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is," she exclaimed, advancing toward her husband.

"I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly.

"Why, husband?" asked his wife.

"Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of thesame book,—two copies of the 'Early Christian Martyrs,' and—"

"But, husband, we can—"

"No, we can't, either!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "The man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I—"

"Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for the train.

"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my boots, and—"

Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr. Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse.

"Here, Stevens!" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!"

"All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road.

Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted, "All aboard!"

"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train. "Book-agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."

"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."

"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How much is it?"

"Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent, as he reached for the money and passed the book out of the car-window.

Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, inhis shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.

"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,—"just got it, and that's all."

"Got what?" yelled Watson.

"Why, I got the book,—'Early Christian Martyrs,'—and paid—"

"By—the—great—guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hands to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.

"You're clever at drawing, I own,"Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,As we sat by the window alone,"But say, can you paint a Coquette?""She's painted already," quoth I;"Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette,"Now none of your joking,—but tryAnd paint me a thorough Coquette.""Well, cousin," at once I beganIn the ear of the eager Lisette,"I'll paint you as well as I canThat wonderful thing, a Coquette."She wears a most beautiful face,"("Of course!" said the pretty Lisette),"And isn't deficient in grace,Or else she were not a Coquette."And then she is daintily made"(A smile from the dainty Lisette),"By people expert in the tradeOf forming a proper Coquette."She's the winningest ways with the beaux,"("Go on!"—said the winning Lisette),"But there isn't a man of them knowsThe mind of the fickle Coquette!"She knows how to weep and to sigh,"(A sigh from the tender Lisette),"But her weeping is all in my eye,—Not that of the cunning Coquette!"In short, she's a creature of art,"("Oh hush!" said the frowning Lisette),"With merely the ghost of a heart,—Enough for a thorough Coquette."And yet I could easily prove"("Now don't!" said the angry Lisette),"The lady is always in love,—In love with herself,—the Coquette!"There,—do not be angry!—you know,My dear little cousin Lisette,You told me a moment agoTo paintyou—a thorough Coquette!"

"You're clever at drawing, I own,"Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,As we sat by the window alone,"But say, can you paint a Coquette?"

"She's painted already," quoth I;"Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette,"Now none of your joking,—but tryAnd paint me a thorough Coquette."

"Well, cousin," at once I beganIn the ear of the eager Lisette,"I'll paint you as well as I canThat wonderful thing, a Coquette.

"She wears a most beautiful face,"("Of course!" said the pretty Lisette),"And isn't deficient in grace,Or else she were not a Coquette.

"And then she is daintily made"(A smile from the dainty Lisette),"By people expert in the tradeOf forming a proper Coquette.

"She's the winningest ways with the beaux,"("Go on!"—said the winning Lisette),"But there isn't a man of them knowsThe mind of the fickle Coquette!

"She knows how to weep and to sigh,"(A sigh from the tender Lisette),"But her weeping is all in my eye,—Not that of the cunning Coquette!

"In short, she's a creature of art,"("Oh hush!" said the frowning Lisette),"With merely the ghost of a heart,—Enough for a thorough Coquette.

"And yet I could easily prove"("Now don't!" said the angry Lisette),"The lady is always in love,—In love with herself,—the Coquette!

"There,—do not be angry!—you know,My dear little cousin Lisette,You told me a moment agoTo paintyou—a thorough Coquette!"

I think it must be spring. I feelAll broken up and thawed.I'm sick of everybody's "wheel";I'm sick of being jawed.I am too winter-killed to live,Cold-sour through and through.O Heavenly Barber, come and giveMy soul a dry shampoo!I'm sick of all these nincompoops,Who weep through yards of verse,And all these sonneteering dupesWho whine and froth and curse.I'm sick of seeing my own nameTagged to some paltry line,While this oldcorpuswithout shameSits down to meat and wine.I'm sick of all these Yellow Books,And all these Bodley Heads;I'm sick of all these freaks and spooksAnd frights in double leads.When good Napoleon's publisherWas dangled from a limb,He should have had an editorOn either side of him.I'm sick of all this taking onUnder a foreign name;For when you call itdecadent,It's rotten just the same.I'm sick of all this puling trashAnd namby-pamby rot,—A Pegasus you have to thrashTo make him even trot!An Age-end Art! I would not give,For all their plotless plays,One round Flagstaffian adjectiveOr one Miltonic phrase.I'm sick of all this poppycockIn bilious green and blue;I'm tired to death of taking stockOf everything that's "New."New Art, New Movements, and New Schools,All maimed and blind and halt!And all the fads of the New FoolsWho can not earn their salt.I'm sick of the New Woman, too.Good Lord, she's worst of all.Her rights, her sphere, her point of view,And all that folderol!She makes me wish I were the snakeInside of Eden's wall,To give the tree another shake,And see another fall.I'm very much of Byron's mind;I like sufficiency;But just the common garden kindIs good enough for me.I want to find a warm beech wood,And lie down, and keep still;And swear a little; and feel good;Then loaf on up the hill,And let the Spring house-clean my brain,Where all this stuff is crammed;And let my heart grow sweet again;And let the Age be damned.

I think it must be spring. I feelAll broken up and thawed.I'm sick of everybody's "wheel";I'm sick of being jawed.

I am too winter-killed to live,Cold-sour through and through.O Heavenly Barber, come and giveMy soul a dry shampoo!

I'm sick of all these nincompoops,Who weep through yards of verse,And all these sonneteering dupesWho whine and froth and curse.

I'm sick of seeing my own nameTagged to some paltry line,While this oldcorpuswithout shameSits down to meat and wine.

I'm sick of all these Yellow Books,And all these Bodley Heads;I'm sick of all these freaks and spooksAnd frights in double leads.

When good Napoleon's publisherWas dangled from a limb,He should have had an editorOn either side of him.

I'm sick of all this taking onUnder a foreign name;For when you call itdecadent,It's rotten just the same.

I'm sick of all this puling trashAnd namby-pamby rot,—A Pegasus you have to thrashTo make him even trot!

An Age-end Art! I would not give,For all their plotless plays,One round Flagstaffian adjectiveOr one Miltonic phrase.

I'm sick of all this poppycockIn bilious green and blue;I'm tired to death of taking stockOf everything that's "New."

New Art, New Movements, and New Schools,All maimed and blind and halt!And all the fads of the New FoolsWho can not earn their salt.

I'm sick of the New Woman, too.Good Lord, she's worst of all.Her rights, her sphere, her point of view,And all that folderol!

She makes me wish I were the snakeInside of Eden's wall,To give the tree another shake,And see another fall.

I'm very much of Byron's mind;I like sufficiency;But just the common garden kindIs good enough for me.

I want to find a warm beech wood,And lie down, and keep still;And swear a little; and feel good;Then loaf on up the hill,

And let the Spring house-clean my brain,Where all this stuff is crammed;And let my heart grow sweet again;And let the Age be damned.

Back to Index Next