on Parnassus Franklin P Adams i«ti%«« CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GOLDWIN SMITH LIBRARY »»_..-. Cornell University Library PS3501.D135T61911 Tobogganning on Parnassus 3 1924 014 420 131 Cornell University Library The original of tinis bool< is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014420131 TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS FRANKLIN P. ADAMS Garden City New York DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1927 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLTJCING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN COPYRIGHT, igil, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY COPYMGHT, igoS, by KEPPLER & SCHWARZMANN COPYRIGHT, igOS, by DODD, MEAD Be COMPANY COPYRIGHT, igo7, igo8, by the century company COPYRIGHT, igo7, 1908, by d. appleton & company COPYRIGHT, igo7, igo8, 1910, by lipe publishing company COPYRIGHT, igo7, igo8, igog, igio, igii, by mail and express company copyright, igo8, by curtis pubushing company COPYRIGHT, 1908, by p. F. COLLIER & SON :;opyeight, igog, by associated Sunday magazines company COPYRIGHT, 19IO, by BUTTEEICK PUBLISHING COMPANY TO BERT LESTON TAYLOR GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, BUT FEIEND // that these vagrant verses make One heart more glad; if they hut bring A single smile, for that One's sake I should be satisfied to sing. As Locker said, in phrasing fitter. Pleased if but One should like the twitter. If I have eased one heart of pain; If I have made one throb or thrill; My labour has not been in vain. My work has not been all for nil. If only One, from Maine to Kansas, Shall say "I like his simple stanzas." If but a solitary voice Should say "These verses polyglot Are not so bad," I should rejoice; But oh, my publishers would not! 1^ * * * * And I, though shy and unanointed. Should be a little disappointed. CONTENTS PAOC Us Poets 3 Rubber-Stamp Humour 4 The Simple Stuff 6 "Carpe Diem" or Cop The Day . . 7 That for Money! 8 Xanthias Jollied 10 Horace the Wise 12 Jealousy 13 To Be Quite Frank 15 R. S. V. P 17 Advice 19 When Horace "Came Back" ... 22 Nix on the Fluffy Stuff ... 26 Catullus, Considerable Kisser ... 28 V. Catullus Explains 29 The Rich Man 30 To-night 31 Those Two Boys . . • • 33 Help! The Passionate Householder to His Love 35 iz t Contents PAGE The Servants 37 Our Dum'd Animals 40 A Soft Susurrus 42 A Summer Summary 43 A Quatrain 44 To a Light Housekeeper 45 How? 47 Ballade of the Breakfast Table ... 48 Ornithology 50 To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour .... 51 To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour (Second Idyl) . 53 Notions 55 My Ladye's Eyen 56 To a Lady 57 " A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned " . 58 An Ultimatum to Myrtilla .... 59 Love Gustatory 61 She Is Not Fair 62 To Myrtilla, Again 63 Myrtilla's Third Degree 65 To Myrtilla Complaining .... 67 Christmas Cards — To the Grocery Boy 68 To the Janitor 69 To the Waiter 70 To the Apartment House Telephone Girl 70 G>ntents x( PAGE Christmas Cards — To the Barber . . 71 To the Hall and Elevator Boy . 72 Ballade of a Hardy Annual . . 74 A Plea 76 Footlight Motifs — Mrs. Fiske . . 78 Footlight Motifs — Olga Nethersole . 80 Ballade of the Average Reader ... 81 Poesy's Guerdon 83 Signal Service 84 Sporadic Fiction 86 Popular Ballad; "Never Forget Your Parents" 88 Ballade to a Lady (To Annabelle) . . 90 To a Thesaurus 92 The Ancient Lays 94 Erring in Company .... 95 The Limit 97 Chorus for Mixed Voices .... 99 The Translated Way loi "And Yet It Is a Gentle Art." ... 102 Occasionally 103 Jim and Bill 105 When Nobody Listens 106 Office Mottoes 109 Metaphysics .111 Heads and Tails .... .112 T& Contents PAGE An Election Night Pantoum 114 I Can Not Pay That Premium . . . 116 Three Authors .... 118 To Quotation ... .120 Melodrama 122 A Poor Excuse, but Our Own . . . 123 Monotonous Variety 125 The Amateur Botanist 127 A Word for It 128 The Poem Speaks 129 Bedbooks 131 A New York Child's Garden of Verses . 133 Downward, Come Downward . 135 Speaking of Hunting .... 136 The Flat Hunter's Way . . . 138 Birds and Bards . . 139 A Wish — An Apartmental Ditty . . 140 The Monument of Q. H. F 142 TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS Us Poets Wordsworth wrote some tawdry stuff; Much of Moore I have forgotten; Parts of Tennyson are guff; Bits of Byron, too, are rotten. All of Browning isn't great; There are slipshod lines in Shelley; Every one knows Homer's fate; Some of Keats is vermicelli. Sometimes Shakespeare hit the slide, Not to mention Pope or Milton; Some of Southey's stuff is snide. Some of Spenser's simply Stilton. When one has to boil the pot, One can't always watch the kittle. You may credit it or not — Now and then I slump a little! Rubber-Stamp Hamouir If couples mated but for love; If women all were perfect cooks; If Hoosier authors wrote no books; If horses always won; If people in the flat above Were silent as the very grave; If foreign counts were prone to save; If tailors did not dun — If automobiles always ran As advertised in catalogues; If tramps were not afraid of dogs; If servants never left; If comic songs would always scan; If Alfred Austin were sublime; If poetry would always rhyme; If authors all were deft — If office boys were not all cranks On base-ball; if the selling price Of meat and coal and eggs and ice Would stop its mad increase; If women started saying "Thanks" When men gave up their seats in cars; If there were none but good cigars, And better yet police — 4, Rubber-Stamp Humour If there were no such thing as booze; If wifey's mother never came To visit; if a foot-ball game Were mild and harmless sport; If all the Presidential news Were colourless; if there were men At every mountain, sea-side, glen. River and lake resort — If every girl were fair of face; If women did not fear to get Their suits for so-called bathing wet — If all these things were true. This earth would be a pleasant place. But where would people get their laughs? And whence would spring the paragraphs? And what would jokers do? The Simple Stuff AD PCERUM Horace: Book I, Ode 32. "Persicos odi, puer, apparatus." Nix on the Persian pretence! Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus! Wreaths of the linden tree, hence! Nix on the Persian pretence! Waiter, here's seventy cents — Come, let me celebrate Bacchus! Nix on the Persian pretence! Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus. "Carpe Diem," ot Cop the Day AD LEUCONOEN Horace: Book I, Ode 13. " Tu ne qucesieris, scire nefas — " It is not right for you to know, so do not ask, Leuconoe, How long a life the gods may give or ever we are gone away; Try not to read the Final Page, the ending colophonian. Trust not the gypsy's tea-leaves, nor the prophets Babylonian. Better to have what is to come enshrouded in obscurity Than to be certain of the sort and length og:s:aning: on Parnassus And Jim grew to manhood and honour and fame And bears a good name; While Bill is shut up in a dark prison cell — You never can tell. Help The Passionate Householder to his Love Come, live with us and be our cook, And we will all the whimsies brook That German, Irish, Swede, and Slav And all the dear domestics have. And you shall sit upon the stoop What time we go and cook the soup. And you shall hear, both night and day, Melodious pianolas play. And we will make the beds, of course. You'll have two autos and a horse, A lady to Marcel your tresses, And all the madame's half-worn dresses. Your gowns shall be of lace and silk, Your laving shall be done in milk. Two trained physicians when you cough. And Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays off. When you are mashing Irish spuds You'll wear the very finest duds. If good to you these prospects look, Come, live with us and be our cook. ■35 Tobogganing on Parnassas On callers we have put no stops, We love the iceman and the cops, And no alarm clock with its ticks And bell to ring at half-past six. O Gretchen, Bridget, Hulda, Mary, Come, be our genius culinary. If good to you these prospects look. Come, live with us and be our cook. The Seivants With genuflexions to Kipling's "The Ladies^' We've taken our cooks where we've found 'em; We've answered many an ad; We've had oxir pickin' o' servants, And most of the lot was bad. Some was Norahs an' Bridgets; Tillie she came last fall; Claras and Fannies and Lenas and Annies, And now we've got none at all. Now, we don't know much about servants, For, takin' 'em all along, You never can tell till you've tried 'em. And then you are like to be wrong. There's times when you'll think that they're perfect; There's times when you'll think that they're bum, But the things you'll learn from those that have gone May help you with those to come. 37 TofcogganJftg on Parnasstis Norah, she landed from Dublin, Green as acushla machree; Norah was willing and anxious To learn what a servant should be. We told Mrs. Kirk all about her — She offered her seven more per — Now Norah she works, as you know, for the Kirks — And we learned about servants from her. Lena we got from an "office"; Lena was saving and Dutch — Thought that our bills were enormous, And told us we spent far too much. Lena decamped with some silver, Jewelry, laces and fur — She was loving and kind, with a Socialist mind — And we learned about servants from her. Tillie blew in from the Indies, Black as the middle of night — Cooked like a regular Savarin — Kitchen was shiny an' bright. Everything ran along lovely Until — it was bound to occur — She ran away with a porter one day — But we learned about servants from her. 38 The Servants We've taken our cooks where we've found them, Yellow and black and white; Some was better than others, But none of the lot was right. And the end of it's only worry And trouble and bother and fuss — When you answer an ad., think of those we have had And learn about servants from us. 39 Our DumM Animals What time I seek my virtuous couch to steal Some surcease frora the labours of the day, Ere silence like a poultice comes to heal — In short, when I prepare to hit the hay; Ere slumber's chains (I quote from Moore) have bound me, I hear a lot of noises all around me. Time was when falling off the well-known log Were harder far than falling off to sleep; But that was ere my neighbour's gentle dog Began to think he was defending sheep. From twelve to two his barking and his howl- ing Accompanies two tom cats' nightly yowling. At two-ten sharp the parrot in the flat Across the way his monologue essays. At three, again, as Gilbert says, the cat; At four a milkman's horse, exulted, neighs. At six-fifteen, nor does it ever vary, I hear the dulcet tones of a canary. 40 Out Dum'd Animals Each living thing I love; I love the birds; The beasts in field and forest, too, I love, But I have writ these poor, if metric words. To query which, by all the pow'rs above, Of all the animals — pray tell me, some one — Is called by any courtesy a dumb one? «1 A Soft Susutrus A soft susurrus in the night, A song wliose singer is unseen - 'Twere poetry itself to write "A soft susurrus in the night!" I know, as those mosquitos bite, That I forgot to fix that screen, "A soft susurrus in the night!" A song whose singer is unseen. 4S A Summer Summary Shall I, lying in a grot, Die because the day is hot? Or declare I can't endure Such a torrid temperature? Be it hotter than the flames South Gehenna Junction claims, If it be not so to me. What care I how hot it be? Shall I say I love the town Praised by Robinson and Browne? Shall I say, "In summer heat Old Manhattan can't be beat?" Be it luring as a bar, Or my neighbour's motor-car, If I think it is pazziz What care I how fine it is? Shall I prate of rural joys Far from civic smoke and noise? Shall I, like the others, drool "But the nights are always cool?" If I hate to rise at six Shall I praise the suburbs? Nix! If the country's not for me, What care I h-^w good it be? 43 Tobogganing on Parnassta Town or country, cool or hot, DifEers nothing, matters not; For to quote that Roman cuss, Why dispute "de gustibus?" If to this or that one should Take a fancy, it is good. If these rhymes look good to me, What care I how bad they be? A Quatrain A quatrain fills a little space. Although it's pretty small. And oftentimes, as in this case, It has no point at all. 44 To a Light Housekeeper (Who hitches laundering articles to the curtain string and pastes them on the pane.) Lady, thou that livest Just across the way, If a hang thou givest What the people say, If a cuss thou carest What a poet thinks — Hearken, if thou darest, Most immodest minx! Though thy gloves thou tiest, To the curtain string, Though the things thou driest Gird me while I sing. Hankies and inventions Of the lacy tribe — Things I may not mention, Let alone describe. These I mutely stand for Though the sight offend, THIS I reprimand for; Take it from a friend: 45 ^Q()Og:gfaningr on Patnassui Cease to pin thy tresses To the window sill, Or I'll tell the presses — Honestly, I will. How? How can I work when you play the piano, Feminine person above? How can I think, with your ceaseless soprano Singing : "Ah, Love " ? How can I dream of a subject aesthetic, Far from the purlieus of prose? How, with the call of the peripatetic "High! High cash clo'es!"? How can I write when the children are crying? How can I poetize — how? How can I help imper/ec< versifying? (There is some now.) How can I bathe in the thought-waves of beauty? How, with my nerves on the slant, Can I perform my poetical duty? Frankly, I can't. Ballade of the Breakfast Table When the Festal Board, as the papers say, Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat, At breakfast, FrUhstuck or dejeuner, (As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat) At breakfast, then, if I may repeat. This is what gets me into a huff. This is a query I cannot beat: Why don't they ever have spoons enough? I've broken my fast with the grave and gay, With hoi polloi and with the elite; I've been all over the U. S. A. From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street. But aye when I sit in the morning seat Comes to my notice the self-same bluff, Plenty of food, but in this they cheat: Why don't they ever have spoons enough? Take it at breakfast, only to-day: This was the layout, fresh and sweet: Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;* . Cereal — one of the brands** of wheat; 'And about as edible. SfTo advertisers : This space for sale. 48 Ballade of the Bteakfast Table Soft-boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat) ; Coffee (a claro-manila-buff) ; Napery, china, and glasses complete — Why don't they ever have spoons enough? l'envoi Autocratesses, forgive my heat, But isn't it time to change that stuff? Small is the benison I entreat — Why don't they ever have spoons enough? 49 Ornithologfy Unlearned I in ornithology — All I know about the birds Is a bunch of etymology, Just a lot of high-flown words. Is the curlew an uxorial Bird? The Latin name for crow? Is the bulfinch grallatorial? I dunno. O'er my head no golden gloriole Ever shall be proudly set For my knowledge of the oriole, Eagle, ibis, or egrette. I know less about the tanager And its hopes and fears and aims Than a busy Broadway manager Does of James. But, despite my incapacity On the birdies of the air, I am not without sagacity, Be it ne'er so small a share. This I know, though ye be scorning at What I know not, though ye mock. Birdies wake me every morning at Four o'clock, 50 To Alice-Sit-By-Thc-Hoat Lady in the blue kimono, you that live across the way, One may see you gazing, gazing, gazing all the livelong day. Idly looking out your window from your vantage point above. Are you convalescent, lady? Are you worse? Are you in Love? Ever gazing, as you hang there on the little window seat. Into flats across the way or down upon the prosy street. Can't you rent a pianola? Can't you iron, sew, or cook? Write a letter, bake a pudding, make a bed or read a book? Tell me of the fascination you indubitably find In the "High Cash Cloe's!" man's holler, in the hurdy-gurdy grind. Are your Spanish castles blue prints? Are you waiting for a knight To descend upon your fastness and to save you from your plight? Tobogganing on Patnassos Lady in the blue kimono, idle, mollycoddle dame, Does your doing nothing never make you feel the blush of shame? As you sit and stare and ditto, not a single thing to do. Lady in the blue kimono, lady, how I envy youl M To Alicc-Sit-By-The-Houit (Being the second idyl to an idle idol.) Lady in the blue kimono, May we write of you again? Do not hand us out a "No! no!" Do not dam the flowing pen. Once again a poem at you Crave we leave of you to write — Lady idle as a statue, Lady silent as the night! Lady in the blue kimono, Heavy is our heart and dumb. Though we weep no tear nor show no Sign of sadness, we are glum; For that wrapper, silk or cotton. You eternally had on — It is gone, but not forgotten. Still the fact is, it is gone. Lady in the blue kimono. Although deadly hot the day. Don't you think — (alas! we know no Way to put what we would say!) 93 Tobogganing on Parnassus Er — although your smile ^s pleasant, Wondrous fai.r, and all that stuff - Do you really think, at present, , It is — er — ahem — enough? 54 Notions Myrtie, my notion of no one to write about Seems to be any one other than you; Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night about Twelve anapestic good verses and true. Eke my conception of no girl to gaze upon, O my Myrtilla, includes all the rest. Saving the one that I'm spilling this praise upon — You, as it isn't unlikely you've guessed. Also my notion of nowhere to be at all — Pardon, Myrtilla, my lack of restraint — Notion of mapless location is d. it all — Anywhere you simultaneous ain't. £5 My Ladye's Eycn Poets ther ben in plenteous line yt take ye auncient theme Of singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken them to dreme, And through ye blessed hours of slepe — thilk eyen or browne or blue Doe soothe ye poet's slumbers deep: by goddiswoundes thaie doe! gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony soche ther bee, And whan an eyefulle damosel hath made a hitte wyth mee, Hir eyen ben soe o'erpassing bright yt holden mee in thrall, 1 tosse about ye livelong night, nor can ne slepe atte all. 56 To a Ladr Ah, Lady, if these verses glowed Wanner than chill appreciation — If they should lengthen to an "Ode On Fascination — " If I should cast this cold restraint, Nor dam this pen's o'ereager flowing If but your portrait I should paint In colours glowing — Assuming I should write such dope — If, haply, you can but conceive it — As Fahrenheit as Laurence Hope — You'd not believe it. YOU'D not; but, oh, Another would! For, by and large and altogether. Us potes must be misunderstood. * * * What lovrfy weather! 67 "A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned" (The man who wants the perfect wife should marry a " stock-size. " She comes cheaper. — London Chronicle.) Ah, Myrtilla, woe and dear me! Lackadaydee and alas! What is this, I greatly fear me, That has come to pass? Craving, as I do, perfection, Loathing anything like flaws, I must raise a slight objection To your building laws. You are five one-and-a-quarter. And your girth is thirty-three — Myrtie, you're a little shorter Than you ought to be. It is far from my intentions Your proportions to describe, Briefly, Myrtie, your dimensions Do not seen! to jibe. Farewell, Myrt, for Ethelisa Seems to be my certain fate, Stupid? Silly? Sure, but she's a Perfect thirty-eight. S8 An Ultimatum to Myttilla (Inspired by the shameless styles in hair.) Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said — And your tone was earnest, very — You would never deck your head With this vernal miUinery. Myrt, to mince no words, you lied; Oh, that I should live to know it! You that are my nearly-bride; I that am your nearly-poet! For I saw the awful lid You had on at lo this morning; Myrt, it was a merrywid, Spite of my decisive warning. Still, I can forgive you that; Though the thing look ne'er so silly; I will overlook the hat If you promise this, Myrtillie: Wear your lacebelows and fluffs; Wear the awfullest creations But — omit the stylish puffs And the vogueish transformations. 69 Tobogganing; on Parnassus Myrt, if you inflate your hair I shall — well — excoriate you, And, I positively swear, Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you. ao Love Gustatory Myrtilla, I have seen you eat — Have heard you drink, to be precise — Your soup, and, notwithstanchng, sweet, The gurgitation wasn't nice, I overlooked a tiny fault Like that with just a grain of salt. And, sweetest maid in all New York, When all ungracefully you pierce The toothsome oyster with your fork I realize you're pretty fierce; But such a feat, be't understood. Nor Venus nor Diana could. I've seen you hang, high in the air, A stalk of fresh asparagus, Guiding its succulence to where It ought to go. I did not cuss. You had it hot and vinaigrette, Myrtilla, and I loved you yet. M3n:t, I have stood for a good deal, As one will in this Cupid game. But now I know I'll never feel Toward you, dear Tillie, quite the same Since I have seen you on the job Of eating corn — corn on the cob. 61 She Is Not Fair "She is not fair to outward view"; No beauty hers of form or face' She hath no witchery, 'tis true, No grace. Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind, Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair Hath she. She is — I am not blind — Not fair. What makes me love her, then? say you, For such a maid is not my wont. Love her! What makes you think I do? I don't. 02 To Myrtilla Agnin M)n:tilla, when the thought of you Obstructs my cold, unbiased view, And keeps me from My hard though hum- Ble task, I do not murmur nor complain* I do not ululate nor feign A love for vin Or what is in A flask. When, as I said in stanza first. My mind is thoroughly immersed With you until My pulses thrill And throb, I don't, in tones more picturesque Than journalistic, slam my desk, And in a fit Of frenzy quit My job. 63 Tot>og:g;anfng; on Parnassus When, as I may have said before, Your image I can not ignore, I do not tear My thinning hair Nor cuss; I leave such sentimental show To bards like Shelley, Keats, and Poe I merely spill Some ink, Myrtil- La, thus. Myftilla's Third Degree (With deep bows to Adelaide Anne Proctor's heirs, administrators and assigns.) Before I trust my Fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine — (This is an easy parody, Without a change of line.) Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me. Is there, within thy dimmest dreams, This dread ambition, Myrt? Hast thou the ghost of a desire To wear a hobble* skirt? If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost. Look deeper still. Dost underline Most words in writing letters? Or "Local" write on envelopes? Say, ere I bind my fetters. Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so. •"Haiem," oi whatever is to come id tke future, may be tub- itituted here. 65 Tobogganing on Patnassas Once more. Dost thou, in easy speech, Ever let fall "those kind"? Art thou to nutmeg in a pie Unalterably inclined? If aught of these, maid of my wooing, there's absolutely nothing doing. To Myrtilla Complainingf Myrtie, you weep that the bard has neglected you, Passed you, forgotten you, let you alone. Bless you, Myrtilla, I never suspected you Ever would speak to me, sweet, in that tone. Myrtie, you say that my poems are penned to you Only on days when I've nothing to do. Otherwise I have no time to attend to you, Others, you say, are more weighty than you. Sweet, you allege I have not enough time for you. Yes, and you say that I hold you but light. Only when pressed do I reel ofi a rhyme for you * * * Lady Myrtilla, you've doped it out right. Cbtistmas Cards TO THE GROCERY BOY Before you send me up that card With rime and diction far from subtle, Hear what a now rebellious bard Says in a quasi-pre-rebuttal. "A nickel in a poor boy's hat!" You, minion of a grubbing grocer. You dare, indeed, to ask me that? Bold and relentless, say I, "No, sir!" You who bring some one else's tea To us, while ours goes to the neighbours. And yet you dare demand from me Reward for ineflSdent labours! You who but lately made me hit My head upon the dum-dum waiter — From me you get no silver bit. Fie, out upon you, youthful traitor! 68 Christinas Cutis Hard is my heart and tight my purse; Deaf is my ear to all your suing. Except this little bit of verse, There's absolutely nothing doing. n TO THE JANITOR Sullen, surly Scandinave, Smoking on a pipe, Valiantly I cast the glavf At thee and thy type. Person of the shakeless grouch Tamperer with the cream, Idler, lounger, sloven, slouch Despot of the steam — Thou who bangest garbage cans In the hollow court. Thou whose children spin tin pans Deeming it is sport — Tyrant of the tenement, Take thy card and flee! Not a nickel, not a cent Dost thou get from me. 69 Tobogganing on Parnassus in TO THE WAITER O waiter, will you tell me why You think to get at Christmas time A five-case note, for do not I Slip you each day a dime? When as I crave Prime Ribs au Jus* And beg that you will bring them rare, They are well done. I fume and fuss And yet you do not care. Haply I order apple pie, But NOT your counsel or advice; You rub your hands and tell me: "Why, The mince is very nice. " You hide my hat, you hide my coat. Let others, if they care to, give, But as to this here gentle pote — Be glad he lets you live. •Well, how do you pronounce it, then? IV TO THE APARTMENT HOUSE TELEPHONE GIRl Proud, imperious female person That presideth o'er my 'phone, Hearken while I do some verse on Thee, and thee alone. 70 Cliiristmas Carets Puffed and pompadoured and ratted, Reading Munsey's all the day, Pony-coated, otter-hatted — Listen to my lay: When I beg in desperation, "Eight O Seven Riverside," Why do I get "Information"? Is it justified? Why — I ask it with insistence — Why — prepare to be appalled — Why "$2.8s Long Distance" That I never called? When I call thee, "They don't answer" Tells me Central. (Oh, the crime!) Then thou sayest, thou Romancer, "Been here all the time!" Tyrant trim and telephonic, Christmas offerings to thee? Pardon if I seem laconic: Not a single c. V TO THE BARBER Prince of the parlour tonsorial, Knight of the razor and shears, Who have from time immemorial Snipped it too short round the ears — 71 Tobogganing on Parnassus You with your long academical Causes for "thinning on top," Selling me gallons of chemical Tonic, a brush, and a strop; You with your sad comicality, You with your bum badinage — Confound your congeniality! Confound your "Facial Massage?" Still, though you shave contragrainious,* Healing the cut with a lime, Don't I, quite nice and spontaneous, Daily contribute a dime? Mountain of foreign servility. Butcher of chin and of lip. Maugre your marked inability, Do I not fall for the tip? Hope you at Christmas for currency, Fiend of tonsorial tricks? Never was greater aberrancy — Coarsely I say to you, "Nix!" •Well, there ought to be. VI TO THE HALL-AND-ELEVATOE-BOY Lo, the West Indian! whose tmtutored mind To Christmas giving makes me disinclined. Who tellest callers I have moved away And mixest up the morning mail each day. 7« Christmas Cafds When for thine elevator car I ring Thou telephonest or some other thing; While, when I ask for Byrant Eighty-four, Thou'rt busy somewhere on the seventh floor — I wish thee from my soul all Christmas joy, But not a cent, O Elevator Boy! Ballade of a Hardy Annual Many a jest that refuses to die Bobs up again as the seasons appear; Deathless it hits us again in the eye — Changeless and dull as the calendar year. Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere, Stronger, withal, than the sturdiest oak; Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear — Down with the grandmother-funeral joke! Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly, All through the day of the " leathery sphere," Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy All on the theme of the grandmother dear. Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer Please us and tickle us quite to the choke. But — on this matter our attitude's clear — Down with the grandmother-funeral joke! Giggle we can at a blueberry pie; Scream at a comedy king or ameer; Simply guffaw when the jestermen guy Marriage, a thing at which no one should jeer. Things that in others elicit a tear 74 Ballade of A Hardy Annual All of our risibles simply unyoke; But from this stand we're unwilling to veer: Down with the grandmother-funeral joke! l'envoi Brothers in motley, the season is here; Small is the boon that we sadly invoke: Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear! — Down with the grandmother- funeral joke! A Plea Writers of baseball, attention! When you're again on the job — When, in your rage for invention, You with the language play hob — Most of your dope we will pardon. Though of the moth ball it smack; But — cut out the "sinister garden,** Chop the "initial sack." Rake poor old Roget's "Thesaurus" For phrases fantastic and queer; And though on occasions you bore us, We will refrain from a sneer. We will endeavour to harden Ourselves to the rest of your clack, If you'll cut out the "sinister garden" And chop the "initial sack." Singers of words that are scrambled, Say, if you will, that he " died," Write, if you must, that he "ambled" - We shall be last to deride. 5ut us to the Forest of Arden, Along with the misanthrope Jaques, If you cling to the "sinister garden " And stick to "initial sack." 78 APlcA Speak of the "sphere's aberration," Mention the "leathery globe," Say he got "free transportation" — Though that try the patience of JoK But if you're wise you'll discard en- cumbrances such as we thwack — Especially "sinister garden" And the "initial sack." Footlfght Motifs MRS. FISKE Staccato, hurried, nervous, brisk. Cascading, intermittent, choppy. The brittle voice of Mrs. Fiske Shall serve me now as copy. Assist me, my Muse, what time I pen a bit of Deathless Rhyme! Time was, when first that voice I heard. Despite my close and tense endeavour. When many an important word Was lost and gone forever; Though, unlike others at the play, I never whispered : " Wha'd'd she say? " Some words she runstogetherso; • Some others are distinctly stated; Some cometoofast and some too slow And some are syncopated. And yet no voice — I am sincere — Exists that I prefer to hear. 78 Footlight Motifs For what is called "intelligence" By every Mrs. Fiskeian critic As usual is just a sense Of humour, analytic. So any time I'm glad to frisk Two bones to witness Mrs. Fiske. 79 FootIii:ht Motfis 11 OLGA NETHERSOLE I like little Olga, Her plays are. so warm; And if I don't see 'em, They'll do me no harm. My Puritan training Has kept me from going To dramas in which Little Olga was showing. But I like little Olga, Her art is so warm; And if I don't see her She'll do me no harm. 80 Ballade of the Averagfe Reader I try to touch the public taste, For thus I earn my daily bread. I try to write what folks will paste In scrap books after I am dead. By Public Craving I am led. (I' sooth, a most despotic leader) Yet, though I write for Tom and Ned, I've never seen an average reader. The Editor is good and chaste, But says: (Above the public's head; This is too good; 'twill go to waste. Write something cormnonplacer — Ed.) Write for the average reader, fed By pre-digested near-food's feeder, But though my high ideals have fled, I've never seen an average reader. How many lines have been erased! How many fancies have been shed! How many failures might be traced To this — this average-reader dread! I've seen an average single bed; I've seen an average garden-weeder; I've seen an average cotton thread — I've never seen an average reader. 81 Tobogganing on Parnassas LENVOI Most read of readers, if you've read The works of any old succeeder, You know that he, too, must have said: " I've never seen an Average Reader. " m Poesy's Guerdon ( * * * I do not beb'eve a single modem English poet is living to-day on the current proceeds of his verse. — From "Literary Taste and How to Form it," by Arnold Bennett.) What time I pen the Mighty Line Suffused with the spark divine As who should say: "By George! That's fine!" Indignantly do I deny The words of Arnold Bennett. Why, Is this not English verse? say I. And by the proceeds of that verse — Such as, e. g., these little terc- Ets — is not filled the family purse? Do we not live on what I sell. Sonnet, ballade, and xdllanelle? * * * "We do," She says, "and none too well." 83 Sigfnal Sefvice Time-table! Terrible and hard To figure ! At some station lonely We see this sign upon the card: We read thee wrong; the untrained eye Does not see always with precision. The train we thought to travel by Again, andaunted, we look at The hieroglyphs, and as a rule a Small double dagger shows us that t And when we take a certain line On Tues., Wednes., Thurs., Fri., Sat., or Monday, We're certain to detect the sign: *TiaiD 20: Stops on signal only. tRuns only on North-west division. ITrain does not stop at Ashtabula, ttio extra fare ex. Sunday. 84 Signal Setvice Heck Junction — Here she comes ! Ff t ! Whiz I A scurry — and the train has flitted! Again we look. We find it — viz., Through hieroglyphic seas we wade — Print is so cold and so unfeeling. The train we wait at Neverglade II Now hungrily the sheet we scan, Grimy with travel, thirsty, weary, And then — nothing is sadder than Yet, cursed as is every sign. The cussedest that we can quote is This treacherous and deadly line: llTrain does not stop where time omitted. tConnects with C. & A. at Wheeling. t^T'Uo diner on till after Erie. •'•Subject to change without our notice. 88 Spotadic Fiction Why not a poem as they treat The stories in the magazines? "Eustacia's lips were very sweet. He stooped to" — and here intervenes A line — italics — telling one Where one may learn the things that he, The noble hero, had begun. {Continuation on page 3.) Page 3 — oh, here it is — no, here — "Kiss them. Eustacia hung her head; Whereat he said, 'Eustacia dear' — And sweetly low Eustacia said:" (Continued on page 17.) Here, just between the corset ad. And that of Smithers' Canderine. (Eustacia sweet, you drive me mad.) "No, no, not that! But let me tell You why I scorn your ardent kiss — Not that I do not love you well;" No, Archibald, the reason's this: {Continued on page 24.) Turn, turn my leaves, and let me learn Eustacia's fate; I pine for more; Oh, turn and turn and turn and turn! 86 Spotadic Fiction "Because — and yet I ought not say The wherefore of my sudden whim. " Here Archibald looked at Eusta- Cia, and Eustacia looked at him. " Because, " continued she, " my head — " I never knew Eustacia's fate, I never knew what 'Stacid said. {Continued on page ^8.) 8'« Popular Ballad; "Never Forget Your Parents " A young man once was sitting Within a swell cafe, The music it was playing sweet — The people was quite gay. But he alone was silent, A tear was in his eye — A waitress she stepped up to him, and Asked him gently why. (Change to Minor.) He turned to her in sorrow and At first he spoke no word, But soon he spoke unto her, for She was an honest girl. He rose up from the table In that elegant cafe, And in a voice replete with tears To her he then did say: CHORUS Never forget your father, Think all he done for you; A mother is a boy's best friend. So loving, kind, and true. "Never Forget Your Parents" If it were not for them, I'm sure I might be quite forlorn; And if your parents had not have lived You would not have been born. A hush fell on the laughing throng, It made them feel quite bad, For most of them was people, and Some parents they had had. Both men and ladies did shed tears. The music it did cease. For all knew he had spoke the truth By looking at his face. (Change to Minor.) The waitress she wept bitterly And others was in tears It made them think of the old home They had not saw in years. And while their hearts was heavy and Their eyes they was quite red. This brave and honest boy again To them these words he said: CHORUS Never forget, etc. 89 Ballade to a Lady (To Annabelle.) Pipe to the tip I'm handing, Kid; Get jerry to the salve I throw; Just paste it in your merrywid While I pull out the tremolo. This stuff ain't any paper snow — I never was a bull con gee — Wise up to this and sing it slow: You make an awful splash with me. My line of bunk is like to skid; (The subject is so smooth — get joe?) My fountain pen's an invalid; I can't dope words like L. Defoe Puts in describing up a show, But, kiddo, you have put the bee On father, surest thing you know. You make an awful splash with me. Yop, I'm your little katydid; Just listen to my chirp of woe; And now I've made my little bid — You get it? Follow me? Right-0! If I could shoot like Eddie Poe, I guess that you'd be h-e-p, But here's the bet, now cop it, bo, You make an awful splash with me. 90 Ballade to a Lady l'envoi Well, this is where the stuff I stow, According to old Franfois V; But — once again before I blow — You make an awful splash with me. 91 To a Thesaurus O precious codex, volume, tome, Book, writing, compilation, work Attend the while I pen a pome, A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk. For I would pen, engross, indite, Transcribe, set forth, compose, address. Record, submit — yea, even write An ode, an elegy to bless — To bless, set store by, celebrate. Approve, esteem, endow with soul, Commend, acclaim, appreciate, Immortalize, laud, praise, extol. Thy merit, goodness, value, worth, Expedience, utility — O manna, honey, salt of earth, I sing, I chant, I worship thee! How could I manage, live, exist, Obtain, produce, be real, prevail, Be present in the flesh, subsist, Have place, become, breathe or inhale. 92 To a Thesatirus Without thy help, recruit, support, Opitulation, furtherance. Assistance, rescue, aid, resort. Favour, sustention and advance? Alas; Alack! and well-a-day! My case would then be dour and sad. Likewise distressing, dismal, gray. Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad. Though I could keep this up all day, This lyric, elegiac, song, Meseems hath come the time to say Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long! | 93 The Ancient Lays I cannot sing the old songs I sang long years ago, But I can always hear them At any vodevil show. 94 Erring; in Company ("If I have erred I err in company with Abraham Lincoln." — Theodore Roosevelt.) If e'er my rhyming be at fault, If e'er I chance to scribble dope, If that my metre ever halt, I err in company with Pope. An that my grammar go awry, An that my English be askew. Sooth, I can prove an alibi — The Bard of Avon did it, too. If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns. Remember, jeering jackanape, I err in company with Burns. If now and then I sigh " Mine own ! " Unto another's wedded wife, Remember I am not alone — Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life? If frequently I fret and fume. And absolutely will not smile, I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle. Tobog:g:aning: on Parnassus If e'er I fail in etiquette, And foozle on The Proper Stuff Regarding manners, don't forget A. Tennyson's were pretty tough. Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied, In most illustrious company,, 06 The Limit While I hold as superficial him who has his young initial Neatly graven on his Turkish cigarette, Such a bit of affectation I can view with toler- ation, Such a folly I forgive and I forget. Him who rocks the little boat, or him who rides the cyclemotor I dislike a little more than just enough; But you might as well be knowing that the guy who gets me going Is the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff. Now I've builded many a verse on that extremely stylish person Who insists upon the hat of emerald hue; I have made a lot of fun of things that honestly were none of My blanked business — and I knew that it was true. At the shameless subway smoker I have been a ceaseless joker For that nuisance daily gets me in a huff — But the one that makes me maddest is that pestilential faddist Who is carrying his kerchief in his cuff. 87 Tobog:g:aning; on Parnassus I'm a passive, harmless hater of the vari- coloured gaiter That the men of the Rial to will affect; Of the loud and sassy clother, I'm a quiet, modest loather, And to comic section weskits I object. But, as I have intimated, hinted, innuendoed stated, Of the things that I believe are awful stuff, Nothing starts my indignation like the silly affectation Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff E-nough! Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff. Chorus lot Mixed Voices (Being a stenographic report of how it sounds from the piazza when a dozen boat loads go^out on the lake of a summer evening.) How can I bear to good old Yale the shades of Upidee That's where my heart is weep no more in sunny Tennessee How dear to heart grows weary far from mea- dow grass is blue Above Ca)mga's waters we will sing I'm strong for you. A Spanish cava fare thee well and every- thing so fine That's where you get your old black Joe my darling Clementine The old folks would enjoy it on the road to Mandalay 'Twas from Aunt Dinah's poUy-wolly-woodle all the day. I hear those good night ladies much obliged because we're here 99 Tobog:g:anfng; on Parnassus Afraid to go home in the with a good song ringing clear Just tell them that fair Harvard old Nassau is shining bright How can I bear to grand old rag we roll along good night! 100 The Translated Way (Being a " lyric " translation of Heine's " Du Bist Wie Eine Blume," as it is usug-lly done.) Thou art like to a Flower, So pure and clean thou art; I view thee and much Sadness Steals to me in the Heart. To me it seems my Hands I Should now impose on your Head, praying God to keep you So fuie and clean and pure. 101 "And Yet It Is A Gentle Att!" (Parody is a genre frowned upon by your professors of literature . . . And yet it is a gentle art — "The Point of View" in May Scribner's.) A sweet disorder in the verse That never looks behind Shall profit not who steals my purse, Let joy be unconfined! How vainly men themselves amaze! The stars began to blink, An art that there were few to praise, Nor any drop to drink. O sleep, it is a blessed thing Which I must ne'er enjoy! There never was a fairer spring Than when I was a boy. One fond embrace and then we part! Good-by, my lover, good-by! And yet it is a gentle art. Which nobody can deny. 102 Occasionally Now and then there's a couple whose con- jugal life Is happy as happy can be; Now and then there's a man who believes that his wife Is the One Unsurpassable She; There are doubtless in England a great many folks Whose humour is airy and sage; But there never is one in American jokes Or on the American stage Now and then there's an auto that doesn't break down, Or an angler who catches some fish; Now and then there's a pretty society gown Or a girl that breaks never a dish; There is haply a Croesus who isn't a hoax. Or a jest that's not hoary with age; But there never is one in American jokes Or on the American stage. Now and then there's a poet with closely cropped hair, Or a sporting man quiet in dress; 103 Tobogganing on t'arnassuS Now and then there's a lady from Boston who's fair, Now and then there's a fetterless press; Now and then there's a laugh that a jester may coax, A librettist may put on his page But they're terribly rare in American jokes, And — oh, the American stage I 104 Jim and Bill Bill Jones was cynical and sad; He thought sincerity was rare; Most people, Bill believed, were bad And few were fair. He said that cheating was the rule; That nearly everything was fake; That nearly all, both knave and fool, Were on the make. Jim Brown was cheerful as the sun; He thought the world a lovely place, Exhibiting to every one A smiling face. He thought that every man was fair; He had no cause to sob or sigh; He said that everything was square As any die. Dear reader, would you rather be Like Jim, not crediting the ill, Joyous in your serenity, Or right, like Bill? 105 When Nobody Listens At not at all infreqiient spells I hear — and so do you — The tales that everybody tells And no one listens to. "You talk about excitement. Well Last summer, up at Silver Dell, Jim Brown and I took a canoe And paddled out a mile or two. When we left shore the sun was out — Serenest day, beyond a doubt, I ever saw. When suddenly It thunders, and a heavy sea Comes up. 'I'm goin' to jump,' says Jim. He jumps. I don't know how to swim, And I was scared . . ." "You ought to see My kid. He's great! He isn't three. But smart? Last night his mother said. As she was putting him to bed, 'Tom, are you sleepy?' Well, the kid — What d'ye think he up and did? Laugh? Honestly, we nearly died' He said: ..." 106 When Nobody Listetis "Last week I had a ride As was a ride! We took my car And ran her over night so far We had to stop. Just as we came To this side of North Burlingame, We tore a shoe; the left front wheel Got loose and ... " "Did you ever feel That dogs were human? Well, there's Bruce, My coUie — brighter than the deuce! Just talk in ordinary tones — A joke, he barks, speak sad, he moans, The other day I said to him, 'Here, Bruce, take this to Uncle Jim,' And gave ..." "We've really got the best And cheapest flat in town. On West Two-Forty-Third Street. That ain't far - The subway, then the Yonkers car — An hour, perhaps a little more. I leave the house at 7.04 — I'm in the ofEce every day At nine o'clock. Six rooms are all We have, if you don't count the hall — Though it is bigger far than most The rooms I've seen. I hate to boast About my flat; but ..." X07 Tobogganing on Parnassus "Say, I've got The greatest, newest, finest plot — Dramatic, humorous, and fresh — And, though I'm not in the profesh, I'll back this little play of mine Against Pinero, Fitch, or Klein. Sure fire! A knockout! It can't miss! The plot of it begins like this: The present time — that's what they 've got To have — and then a modern plot. Jack Hammond, hero, loves a girl: Extremely jealous of an earl. The earl, however ... " Why contin- ue types that flourish adinfin? O tuneless chimes I worn-out bells! I hear — and so do you — The tales that everybody tells But no one listens to. 106 Office Mottoes Motto heartening, inspiring, Framed above my pretty *desk, Never Shelley, Keats, or Byring* Penned a phrase so pictiiresque ! But in me no inspiration Rides my low and prosy brow — All I think of is vacation When I see that lucubration: DO IT NOW When I see another sentence Framed upon a brother's wall, Resolution and repentance Do not flood o'er me at all As I read that nugatory Counsel written years ago, Only when one comes to borry* Do I heed that ancient story: TELL HIM NO 'Entered under the Pure License of igo6. 109 Tobogganing on Parnassus Mottoes flat and mottoes silly, Proverbs void of point or wit, "KEEP A-PLUGGIN' WHEN IT'S HILLY!" "LIFE'S A TIGER: CONQUER IT!" OflSce mottoes make me weary And of all the bromide bunch There is only one I seri- Ously like, and that's the cheery: GONE TO LUNCH 110 Metaphysics A man morose and dull and sad — Go ask him why he feels so bad. Behold! He answers it is drink That put his nerves upon the blink. Another man whose smile and jest Disclose a nature of the best — What keeps his heart and spirit up? Again we learn it is the cup. The moral to this little bit Is anything you make of it. Such recondite philosophy Is far away too much for me. HI Heads and Tails If a single man is studious and quiet, people say He is grouchy, he is old before his time; If he's frivolous and flippant, if he treads the primrose way. Then they mark him for a wild career of crime. If a man asserts that So-and-So is beautifuj or sweet, He is daffy on the proposition. Girl; If he's weary in the evening and he keeps his subway seat, He's immediately branded as a churl. If he buys a friend a rickey not for any special cause. He is captain of the lush-and-spendthrift squad; If, before he spends a million, he will think a bit and pause. There's a popular impression he's a wad. 112 Tobogfganning on Patnassus If a man attends to business and looks to every chance, He is mercenary, money-mad, and coarse; If he thinks of art and letters more than personal finance, He is lacking in ambition and in force. If a man but bats his consort oh-so-gently on the head, If he throttles her a little round the neck. He's a brute; if he's considerately conjugal instead, Everybody calls him Mr. Henry Peck. Lowers Scylla — frowns Charybdis — and the bark is like to sink — This the symbolistic moral of my rhyme — If Opinion trims your sails and if you care what people think You will have a most unhappy sort of time. An Election Night Pantoam Gaze at the good-natured crowd, List to the noise and the rattle! Heavens! that woman is loud — Loud as the din of a battle. List to the noise and the rattle! Hark to the honk of the horn Loud as the din of a battle! There! My new overcoat's torn! Hark to the honk of the horn! Cut out that throwing confetti! There! My new overcoat's torn — Looks like a shred of spaghetti. Cut out that throwing confetti! Look at the gentleman, stewed; Looks like a shred of spaghetti — Don't get so terribly rude! Look at the gentleman, stewed! Look at the glare of the rocket! Don't get so terribly rude, Keep your hand out of my pocket! 114 An Election Night PantouoK Look at the glare of the rocket! Take that thing out of my face? Keep your hand out of my pocket! This is a shame and disgrace. Take that thing out of my face! Curse you! Be decent to ladies! This is a shame and disgrace, Worse than traditions of Hades. Curse you! Be decent to ladies! (Heavens! that woman is loud.) Worse than traditions of Hades Gaze at the "good-natured" crowdl 115 I Cannot Pay That Premiwrn Beside a frugal table, though spotless clean and white, A loving couple they did sit and all seemed pleasant, quite; They did not have no servant the things away to take, For he was but a broker who much money did not make. (Key changes to minor.) He lit a fifty-cent cigar and then his wife did say: "Your life insurance it will lapse if it you do not pay." He turned from her in sorrow, for breaking was his heart, And in a mezzo barytone to her did say, in part: chorus: "I cannot pay that premium, I'll have to let it go; It fills me with remorse and sorrow, not to mention woe. lie I Cannot Pay that Premium Though I'm quite strong and healthy, and will outlive you, perhaps, I cannot pay that premium; I'll have to let it lapse." The wife she naught did answer, for it cut her to the quick; She washed the dishes, filled the lamp, and likewise trimmed the wick; She took in washing the next day and played bridge whist all night. Until she had enough to pay her husband's premium, quite. (Key changes to minor) The husband he was thrown next day from his au-to-mo-bile. And although rather lonesome it did make his widow feel. It made her glad to know that she had paid that prem-i-um, And oftentimes in after years these words she'd softly hum: chorus: "I cannot pay that premium," etc. 117 Tbtee Authosft Prolific authors, noble three, I do my derby off to ye. Selected, dear old chap, who knows The quantity of verse and prose That you have signed in all these years! You've dulled how many thousand shears! You've filled, at a tremendous rate, A million miles of "boiler plate" — A wreath of laurel for your brow! A stirrup-cup to you — here's how! And you, dear Ibid. Ah, you wrote Too many things for me to quote. Though Bartlett, of quotation fame, Plays up your unpoetic name More than he did to Avon's bard. Your stuff's on every page, old pard. Bouquets to you the writer flings; You wrote a lot of dandy things. And you, O last, greatest one, A word with you, and I have done. You, dear Exchange, that ever floati Around with verses, anecdotes, ^ US Three AotWs And jokes. Oh, what a lot you sign (Quite frequently a thing of mine). Why, it would not be very strange If I should see this signed — Exchange. favourite authors, wondrous three, 1 do my derby off to ye! To QuotatioQ (Caused by "The Ethics of Misquotation" in the November Atlantic Monthly.) Quotation! Brother to the Arts, assister to the Muse! When Bartlett from his study height unfurled thine heaven-born hues, The quotes were here, the quotes were there, the quotes were all around. For Bartlett like a poultice came to blow the heels of sound. Pernicious habit! One becomes a worse than senseless block, A bard that no one dares to praise and fewer care to knock; A sentence by a mossy stone, of quaint and curious lore. An apt quotation is to one and it is nothing more. Quotation! Ah, thou droppest as the gentle rain from heaven, Thy brow is wet with honest sweat and the stars on thy head are seven. 120 To Quotation Who steals my verse steals trash, for, soothly, he who runs may read, But he who filches from me Bartlett leaves me poor indeed. 1 fill this cup to Bartlett up, and may he rest in peace — From Afric's sunny fountains to the happy Isles of Greece. Quotation! O my Rod and Staff, my Joy sans let or end With me abide, handy guide, philosopher, and friend. Melodrama R If you want a receipt for a melodramatical, Thrillingly thundery, popular show, Take an old father, unyielding, emphatical, Driving his daughter out into the snow; The love of a hero, courageous and Hacketty; Hate of a villain in evening clothes; Comic relief that is Irish and racketty; Schemes of a villainess muttering oaths; The bank and the safe and the will and the forgery — All of them built on traditional norms — Villainess dark and Lucrezia Borgery Helping the villain until she reforms; The old mill at midnight, a rapid delivery; Violin music, all scary and shivery; Plot that is devilish, awful, nefarious; Heroine frightened, her plight is precarious; Bingo! — the rescue! — the movement goes snappily — Exit the villain and all endeth happily! Take of these elements any you care about. Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout; Put in the powder and leave out the grammar, And the certain result is a swell melodrammer. 122 A Poor Excuse, But Out Own (Why don't you ever write any child poetry? — A Mother.) My right-hand neighbour hath a child, A pretty child of five or six, Not more than other children wild, Nor fuller than the rest of tricks — At five he rises, shine or rain, And noisily plays "fire" or "train." Likewise a girl, aiatis eight, He hath. Each morning, as a rule, Proudly my neighbour will relate How bright Mathilda is at school. My ardour, less than half of mild. Bids me to comment, "Wondrous child!" All through the vernal afternoon My other neighbour's children skate A wild Bacchantic rigadoon On rollers; nor does it abate Till dark; and then his babies cry What time I fain would versify. 123 Tobogganing on f*a»nassas Did I but set myself to sing A children's song, I'd stand revealed A bard that did the infant thing As well as Rile)' or 'Gene Field. I could write famous Children Stuff, If they'd keep quiet long enough. Monotonous Variety (All of them from two stories in a single magazine.) She "greeted" and he "volunteered"; She "giggled"; he "asserted"; She "queried" and he "lightly veered"; She "drawled" and he "averted"; She "scoffed," she "laughed" and he "averred"; He "mumbled," "parried," and "demurred." She "languidly responded"; he "Incautiously assented"; Doretta "proffered lazily"; Will "speedily invented"; She "parried," "whispered," "bade," and "mused"; He "urged," "acknowledged," and "refused." She "softly added"; "she alleged"; He "consciously invited"; She "then corrected"; William "hedged"; She "prettily recited"; She "nodded," "stormed," and "acquiesced"; He "promised," "hastened," and "confessed." 126 Tobogganing on Parnassus Doretta "chided"; "cautioned" Will; She "voiced" and he "defended"; She "vouchsafed"; he "continued still"; She "sneered" and he "amended"; She "smiled," she "twitted," and she "dared" He "scorned," "exclaimed," "pronounced," and "flared." He "waived," "believed," "explained," and "tried"; "Commented" she; he "muttered"; She "blushed," she "dimpled," and she "sighed"; He "ventured" and he "stuttered"; She "spoke," "suggested," and "pursued"; He "pleaded," "pouted," "called," and "viewed." O synonymble writers, ye Whose work is so high-pricey. Think ye not that variety May haply be too spicy? Meseems that in an elder day They had a thing or two to say. 126 The Amateur Botanist A primrose by a river's brim Primula vulgaris was to him, And it was nothing more; A pansy, delicately reared, Viola tricolor appeared In true botanic lore. That which a pink the layman deems Dianthus caryophyllus seems To any flower-fan; or A sunflower, in that talk of his, Annuus helianthus is, And it is nothing more. 127 A Word for It "Scorn not the sonnet." Well, I reckon not. I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle, Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot. An so it made my Pegasus to trot His morning lap what time he heard the bell; An so it made the poem stuff to jell — To mix a met. — an so it boil'd the pot. Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit! I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats. " Scorn? " Nay, I love thy fine symmetric grace, tn sonnets one knows always where to quit, Unlike in other poems where one cheats And strings it out to fill the yawning space. The Poem Speaks (Cut this out in either case.) Poet, ere you write me, Stem the flowing ink; Or that you indite me Pause upon the brmk. Strummer of the lyre Maker of the tune. Give me a desire — Bless me with a boon. Let me be a rondeau With a sweet refrain, Or an ahquando Sonnet to the rain; Let me be a lyric Tenuous as air. Or an d la Viereck Passion song to hair; 129 Toboggfaning on Patnasstts Ballad, epic, quatrain, Couplet — ay, a line — • "Let it rain or not rain, Let it storm or shine." Shape me as you list to, Glorious or small; Put a comic twist to Anything at all. Only give me fame that Never, never dies. Christen me a name that Reaches to the skies. This is my ambition: Not the greatest rhyme, Not the first position On the page of time — But, O poet, steep me, Till, with gum and hooks, Womenfolk will keep me In their pocket-books! 130 "Bedboofcs" (There is said to be a steady demand for "bedbooks'' in England. There are readers who find in Gibbon a sedative for tired nerves; there are others who enjoy Trollope's quiet humour. Some people find in Henry James's tangled S3fntax the restful diversion they seek, and others enjoy Mr. Howells's unexciting realism. — The Sun.) How sleep the brave who sink to rest, Lulled by the waves of dreamy diction, Like that appearing in the best Of modern fiction! When sleeplessness the Briton claims, And hits him with her wakeful wallop. He goes to Gibbon or to James, Or maybe TroUope. No paltry limit, such as those The craving-slumber Yankee curses — He has a wealth of poppy prose And opiate verses. A grain of — ought I mention names And say whence sleep may be inspired? Is it the thing to say of James, "He makes me tired?" 131 Tobogganing on Parnassas To say "a dose of Phillips, or A capsule of Sinclair or Brady, Is just the thing to make me snore?" Oh, lackadaydee! Nay! It were churlish to review And specify by marked attention Our bedbooks. They are far too nu- Merous to mention. A New Yotfc Child's Garden of Vetses (With the usual.) In winter I get up at night, And dress by an electric light. In summer, autumn, ay, and spring, I have to do the self-same thing. I have to go to bed and hear Pianos pounding in my ear, And hear the janitor cavort With garbage cans within the court. And does it not seem hard to you That I should have these things to do? Is it not hard for us Manhat- Tan children in a stuffy fiat? II It is very nice to think The world is full of food and drink; But, oh, my father says to me They cost all of his salaree. 133 Tofaogganingf on Parnassus in When I am grown to man's estate I shall be very proud and great; E'en now I have no reverence, 'Cause I read comic supplements. IV New York is so full of a number of kids I'm sure pretty soon we shall be invalids. A child should always say what's true, And speak when he is spoken to; And then, when manhood's age he strikes, He may be boorish as he likes. 134 Downward^ Corns Downward (With apologies to the estate of Elizabeth Akers Allen.) Downward, come downward, O Cost in your flight. Soaring like Paulhan or W. Wright! Prices, come down from the limitless sky, Down to the reach of the Ultimate Guy. Once you were not quite so far from the ground; Once we had lamb chops at loc. a pound. Give us the days ere the cost took a leap, When things were cheap, mother, when they were cheap. Backward, flow backward, O Living's Ad- vance, Back from the purlieus of Airy Romance! Back to the days when a porterhouse steak Didn't cost half of what people could make! Back to the days when a regular egg Didn't drive people to borrow and beg! Oh, for the days when the hog and the sheep Were not as diamonds — when they were cheap. iss Speaking of Hunting When a button rolls under the bureau The search is a woeful affair; And the humorous weekly describes it but meekly In saying the hunter will swear. But what is that limited anger? The impotent rage of a cub! I only grow what you could really call hot When the soap slips under the tub. I've sought through a time-table's mazes, And sworn at the men who devise That scare and delusion of hopeless confusion. That intricate bundle of lies. But never a hunt that was harder, Be you or professor or dub. Than that ill-fated jest — I refer to the quest — When the soap falls back of the tub My paste pot escapes almost daily; My scissors I never can find; And I am the rotter who loses a blotter More often than if he were blind. Speaking of Hunting But sooner a myriad searches Than go to the worry and troub. That one little cake saponaceous can make When the soap slips rmder the tub — Blank! Blank! When the soap slips under the tub. 18'y The FIat-Hunte«'s Way We don't get any too much light; It's pretty noisy, too, at that; The folks next door stay up all night; There's but one closet in the flat; The rent we pay is far from low; Our flat is small and in the rear; But we have looked around, and so We think we'll stay another year. Our dining-room is pretty dark; Our kitchen's hot and very small; The "view" we get of Central Park We really do not get at all. The ceiling cracks and crumbles down Upon me while I'm working here — But, after combing all the town, We think we'll stay another year. We are not "handy" to the sub; Our hall-boy service is a joke; Our janitor's a foreign dub Who never does a thing but smoke Our landlord says he will not cut A cent from rent already dear; And so we sought for better — but We think we'll stay another year. 138 Birds and Batds When Milton sang "0 nightingale That on yon gloomy spray," The sonneteer whom we revere Lauded that birdie's lay. While Keats's ode upon that bird Was Umpid as the notes That, sweet and strong, were in the song Of PhilomeHan throats. And Bryant's "To a Water-fowl!" Had praise in every line, And every word about the bird Impinged on the divine. When Wordsworth did the skylark stuff, He praised the bird a few, And Shelley's ode sincerely showed He liked the skylark, too. O Poets, if ye had but dwelt Upon a Harlem block. Fain would I read your poems sweet Uoon the sparrows' "Peet! Peet! Peet!" 139 Toboggfaning on Parnassus The sparrows that have built their nest Ten feet from where one takes one's rest, And 'gin their merry, blithesome song Each morning — quenchless, clear and strong Promptly at four o'clock. A Wish (An Apartmental Ditty.) Mine be a flat beside the Hill; A vendor's cry shall soothe my ear* A landlord shall present his bill At least a dozen times a year. The tenor, oft, below my flat, Shall practise "Violets" and such; And in the area a cat Shall beat the band, the cars, and Dutch. Around the neighbourhood shall be About a hundred thousand kids; And, eke in that vicinitee. Ten pianolas without lids. And mornings, I suppose, by gosh, I'll be awakened prompt at seven, By ladies hanging up the wash Only a mile or so from heaven. 141 The Monament of Q. H. F. AD MELPOMENEN Horace: Book III, Ode 30. " Exegi monumentum aere perennius. Regalique situ pyramidum altius." Look you, the monument I have erected High as the pyramids, royal, sublime, During as brass — it shall not be affected E'en by the elements coupled with Time. Part of me, most of me never shall perish; I shall be free from Oblivion's curse; Mine is a name that the future will cherish— I shall be known by my excellent verse. I shall be famous all over this nation Centuries after myself shall have died; People will point to my versification — I, who was born on the Lower East Side! Come, then, Melpomene, why not admit me? I want a wreath that is Delphic and green, Seven, I think, is the size that will fit me — Slip me some laurel to wear on my bean. 142